CDJMM – Volume 4 – Chapter 2 Filming in the Interstellar Era (2)

History is an inexhaustible treasure trove.

Across the thousands of years of ancient Earth’s civilization, countless stories worthy of adaptation were born.

The grand ambitions of emperors and generals, the timeless thoughts of sages, and the sharp clashes and lofty passions of heroes who appeared one after another amid dynastic upheavals… all of these shine brilliantly in the annals of history. Though they may be confined within the official records meant to glorify rulers, the brilliance of their deeds can never truly be concealed.

But—

Are only great figures and heroes worthy of leaving their names in the pages of history?

What about the small, ordinary people—those who flickered briefly in the vast river of time, who bravely charged against the tides of fate only to be swallowed by the waves and shattered by the rushing currents? Are they not also worthy of remembrance?

The light that bursts forth from these small individuals at the moment before death is faint, yet bright enough to illuminate the long night of humanity’s millennia-old civilization. It is precisely because countless nameless people stepped forward, one after another, unafraid of death, that the wheels of history continued to turn and human civilization endured to this day.

What Le Jing wanted to film was the story of such small people.

He planned to portray the joys and sorrows of these individuals—living under the shadow of grand historical eras—through short episodes of around ten minutes each.

These “small” figures were truly small; some didn’t even leave names in historical records. Yet the clarity and bravery they displayed while moving against the currents of their time, the human brilliance that erupted between life and death—these were enough to be remembered by the world.

He only needed to carefully choose which small figures to feature.

Using Shi Jing’s memories along with information found online, Le Jing made a preliminary understanding of the current era’s general background and worldview.

Earth was destroyed in the year 3123 of the Old Calendar. At that time, scientists detected a massive asteroid shower headed for Earth. Combined with the near-total depletion of Earth’s energy resources, the United Nations government made the decision to abandon Earth and search for a new home—an event later called the Ark Project.

In the interstellar era, countless generations of intermarriage and genetic mixing had blurred the distinctions between human ethnicities. The hundreds of countries from ancient Earth had merged into just over a dozen, spread across six planets. These nations formed a tightly unified Earth Alliance, which joined the Interstellar Trade Association and conducted business with alien species across various star systems.

Shi Jing was a citizen of Huaguo, and the entire Peace Star was Huaguo territory. Huaguo was the strongest nation in the Earth Alliance, and over more than six thousand years had developed a brilliant and colorful civilization of its own.

Le Jing skipped these details and focused instead on researching ancient Earth history that had survived until now. Unfortunately, the results were not optimistic.

Ancient Egyptian, Babylonian, and other early human civilizations had been completely lost; pre-industrial histories of European countries such as Britain and France were only preserved at a fraction of their original scale; the histories and cultures of North America were nearly lost; as for Huaxia, the Ming and Qing histories remained mostly intact, but before the Song Dynasty, large stretches had fallen into blankness…

It would be such a pity if these brilliant cultures disappeared! Future generations deserved to know the glory of their ancestors!

This strengthened Le Jing’s resolve to bring them back to life on screen.

Out of his own sentiment as a Huaxia native, he wanted to begin with Huaxia’s history—starting with its small, forgotten individuals.

After thinking for a long time, a story from Zuo Zhuan came to mind.

A tale of a treacherous minister who murdered his king—and a group of stubborn, iron-willed historians.

Since Huaxia had always valued history, official historians were appointed to record events, ensuring the glory, lessons, and experiences of previous generations would never be forgotten. Yet compared to the major historical events recorded in their books, the faces of the historians themselves remained obscure; many were nameless, transparent beings.

The historians Le Jing wanted to portray were recorded in Zuo Zhuan with only a single short sentence:

“The Grand Historian wrote: ‘Cui Zhu murdered his lord.’ Cui Zi killed him. His younger brother succeeded him and, likewise writing this, died; and the next younger brother also wrote it, whereupon he was spared. The Southern Historian heard that all the Grand Historians had died, took up his tablet and came. Upon learning it had already been recorded, he returned.”

Within these few words lay the deaths of three historians.

The story was recorded in Zuo Zhuan, Shiji, and Records of the Eastern Zhou. It took place in the State of Qi during the Spring and Autumn period.

In the phrase “Cui Zhu murdered his lord,” Cui Zhu was a minister of Qi, and “lord” referred to Duke Zhuang of Qi. Why did a minister kill his own ruler?

