HEIFEIGU -Chapter 149

Zhang Xianhai tied the two torn, bloodstained red ribbons together with the one at his waist.

He picked up the peachwood sword from beneath his master’s body and left.

He had to stay alive for revenge—for killing the invaders.

He didn’t even have time to bury his master and senior brother.

The enemy was about to reach his hometown, Zhucheng. He had to hurry.

As Zhang Xianhai moved through the mountains, flames rose into the sky over the Fan family in Zhucheng.

This great clan, which had flourished for centuries, had been handed over to the enemy by the authorities as a bargaining chip.

Fan Qingyan was captured alive and died heroically.

On screen, when Fan Qingyan clutched her pistol and fell into a pool of blood,

Xie Jixing clearly heard a female reporter behind him curse fiercely: “Bastards! I want to kill them all!”

But soon, her emotions were seized again by the tense espionage and brutal street fighting.

The tissue she had used to wipe her tears was clenched into a tight ball.

No one cared whether it was stained with tears—or even snot.

Soon, it was soaked through with cold sweat.

Everyone around Fan Qingshan seemed dangerous.

Every conversation—even every breath—had to be cautious.

Enduring the pain of his family’s annihilation, he put on an act before the cameras:

Smiling, flirting, playing the role of a clueless, debauched playboy.

In private, however, he passed secret intelligence out again and again—

Through banquets, social gatherings, even photos and interviews in gossip papers.

Meanwhile, Zhang Xianhai encountered a guerrilla unit in the mountains.

He joined them and fought street battles around Zhucheng.

He moved through the bombed, shattered city.

Broken walls, ruined houses, smashed water vats—everything could serve as cover.

Each time he went out, he had only one goal: empty his gun.

Yet despite killing many enemies, their unit kept shrinking.

From over twenty people, only three remained.

Ammunition and food were nearly gone—cutting off their lifeline.

Besides Zhang Xianhai, the other two were both wounded.

They could hardly fight anymore.

After discussing it, they left all the bullets and food to Zhang Xianhai.

Each of them took a bundle of explosives and went into the city.

Zhang Xianhai knew this would be their last meeting.

He didn’t try to stop them.

Because when his own last day came, he would make the same choice.

The three hugged.

Zhang Xianhai said softly, “Take care.”

There was no farewell wine.

Only the howling wind sent the heroes off.

During the great purge in Mocheng, Fan Qingshan was arrested and sent to the Zhucheng prison.

Through the bars of the prison truck, he saw his once-prosperous home reduced to ruins.

After one glance, he closed his eyes and focused on how to endure the coming interrogations and torture.

So many comrades stood behind him.

He couldn’t say a single word.

The torture scene stirred another wave in the theater.

Gasps rose and fell.

Xie Jixing even heard people sobbing softly, “It hurts… I can’t watch.”

He looked at the empty seat beside Qian Shuyun.

It had been reserved for Yin Wenshan.

Now, a ghost sat there, leaning forward, gently adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, his aura calm.

Since regaining full consciousness, he had adapted well to modern life.

The glasses Qian Shuyun gave him really helped.

They allowed him to experience this peaceful era with Xie Jixing—

To see the country’s magnificent landscapes today.

Facing his darkest past again, Yin Wenshan could now watch calmly.

He had no regrets about his choice.

If not for countless “Yin Wenshans” enduring the same suffering back then, How could there be today’s stability?

It was a pity they couldn’t see this world now.

I’m incredibly lucky, he thought.

Looking at the ghost’s expression, Xie Jixing suddenly thought of a line of poetry:

A light boat has already passed ten thousand mountains.

In the end, Fan Qingshan died in the interrogation room.

After death, he was branded a traitor and made the ultimate scapegoat.

Large numbers of enemy troops gathered around Zhucheng, preparing for a full assault.

Zhang Xianhai fired his last bullet.

At a vast, desolate dusk, Fan Qingshan’s ghost met Zhang Xianhai.

The tangled threads of fate finally converged at one point—

One solid, one transparent.

Zhang Xianhai traded his only possession—

A scorched peachwood sword—with the ghost.

For a spirit to touch the physical world was no easy matter.

Risking total annihilation, Fan Qingshan used shattered stones to distract the guards.

Zhang Xianhai seized the chance, leaped down from the wall, and, despite being shot multiple times, reached the nearest arsenal.

With his last shred of consciousness, he pulled the fuse.

The three red ribbons at his waist were blown apart, drifting in the wind.

They were the blazing blood of countless Zhang Xianhais scattered on this land.

On a mountain rock lay a lonely peachwood sword.

Its tassel, a tragic red, waited for the morning light.

The screen went completely black.

Amid lingering, desolate music, three lines of white text appeared:

“Three days later, Zhucheng fell completely. Casualties were countless.”

