CDJMM – Volume 4 – Chapter 11 Filming in the Interstellar Era (11)

Zhang Yanfang never imagined that one day she would be able to stand here again.

The gleaming camera lenses, the dazzling lights, the busy makeup artists, the director’s critical gaze, the crew members hurrying back and forth…

All the things she once took for granted had disappeared from her life for nearly twenty years.

Back then, she was still called Zhang Weier—

the brilliant young actress adored by audiences,
the muse in countless directors’ eyes,
the golden goose investors chased after.

She debuted at five, became a film lead at ten, won Best Actress at eighteen, and then… at twenty-one she was blacklisted, framed into owing loan-shark debt.

To survive, she sang in nightclubs. At her lowest, she even became a woman passed around by anyone who wanted her.

Only in her most wonderful dreams would she become once more that proud, cherished Zhang Weier— not the vulgar, sharp-tongued Zhang Yanfang she had turned into.

She thought this lifetime would remain that way.

She never imagined she would get the chance to rise again.

Her gaze drifted to the young man adjusting the camera, and gratitude washed over her.

It was this man in his twenties who had given her the chance to reclaim everything. She had never thought that a tiny kindness she offered him back then would bring her such a tremendous return today.

Her thoughts involuntarily went back to the invitation she had received three days ago:

“Sister Zhang, there’s something I want to ask of you.”

When Zhang Yanfang heard Shi Jing’s request, she thought he wanted her to use her connections to find a few more helpers for his studio.

“Sure, whatever you need, just say the word. If I can help, I absolutely will.” She was already thinking about which acquaintances might be available to lend a hand.

“I’m filming a Republican-era drama with someone, and the production is still missing a supporting actress. Would you like to audition?”

“Acting? Me?” Zhang Yanfang widened her eyes, completely unprepared to hear that from Shi Jing.

“Yes. The director I’m working with said you were an excellent actress when you were young. I think this role was made for you.”

It had been a long time since Zhang Yanfang had felt this flustered and panicked.

After nearly twenty years away from the industry, after fully accepting her fate, someone suddenly wanted her to act again? She hadn’t dared to dream such dreams for at least a decade.

“Xiao Jing… Auntie doesn’t like this kind of joke.”

“It’s not a joke.” Shi Jing looked at her sincerely, his amber eyes filled with quiet admiration.

“I’ve watched your early work. You’re a genius. Someone like you shouldn’t be buried. It’s a loss for the audience—and for directors like us.”

Zhang Yanfang’s breath caught.

How long had it been?

How long since someone looked at her with the appreciation reserved for a work of art? These years she had been reduced to dust, nearly forgetting what it felt like to be admired and respected.

Bathed in that gaze, for a moment she seemed transported back twenty years—back when she was still Zhang Weier, the muse of countless directors.

Those were the happiest, most dreamlike years of her life.

The golden age she could not bear to revisit in her midnight dreams.

But dreams always end.

Now she was Zhang Yanfang, not Zhang Weier.

She forced down the ache in her chest and spoke in a joking tone: “Haha, that was ages ago. I’m practically an old lady now. I’ve long forgotten how to act. And acting is so tiring—now that I don’t have to act anymore, I’m happier than ever. So, Xiao Jing, go find some young girl. She’s youthful and pretty—much more suited for acting than an old, plain woman like me.”

The young man stared into her eyes and asked, word by word: “Do you really believe that?”

Zhang Yanfang looked away, uncomfortable. “Hahaha, of course I do. Why would Auntie lie to you?”

“If that’s really what you think, then why do you study every new drama, analyze the characters, and privately re-enact scenes?”

He met her startled gaze without hesitation. “That’s right—Zhang Ting told me everything.”

He spoke calmly yet firmly: “Just admit it. You still want to act. You still want to live as an actress.”

Zhang Yanfang knew she should deny it—she had to deny it.

“Auntie offended a powerful figure back then. The media spread a lot of false accusations about me…”

“If they were false, why care?”

“But that powerful person is still in the industry. He has influence…”

“It’s been twenty years. He may not even remember you.”

“It only takes one mistake. Back then he said if I ever appeared in the entertainment industry again, he’d make me wish I were dead.”

“No matter how powerful he is, he can’t twist the will of the people. If the audience likes your performance and recognizes your skill, then you can live as an actress.”

Shi Jing lifted an eyebrow. The gentle air he usually carried vanished, replaced by the brilliance unique to youth—bold, fearless, full of vigor. “And you don’t need to worry about him targeting our crew. The audience only recognizes one thing: the work itself. Excellent works are always a passport. As for directors’ and actors’ private lives—few people really care.”

…She should have refused.

If she accepted his offer, she would only face more trouble—perhaps even a repeat of the tragedy from years ago.

But why was her vision so blurry?