In modern terms—because Duke Zhuang had cuckolded him. The duke relentlessly pursued Cui Zhu’s wife, Tang Jiang, not only giving Cui’s hat to another man but even hugging a pillar and singing a love song to her right in front of Cui Zhu—shameless sexual harassment, to put it bluntly.

In the face of such brazen misconduct, Cui Zhu snapped and decided to simply kill Duke Zhuang. He then installed the duke’s younger brother as the new ruler—Duke Jing of Qi.

But regardless of the ruler’s misdeeds, regicide was still a treasonous act. So Cui Zhu ordered the Grand Historian to record that the duke had died of malaria. The historian refused and carved on the bamboo slip: “On the day yihai of the fifth month of summer, Cui Zhu murdered his lord Guang.” Infuriated, Cui Zhu killed him. By custom, the historian’s younger brother inherited his position.

Cui Zhu continued killing: the first younger brother chose to write the truth and died; the second also wrote the truth and died.

At last, the youngest brother took the position. He, too, wrote: “On the day yihai of the fifth month of summer, Cui Zhu murdered his lord Guang.”

Cui Zhu roared, “Your three elder brothers have already died. Do you not cherish your life? Change the wording, and I will spare you.”

The youngest replied, “A historian must record what truly happened. To live while abandoning my duty—is worse than death!”

Unable to deal with these stubborn, death-defying fools, Cui Zhu could only sigh and console himself: “I acted for the sake of the state. Even if you write the truth, people will surely understand me.”

When the youngest historian came out, he met the Southern Historian, who had rushed over carrying bamboo slips. Surprised, he asked, “Why have you come?”

The Southern Historian replied, “I heard all of you had been killed. I feared the records would be altered, so I came to write them.”

In this brief account, none of the historians were named—only Cui Zhu, the murderer of three historians, was remembered through the ages.

Yet the courage with which they faced death and the integrity they displayed were carved into rough bamboo, unbroken for a thousand years, establishing the iron-clad reputation of Huaxia’s historians.

They were the true, unparalleled voices of history!

Le Jing believed that such integrity and conviction would move people no matter how many years had passed. And in this interstellar era, where ancient civilizations had become fragmented, the historians’ devotion to recording truth would surely resonate strongly with viewers.

…

When he opened the video-creation software, Le Jing felt a pang of emotion. Even though modern AI filmmaking had simplified production and greatly reduced costs, the industry was still expensive—especially for someone as poor as the original host.

The original host was an orphan. Though poor, he received government assistance—about 3,000 star coins per month. Even after paying 800 for rent, an ordinary person could live decently enough. No one should have been starving like he was now.

But… was the original host an ordinary person?

Setting aside the massive student loans from film school, the video-production software alone cost 100,000 star coins. He had to pay in installments.

As of now, he owed 200,000 star coins. Just repaying the monthly loan cost him 1,800. At this rate, it would take ten years to pay everything off. Even so, he still had to thank the government for offering interest-free loans to impoverished students—otherwise the rolling interest might trap him for life.

With such crushing debt, it was no wonder the original host lost hope.

Fortunately, since he inherited the host’s skills, Le Jing quickly completed the ten-minute short film using the software.

It was time to praise future technology.

The software could directly convert brainwaves into film scenes, and its voice library contained hundreds of voice samples of various ages and genders—enough for all dubbing needs in a standard film.

For the opening, he used a flashing-sequence style. In just 100 seconds, it displayed 238 iconic images of ancient Earth civilization: the Great Wall, the Terracotta Army, the pyramids… as well as inventions like the steam engine, computers, and smartphones. As for the opening and ending music, being penniless, he simply selected two grand, atmospheric tracks from free-for-commercial-use sites—they fit surprisingly well.

Everything was finally ready except the title.

After thinking long and hard, Le Jing wrote a few sweeping, calligraphic characters for the title:

“Small Figures in the History of Ancient Earth Civilization (Huaxia Edition – Episode 1)”

With a long exhale, he uploaded the video to Qijiang Video, the largest video-sharing site in Huaguo. Creators could set their own prices, and major film companies kept a close eye on new uploads, sometimes signing unknown creators for sky-high adaptation rights.

Since the host’s previous videos were too “art-film” in style, they never sold well. After two years, he had only just over a hundred fans.

So after a brief moment of thought, Le Jing set the price at 2 star coins—the cost of a bottle of water.

After six thousand years of development, Huaguo had long achieved common prosperity. Two star coins was practically nothing.

To attract viewers, many creators added a 100–200-character summary. Le Jing followed the popular format and wrote one too.

Finally done, he shut down his light-brain and rubbed his sore eyes.

