CDJMM – Volume 4 -Chapter 58 Filming in the Interstellar Era (58)

When Mo Mingrui stepped off the spaceship and onto Huaguo soil, it felt as if a lifetime had passed.

The Spring Festival had already been over for nearly a month. All traces of the holiday atmosphere had completely faded. A few children ran past him laughing, several sparrows chirped on the branches—such a peaceful day.

So peaceful it felt as if that brutal war existed only in his dreams.

Dazed, he flagged down a flying vehicle, entered his destination on the smart screen, then leaned back against the soft sofa and stared blankly.

Mo Mingrui had stayed at the front line for half a year.

Calling it the “front line” was actually inaccurate—where he lived was still a long distance away. He, along with several commanders and staff officers, stayed inside a military fortress. A hidden, secure military fortress.

There were no humans on the real front line—only robots.

They were cannon fodder used to wear down the insectoid forces.

The insectoids didn’t have as many robots as humans did, but they had an endless supply of fearless, relentless iron soldiers.

In terms of combat power, these insectoid soldiers were honestly not much weaker than the machine-built robots.

So from the very beginning of the war, the United Nations had prepared for a prolonged conflict.

Even then, many people optimistically declared: “The process will be difficult, but the future will be bright. Humanity will win in the end.”

…What a naïve fantasy.

Even now, when Mo Mingrui closed his eyes, the horrific scene from that day resurfaced in his mind.

The titanium-alloy roof of the military fortress had been torn open, and a massive claw reached in through the hole.

The insectoids had breached it. Strange and grotesque insects poured down through the opening like a dense, endless flood, rushing toward them like a tidal wave.

Mo Mingrui had never seen so many bugs in his life!

He had no time to wonder why there had been no alarms, why there were no guards, why no emergency protocols had activated. All he could do was run—run for his life.

Behind him came screams, wailing, crunching, the thud of heavy bodies hitting the ground, and strange squishy “puchi” sounds—like the popping of boba pearls in milk tea.

Mo Mingrui knew exactly what those sounds were.

He had mustered the courage earlier to look back for a split second.

Just that one look made all the blood in his body turn cold. He staggered, his mind spinning, his stomach churning violently.

If not for a sanitation robot that hoisted him up and carried him away, the next “puchi” sound would have come from his own body.

…It was the sound of human organs being crushed.

After that, his memories became blurry. In a daze, he seemed to have been carried into an enclosed space.

Once the security door fell shut, it completely sealed off all outside sounds. The killing, the death, the blood—everything was blocked out. What had just happened suddenly felt like a nightmare.

If he just opened his eyes, maybe those people would come back to life.

Mo Mingrui fainted.

When he woke up, he found himself on a hospital bed.

After the doctors performed basic cognitive tests, a military officer entered the room and said solemnly, “Mr. Mo Mingrui, I am a special investigator from the military. I need to ask you some questions regarding this incident. I hope you’ll cooperate.”

Mo Mingrui’s expression went completely blank. He stared at the investigator, his voice hoarse and forced out from deep in his throat: “Besides me… how many people survived?”

The investigator fell silent. The stern, upright man finally revealed a flicker of human sorrow in his eyes. “Twenty-three.”

Mo Mingrui didn’t know what expression he had shown then, only that the investigator had patted his shoulder and said stiffly, “I’m very sorry. We were too late.”

Mo Mingrui’s voice had grown so rough it barely sounded human. “Why?” His eyes were bloodshot as he glared at the investigator. “Why was there no alarm? Why were there no guards? Why didn’t the emergency system activate?”

The investigator’s expression hardened. “That is exactly why we’re here to talk… Someone shut down the central intelligence system and let the insectoids in.”

Mo Mingrui’s face instantly turned pale.

A puppet—or a traitor?

He preferred to believe the former.

If it were the latter… he would truly break.

Mo Mingrui spent two full months recuperating in a convalescent facility. His body was uninjured—but his mind was scarred to the core.

He had developed PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder. The psychologist had given him two months of psychological intervention and treatment, but unfortunately, the results were minimal.

In the end, the sanatorium decided to let Mo Mingrui return home, hoping that the peaceful atmosphere and the warmth of family and friends could heal the trauma in his heart.

Mo Mingrui ended the recollection, staring blankly at the scenery rapidly flashing past the window.

He had deliberately chosen the slowest speed, just so he could carefully observe the scenery along the road.

Those ordinary worldly scenes he had long grown accustomed to were now the very medicine that could save him.

Only peaceful scenery could briefly make him forget that nightmare-like day.

Suddenly, an electronic screen by the roadside caught his eye. The screen was playing the trailer for The Five-Star Red Flag Beneath the Wooden Planks.

Mo Mingrui suddenly remembered that before going to the front line, he had learned about Shi Jing’s new film from Shi Jing Starblog.

Back then he thought that if he returned alive from the front line, he absolutely had to watch this movie.

Now, though he was still alive, part of his soul had already died.

