CDJMM – Volume 4 – Chapter 20 Filming in the Interstellar Era (20)

The timing of the actors’ scandals breaking out came even earlier than Le Jing had imagined.

Almost right after the fourth episode of Records of Republican-Era Literary Giants finished airing, the famous paparazzo Mo Fei posted an exposé on StarBlog, digging up every bit of the veteran actors’ past scandals and laying them bare.

The StarNet exploded completely.

Although these veteran actors had already been out of the spotlight for a long time—in theory, even if scandals came out, it would be a case of nbcs (nobody cares).

But when all these veterans appeared in the same show, and all their scandals were stacked together, it produced a sensational effect far greater than 1+1.

On top of that, Le Jing had trended multiple times recently, and the buzz had not yet died down. Additionally, Records of Republican-Era Literary Giants had indeed earned a solid reputation within niche circles. So when these scandals broke at this moment, of course they drew attention and sparked endless discussion.

Le Jing wasn’t angry—he was delighted.

Who was this kind person boosting the popularity of their production?

Black fame is still fame, isn’t it?

Thanks to that exposé, Records of Republican-Era Literary Giants completely broke out of its niche circle and entered the sight of a far wider audience, seen by the general public.

Even if many viewers tuned in with the intent to criticize, at least they were watching! And Le Jing was confident that once they actually watched those veteran actors’ performances, many viewers would have a “reverse-slap-in-the-face” moment. After all, those veterans’ acting skills were nothing to scoff at.

Le Jing thought that, in order not to waste this mysterious helper’s goodwill, he might as well let the production team be hated and scolded a few more days. Later, he would hold a press conference to clear things up. The harsher the criticism now, the sweeter the reversal later.

…

The head of the Bai Corporation, Bai Moxuan, was a domineering CEO whose days were packed with work. But even with his schedule, he still had his own hobbies.

He was always so busy, with such short rest times, that he could only squeeze moments out of his day to pursue them.

Right now, he was sitting in his private starship, heading toward Meiguo on the Free Star, where he was scheduled to negotiate a multi-billion business deal with a local conglomerate.

The trip from Peace Star—where Huaguo was located—to Free Star took one hour, enough time for Bai Moxuan to take a short nap and recharge.

So his secretary gently asked, “President Bai, it’s still early. Would you like to rest a bit?”

Bai Moxuan pinched the bridge of his nose. Though tired, he firmly refused. “No, I’m watching a show.”

The smile on the secretary’s face froze. She stared at him in shock, almost at a loss. “You’re… watching a show?”

Good heavens—their workaholic boss actually watched dramas!

Bai Moxuan gave her a puzzled look and turned on the large home theater screen. “What’s strange about me watching a show?”

“N-nothing strange at all.” The secretary waved her hands quickly, then looked curiously at the huge screen filled with various titles. “What are you watching, sir?”

“Little Figures in the History of Ancient Earth Civilization.” As soon as he spoke, the title appeared on the screen.

It sounded like a documentary?

Seeing her boss already fully absorbed, the secretary wisely muted herself and dared not disturb him further. She also looked at the screen, curious about what kind of show could make her normally aloof boss watch dramas even when exhausted.

Bai Moxuan had only recently fallen into the Little Figures pit.

If not for Ning Zhongliang—the history influencer he’d followed for several years—strongly recommending it, Bai Moxuan, who’d barely had time to sleep lately, would never have thought of watching a show.

And yet he’d quickly realized he’d made the right choice!

This documentary-style series, Little Figures in the History of Ancient Earth Civilization, had episodes only a few minutes long, but its themes were unique, its intent profound, the content meaningful, the plots well-researched, and the characters vividly portrayed—a rare gem in recent years.

But what touched him most was the sense of righteousness. In a society where people were restless and driven by profit, the steadfastness and moral courage of these “little figures” were especially precious. Even his cold heart was occasionally warmed and moved.

Although many viewers complained the episodes were too short, the length was perfect for someone as busy as Bai Moxuan—just long enough for him to squeeze into his day.

Yesterday was Saturday, and episode six had just been released. He hadn’t had time to watch it and had saved it for today.

