HEIFEIGU -Chapter 87

Since his solo scenes had already been filmed in the previous groupings, Qian Shuyun joined directly into the ensemble scenes.

On set, where Zhao Chaoran played the male lead, the previously loose standards suddenly tightened.

Not only did Director Yang’s requirements become stricter, but the actors also raised their standards. In particular, the early scenes—like the Crown Prince Li Chengye and Grand Tutor Gongsun Chu studying military texts together—saw Qian Shuyun and Huai Xinhou performing intensely.

The camera focused on close-up over-the-shoulder shots, demanding precise expressions and eye movements from the actors.

The set design was simple: a half-open lattice wooden window, a plain wooden table below with only two cups of tea and a small plate of leftovers. They sat cross-legged facing each other, but with subtle differences in posture.

At first, Gongsun Chu appeared more relaxed, arms resting on his knees, body slightly leaning.

He was the emperor’s most trusted teacher; both the Crown Prince and the Third Prince studied under him.

The emperor’s intent was clear: to choose one of the two to be the heir, and whoever won, Gongsun Chu would be the Crown Prince’s tutor.

His opinion was crucial to both princes.

Li Chengye clearly understood this. He sat extremely upright, almost rigid, as if every muscle was tense, desperate for approval.

With almost every move, Li Chengye would lightly rub his palm on his knee to wipe away sweat.

His brows and eyes were drawn together, focused on the chessboard, seeming to think deeply while also avoiding Gongsun Chu’s gaze.

Until a few meaningless coughs came from a guard outside, Li Chengye’s posture instantly changed. He picked up the tea cup, glanced at the dark green tea, smiled faintly, and took a sip.

The tea cup’s base clinked lightly on the table. When he made his next move, Li Chengye shifted from cautious defense to a sharp, offensive strike.

Gongsun Chu hesitated for a moment, then slowly straightened, stroking his slightly graying beard, “Your Highness, have you considered this move thoroughly?”

Li Chengye tilted slightly, shifting his weight to the left, left arm on his knee, left index finger lightly tapping the table. He raised his brows and looked straight into Gongsun Chu’s eyes.

“My teacher once taught: ‘No regrets in chess.’ I always keep this in mind. It is indeed a well-considered move.”

Just this seemingly simple literary scene became full of twists and dangers under their acting.

Everyone on set held their breath, not daring to exhale. Only when the director shouted “Cut” did the tense set suddenly erupt into activity.

“Good grief,” Huai Xinhou slumped, “acting opposite Xiao Qian is too stressful!”

Qian Shuyun stood, shaking slightly from numbness in his legs, “Teacher Huai, don’t flatter-kill me. I haven’t acted in a while, I still have a lot to learn.”

Xie Jixing, the one who really needed to learn, was recently glued to the set whether or not he had scenes.

He had just watched the full session on the monitor. Even through the screen, he could feel the nearly suffocating tension.

Acting really works—even with minimal lines, just posture and eye movements could fully engage the audience and immerse them in the characters.

Xie Jixing’s brows drooped, the small mole under his eye looking listless.

He was too weak.

Previously, his solo scenes weren’t really acting—at most, they were flashy movements.

In ensemble scenes, his early parts were also simple: a lively, mischievous little brother, always playing around, following his two older brothers.

At the National Academy, he’d sleep during lessons or sneakily flip through sword manuals behind the instructor’s back.

Even so, Xie Jixing struggled to act convincingly.

Previously, the production’s loose standards and his correct attitude, endurance, and intelligence made him manageable.

Now, everyone was showing their best. Not mentioning Qian Shuyun or award-winning actors like Jiang Yueli, even veteran actors like Huai Xinhou or popular stars like Wei Tingquan were far stronger.

At least Wei Tingquan had a few idol dramas under his belt, whereas Xie Jixing only had ad and training experience.

Thinking carefully, he had the most NGs on set. Everyone knew he was a newcomer, and Director Yang was patient, having him redo takes repeatedly.

But Xie Jixing’s mood sank deeper and deeper. He constantly felt like he was holding back the whole crew.

The once bright and sincere young prince character became harder to portray because of his emotional struggles.

The director seemed aware of this, shifting his scenes to later. Recently, the crew was focused on Qian Shuyun’s scenes.

That evening, they were shooting the Crown Prince Li Chengye’s first encounter with Princess Gongsun Yining.

Film emperor Qian Shuyun and empress-level Jiang Yueli acted together in the same scene, their first scene, with almost all main actors watching.

They met at a palace banquet. Gongsun Yining attended with her father, Gongsun Chu.

She had just come of age, the perfect time to meet a future husband. Though the banquet wasn’t grand, it was extremely important to her.

At the banquet, two adult princes hadn’t yet married. According to her father, her family would choose one as her future husband.

In reality, she was over ten years older than her character, but Jiang Yueli’s styling and demeanor were seamless.

