HEIFEIGU -Chapter 148

After the name of Shancai Sect spread, many people really did come looking for Xie Jixing to solve their problems.

All kinds of requests poured in.

Even Director Yang secretly asked him in private whether making regular offerings to Shancai Sect could guarantee consistently high ratings.

Xie Jixing patted Director Yang on the shoulder and said earnestly: “Take the audience seriously, polish your work with care, and promote it with effort. That’s how you ensure long-term success.”

“At your age, don’t keep thinking about crooked shortcuts.”

Director Yang angrily smacked his head. This was simply turning the world upside down!

The quality of A Scroll of Long Songs was indeed excellent.

After it aired, it stood out among many costume romance dramas and its ratings kept rising steadily.

The person who benefited the most was Wei Tingquan, who had taken on the main promotional responsibility.

The role of the Third Prince was much more complex than the idol-drama roles he had played before.

Although he still had the “aloof flower on a high mountain” aura, the later layers—being entangled in power and desire, and torn between family and love—were something none of his previous roles had possessed.

Director Yang had originally cast him for his popularity.

If the lead actor and investors hadn’t been changed midway, the show might have ended up as just another mediocre costume romance.

Now, Wei Tingquan was immensely grateful for that change.

Under Qian Shuyun’s influence, the entire crew became determined to produce a high-quality work, and his own acting improved as well.

With A Scroll of Long Songs as his representative work, he now even dared to dream about entering the film industry.

So this time, he spared no effort in promotions, traveling nationwide and barely missing any events.

Even though it was his own project, Xie Jixing followed the tour for over a month and was completely exhausted. Promoting was far more tiring than filming.

Even the ghosts had dark circles.

At first, Yin Wenshan and Yue Qinyao were excited just to be able to fly.

But after days with three flights a day, they slumped weakly on the luggage racks, their ghostly energy drooping.

Encouraged by the two ghosts, Xie Jixing claimed he had a major task and returned to the sect to lie low.

The airing of the drama also greatly boosted Xie Jixing.

Although his screen time wasn’t much, he was still officially the third male lead, completely breaking the claim that he had no real achievements.

His character was very likable, with well-handled emotional transitions. Coupled with a BE ending, he became a classic “beautiful, strong, and tragic” figure.

His action scenes were especially smooth and powerful.

Nowadays, most mainstream dramas rely on special effects and slow motion for fight scenes. It’s rare to see long, single-take fights carried purely by actors’ performances.

Many fans clipped his scenes into compilations and suggested that future domestic dramas should raise their standards to this level.

Although Qian Shuyun didn’t join the promotions, the drama brought back many of his long-dormant fans and even attracted new ones.

His acting had a strong sense of texture, clearly standing apart from other shows.

Audiences exclaimed that this time, they were really “eating fine grain.”

Many new viewers who hadn’t known him before became fans through A Scroll of Long Songs and went looking for his past works.

They were now eagerly looking forward to his return to the big screen.

In the first half of the year, A Scroll of Long Songs crushed all its competitors and became the ratings champion.

Amid everyone’s expectations, the male lead Qian Shuyun released his first comeback film in the summer season: Nameless Mountains and Seas.

The film had no early promotion and was dropped directly into the summer schedule.

Competing against popular romance films and light comedies, it was at a clear disadvantage.

Even after much effort, its early screenings were very limited.

Mostly morning and midnight slots, with very few prime-time showings.

But Qian Shuyun was extremely stubborn.

He had great confidence in Nameless Mountains and Seas and believed it could rival any film.

At the premiere, Xie Jixing—who had only rested for a few days—put on the custom suit Qian had ordered for him again.

Sitting beside Qian Shuyun, holding his hand, he was unusually nervous, chattering nonstop.

“What if it fails? I’m so nervous.”

“Do you think it’ll succeed?”

“Look at the other films—either they’re made by former box-office champions, or they’ve got tons of traffic stars. We have no advantage!”

“What if no one watches it later?”

Qian Shuyun laughed and squeezed his hand.

“Xing, how many followers do you have on Big-Eye Social?”

“Almost 30 million.”

“And those ‘traffic stars’ you mentioned?”

“Over 30 million… Hey, wait, I’m traffic too!”

Xie Jixing suddenly realized.

Luo Feiang, sitting next to him, poked his arm.

“Bro, look at me. I’ve got over 80 million.”

“When will you realize I’m actually a top star?”

Oh right. Their crew also had a top-tier celebrity.

Xie Jixing rubbed his nose and gave him an awkward smile.

“You acted too naturally this time. I forgot.”

Luo Feiang gave him a thumbs-up. As expected of a master—he really knew how to compliment people.

“As for box-office champions,” Qian Shuyun smiled, “do you know who holds the record?”

Only then did Xie Jixing remember there was a grand-slam Best Actor sitting right there.

Thinking about it, they had both champions and top stars backing them. They were actually quite strong.