It was already 8 a.m. the next morning. Without realizing it, he had worked all night!

Only now did the exhaustion hit him. The chicken soup he’d had earlier was long digested, and his stomach was once again staging an empty-city performance.

Sighing, he retrieved the last strawberry-flavored nutrient tube from the freezer. He gulped it down; the cheap artificial sweetener was nauseating, but at least it filled his stomach quickly.

It tasted awful, but it was cheap and filling.

There was still a week before the next round of government assistance. If his video couldn’t earn a week’s worth of food money, he’d have no choice but to return to writing historical novels to survive.

For now, he just hoped that when he woke up later, the video would have made 20 star coins—enough to stock up on a week’s worth of nutrient tubes.

As for real meat like chicken, duck, or fish—those would have to wait until he actually had money someday.

Touching his chin, he couldn’t help feeling bitter.

He had already crossed into the interstellar era, yet he was still struggling at the subsistence line. How pitiful.

Yawning deeply, Le Jing decided that the most urgent task was sleep. Once he was well-rested, he could think about everything else.

As soon as he lay down, he fell unconscious. He slept so deeply and sweetly that he had no idea a storm was already brewing around his little video.

…

Luo Bao was a third-year high school student preparing for the grueling college entrance exam. But he wasn’t the type to study blindly—he liked to relax by watching videos on his light-brain.

That day, as usual, he opened Qijiang Video, and the system notified him that a creator he followed—Old-Time Scenery—had uploaded a new video.

He had started following this creator a year ago, when the latter had only a few dozen followers. After a year, he still had just over a hundred.

Luo Bao followed him because one of Old-Time Scenery’s comments on a video resonated with him. Curious, he’d clicked into the profile and discovered he was also a creator, with a dozen videos already uploaded.

Out of curiosity, Luo Bao clicked on one of the videos, and then he immediately understood why Old Times Scenery only had a few dozen followers— the bizarre and obscure plot arrangements, the characters’ baffling logic, the morally appalling, three-views-shattering storylines that went against every social norm, and finally, the near–total-death tragic endings… 

Who on earth would like this kind of video?!

As for why he followed Old Times Scenery in the first place, Luo Bao couldn’t explain it clearly—probably sympathy, and also a bit of wanting to see just how ridiculous this person’s videos could get.

So when he saw that Old Times Scenery had released a new work, Luo Bao cheerfully clicked on it. He still remembered that the last submission was about a taboo love between a grandmother and her grandson, filled with a large number of elderly-nudity shots. It had thoroughly disgusted him. He wondered what kind of shocking, explosive content the guy had filmed this time.

He opened the video absent-mindedly, and the next moment, a brilliant, stirring, epic soundtrack started playing. Luo Bao raised his brows in surprise— this guy was actually being normal for once.

And then Luo Bao no longer had the chance to let his thoughts wander.

He held his breath, his eyes dazzled by the rapidly flashing images.

What… what was all this?!

A tingling sensation shot across his scalp. He instinctively pressed pause and carefully examined every picture that had flashed by:

Strange sculptures; grand, enormous buildings he had never heard of; unfamiliar figures in all kinds of poses; ancient, primitive machines…

He didn’t know why, but even though he was seeing them for the first time, he felt a strange sense of long-lost familiarity. His eyes burned with unexpected heat—an indescribable, inexplicable rush of emotion welled up in him.

It was too strange.

The familiar yet unfamiliar photos quickly finished flashing through. In the sudden black screen, a line of bold, artistic calligraphy appeared: “Small Figures in the History of Ancient Earth Civilization (Huaxia Edition · Episode 1)”

Though Luo Bao’s history wasn’t great, he still knew that the so-called Ancient Earth Civilization referred roughly to the period from Old Calendar 4000 BCE to Old Calendar 3000 CE, the time when humans still lived on Earth.

Later, during the thousand-year interstellar migration, humans were colonized and ruled by an alien civilization for three hundred years—those were the darkest three hundred years of human interstellar civilization.

And it was during those three hundred years that human civilization was severely destroyed, and most of the records of Ancient Earth Civilization were wiped out by the aliens.

Even though the human survivors later overthrew the alien rule under the leadership of the resistance forces, and continued to thrive on their new home, they could never retrieve the lost history.

For thousands of years afterward, the academic world had relied on the few remaining historical texts to make reasonable deductions about the missing parts of Ancient Earth Civilization. Related film and television works had been produced endlessly. The Eastern Red he watched some time ago was a representative of this type.

Eastern Red was pretty good— but who knew how this one would turn out?