Why was her heart beating so quickly?

Why couldn’t she speak a single word of refusal?

Why… had she ended up standing on set again, completely immersed in acting?

“Action!”

Shi Jing’s loud call pulled Zhang Yanfang back from her drifting thoughts. She focused all her attention on the actors performing in front of the camera.

Because the show was airing while filming, they had to film in script order.

Today they were shooting the unparalleled, solemn funeral described in A City Buried in Beauty.

Right now, they were filming the conflict between the police and the coffin guards.

The performers in front of the camera were Zhou Dezhang, Zheng Yiliang, and the police captain actor.

All three were old acquaintances of hers.

Playing Zhou Dezhang was Chang Zehai—who, if not for bad luck, could have become an award-winning actor. After years of tempering, his acting now could only be described as “a return to simplicity.”

Standing in front of the camera, every movement of his brows and eyes was full of emotion. Even without a handsome face, the audience would be unable to look away from him.

Playing Zheng Yiliang was Wu Yan—a compulsive gambler. He had been a once-in-a-decade acting genius, but his life was ruined by gambling. He lost his family, fell deeply into debt, and eventually became addicted to alcohol. But talent is talent.

So Zhang Yanfang dragged him out from between bottles and brought him here.

The one playing the police captain is Xuan Liang, born with a villain’s face. Since his debut, he has portrayed all kinds of bad guys, yet he has a kind heart. He was bound and exploited by his original family, and in the end, his vampire-like parents even turned the tables on him, fabricating scandals for the media. This ultimately ruined his flourishing acting career, forcing him to temporarily retreat from the public eye. If not for the invitation from the Republican-Era Literary Masters Chronicles production team, he didn’t know how many years he would have had to wait for a chance to return.

Aside from him, several other down-on-their-luck old colleagues had also joined this production.

Each one of them was personally invited by Shi Jing, who visited them one by one.

And behind every one of them trailed all sorts of troubles.

Now, all of their troubles had gathered together, attempting to escape suffering by boarding a newly born, shaky, and unpredictable little ship, hoping to reach the other shore.

This was a desperate gamble—they were all gamblers who had already lost every chip they had. Even a single strand of straw was something they would cling to with all their might.

She didn’t know what future this drama would have, but she hoped it would sell well and receive a flood of praise.

Because this might be the last opportunity for these old comrades.

…

Watching outstanding actors perform was simply a kind of enjoyment.

Le Jing and Li Jianye stared at the veteran actors acting their hearts out in front of the camera, unable to find a chance to call “cut.”

They were currently filming the first episode, based on the lesson text “Funeral of a Fallen City.”

Zhou Dezhang’s “Funeral of a Fallen City” did not mention the exact size of the funeral procession—only that “it seemed like all of Beiping had come to send off my dear friend.”

A scene of such magnitude obviously couldn’t be created with extras. They planned to generate it later with AI simulation. Since these were all background characters requiring no acting, AI “actors” could handle the job well.

The main roles, of course, were played by real actors. Originally, Le Jing was worried that given Sister Zhang’s current age, it would feel jarring for her to play the twenty-something Bai Shaoyao, and he had already planned to use post-production techniques to de-age her.

But he hadn’t expected Sister Zhang’s acting to be this good!

Zhang Yanfang was already forty this year, and years of hardship made her look almost fifty. Even with makeup, she no longer looked young.

Yet when she played the youthful and vibrant Bai Shaoyao in her twenties, there wasn’t the slightest sense of discord. Supporting that believability was her master-level acting.

The bright eyes of a young woman, the lively expressions, the lightness of her movements, and even the crisp youthful timbre of her voice—everything created such a convincing sense of youth that one overlooked her appearance and believed she was a young woman.

Le Jing couldn’t help but recall that on Earth, there had also been an actress who, in her forties, played Empress Wu Zetian from her youth to her twilight years—living out the life of a legendary empress. Her superb acting made audiences forget her real age.

This was the kind of magic only genius actors could wield.

Besides these veteran actors recommended by Sister Zhang, the crew also had some young actors, such as Zhang Ting, who played Li Jingran, and Huang Tingting, who played Li Shuran.

Zhang Ting aside, Huang Tingting was an artist under Director Li’s small company, Tianxing Entertainment. She was only in her third year of middle school—about the same age as the character Li Shuran.

Tianxing Entertainment was a small company with little to offer, and in her three years after debuting, Huang Tingting had only played minor roles with a few minutes of screen time in low-budget dramas.

Landing the major supporting role of Li Shuran was no small upgrade for her career.

The young girl treasured this chance. Not only had she memorized the entire script, she also carefully studied the character’s emotions, displaying acting ability beyond her age.

But comparisons are cruel.

Surrounded by veteran actors, Huang Tingting’s acting could only be described as terrible.

