Chapter 21: A Big Drama
Netizens: “!!!”
Lu Xu: “…”
He thought, with things turning out like this, people were bound to suspect he had bribed Mu Qian.
But he had done absolutely nothing—unless buying a mountain bike recently somehow counted.
In any case, the drama surrounding the Rising Sun crew had taken yet another unexpected turn, speeding down a path no one could have anticipated.
Meanwhile, Lu Xu came to a realization: Mu Qian truly had an explosive temper.
When a netizen asked him if You Zichen’s acting was really that bad, Mu Qian responded with a 💩 emoji.
Though his comment section was quickly flooded with angry replies, Lu Xu couldn’t help but admire the director’s boldness.
After all, Lu Xu himself only ever made a few passive-aggressive remarks about Gu Sinian. But to use a literal 💩 emoji? That was next-level bravery.
Lu Xu could tell Mu Qian had truly been pushed to the edge.
Now, he was genuinely curious—just how bad was You Zichen’s acting to make Mu Qian this furious?
Never in a million years did anyone expect things to turn out like this. The onlookers were thoroughly enjoying the drama.
However—somehow, the topic shifted back to Lu Xu once again.
[Lu Xu is truly something else. Why is it that anyone who goes against him lately ends up in trouble?]
[Gu Sinian woke up to find the director had run off! And this was after he tried marketing Lu Xu as his stepping stone.]
[That’s hilarious. Feels like Mu Qian ditching wasn’t entirely because of You Zichen; Gu Sinian probably played a role too. Let’s shed a tear for the poor director.]
Gu Sinian: “…”
At this point, Gu Sinian just wanted to hide his phone.
He absolutely did not expect that his casual post on the forum, where he secretly mocked Lu Xu a little, would result in the director leaving.
Not only that, but before Mu Qian left, he even lashed out at both him and You Zichen.
Gu Sinian didn’t think his performance had been that bad. Mu Qian had indeed pointed out some issues with his acting, but he had diligently corrected them.
Yet no matter how he rationalized it, the fact remained: both the director and the screenwriter had vanished, forcing the production to halt temporarily.
This was his first lead role, and the script was genuinely excellent—carefully selected by his agency for him.
He had imagined all sorts of possible incidents that might occur on the Rising Sun set. He even knew Mu Qian was very dissatisfied with You Zichen’s performance. But he had never considered the possibility of the director running off.
His agent, face dark as thunder, asked him what exactly he had done on set.
The higher-ups at Lin Ge Entertainment were equally displeased. “You three are in a tough spot right now. All I ask is that you behave yourselves, speak less, and cause fewer problems.”
Rising Sun was an investment project for Lin Ge Entertainment. The company wanted to expand beyond just talent management and venture into film and television production. Their investment in Rising Sun was meant to be a trial run.
But the project was now temporarily shut down.
Without a director, how could they shoot the drama?
A production crew involved so many people, sets, and props. If work stopped today, by tomorrow the props, lighting, and art departments might move on to other productions. Getting the project back on track after that would be an uphill battle.
If they didn’t dissolve the crew, the daily expenses for everyone’s food, lodging, and other needs were astronomical.
Lin Ge Entertainment scrambled to find a new director to salvage the situation. However, whether it was because of Mu Qian’s relentless protests or his onslaught of poop emoji memes, no director they invited was willing to take on Rising Sun.
Eventually, they had no choice but to reach out to Mu Qian again.
Mu Qian flatly refused.
The higher-ups at Lin Ge Entertainment tried appealing to his emotions and reasoning. Rising Sun was the passion project of the renowned screenwriter Jin. Wouldn’t it be a pity if a close friend like him didn’t see it through?
If Mu Qian returned to the crew, it could also help save face for Lin Ge Entertainment and Feiwo Film.
Reluctantly, Mu Qian wavered, given his connection to Jin Mu. But he laid down his own condition: he would return as director, but only if You Zichen was replaced with Lu Xu.