Based on what he knew of Old Times Scenery, Luo Bao had little hope. As far as he was concerned, it would already be a miracle if the guy could tell a story without butchering it.

【The great river flows endlessly. Countless remarkable figures lived and died quietly, known to no one. Today, let me tell their stories one by one.】

【A long, long time ago, in a land called Huaxia, there was a dynasty called Zhou. The king of Zhou was known as the Son of Heaven, ruling over more than a hundred small states. And this story takes place in one of them—a state called Qi.】

With the deep, resonant male narration, the mist cleared, revealing an ancient, majestic stone building. Then the scene shifted, and a middle-aged man in a strange red robe with a three-part mustache appeared.

【His name was Cui Zhu, a minister of the Qi king, Duke Zhuang of Qi. The story we’ll tell today—at its core—is a bloody case triggered by a green hat.】

Luo Bao tossed aside all his earlier pessimism and stared intently at the screen, his interest fully captured. Of course he knew of the Zhou dynasty—its name appeared on the historical timeline. It was one of the earliest dynasties of Huaxia.

But what kind of country was Zhou? What kind of history and civilization had it created? Even historians didn’t know.

He never expected Old Times Scenery to be bold enough to set a story in the Zhou dynasty. He wondered what kind of plot would come out of it. Hopefully something interesting.

As it turned out, the weirdo Old Times Scenery had done something reliable for once.

Luo Bao was furious at Duke Zhuang’s sexual harassment of his minister’s wife. If this had been in Huaguo, Duke Zhuang would’ve been arrested long ago!

So when he learned that Cui Zhu intended to kill Duke Zhuang, he applauded out loud. That was what he called a real, iron-blooded man!

But how exactly was Cui Zhu going to kill him? And since the king was still the king, would Cui Zhu be sentenced?

Just as he was filled with questions, the video suddenly cut off. The black screen showed a message:

“Your free viewing session has ended. To continue, please pay 2 star-coins.”

Luo Bao nearly spat blood.

Just 2 star-coins? Buy! Buy! Buy!

Damn it, this Old Times Scenery really learned how to hook people!

He paid happily—this was the first time he’d ever been so pleased to buy Old Times Scenery’s work.

He continued watching with full concentration:

Cui Zhu lured Duke Zhuang to his home and had assassins surround and kill him. Luo Bao couldn’t help shouting “Good!” In his view, Cui Zhu was truly a man of blood!

If the story ended here, it would simply be justice prevailing over evil—a bit dramatic, but satisfying enough.

But the direction the story took next was far beyond anything Luo Bao had expected.

【…

The elderly historian entered the hall, saluted, and said, “This official greets the Chancellor.”

Cui Zhu said casually, “I killed the king. Write that he died of malaria.”

The historian was silent for a few seconds. Then he sat cross-legged, upright, and carved a line into the bamboo slip: “In the fifth month, on the day Yihai, Cui Zhu assassinated his lord Guang.”

Cui Zhu flew into a rage. “Are you deliberately opposing me?!” He drew his sword and stabbed the historian in the chest. White blade in, red blade out—within moments, the historian breathed no more.

Cui Zhu ordered his men, “The Grand Historian is dead. Send his body home, and have his younger brother come to record history!”

The three younger brothers wept over their eldest brother’s body. After the burial, the second brother wiped his tears, put on the elder’s robes, and calmly went to see Cui Zhu. Under Cui Zhu’s furious glare, he carved the same line: “In the fifth month, on the day Yihai, Cui Zhu assassinated his lord Guang.”

Cui Zhu killed him, too.

Then the third brother buried the second, and under the youngest brother’s grief-stricken gaze, he went to see Cui Zhu. Under Cui Zhu’s nearly flaming eyes, he carved again: “In the fifth month, on the day Yihai, Cui Zhu assassinated his lord Guang.”

Cui Zhu killed him as well—but this time his sword hesitated, weakened. On his face, beyond anger, appeared fear and confusion.

The youngest brother calmly received the third brother’s body. He didn’t cry. He simply put on the robes, took the bamboo slip, and followed the messenger to meet Cui Zhu.】

Luo Bao gasped sharply and paused the video, unable to bear watching further.

He already knew the fate awaiting this historian— he would be killed too.

He rubbed his hot eyes, feeling a flicker of resentment toward Cui Zhu— even though he had liked him earlier!

These historians were too much!

Fools! Idiots! Blockheads!

The king died in disgrace anyway—why not just write he died of illness? At least they could all survive!

The king was already dead—did it matter how?