What kind of story would today’s little figure tell?

(The scene of the episode begins.)

The carriage driver looked at Chen Buzhan in surprise and praised him, saying, “Young master, you are truly a righteous man!”

Chen Buzhan forced out a smile uglier than crying. Trembling all over, he tried to climb onto the carriage, but his legs gave way and he nearly fell off.

The driver jumped in shock and rushed over to support him, helping him safely into the carriage. Chen Buzhan’s face was as pale as paper; he collapsed inside like a heap of mud.

The driver hesitated to speak.

When it was time for lunch, Chen Buzhan’s hands shook so badly he couldn’t even hold his chopsticks. The driver finally couldn’t hold back anymore and asked, “You’re this terrified—what’s the point of going to the capital?”

Chen Buzhan was silent for a moment. He wiped the sweat from his face, shook his head, and on his face appeared a conflicted expression of both fear and determination. “The king is in trouble. As his subject, it is my duty to speak for him, to die for him—that is the demand of righteousness. But my cowardice, that is my personal matter. I cannot let the private override the public. So I must go to the capital.”

Bai Moxuan’s heart trembled violently!

He never expected the timid-as-a-mouse Chen Buzhan to say such words!

He even began to feel a kind of awe toward him.

What is courage?

To do what one knows is impossible—that is courage.

To go forward even if tens of thousands stand in your way—that is also courage.

But Chen Buzhan possessed a third kind of courage:

Even though I am terrified, even though I know that going this time means certain death, for the sake of upholding the righteousness in my heart, I will overcome my fear and walk toward death.

How magnificent! How heroic!

Who could say Chen Buzhan was not a brave man?

What kind of overwhelming courage does it take for a cowardly man to march knowingly toward death? This kind of courage is even more precious than that of heroes and warriors.

The world does not lack brave people, nor does it lack cowards. What it lacks is people like Chen Buzhan—those who overcome their cowardly nature to do courageous deeds.

Even Bai Moxuan, if he knew the road ahead meant death, would probably have chosen another road long ago. What stupid principles could be more important than life? He would never, like Chen Buzhan, stick to one road to the end, battering into a wall without turning back.

So he revered Chen Buzhan.

And he grew curious about Chen Buzhan’s fate.

Would he survive?

If someone so determined and brave truly died, how regrettable, how tragic that would be!

What was Chen Buzhan’s ultimate fate?

Then Bai Moxuan’s eyes widened slowly; he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Chen Buzhan died very quickly.

He never reached the capital, never condemned Cui Zhu, never upheld justice for the king. His death had nothing to do with Cui Zhu, the King of Qi, or anyone else in the world.

His death was neither glorious nor grand. It was so absurd it bordered on a joke—he was frightened to death.

As the carriage passed a battlefield, Chen Buzhan was literally scared to death by the sounds of combat.

He had been a coward all his life, and in the end, he died as a coward.

He had never been a brave hero.

The only courageous thing he ever did was mustering up the strength to head for the capital.

Yet, he failed.

He died on the way, in a manner befitting a coward, and even at death’s door, he remained a coward in the eyes of others.

“Sob… sob…” Soft crying suddenly sounded beside him. Bai Moxuan snapped out of his daze and saw his female secretary’s face covered in tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, only then noticing his own voice had turned slightly hoarse.

The secretary hurriedly wiped her tears and choked, “How can Chen Buzhan die? He hasn’t even reached the capital, hasn’t condemned Cui Zhu, hasn’t brought justice for the king, hasn’t earned his place in history… How could he…”

Bai Moxuan felt an overwhelming sorrow and added, “Yes… how could he die?”

The secretary, angry, said, “Does this creator even know how to make videos? I was expecting Chen Buzhan to overcome his fear and accomplish something great, but the author ruined it—forcing him to die, and in such an absurd way too! Too much!”

Bai Moxuan was silent for a long time, then shook his head. “It wasn’t forced. Being scared to death sounds absurd at first, but given his timid nature, it’s not impossible.”