Once the film started, Xie Jixing couldn’t think about any of that anymore.

The opening consisted of a series of unrelated montage shots.

In the dazzling metropolis, Fan Qingshan, dressed in luxury, held a wine glass at the premiere of his new film.

Surrounded by glamorous figures, a woman in a champagne-colored gown gestured for him to come closer.

He leaned down, placing his ear near her red lips.

She whispered something, but all that could be heard was a train whistle.

A black train pulled into the station.

A group of Japanese soldiers disembarked and lined up neatly.

Yet they were stepping onto foreign land.

“Drink!” shouted an officer, lowering his sword and ordering them forward.

The scene shifted to the mountains.

Zhang Xianrui and Zhang Xianhai were practicing their morning routines, sparring with wooden swords.

One strike hit a nearby tree.

Snow fell onto Zhang Haoqian, who was meditating beneath it.

“You little brats! Don’t run!”

Three figures chased each other through the mountains, red ribbons at their waists flying vividly in the cold landscape.

And so, the story began.

The complex, tightly woven storyline intertwined seamlessly.

With post-production editing and music, the big-screen experience was completely different from filming.

Many shots Xie Jixing hadn’t fully understood while shooting now served as knots, tightly binding together the fates of two groups of characters.

As the film progressed, his mind was completely occupied by the characters’ destinies and emotions.

He couldn’t spare even a shred of attention for anything else.

Most of the premiere audience consisted of industry insiders and media, with some fans who had won tickets.

Before the show, it was noisy with chatter and soft screams.

Now, only breathing and occasional sobs could be heard.

The first major climax came with the deaths of Zhang Haoqian and Zhang Xianrui.

Facing enemy tanks, Zhang Haoqian patted Zhang Xianrui’s shoulder.

“Everyone has to die someday. I’m old and don’t have long anyway. Take this explosive pack. Run. Don’t look back!”

“Did you hear me? Run! Now!”

The sound of treads crushing flesh grew clearer.

Zhang Xianrui kept shouting something, but he couldn’t even hear himself.

All he heard was his master yelling in his ear:

“Run!”

Pushed away, he stumbled forward along the crude trench.

Behind him came a deafening explosion.

The explosive pack tied to Zhang Haoqian’s chest detonated.

The tank seemed to malfunction from the blast and came to a halt.

Several Japanese soldiers cursed as they climbed out of the vehicle.

Zhang Xianrui stopped in his tracks.

His gun had long since run out of bullets, but he still had the broadsword his master had given him.

Gripping the long blade, he bent low and slipped back along the trench.

Keeping close to the edge, he jogged forward. Years of training in the mountains had made his steps swift and light.

The Japanese soldiers clearly hadn’t noticed him. They were still grinning viciously, stabbing bayonets into the corpses on the battlefield.

From inside the trench, he couldn’t see what was happening above, but he could judge by the shadows.

Holding his breath, Zhang Xianrui hid and waited. When the shadows stretched longer and longer into the trench, he suddenly leapt up, swinging his broadsword straight toward a soldier’s head.

Once exposed, death was inevitable.

There were simply too many enemies.

After Zhang Xianrui cut down one Japanese soldier, all of them turned their fire on him.

He didn’t count how many bullets hit him. He only wanted to kill one more—just one more.

In his eyes, only the red ribbon at his master’s waist remained.

It was the mark of their school, now dyed even redder with blood.

Zhang Xianrui thought: I have to fight my way over there.

His vision began to blur. By instinct, he kept swinging his blade, hacking with all his strength.

Some strikes landed. Some missed.

Staggering forward like this, he fought his way to the red ribbon’s side, and finally, he could no longer hold on.

Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He opened it, struggling to make a sound, wanting to say just one sentence:

“Master, I didn’t run. I wasn’t a coward. I didn’t disgrace us.”

But only blood and hoarse, rattling sounds came out.

In the end, Zhang Xianrui collapsed beside his master.

Two red ribbons swayed together amid the shattered mountains and rivers.

The Japanese soldiers had suffered losses and didn’t linger.

After collecting the weapons and repairing the tank, they rolled over the field of corpses and quickly left.

The sound of bones and flesh being crushed rang out again and again.

They laughed loudly and sang military songs as they advanced.

When Zhang Xianhai returned, all he saw was devastation.

Staggering through the bodies, he searched desperately, hoping his master and senior brother were not among them.

But those two glaring streaks of red quickly caught his eye.

Facing their mangled remains, there were no tears in Zhang Xianhai’s eyes—only towering hatred.

He knelt in the blood-soaked mud and kowtowed three times.

Blood flowed down his forehead, blurring his hatred-filled eyes.

Xie Jixing wiped away the tears sliding from the corners of his eyes.

Crying over a movie I acted in myself—kind of embarrassing, isn’t it?

Luckily, sobbing filled the theater, and beside him came a loud nose-blowing sound.

He glanced over.

Luo Feiang beside him had cried so hard that his makeup was completely smeared.