Every movement exuded a young daughter’s shy charm, with not a trace of the cool, aloof older sister vibe.

Long tables lined both sides of the hall. The director chose three camera angles: two moving cameras capturing over-the-shoulder shots from behind, and one handheld for close-ups.

The room was filled with warm light, casting Gongsun Yining’s face like flawless white jade, now touched by two faint rosy blossoms.

From the moment she stepped into the hall, she had already identified her beloved.

The young man beside the imperial throne, dressed in a deep purple ceremonial robe—the crown prince of the dynasty.

Gongsun Yining didn’t dare look him directly in the eye. She could only steal glances during the brief moments when palace attendants poured wine, served dishes, or adjusted the candlelight.

From Li Chengye’s perspective, the girl in azure and green always kept her brows and eyes composed, serene like a clear lake, yet carrying a hint of springtime radiance.

Yining truly lived up to her name.

A few attendants approached with silver trays to trim the candle wicks. When they stepped back, Gongsun Yining lifted her head, and her gaze collided squarely with Li Chengye’s.

After a brief moment of panic, the blush on her cheeks deepened.

The wine was sweet on the palate, with a lingering spiciness. Emboldened by the alcohol, Gongsun Yining raised her composed gaze once more.

The man across from her pressed his lips into a gentle smile, and with that single glance, Gongsun Yining’s fate was sealed.

“Cut!” Director Yang was extremely satisfied with this grand palace feast scene.

Especially the interplay between Jiang Yueli and Qian Shuyun—it contained the tender ambiguity of youth while being shadowed by power struggles.

Compared with Jiang Yueli’s straightforward shyness and affection, the feelings in Li Chengye’s eyes were hidden in the flickering candlelight—subtle, elusive, yet amplifying the tension of the entire scene.

It made one wonder—did he love, or did he not?

“Amazing!” someone nearby, probably a crew member, exclaimed.

“With just a glance, just eye contact, that chemistry popped right out!”

“So beautiful! If I could witness all their scenes together on set, I can’t imagine how cheerful I would feel.”

“Did they shoot behind-the-scenes footage? Did they shoot behind-the-scenes footage? When this scene is used for promotion, it’ll explode online!”

Everyone was thrilled by this scene, but Xie Jixing felt subtly a bit sad.

Though a faint smile remained on his face, the little red mole on his cheek twitched—he clearly wasn’t happy.

After the heavy scene ended, the day’s work was done. Qian Shuyun still needed to remove his makeup, but Xie Jixing, unusually, didn’t wait and went straight back to the hotel.

That evening, Aunt Wang had simmered matsutake fish maw soup over low heat.

Aunt Wang was excellent at cooking soups. Every night, Xie Jixing eagerly opened his “blind boxes”—if he liked something, he’d eat more than half of it, sometimes with extra fruit.

This time, he didn’t even lift the lid and went straight to his room.

Hot water streamed over his head, and the unfamiliar emotions that surfaced tonight were strange to Xie Jixing.

While everyone else praised the scene, his heart felt as if someone had clenched it tightly, a sharp pang followed by a lingering ache.

Was it jealousy? Jealous because he hadn’t performed well, and others had done too well?

But when watching others act in scenes, he’d only felt a bit disappointed.

“Ahhh!” Xie Jixing scrubbed his hair violently with shampoo.

Never mind, he didn’t want to think about it.

It must just be because his acting was too poor.

He needed to improve—he had to improve!

After the shower, a wet Xie Jixing sat cross-legged on the bed, pulling out the script, marked with colorful notes, ready to start studying from the beginning again.

Yin Wenshan stood behind him, pushing up his gold-rimmed glasses. “What’s wrong?”

Xie Jixing’s low mood was too obvious. His three “ghosts” were like ants on a hot pan—unsure how to comfort him—so they collectively sent Yin as a representative.

Right, wasn’t there a ready-made acting teacher?

“What should I do?” Xie Jixing looked up at the floating ghost before him. “Everyone else is doing so well… it feels like I’m the only one dragging behind…”

Although he sounded playful, there was unmistakable grievance in his tone.

His bedroom door wasn’t fully closed, a narrow gap remained. Qian Shuyun, carrying a bowl of soup, had paused, about to knock.

He sighed quietly to himself, then pushed the door open. “Why didn’t you drink your soup tonight?”

Xie Jixing, still slumping and murmuring to Yin Wenshan, froze, startled.

He then saw Qian Shuyun sitting on the small sofa by his bed. “Did you brush your teeth?”

Xie Jixing shook his head and had a warm bowl of soup pressed into his hands.

“Sorry,” Qian Shuyun took the marked script from his lap. “These days have been too busy; most of the scenes are mine.”

He flipped through the densely marked script. “These parts were originally meant for me to teach you, but it seems you’ve already learned them yourself.”

“So, Teacher Xie,” he looked up and smiled, “do you still need the emperor’s exclusive instruction?”