Chapter 411: Actually, I Am an Actor
“Clear the set.”
Gu Zhiyuan suddenly put down the megaphone, his voice dropping to a frighteningly low level.
The assistant director was stunned. “Director Gu, this… we’re still filming, the extras are still in character…”
“I said clear the set!!”
Gu Zhiyuan turned around, his eyes bloodshot, veins bulging on his neck. “No one stays except the cinematographer and the sound recordist. Everyone else, get out!”
The next part of this scene didn’t need any unnecessary onlookers.
This was Chen San’s battlefield alone, and Jiang Ci’s sacrifice alone.
The film set quickly stirred into chaos, then fell silent within tens of seconds.
The door closed.
Action!
Inside the vast, old theater, only a few spotlights remained, casting their light on the layer of floating dust.
Gu Huai hadn’t left.
He had retreated to the darkest corner, leaning against the mottled wall.
Those eyes—always so cold on the red carpet—were fixed on the hunched figure in the center of the stage.
On the stage.
Jiang Ci, playing Chen San, remained in the posture he’d been in after his roar.
But he didn’t move anymore.
He lowered his head, staring at the golden trophy in his arms.
One minute passed.
Two minutes passed.
Not until the third minute.
Jiang Ci finally moved.
He lifted his head, his gaze cutting through the harsh lights,
and looked toward the direction Gu Huai had left—that empty wing of the stage.
“That big star teacher from before…”
Jiang Ci spoke up.
“When he left, he didn’t even look at me once.”
Chen San smiled.
He reached out a finger and scratched his messy hair,
his tone carrying no resentment, only a kind of familiar, matter-of-fact acceptance:
“But that makes sense. He’s a star in the sky, and I’m a loach in the mud. When a loach sees a star, all it gets is a blinding glare, right?”
Below the stage, Chen Yi (playing Liu Piaopiao) sat in the front row.
She was already in tears, but she pressed her hand firmly over her mouth, not daring to make a sound.
Jiang Ci, clutching the trophy, took two steps forward and stood in front of the microphone.
“They say when you win an award, you have to give thanks.”
Jiang Ci licked his dry, cracked lips, his eyes growing distant.
“I want to thank Producer Zhang.”
Jiang Ci’s voice was soft, but every word cut like a knife.
“Thank you for stripping my clothes off in front of so many people. The wind was really strong that day. It was.”
He sniffled, as if savoring the cold of that day.
“You made me realize that a person’s dignity is just like that layer of skin—tear it off, and it’s gone, and then you feel cold.”
“And those people who called me a ‘dead extra’ or a ‘stinking beggar’…”
Jiang Ci’s gaze swept over the empty audience seats, as if they were filled with all the faces that had once mocked and sneered at Chen San.
His eyes gradually cleared.
“Thank you.”
“Because you never gave me the chance to play a living person.”
Jiang Ci grinned. “So I could only play dead people, play trees on the roadside, play dogs in the garbage dump.”
“Play them enough, and I really became them.”
He stretched out his hand and mimed in the empty air.
“I know how a dead person gets cold. It starts from the soles of the feet, creeping up little by little, until even the heart freezes solid.”
“How a tree stands. Wind and rain can’t make it move. Even if its legs break, it has to take root in the mud.”
“And I know how that dog was hungry…”
Jiang Ci’s voice suddenly choked.
He lowered his head, looking at his own face reflected in the golden trophy.
“That kind of hunger… it’s not just your stomach hurting. It’s a hole in your heart that nothing can fill.”
[Ding! Detected heartbreak value from all female staff members!]
[Heartbreak Value +186!]
[Heartbreak Value +205!]
[…]
The system notifications in his mind were going wild, but Jiang Ci couldn’t hear them right now.
He was completely immersed in Chen San’s soul.
At that moment, he was Chen San, and also the Jiang Ci who had once eaten instant noodles in a rented room.
He slowly raised the trophy in his hand.
Holding it level with his chest.
“You looked down on me, that’s fine.”
Jiang Ci took a deep breath.
Then, looking straight into the camera, he said those words with utter seriousness:
“Actually, I am an actor.”
Those few words weren’t loud, but they were powerful.
Liu Piaopiao from the script could no longer control herself. She curled up in her chair, sobbing uncontrollably.
She remembered that rainy night when Jiang Ci, a urea fertilizer bag over his head, kowtowed to her.
She remembered herself delivering food, bowing ninety degrees in an elevator to a customer just for a good review.
They were both weeds in the mud.
But only weeds knew how precious spring was.
Jiang Ci’s gaze suddenly pierced through the camera.
Breaking the fourth wall.
He looked at the future audience on the other side of the screen.
His back, which had been hunched, slowly straightened.
“This trophy… it’s pretty heavy.”
Jiang Ci bounced it in his hand, weighing it, and smiled.
“Heavier than that red underwear of mine that split that day.”
When he said “red underwear,” a mischievous glint flashed in his eyes.
That was the essence of Jiang Ci himself, and also Chen San’s hard-won wisdom after seeing through life.
“But I caught it.”
Jiang Ci hugged the trophy tightly.
“My name is Chen San.”
He bowed deeply to the empty space.
“Thank you all for coming to see my play.”
Gu Zhiyuan stared intently at the frozen smile on the monitor.
It was a smile that held so much.
“Cut—!!!”
Gu Zhiyuan’s voice echoed through the empty theater.
Every single staff member on set—
the burly lighting technicians, the stubbly-faced set assistants—every single one of them was wiping away tears.
In the corner, Gu Huai lowered his head,
pulled a handkerchief from his trench coat pocket, and gently pressed it to the corner of his eye.
“As expected of you…”
Gu Huai cursed under his breath, but there was a smile in his voice. “Acting that well… who’s going to dare act opposite you in the future?”
On the stage.
With that “cut,” Jiang Ci’s tense body collapsed.
The moment the strength that had sustained his soul was withdrawn, his body seemed on the verge of falling apart.
His vision went dark, and he fell straight backward.
“Jiang Ci!!”
A figure rushed onto the stage.
It was Lin Wan.
She had kicked off her high heels and was running barefoot, barely catching Jiang Ci a second before he hit the floor.
“What’s wrong? Don’t scare me!” Lin Wan’s voice was trembling, her usual cool, composed demeanor completely gone.
Jiang Ci lay in Lin Wan’s arms, the familiar scent of her perfume in his nose.
He forced one eye open, his face as pale as paper, but the corner of his mouth still curled up in that infuriatingly smug way.
“Boss…”
“I’m here! Do we need to go to the hospital? Are you hurt somewhere?” Lin Wan was on the verge of tears.
“This time…” Jiang Ci weakly pointed at the prop trophy in his hand, “this counts as a work-related injury, right? Can you… double my bonus?”
Lin Wan was stunned.
The people around them, who had been about to rush in and help, were also stunned.
A moment later.
Lin Wan broke into a smile through her tears and flicked him hard on the forehead. “Double it! Triple it! You money-grubbing lunatic!”
“Hehe… deal.”
Jiang Ci closed his eyes with satisfaction.