CDJMM – Volume 4 – Chapter 32 Filming in the Interstellar Era (32)

The young man walked onto the award stage and received the silver-gray, planet-shaped trophy from Cao Desheng.

Cao Desheng gazed at this young director.

He was so young, so proud, so brilliantly talented.

In Cao Desheng’s long life, he had met many young geniuses. They were full of brilliance and overflowing with talent—people their peers could only look up to.

Yet in the end, after walking the long road of life and arriving calmly at its final chapter, the only one who survived was the less-gifted Cao Desheng.

Where had those geniuses gone?

Their talent made them—and destroyed them.

The world called them geniuses, but in Cao Desheng’s eyes, they were nothing more than slaves to their talent. They exhausted their lives and burned the light of their souls to create earth-shattering works.

And this young man holding the trophy was yet another genius.

Would he repeat the fate of geniuses?

“Honestly, I’m very surprised. I didn’t think I would win in the end. I’m the first winner of the Best AI Award,” the young man said as he held up the trophy and began his acceptance speech. “This is both an honor and a push forward. In the great artistic world shaped by light and shadow, I am merely a child who has just learned to walk. My road is still long.”

“What kind of person will I become in the future? What kind of films will I make? None of that is certain. But the only thing I can be sure of is…”

Facing the sea of people below, he smiled. It was like a clear breeze brushing across a shimmering lake, his eyes holding clarity and calmness far beyond his age. “Even if the road ahead is rugged, even if I walk it alone, it is still a joy. Let me use life as wine—to toast loneliness, and toast freedom.”

Cao Desheng was pulled from his thoughts. Hearing this confession from the young man, he stood stunned for a few seconds before finally revealing a relieved smile.

If this young man could truly maintain such openness and calmness for a lifetime, then perhaps—just perhaps—he could free himself from the shackles of talent, avoid becoming its slave, and enjoy this brief yet abundant life.

As a senior, the only thing he could offer now was his blessing.

“Fly,” he whispered to Shi Jing, his voice so soft it sounded almost like talking to himself. “Fly as high as you can. The world is vast, and I hope you will conquer it.”

But such a soft voice, once amplified by the tiny microphone near his lips, spread throughout the auditorium, letting every audience member clearly hear it.

Le Jing, of course, heard it too.

He turned in surprise, then gave Cao Desheng a bright smile—his gaze clear and courageous like that of a youth.

He said, “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

The old and the young looked at each other across the stage—one frail with age, one holding a trophy; one crowned with decades of honor, the other just beginning.

The shutter clicked, immortalizing the moment forever.

The next day, this photo appeared on the cover of China Film Weekly. The editor titled it—“The Passing of Two Eras.”

At the end of the feature article, the editor wrote: “A new era is quietly unfolding. Will this 24-year-old young man be able to carry the baton and become a leader who creates brilliant achievements for a new age?”

Their doubt was understandable.

The Hong Peony Award for Best Director, Best TV Series, and the Galaxy Award for Best AI Film—these top domestic honors had all been won by a mere 24-year-old. News like this shook the entire industry.

Many directors had gone gray without ever touching the Hong Peony or Galaxy Awards. Yet a complete newcomer had won them back-to-back, and even had the giant Cao Desheng placing such high expectations on him. Naturally, people began doubting Shi Jing.

Could this young man really shoulder Cao Desheng’s hopes?

Tian Hui’s answer was: “Impossible!”

“How could he win?! How dare he win?!”

He paced the room like a madman, eyes bloodshot, face pale, dark circles hanging under his eyes.

Impossible. Impossible! How could that brat Shi Jing win the Galaxy Award?!

Everyone had thought it impossible beforehand. Yet for him, they had even custom-made a brand-new category—Best AI Film.

Such honor, such preferential treatment—Tian Hui even began to wonder whether Shi Jing was Cao Desheng’s illegitimate son. Why else would Cao Desheng support him so fiercely, even openly saying, “I hope you conquer the world”?

When Tian Hui heard that sentence, rage nearly burst his veins; in shock and fury, he even flipped over a table.

After the anger faded, what took over was icy fear.

Shi Jing’s parting words replayed endlessly in his mind:

“I won’t stop. Next, I’ll make films even better than East Is Red. My future is limitless.”

“And you… you will never make a film better than mine. You’ll spend your whole life living in my shadow.”

What expression had Shi Jing worn at that time?

Right—contempt. He had looked at him as though he were garbage crawling out of a sewer.

Tian Hui clutched his head and let out a roar of despair.

No. He could make films. He could make something better than East Is Red!

Yes, he could! He had already bought the best script, would hire the best actors, and would finish the film as fast as possible—then submit it to next February’s Ark Awards!