Lin Ge Entertainment was naturally unwilling, but Mu Qian’s insistence left them no choice. They reached out to Lu Xu.
Lu Xu responded, “I’ve already joined another production.”
Lin Ge Entertainment: “…”
Mu Qian: “I’m not doing it. I’ll pay the penalty fee. Not doing it.”
Lin Ge Entertainment was on the verge of losing their minds. In the end, they managed to secure another director who agreed to take over, but only on the condition that You Zichen was replaced. Finding a suitable replacement delayed filming further.
Gu Sinian, however, was not replaced. Being a Lin Ge Entertainment talent, keeping him saved on costs—though, in reality, the pay he received after filming Rising Sun was less than half of what was stipulated in his contract.
Lin Ge Entertainment wasn’t worried that Gu Sinian would get angry or humiliated over this situation—after all, they still had dirt on him.
Besides, this wasn’t the time when Verse had just disbanded. Back then, Gu Sinian was a member of a top boy group, and fans were exceedingly protective of him.
Gu Sinian likely hadn’t realized yet that he was already on a downward trajectory.
Tightly bound to Lin Ge Entertainment and harboring so much hostility toward Lu Xu, his chances of breaking free from the company were slim.
However, Lin Ge Entertainment was no longer inclined to support him unreservedly.
…
Lu Xu, on the other hand, didn’t spare a second thought for Gu Sinian’s predicament.
Aside from feeling immense sympathy for Director Mu Qian, he regarded the Rising Sun crew as a collective of villains.
It was a shame about the excellent script. Although Lu Xu hadn’t seen the whole thing, the portion he auditioned with convinced him that the drama would have been of high quality if completed.
Still, there was nothing to regret. There were plenty of great roles out there, and it was impossible to take on every single one.
While the Rising Sun crew was frantically searching the entertainment industry for a new director, Lu Xu had already reported to the Son of Heaven set.
His scenes hadn’t started yet, but Liu Chunfeng and Qin Yu were well aware of his laid-back nature. After the contract was signed, the director and screenwriter both added Lu Xu on WeChat and included him in the crew’s group chat.
Once in the group, Lu Xu didn’t dare stay up late anymore.
The Son of Heaven cast had a relatively older average age, so every morning, Lu Xu would be woken up by a flood of middle-aged and elderly memes in the chat.
From time to time, Liu Chunfeng and Qin Yu would check in on Lu Xu’s preparation progress. Through these conversations, they learned about his uneventful daily life—unlike other actors with packed schedules, Lu Xu spent his days at home poring over the script.
Eventually, the two decided to bring Lu Xu to the set early. There wasn’t much difference between reading the script at home and reading it at the set, after all.
The lead actor of Son of Heaven, Cheng Yun, along with the other cast members, weren’t particularly famous, but they were all seasoned performers—familiar faces to the audience.
In recent years, historical dramas had struggled to gain attention, making investors cautious about funding such projects. Director Liu Chunfeng and the producer had worked tirelessly to secure a reasonable budget for filming.
While the funding was sufficient for production, it wasn’t enough to hire big-name actors.
This was one of the reasons Liu Chunfeng had dismissed the idea of casting popular traffic stars from the beginning.
The cost-performance ratio was simply too low.
The actors he chose, Liu Chunfeng guaranteed, were at least a perfect fit for their roles.
After joining the set, Lu Xu became increasingly busy.
He spent his time reading the script and observing other actors’ performances.
Although he felt a little guilty toward the My Baby Prince crew, Lu Xu couldn’t help but admit that, in terms of script quality and production standards, Son of Heaven was on a completely different level.
Qin Yu’s script was ambitious in scope. While some adjustments were needed during filming, they were minor tweaks to details rather than major rewrites to accommodate specific actors or, worse, overloading certain roles with extra scenes.
