CDJMM – Volume 4 – Chapter 16 Filming in the Interstellar Era (16)

Mo Mingrui sat among his relatives, checking the time repeatedly even before eight o’clock.

Aunt: “Xiaorui, if you have something to do, go ahead.”

Mo Mingrui smiled awkwardly. “It’s nothing important…”

His mother glared at him. “Since it’s nothing important, then sit down properly and chat with us!”

Another aunt said, “Aiya, young people have a generation gap with us. Keeping Xiaorui sitting here must be really boring. Take your younger cousins to play for a while.”

The previously listless cousin and younger cousin instantly perked up, each grabbing one of his hands and pulling him eagerly. “Come on, come on, cousin, let’s go to your room!”

Mo Mingrui was dragged all the way back to his room.

As soon as they entered, his girl cousin smiled mischievously. “Cousin, did you get a girlfriend?”

His boy cousin added shamelessly, “When will you bring sister-in-law out for us to see?”

Mo Mingrui rolled his eyes. “No girlfriend. Single since birth, thanks.”

He pushed the two aside, sat straight down on his bed, turned on his terminal, pulled up the light-brain screen, and opened the Qijiang Video website—his movements smooth and practiced.

His girl cousin leaned over excitedly. “Cousin, are you chatting with your girlfriend—what the heck?” She stared at the Qijiang Video interface, then suddenly realized something. “Don’t tell me you rushed back just to watch a video?”

Mo Mingrui: “What else?”

Girl cousin: “No wonder you’re single since birth. Makes total sense.”

Boy cousin veered off-topic: “What video? Is it good?”

Mo Mingrui actually didn’t know if it was good or not.

But the show was filmed by Old Times Scenery, so he was interested.

Thus he said firmly: “Good.”

His girl cousin twitched her mouth. “I don’t believe it. Your taste is too niche! Whatever you find good, everyone else usually finds terrible!”

Mo Mingrui fell silent. She wasn’t wrong. Sigh… all because his cultural level was too high—he was out of touch with the masses.

Soon it was eight o’clock. Mo Mingrui refreshed the page. A previously blank section instantly showed a newly uploaded video.

The first episode of Records of Republican-Era Literary Giants, updated today.

Mo Mingrui clicked immediately.

A stirring and passionate prelude began. Images flashed across the screen: the towering Forbidden City, gunboats from distant lands, foreign soldiers sitting on the dragon throne, the emperor and empress dowager fleeing in panic, the president being sworn in, students marching with banners, impassioned scholars wielding pens as weapons, numb refugees, skeletal street children, prostitutes in the Eight Hutongs vying to donate money, teenagers fighting Japanese soldiers with bayonets, young warriors throwing themselves off cliffs when their ammunition ran out…

War and smoke, blood and death, cooperation and betrayal, passion and ideals—and that unwavering devotion to the motherland, a love unto death.

Mo Mingrui blinked, unknowingly shedding two lines of hot tears.

In just a few minutes of the opening theme, he felt as if transported into that turbulent, magnificent, desperate yet change-seeking era, witnessing that sorrowful yet hopeful history.

At last, the tragic music stopped.

Again, the Forbidden City. This era began with it, and ended with it.

An old man stood atop its walls, shouting in heavily accented Mandarin: “Compatriots, the Central People’s Government of the People’s Republic of China has been established as of today!”

The screen went black. A line of sweeping cursive appeared: Records of Republican-Era Literary Giants (Episode One).

Mo Mingrui returned from his long contemplation, a tingling excitement running over his scalp, goosebumps rising all over.

He had a feeling this would be a very good drama.

【The episode begins…】

Dark clouds smother the sky; thunder roars; lightning slithers like serpents.

A drunken, sleazy man knocks on a door. It quickly opens. A beautiful girl in white mourning clothes stands inside.

Man: hic “Bring out your prettiest girl to serve Grandpa.”

The girl replies calmly, “Sir, you came at the wrong time. Please come tomorrow. We’re not taking customers today.”

Right side vertical subtitle: Bai Shaoyao — Representative of the First National People’s Congress of New China, Member of the Central Politburo Standing Committee.

The man roars, “You damn whore, do you look down on me for being poor?!”

In response, doors around them open one after another.

Young women in white mourning robes—faces bare, unpainted—step out one by one.

Under the dark clouds, a sea of white.

The man stares, shocked. “You… what the hell are you people doing?!”

The first woman steps forward, looks around, and answers with sorrow: “Today we are sending off Mr. Li Jingran.”