“But you can’t just kill him like that!” the secretary protested. “He hasn’t achieved his goals, hasn’t become a hero—how can he die?”

“…That’s why Chen Buzhan is a small person,” Bai Moxuan sighed, clear-headed and rational. “If he really had become a hero, then he would not be a small person.”

The secretary fell silent.

Only now did she remember the title—The Small People in Ancient Earth Civilization History.

Chen Buzhan’s dramatic yet abrupt death suited the identity of a small person.

Small people die easily.

Walking safely on the sidewalk—perhaps someone falls from a building and kills them. Eating at home—perhaps a meteorite crashes down.

A minor cold—perhaps it escalates into multi-organ failure leading to death…

For small people are simply this unlucky.

The secretary couldn’t help asking, “President Bai… do you think someone like Chen Buzhan truly existed in history? Or is he made up by the author?”

Bai Moxuan answered frankly, “I don’t know.” Meeting her sorrowful gaze, he added firmly, “But I hope so. I hope the history we’ve lost hides countless Chen Buzhans.”

“Because only such a history is worth remembering and searching across millennia.”

The secretary nodded. Then she suddenly said, “I also hope Chen Buzhan really existed.” She looked toward the now-dark screen, as if seeing that timid yet death-defying young man, and whispered, “He was once so brave… he deserves to be shown and honored by future generations.”

Bai Moxuan nodded silently.

The spaceship fell into a deep quiet.

The vague idea that had hovered in Bai Moxuan’s mind grew clearer. He felt The Small People should not remain solely on the internet—it deserved to be made into a holographic film and shown in theaters to reach more people.

He quickly made up his mind.

Once he returned from the Free Star after finishing business, he would meet the creator Shi Jing, talk properly, and hopefully buy the broadcasting rights to The Small People for full-channel promotion.

The Bai family was in the energy industry. Bai Moxuan knew little about the entertainment world, and the Bai family had no influence there. But he had confidence in the future of The Small People.

If someone as cold-hearted as him could be moved, that alone proved its excellence.

He checked the time—only half an hour remained before arrival. He’d hoped to watch an episode of Republic-Era Literary Masters’ Chronicles, but there wasn’t enough time. Better to store up a few episodes and binge later.

He had never watched that show; even to watch The Small People he’d had to carve out time with great difficulty. He knew Republic-Era Literary Masters’ Chronicles was co-directed by Shi Jing and others.

A name brings reputation, just as a tree casts its shadow. With The Small People as a masterpiece, Bai Moxuan had high expectations for this drama.

Now that he finally had a little free time and wasn’t sleepy, he casually browsed the comment section of The Small People, looking through viewers’ reactions.

Then he was blindsided by the newest scandals involving the crew of Republic-Era Literary Masters’ Chronicles.

[The world belongs to Trisolaris: Zhang Yanfang, who plays the prostitute Bai Shaoyao, was actually a real prostitute. Isn’t this just playing herself?]

[My friend wants to go check: And Wu Yan, who plays Zheng Yiliang—who would’ve thought a gambling addict is playing a noble, courageous scholar? He once owed a mountain of loan-shark debt. I guess he’s paid it off if he’s making a comeback?]

[Home in the Northeast: If not for that exposé, I wouldn’t know the police captain was played by Xuan Liang. He abused his parents—worse than an animal! Why didn’t the authorities permanently ban him?]

[Chen Buzhan Your Death Was So Tragic: Tsk tsk tsk, I’m shocked. Shi Jing sure has guts, hiring actors like these.]

[Dream of the Southern Bough: Filthy Shi Jing, enjoying his dirty money, huh?]

Bai Moxuan skipped over the profanities and soon pieced together the full story.

He frowned deeply.

He had always separated an actor’s private life from their profession. In his view, actors could live however they wished—as long as they broke no laws and performed their craft well, the public had no right to interfere.

However, he also understood that many viewers cared deeply about an actor’s morality; scandals could even ruin an excellent production.

He began to worry for the author he admired.

He resolved to find time to watch Republic-Era Literary Masters’ Chronicles soon. If it truly was a good drama, he absolutely intended to speak up in its defense.