Compared with the Ark Awards, the Galaxy Awards were nothing! The Ark Awards were the highest honors in the Earth Alliance. Winning one would prove his talent and crush Shi Jing beneath his heel!

…

Along with Le Jing’s glory came heavy controversy. People questioned whether someone his age deserved the Galaxy Award. They also doubted Cao Desheng’s words of encouragement at the ceremony.

Some media even tried to probe Cao Desheng about his relationship with Shi Jing.

It infuriated the old man. He snapped, “I have no relationship with Shi Jing. I support him purely out of admiration for his talent. Some people need to stop over-interpreting!”

But human hearts are sinister, and rumors terrifying. Even when Cao Desheng told the truth, the malicious never believe the truth.

Soon, countless gossip outlets began “digging” into Le Jing’s life.

Some claimed he was Cao Desheng’s illegitimate son; others said he was some rich woman’s lover and the Galaxy Award was her breakup gift; the most absurd one claimed he had slept with the entire judging panel.

These were all fabricated “shocking scandals” created by shameless clickbait accounts. Anyone with sense didn’t believe them. After all, the quality of The Young Marquis Who Seals the Wolf was visible to all. Anyone with aesthetic sense couldn’t deny its excellence.

A few barking dogs weren’t worth his attention.

And regardless of what others thought, Le Jing wouldn’t care.

He had never cared about anyone’s opinion.

Nor would he be satisfied by a mere Galaxy Award. It would never be his endpoint.

The Galaxy Award was the best in China. But the Ark Award was the best in the entire Earth Alliance.

Director An Yun had become one of the top directors in China precisely because he had won an Ark Award.

Beyond the Earth Alliance lay the universe filled with stars.

Beyond humans and Zergs were countless other species. Humanity, in the vast sea of stars, was but a drop in the ocean.

One day, Le Jing hoped his works could transcend the boundaries of species and civilizations, resonating emotionally with all beings capable of feeling.

He knew his goal was too grand. Maybe he would never achieve it in his lifetime.

But wasn’t life about challenge and dreams?

It was because humans emit brilliance while chasing dreams that their limited lives can transcend time and achieve eternity.

Humans become immortal because they dream.

…

Although Le Jing did not grow arrogant because of the Galaxy Award, it undeniably brought him fame and higher status.

Most directly, a dozen resumes were now on his desk—mostly third-tier actors, with a few second-tier ones—volunteering themselves for his new film The Empress’s Imperial Hound.

As for first-tier actors, they generally had stable partnerships with famous directors. Le Jing, newly risen and still lacking foundation, had not yet entered their consideration.

Unfortunately, a few actors he really wanted were all first-tier—and uninterested.

As he debated whether he should take the initiative to send them the script, he received an unusual call.

The caller’s name was Song Minghan, a friend of An Yun.

His other identity: a producer for CCTV’s documentary channel.

He had called to propose a collaboration—making a documentary together.

“I watched all your works. Honestly, I was moved. I’ve never seen another director who interprets traditional culture as wonderfully as you do! Although you’re still young and not yet established, I believe you’ll soar someday and become a top director like An Yun. So I came early to invite you. What do you think? Would you be interested in making a traditional-culture documentary with CCTV?”

Le Jing felt oddly like the country was trying to recruit him.

Song Minghan’s proposal was indeed tempting.

With CCTV backing him, he could quickly make up for his humble origins, gain more resources, and secure long-term benefits for his career.

But…

“To be honest, I’m very interested,” Le Jing sighed ruefully. “But unfortunately, I’m preparing a new film right now. You should find someone else.”

Song Minghan was definitely disappointed. Normally, he could wait two or three months for a film to wrap. But his superiors had given him a hard deadline—the documentary had to be completed before year-end and broadcast during the Spring Festival.

“Well, it can’t be helped. I should have asked earlier. Let’s find another chance to work together in the future.”

Then, unable to contain his curiosity, he asked, “What’s your new movie about? Traditional culture again?”

Le Jing briefly explained his concept.

A story told from the perspective of a dog, recounting the legendary reign of Wu Zetian, the first female emperor of China.

In some lucky surviving Qing-era documents, Wu Zetian was indeed mentioned. Evaluations of her were mixed.

Some said she was power-hungry and lustful; others said she was magnanimous and far surpassed men.

Without Tang-era records, these later evaluations only added more layers of mystery to her.

Who was she?

Why did she become emperor? How did she become emperor? Were her people well under her rule? Did she have a successor?

There were too many mysteries surrounding Wu Zetian.

A thought suddenly struck Song Minghan, and his eyes lit up.

“We could produce a special documentary on Wu Zetian! And your movie could double as supplemental material for the documentary! That way, you wouldn’t delay the progress of your film, and you could still help complete the Wu Zetian documentary before Spring Festival. Wouldn’t that be perfect?”