Frustration clogged his chest; he couldn’t breathe.

He wiped his tears hard, waited a few minutes, then played the video again— he wanted to know why they were so stubborn.

He wanted to know what ending this would lead to.

And Cui Zhu, too, had the same question:

【“Your three brothers all died for disobeying me. Do you not value your own life? If you listen to me, I’ll spare you.”】

In his heart, Luo Bao shouted desperately: Say yes! Just agree! Otherwise you’ll die! Your family already lost three people—that’s enough. No one would blame you for giving in!

【The youngest historian was silent for a moment, then lifted his head and looked into Cui Zhu’s eyes. His gaze burned like fire. “It is our duty as historians to record the truth. I would rather die than violate my duty and live in disgrace. Besides, even if I don’t write it, others will. Even if you forbid me, your misdeeds will spread, causing even greater shame. So I will not consider my life. Chancellor, please think carefully.”】

Though the young historian was unarmed, Cui Zhu dared not meet his eyes. He looked away and fell into long silence. For the first time, deep exhaustion and weakness appeared in his fierce eyes. After a moment, he sighed. “I only killed the foolish king for the sake of Qi. Even if the world finds out in the future, they will understand my reasons.”

He waved his hand, letting the young historian go.

The young historian walked out proudly with the bamboo slip. He happened to meet a middle-aged scholar. Surprised, he asked, “Aren’t you the historian responsible for recording the lands south of Qi? Why are you here?”

The Southern Historian replied, “I heard Cui Zhu killed the four of you. I feared history would be altered, so I hurried over.” He lowered his eyes to the bamboo slip. “It wasn’t falsified, was it?”

The young historian nodded and showed him the slip. After reading carefully, the Southern Historian recited softly: ‘In the fifth month, on the day Yihai, Cui Zhu assassinated his lord Guang.’ Smiling with relief, he left.】

The scene froze, dimmed, and the narration returned:

【In the great crashing tides of an era, how many small people are swallowed whole? And yet, it is the brilliance born from their choices between life and death that lights the long night of humanity, pushing human civilization forward with difficulty. They are the spears of their era—destined to stand against fate.】

The shock Luo Bao felt at this moment was unimaginable.

He could not imagine people willing to die—again and again—just to protect true history, to uphold the bottom line of a historian.

“They’re too stupid…” he choked quietly. “How can people like this exist? Really…”

He wanted to call them foolish, stubborn, wooden-brained—but in the face of such courage and conviction, he couldn’t utter a single harsh word.

In the end, he could only admit— they were incredible, dazzling beyond his poor vocabulary.

Though short, the drama told an exciting and intense story.

There were no purely good or evil characters. Each person held to their own principles, their own beliefs. And when these beliefs collided, the sparks that flew were breathtaking.

He couldn’t help but wonder— during those dark three hundred years under alien rule, were there also historians like the ones in Little People, giving their lives to protect true history? They had no names, but their bodies formed a bridge that allowed human history to pass through three hundred years of blood and fog and reach the hands of future generations.

The thought alone made tears pour uncontrollably. His eyes ached.

How long had it been since he last watched such an outstanding story? He had assumed this would be another cheap, sloppy production riding on the popularity of ancient-history gaps, but he never expected the content to be this good.

He dared say— this mere ten-minute short episode surpassed 99% of existing historical dramas.

Those dramas were full of nonsense, melodrama, endless filler, and none of the compact, twisting power of Little People. He finished it wanting more—ten or eight more episodes.

Wait!

He remembered the opening said Episode 1— meaning this was going to be a series!

Old Times Scenery would continue updating!

So when was the next episode coming?

He checked the comment section—now there were four or five comments, all praising the plot and asking when Episode 2 would be released.

Taking a deep breath, Luo Bao typed:

“Master Scenery, Little People was amazing. Don’t laugh at me, but I cried several times! May I ask when the next episode will come out? I can’t wait! PS: 2 star-coins is too cheap! Your work is worth 1000 star-coins!”

After posting the comment, he generously rewarded Old Times Scenery 1000 star-coins to encourage more content.

After paying, an unbearable emptiness settled in. Having watched such an outstanding story, everything else on TV and in movies suddenly felt dull.

He sighed. He couldn’t be the only one feeling empty. So he happily shared the video link to his class group, Q-Space, Moments, and StarBlog, writing an enthusiastic flood of praise.

Only after doing all this did he let out a long, refreshed breath and happily decide to watch Little People again.

Sigh…

While waiting for Episode 2, he could only rely on rewatching Episode 1 over and over.