The man shudders, sobers instantly, grief flickering on his face. “So it’s today?” He sighs, rubs his face. “Let me join you.”

…

Scene change. The school entrance is empty.

A passerby asks the gatekeeper in surprise, “Uncle, no classes today?”

The old man sighs. “Classes are canceled. Teachers and students all left. All went to send off Mr. Li.”

The passerby freezes, then gasps, “You mean—Li Jingran?!”

The gatekeeper nods. “Him.”

The passerby cries out, “Where is it? I want to go too!”

After giving directions, the old man watches him hurry off, thumps his waist, and mutters, “Good people die young; scourges live a thousand years…”

Another cut. A sign: Fus’ Orphanage.

A teenager in black walks through crowds of children, greeted by waves of “Hello, Director Fu!”

Right-side subtitle: Fu Kema—Famous Republican-era philanthropist, founder of the New China Wheatfield Charity Foundation.

He steps onto a platform, eyes red and swollen, grief heavy in his voice. “Do you know why I opened an orphanage to take you in?”

The children murmur: “Because you’re a good person.” “Because you’re a living Bodhisattva!” “Because you like kids!”

He shakes his head. “Wrong.” He speaks each word clearly. “I opened this orphanage because of a certain work. Because of that work, I wanted to become a good person.”

“That work still exists. But its author is gone.”

“His name is Li Jingran. My peer. The person I admire and am most grateful for in my life.”

“Today is his funeral. I’m going to send him off.”

“He died because of a despicable conspiracy. What I can do now is accompany him as he leaves Beiping, to comfort his spirit in heaven.”

After a few seconds of silence, the children begin chiming in one after another:

“I want to go too!”

“I want to send off Mr. Li!”

“Director, take me along!”

The teenager pauses, then smiles faintly, a hint of relief in his eyes.

“In that case—let’s go together!”

He strides forward, a long line of little children following.

…

Mo Mingrui frowned. Who was this Li Jingran? Why did the name sound so familiar? But anyone whose funeral could bring students to strike, merchants to close shops, workers to stop working, and attract so many future great figures— even prostitutes refusing to take clients just to see him one last time—must be extraordinary. A president?

But that prostitute later becoming a vice-national-level leader? Really? Sounds made-up. If true, that life was totally hacked!

…

【Next scene…】

A solemn mourning hall. Men and women, young and old, stand or kneel, gazing sadly at the black-and-white portrait on the altar.

A young boy in the photo, smiling faintly—forever frozen in that moment, untouched by later sorrow.

“Brother!” A young girl collapses before the altar, sobbing uncontrollably.

Right-side subtitle: Li Shuran — Renowned scientist of New China, recipient of the National Highest Science and Technology Award.

“Jingran, rest assured. I will take good care of your sister.”

A middle-aged man kneels heavily and bows. “I, Zhou Dezhang, swear before heaven—I will uncover the truth and return your justice.”

Right-side subtitle: Zhou Dezhang — Famous Republican-era writer, author of The Funeral of a Fallen City.

Mo Mingrui suddenly understood.

So that’s Zhou Dezhang!

And no wonder the name Li Jingran felt familiar— Of course!

It was Li Jingran’s death that sparked The Funeral of a Fallen City!

“The Funeral of a Fallen City” was a Grade 10 Chinese textbook reading back in Ancient Earth days. Of course, the interstellar-era language textbooks didn’t include it.

Mo Mingrui only knew about this essay because a few years earlier, a Huaxia hacker accidentally discovered fragments of Ancient Earth’s historical records in the Zerg planet’s database—and this text happened to be among them.

The Zerg planet was also one of the worlds that once colonially ruled Earth, and the natives living there were all Zerg. The Zerg were a powerful, division-based species whose members unconditionally obeyed the orders of their Queen; they were the mightiest warriors and the coldest killers.

If human scientists hadn’t later developed an attractant capable of simulating the Zerg Queen’s pheromones—thus completely disrupting the Zerg’s division system—humanity might well have been wiped out.

Later, as times changed, Zerg and humans gradually moved from hostility toward peace. Their current relationship resembled that of the United States and China on Ancient Earth: occasional friction, but overall stability.

During the three centuries of resisting Zerg colonial rule, a vast amount of human historical data had been destroyed by the Zerg. So when a human hacker unexpectedly found fragments of Ancient Earth records in the Zerg database, the entire Earth Alliance was shaken!

Countless universities immediately established new research centers, and humanities students joyfully rushed to start projects and crank out papers. Mo Mingrui was one of those paper-crankers.

That was when he first read “The Funeral of a Fallen City.”