“They did not change history. They only gave everything to do something doomed to fail.”

“This film is dedicated to the nameless heroes between mountains and seas.”

Even after the credits finished rolling, no one moved.

The audience was still immersed in the film.

When the lights came on, Qian Shuyun, as the core creator, took the stage first.

“First, thank you all for attending the premiere of Nameless Between Mountains and Seas.”

“This is a sincere production. I hope these two and a half hours have made your trip worthwhile.”

“Next, I’ll answer some questions. Does anyone want to ask?”

Surprisingly, not a single journalist raised their hand.

Everyone was still trapped in the film’s tragic emotions, unable to gather themselves enough to think of questions.

“Not a single one?” Qian Shuyun looked at the reporters below, who were crying in a miserable mess, and couldn’t help feeling both amused and helpless.

These were all reporters who had seen big scenes before—how did every single one of them end up crying like this?

A female reporter was finally the first to raise her hand.

After getting permission, she stood up and sobbed as she asked Qian Shuyun, “Director Qian… may I mail you razor blades?”

After saying that, she couldn’t hold it in anymore and let out a loud wail.

The reaction was somewhat comical, and the sorrowful atmosphere in the hall finally eased a little.

Gradually, people began to ask questions.

“Director Qian, this is your first time being both an actor and a director. Did you feel overwhelmed, having trouble switching between roles?”

At last, a serious question.

It was Qian Shuyun’s first time attending a premiere as a director, and he was still a bit nervous. He cleared his throat twice.

“Our team is very professional. This time, whether actors or staff, everyone had only one goal—to polish a good film. So the pressure on me as a director wasn’t that great.”

“Director Qian, what are your box office expectations for your first directorial work?”

“I don’t really have expectations, but I’m quite confident. After all, I’ve watched it many times before release, yet seeing it in the theater today, I still found it very moving.”

“Speaking of that…” Qian Shuyun smiled. “I’m actually curious—how much box office do you think this film will make?”

A rough male voice shouted, “Five billion!”

Then a high-pitched female voice followed, “Six billion!”

After that, the numbers only went higher. Shouts of “billions” echoed throughout the theater.

“You really dare to dream!” Qian Shuyun sighed into the microphone, sincerely emotional.
“Putting me on the spot like this—what do you gain from it?”

The joke finally livened up the atmosphere.

The questioning continued.

“What was the biggest challenge in making this film?”

Qian Shuyun pulled a long face. “Reaching the two hundred billion box office you just shouted.”

“With this kind of subject matter competing in the summer season, how confident are you?”

“I wasn’t very confident at first,” he continued solemnly. “But after being hyped up by you just now, I feel like we can sweep them all and take first place.”

It sounded like a joke, yet faintly revealed Qian Shuyun’s ambition.

After the official questions were mostly done, a fan in the back raised her hand.

She still hadn’t fully calmed down and kept hiccupping between sobs.

“Um… I… we’re Luo Feiang’s fans. May I say a few words to him on behalf of everyone?”

“Of course.” Qian Shuyun looked toward Luo Feiang.

The man was frantically touching up his makeup with a cushion.

“Stop fixing it,” Qian Shuyun laughed. “Your fans want to talk to you.”

Luo Feiang gave a bitter smile, put down the cushion, and jogged onto the stage.

Under the stage lights, his eyes were clearly swollen and red.

He had obviously cried pretty badly earlier.

“We… hic… originally came here for Luo Feiang. We were even mentally prepared—if it was boring, we’d just read novels or something…”

“Well… everyone knows what his previous movies were like.”

Luo Feiang: ???

Are these really my fans?

He almost wanted to cry again.

Audience: Pfft!

“But after the movie started, there was no more Luo Feiang in our hearts—only Fan Qingshan, Fan Qingyan, Zhang Xianrui, and Zhang Xianhai.”

“Every second of the movie held my attention. Even though I’m still crying now, I don’t feel sad inside.”

“This movie made someone like me—who had grown numb to life and could only seek excitement through idol-chasing—suddenly realize how precious everyday life really is.”

“And this feeling isn’t just mine.”

“So, we want to say to Luo Feiang…”

“Wait!” Luo Feiang hurriedly interrupted. “You’re not about to un-fan me on the spot, are you?!”

“What are you thinking?”

“Of course not. We wouldn’t embarrass you like that.”

“We just hope you’ll take fewer bad films in the future. Take more roles like Zhang Xianrui. Even if it’s a supporting role, as long as you act it with heart, the audience will recognize it.”

Before the microphone was taken away, she added firmly,

“Really—take fewer bad movies!”

All cameras focused on Luo Feiang, who looked both amused and mortified, practically digging his toes into the floor.

Thanks. You didn’t give me much face either.