Nearly every “cut!” on set came from Zhang Ting and Huang Tingting—most of them from Huang Tingting alone.

“Cut!”

Holding Li Jingran’s memorial tablet, Huang Tingting stared blankly with misty eyes. Meanwhile, Sister Zhang instantly retracted her tears, her expression calm and betraying no trace of sorrow.

“Director, what did I do wrong?”

“Your emotions are off! You should…” Le Jing sternly and seriously instructed the girl, while Zhang Yanfang also patiently offered her guidance.

Huang Tingting soaked up the two seniors’ teachings eagerly, nodding repeatedly as she indicated her understanding.

And the girl truly had good comprehension. The next retake passed in a single shot.

Le Jing nodded secretly—this girl had a good mindset, talent, and most importantly, diligence. With time, she would surely become great—a real promising seedling. Their crew had found a treasure.

Huang Tingting herself was thrilled.

In the past three years, she’d worked in many crews and had acted alongside numerous skilled performers, but she had never once felt pressure as enormous as today, and never once learned so much in one day.

Though young, she had enough awareness to recognize that the senior actors acting alongside her in the Literary Masters crew, though not famous, possessed acting skills so refined they left her in the dust. Their master-level performances could practically be called art.

To be able, at such a young age, to act opposite a group of acting masters and be taught by them—it was like a pie falling from the sky!

Never mind low pay—even if she had to pay out of pocket to film, she would gladly do so. The guidance from these masters was a priceless treasure money couldn’t buy.

She subconsciously cast a look of awe toward the young director watching from the side.

It was said that all these obscure veteran actors were found by Director Shi! He somehow unearthed them, persuaded them, and brought them over to film—using their exquisite acting to shape a legendary work.

Yes, a legend.

Even though the crew lacked funds…

Even though the director was unknown…

Even though the script was serious and a full-blown drama…

She just had a feeling—this drama would become a legend.

And it would lift her career to new heights, helping her establish herself firmly in the industry.

This was the confidence born from the combination of elite actors, an excellent script, and a genius director.

…

After half a month of intense filming, the first four episodes of Republican-Era Literary Masters Chronicles were completed and ready to be uploaded online.

The series had 20 episodes total, each an hour long. After discussion, Le Jing and Li Jianye decided to upload two episodes every Saturday and Sunday—finishing the broadcast in ten weeks.

During the airing, depending on audience feedback, Le Jing would adjust later episodes as long as it didn’t affect the main storyline.

As for the website for release—since Le Jing had connections with Qijiang Video Network, Literary Masters Chronicles would once again be uploaded there, with Qijiang providing some promotion.

Le Jing also used his own “Old Times Scenery” account for multiple rounds of self-promotion.

In the end, everything depended on this Saturday’s first-episode reception.

Only two days remained until Saturday.

…

When Luo Bao opened the Penguin chat group, he saw the chat exploding. Dozens of messages popped up every second.

Black Cat Knight: Everyone go vote for Scenery-san’s Young Marquis of Fenglang Juxu!!

Old Li Next Door: One vote from you, one vote from me—Scenery debuts tomorrow! If you don’t vote, I don’t vote—when will Scenery rise?!

Wang Zeyi: Bro only has us left. Protect the best Scenery in the world!

I Once Loved the Sea: Voting? Isn’t it still the audition stage?

Former Pro Quitter: Did my village get internet? What voting?

Elderly Disco: When did Old Times Scenery release a new work?

As a die-hard fan of Old Times Scenery, Luo Bao absolutely couldn’t tolerate people in the group not having watched Young Marquis yet!

He updated an announcement:

“Friends! Responding to Qijiang Video’s youth-themed film competition, Old Times Scenery specially created the movie Young Marquis of Fenglang Juxu! It has already passed the audition and entered the top 500, now in the public voting stage. Only the top 100 advance to the next round for professional judging! Click the link below to vote and help Scenery debut!!!”

Satisfied, Luo Bao watched the flood of replies—“Holy crap, I’m going!” “Voting now!”—and smiled contentedly.

Ah, Young Marquis was too good. Ever since its public release, he had watched it three or four times. Each time brought new insights, and each time he cried like a cow. He had pulled many friends into the fandom, and none had said it was bad—proof of its quality.

A work this good deserved first place!

He happily opened Qijiang Video, ready to check Scenery’s ranking and rewatch the film once more.

He remembered the rank was previously 18th—surely it had entered the top ten by now. With some effort spreading the word and voting, top three should be quite achievable.

Though their final goal was center position, top three was acceptable.

But the moment he saw the ranking, his proud smile froze.

He widened his eyes in disbelief.

What happened????

How did Scenery’s work drop instead of rising—falling from 18th to 36th place?!

Luo Bao: This is rigged! Absolutely blatant corruption!