The cast shared a strong sense of teamwork and professionalism. Take Cheng Yun, for example. As the lead actor, he had the most scenes. No matter how early Lu Xu arrived at the set, Cheng Yun was always there earlier, studying the script and memorizing his lines.
Cheng Yun’s lines were already polished to perfection, but he often remarked that his age was catching up with him, and his memory wasn’t what it used to be, so he needed to put in extra effort.
Actors like Cheng Yun earned Lu Xu’s genuine admiration.
Lu Xu could proudly claim that in his previous life, he was the same kind of dedicated actor. This time around, he was determined to continue being one.
About a week after joining the set, Lu Xu finally had his first scene to film.
As one of the few young actors in the cast, Lu Xu’s presence was particularly notable because he had successfully landed the role of Qin Zhao.
Historical records described Emperor Cheng, a remarkable ruler, as a tragic figure due to his falling out with Crown Prince Qin Zhao. Emperor Cheng had once mocked past rulers for their inability to raise their children properly, leading to sibling rivalries and fractured families. Yet, his own reign suffered the same fate.
On the day of Lu Xu’s first shoot, most of the cast turned up to watch.
Apparently—just apparently—Cheng Yun and several crew members had been praising Lu Xu’s acting, claiming it would leave everyone astonished.
Lu Xu: “…”
This only made him feel immense pressure.
What’s more, the senior actors in the cast agreed. They said that if Lu Xu’s acting weren’t up to par, Director Liu Chunfeng would never have allowed him to join. Everyone knew how long Liu had spent searching for the perfect Qin Zhao.
Lu Xu: “…”
The pressure just kept mounting.
Fortunately, the first scene was relatively simple.
It was a scene depicting Qin Zhao visiting his father, Emperor Cheng, who had fallen ill.
Emperor Cheng, despite his busy daily responsibilities and unrestrained personal life, had suddenly collapsed from illness. Though it was a minor ailment, it caused great concern within and outside the palace.
As the crown prince and eldest son, Qin Zhao went to visit his father. The two shared a brief conversation. When Qin Zhao attempted to feed his father medicine, Emperor Cheng declined and instead asked about his studies, the Grand Tutor’s teachings, and his opinions on recent state affairs.
“Action!”
Dressed in his costume, Lu Xu immersed himself in the role of a worried and hurried crown prince concerned for his father’s health.
The palace attendants were helping Emperor Cheng take his medicine when Qin Zhao entered, reaching out to take the bowl. His movements were casual—it was natural, given that he had recently lost his mother and had developed the habit of caring for her during her final days.
“No need.”
The reply came in Emperor Cheng’s steady, measured voice, accompanied by a glance that seemed almost incidental.
But within that glance lay a wealth of unspoken meaning.
Sweat immediately beaded on Qin Zhao’s forehead. “Your son… your son…”
His gaze darted nervously, afraid his behavior might arouse suspicion in his father, leaving him utterly flustered.
This reaction, however, softened Emperor Cheng’s expression. “What have you been reading lately?”
“The Zizhi Tongjian,” Qin Zhao replied.
Emperor Cheng then asked him to explain a specific section of the Zizhi Tongjian and to give his thoughts on recent court affairs.
Qin Zhao answered cautiously, his unease palpable.
Emperor Cheng’s expression was inscrutable as he listened. After the crown prince took his leave, the emperor instructed him to study another book and, once Qin Zhao had gone, asked an attendant, “Does this son of mine resemble me?”
The scene lasted only a few minutes, but when Liu Chunfeng called “Cut,” Cheng Yun grinned and said, “Didn’t I tell you?”
Lu Xu had flawlessly portrayed Qin Zhao’s walking-on-eggshells demeanor. The scene seemed straightforward, but every word and movement of Lu Xu’s performance had been carefully considered. The fear in the crown prince’s eyes felt utterly genuine.
A son fearing his father, and a father wary of his son—this was the most distant bond a father and son could share.