So this drama was actually telling the story of Li Jingran, the protagonist of *“The Funeral of a Fallen City”! But didn’t Li Jingran die? Was this going to be a flashback? Wait—hadn’t the earlier promo said this was a detective crime-investigation series? So it must be told from Zhou Dezhang’s perspective, investigating the truth?

Just thinking of the identities revealed by the subtitles—the people kneeling in front of the spirit hall—made Mo Mingrui tremble with excitement. How would the plot develop next?

The story continued:

*“The funeral procession escorted the coffin, crowding the streets until not even water could pass. Yet more and more people continued joining the swelling ranks, seeing off the frail coffin with eyes full of deep affection.

But suddenly, the situation shifted—police officers rushed in, guns raised, surrounding the procession. Tension spiked instantly, the atmosphere exploding on a knife’s edge.”*

“Holy crap!” Mo Mingrui blurted out.

At that moment, his cousin’s angry voice burst beside him: “What’s wrong with these police? Why are they pointing guns at people?!”

Startled, Mo Mingrui turned his head and found that at some point his younger cousins had gathered around him, staring unblinkingly at the light-screen. The cousin who had just been scoffing at his taste now looked righteously furious.

Cousin (brother): “They said it’s because of seditious writing… Damn it, do they not understand freedom of speech? And the guy is dead and they still won’t let him go? What’s wrong with these police?!”

Mo Mingrui gave his cousin (sister) a sideways glance. “Weren’t you just saying my taste was niche?”

Thick-skinned as she was, she replied, “Well, this time you finally picked something mainstream.”

Mo Mingrui: “Heh.”

Brother cousin protested, “Hey! Stop talking, I can’t hear what they’re saying!”

The two immediately quieted down, eyes glued to the screen, anxiously watching the clash between the police and the coffin guards.

Just as Mo Mingrui’s heart was pounding with tension, the screen abruptly went black, and a system prompt popped up: “Your free viewing time for this video has ended. To continue watching, please pay 5 star-coins.”

Mo Mingrui: ?!

Though single since birth, he suddenly understood the frustration of “pants already off, only to find your girlfriend’s on her period.”

“F***!” his brother cousin shouted loudly. “C’mon, bro, pay!!”

His sister cousin snapped, “If you don’t have money I’ll pay! It’s just 5 star-coins! I’ll pay even if it’s 100!”

Mo Mingrui hurriedly completed the payment, and the screen flickered back to life. He exhaled in relief and resumed watching intently.

…

Luo Bao was now bawling with snot and tears everywhere, while Luo Lan wiped her own tears as she sobbed and scolded him, “A-are you even a man? W-why are you crying so much, wuu wuu…”

Gasping for breath, Luo Bao protested, “Aren’t you crying too? Why are you crying?”

Luo Lan’s eyes were red and glistening. “I… I don’t know. It’s just… seeing so many people come on their own to send him off, not even scared of guns, the police couldn’t stop them… it’s… it’s just so touching…”

Luo Bao nodded furiously. “To have such a grand funeral after death—his whole life was worth it. Worth it. Just like the line that journalist snapped back at the police…”

“‘A life lived in honor—why worry about fame?’” Luo Lan choked out. “I’m really moved… my heart feels warm!”

Staring dazedly at the screen, Luo Bao murmured, “So this is what they mean by ‘living with honor’?”

The Republic era felt distant to him. The period was short, and historical materials scarce; he knew only that it was an age of war and turmoil, a time when life was fragile, and when Huaxia suffered its deepest humiliation.

In the present—thousands of years after Earth’s destruction—Huaxia had become the strongest nation in the Earth Alliance. Luo Bao could hardly imagine it once had an era of shame; it sounded like a myth.

Furthermore, Chronicles of the Republic’s Literary Masters used a cliché detective-mystery formula—something Luo Bao normally disliked.

If not for the nostalgic scenery, he wouldn’t have clicked at all.

Yet now his eyes brimmed with tears, and he once again thanked fate he’d chosen to watch.

He couldn’t even explain what was good about the show or what exactly moved him. He just wanted to cry—as if crying for those who never had the chance to cry while they lived.

…

*“This was the last time, and the last time for the entire city of Beiping, to ever see my friend. After that day, he lay beneath the earth, bathed in his own blood. My seventeen-year-old friend forever remained in the autumn of the fifteenth year of the Republic.

I don’t know what he was thinking as he charged into the roaring gunfire. I only know that faced with a rotten world, he chose to stand and fight like a warrior.