“Stop at the nearest cinema.”

He needed something to distract him, otherwise, he really would go insane.

……

Last year, because of the assassination of the President, the entire European Federation was in turmoil, so the Ark Awards were cancelled that year.

This year, despite the tense situation at the front lines, the Ark Awards were still held as scheduled.

Le Jing’s film once again received an invitation.

His personal assistant, face full of pride as though the honor were his own, said excitedly, “Teacher, The Five-Star Red Flag Beneath the Wooden Planks received twelve Ark Award nominations!”

Le Jing calmly examined the cover of the invitation.

In an interstellar era where digitization was universal, the Ark Awards, in pursuit of retro aesthetic and prestige, made their invitations with velvet covers embroidered with delicate platinum patterns.

It looked like a piece of artwork.

This was the third time Le Jing had received an Ark Award invitation.

The first time, his film The Empress’s Imperial Hound won nothing, and he’d become a laughingstock.

The second time, the Ark Awards were cancelled, and The Dawns Here Are Quiet missed its chance.

Now, the third time, his new film The Five-Star Red Flag Beneath the Wooden Planks had once again earned the appreciation of the Ark Awards.

“Ah, it’s such a pity last year’s Ark Awards were cancelled! Otherwise, Teacher, The Dawns Here Are Quiet definitely would have won! But this year is fine too—after this year’s ceremony, you’ll become the youngest Best Director in Ark Award history!” he said with absolute certainty, as if Le Jing’s win were already a foregone conclusion.

The young man curled his lips, tossed the invitation onto the table, opened his terminal and pulled up the script of his newly finished film, and said casually, “I won’t be attending the Ark Awards.”

“…Teacher, what did you say?” The assistant’s mouth fell open. He wondered if he had forgotten to bring his ears with him when he left the house.

The youth didn’t even look up. “I’m very busy right now. I don’t have time.”

The assistant was close to tears. “But you need to go onstage to accept the awards!”

“So what?” The youth finally lifted his gaze, cold eyes glinting as he smiled, “I don’t have time to play house with them. Whoever wants it can have it. I don’t care.”

Seeing that the assistant was still about to nag, the youth impatiently waved his hand. “Go, go—don’t disturb my work.”

The assistant had no choice but to swallow all his persuasion and leave feeling wronged.

The room finally returned to quiet.

What Le Jing had said wasn’t out of spite—he truly no longer cared about the Ark Awards at all.

Previously, influenced by the original host’s memories, he still held some admiration for the Ark Awards. But after Tulip Beauty won an Ark Award, the Ark Awards lost all authority in his eyes and fell to the level of a third-rate award.

He had no interest in wasting his precious time on a third-rate award.

He now slept only four hours a day, spending all the rest of his time working.

He was racing against time, wishing he could film every idea in his mind all at once.

Filmmaking was a long process. If he wanted to turn every story in his mind into a film, he had no idea how many years—or decades—it would take.

So during breaks between preparing his own films, Le Jing also wrote many historical film scripts and then sold them to other directors to let them help him bring the stories to life.

He didn’t care if other films took away some of the box office, nor did he care if other directors’ fame overshadowed his own. He only wanted those stories buried for thousands of years to be revealed to the world.

After The Five-Star Red Flag Beneath the Wooden Planks was released, Le Jing didn’t pay attention to the box office and didn’t participate in any promotional activities. He shut himself away to prepare his next script.

The new script told the story of Black slaves fighting for emancipation and freedom.

Though the themes differed, it shared the same core idea as The Five-Star Red Flag Beneath the Wooden Planks—resisting oppression and the unyielding pursuit of freedom.

To honor Martin Luther King Jr., Le Jing named the new film I Have a Dream.

Suddenly, an unfamiliar number appeared on his terminal.

Since starting work for the state, his communication device had been fitted with a high-strength firewall—there shouldn’t be any unknown callers.

Le Jing paused for a few seconds, then chose to answer. Silence.

Both sides remained silent, as if by unspoken agreement.

After about a minute, the other party finally broke first. “Shi Jing?”

The voice was odd and stiff, seemingly altered through a voice changer.

“And you are?”

“I know your films come from true history—true history long destroyed by the Zerg.” The other party let out an unpleasant laugh. “If this gets out, the government will probably suspect you of being a Zerg spy.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t seem scared at all?”

“Why should I be? Do you have evidence?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then go announce it to all of humanity,” Le Jing said, almost amused. “Reveal the real history, and prove that my movies are true history.”

The other side was choked silent, unable to respond for a long time.

Le Jing said coldly, “If that’s all, I’m hanging up. I don’t have time for riddles.”

“…You’re bolder and smarter than I expected,” the voice said softly. “Are you interested in cooperating with us?”

“And who are you?”

A strange, raspy laugh came from the other end. “Didn’t you say before? You have some Zerg friends. Now—we’re here.”

Le Jing: “Your IQ is too low. Not interested.”