In the long nights to come, countless stars would shine—none of them him, none as bright as him.”*

Elder Zhou Dezhuang closed the book and said calmly to the camera:

“This is my dear friend’s story. It is the story of the intellectuals of the Republic era. And it is the story of every idealist who, in those turbulent years, charged against fate to save a collapsing nation.”

“In the years that followed, we ran, we roared, we pleaded; we wandered in confusion. Some wielded pens like swords, some joined the army, some drifted with the tide, some threw themselves into political parties. Many were betrayed, slandered, arrested, exiled, assassinated… You will not see most of us, because we died long before the dawn of the new world.”

“In 1949, I stood beneath the dawn, looking across the bodies of tens of millions of compatriots, through the flames and the seething sea of blood, to tell you the story of those—like Li Jingran—who lived in the autumn of 1926 and never saw that dawn.”

The screen faded.

But Zhong Liangning’s emotions refused to settle.

Tears surged forth, washing down his face. He wanted nothing more than to cry—cry for humiliation, for tragedy, for the good people who died without justice, for that cold, dark era.

His mind felt full, yet empty at the same time. Tears spilled faster and faster; his heart felt hollow.

Why only one episode?!

He wanted to see this story.

He wanted to know the fate of these brave souls.

When would the next episode air?

He rushed back to the episode page and finally saw the update schedule—one episode every weekend, Saturday.

Zhong Liangning: …

Aaaaaaa he was going insane!!!

How could such a good drama update so slowly?!

He slammed the table in frustration—but there was nothing to be done.

Right—this wasn’t the time for anger. He had something else to do: write a review for Chronicles of the Republic’s Literary Masters!

He had to recommend it to everyone he possibly could!

Thinking it over, the drama wasn’t flawless—simple props, low-budget post-production, cheap special effects. Everything looked poor.

But he never once felt pulled out of the story. The script was brilliant, the dialogue beautiful, the acting superb—good enough to overshadow every production flaw. He was effortlessly immersed.

This was the marvelous chemical reaction that only a top-tier script and top-tier actors could produce.

He wondered where Old Scenery had found these veteran actors! Their performances were truly master-level. Watching these masters spar with each other on screen was like a grand feast of acting, leaving Zhong Liangning utterly satisfied.

He hadn’t expected Old Scenery’s first real directing project to be so outstanding.

He could almost see a rising star in the directing world being born.

Alas, the only problem was money. Good script, good director, good actors—but a poor crew. No money for costumes or props, no money for marketing. If such a good drama were buried because of that, it would be a loss for audiences everywhere.

That was why he had to act as free word-of-mouth marketing—spreading the show to make up for its promotional shortcomings. Let it become a hit through reputation alone.

Action! Zhong Liangning cracked his knuckles and began typing furiously.

People like Mo Mingrui, Luo Bao, Luo Lan, and Zhong Liangning weren’t alone. Around them, waves of such “organic promoters” were rising—and the popularity of Chronicles of the Republic’s Literary Masters was quietly brewing into a storm.

…

“Shi Jing! Congratulations! Your new series just climbed onto the platform’s bestseller chart!”

When Qianhe called to share the news, Le Jing was at the crew’s celebration party.

It turned out that both Li Jianye and he himself had been too pessimistic!

Within the first hour, Chronicles of the Republic’s Literary Masters had reached 5,000 subscriptions—25,000 star-coins in revenue!

When Qianhe called, subscriptions were already at 100,000—half a million in revenue. And not even eighteen hours had passed! The number was still rising!

Le Jing quickly opened Jiangqi Video, scrolled down for ages, and finally saw their show sitting at No. 100 on the chart.

“It hasn’t even been a full day yet!” Qianhe said cheerfully. “Tomorrow I’ll talk to the editor-in-chief about getting you a homepage recommendation. That should boost you another dozen ranks!”

“Thank you so much,” Le Jing said. “We’re celebrating right now—do you want to join us?”

“Celebrating already?” Qianhe sounded surprised.

“Well, we’ve already far exceeded expectations. Everyone’s thrilled, so we thought we’d celebrate a little.”

Qianhe chuckled. “If you’re celebrating now, what will you do when you break into the top ten and TV stations start bidding for broadcasting rights?”

Le Jing caught the hint. “Wait… has someone already contacted you?”

Qianhe beamed. “A friend in the industry has expressed interest. If your later episodes don’t fall apart, selling broadcast rights will be easy.”

Le Jing’s smile deepened. “I understand. We’ll give it our best.”

Only when Chronicles of the Republic’s Literary Masters made real money could he afford to film his other projects.

And he couldn’t wait to bring them back to life.