Chapter 25: Immersion in the Role
“Action!” Liu Chunfeng’s command echoed, and the actors immediately took their positions.
The weather wasn’t particularly hot, but the air inside the hall felt slightly stifling. With a crowd of people surrounding the actors, the already oppressive atmosphere became even more humid.
Lu Xu focused entirely on the ongoing shoot, not allowing his mind to wander.
Qin Zhao, dressed in a robe adorned with a python design, stood in the hall. At this moment, the emperor’s face darkened as he read a confidential letter from the Governor of Shaanxi. The Minister of Revenue reported the amount of silver and grain allocated for disaster relief in Shaanxi. With every figure he reported, Emperor Cheng’s expression grew even grimmer.
The courtiers in the hall, each seasoned and shrewd, observed the unfolding situation with a detached attitude, as though watching a play.
Initially, Qin Zhao thought the Shaanxi disaster relief had nothing to do with him. However, when the powerful prime minister uttered a name, a fleeting hint of panic flashed across Qin Zhao’s bowed face.
He tried to lift his head but was acutely aware that his father, seated on the dragon throne, was likely watching his every move.
In this scene, both Cheng Yun and Lu Xu had their own close-up shots.
Liu Chunfeng felt entirely confident in Cheng Yun’s performance. They had collaborated multiple times before. As Emperor Cheng was the central character in The Emperor, Liu Chunfeng wouldn’t have invited Cheng Yun to play this role without full trust in his ability.
Through the lens, Cheng Yun perfectly controlled Emperor Cheng’s latent murderous intent. Emperor Cheng wasn’t a tyrannical ruler; his terrifying nature lay in his ability to mask his intentions. Outwardly calm and unassuming, he gave others the illusion they had escaped his scrutiny, while in truth, their fate had already been sealed in his words.
Although Emperor Cheng didn’t appear to fixate on Qin Zhao, those watching the scene from outside the lens could tell that most of the emperor’s attention had already shifted to the crown prince.
As for Lu Xu—
The director admitted that Lu Xu’s appearance indeed tempted one to give him more screen time. However, this wasn’t a fashion promotional shoot; instead, he wanted to see how Lu Xu interpreted the role of Qin Zhao.
Then, the camera captured a fleeting moment of panic in the crown prince’s lowered gaze. What stood out was that, despite his motionless bow, Lu Xu’s defensive posture conveyed to others that Qin Zhao was treating the gilded floor of the imperial hall as if it were a protective wall shielding him.
Unfortunately, reality did not favor Qin Zhao.
The official mentioned by the powerful prime minister appeared in the hall. To everyone’s astonishment, this person cleanly absolved himself of all responsibility and subtly shifted the blame onto Qin Zhao.
From above, the voice Qin Zhao least wanted to hear rang out:
“Crown Prince, what is your opinion?”
“This matter… your son does not know,” Qin Zhao replied.
Qin Zhao had been startled when the official’s name was mentioned because he indeed had interactions with this person. However, regarding the embezzlement of relief grain, Qin Zhao had no involvement whatsoever. On this matter, he was entirely forthright.
Thus, he dared to meet Emperor Cheng’s gaze head-on.
Yet, in that moment, what he saw in his father’s eyes was not the warmth of a father’s trust, but a chilling indifference.
Through the lens, Lu Xu’s slightly widened pupils vividly conveyed a sense of being pierced by pain.
There was also a trace of disappointment and anger.
The crown prince’s pride had vanished; in the presence of his father, he was nothing.
Liu Chunfeng pressed his lips together, his expression still somewhat stern. However, the screenwriter standing nearby clearly noticed the director’s face showing a trace of intrigue.
Qin Yu couldn’t help but marvel. When it came to capturing a character’s emotions, Lu Xu undoubtedly had a unique touch.
At least as an observer, Qin Yu could tell that Qin Zhao had a clear conscience.
Some actors, while seemingly skilled, always exuded an air of inscrutability no matter who they portrayed, making the audience suspect from the first glance that they were the ultimate antagonist. Yet, even by the series finale, they failed to convincingly demonstrate their supposed brilliance.
This demonstrated an insufficient understanding of the character.
After this exchange, a new conversation unfolded between father and son.
Emperor Cheng pointed out that the crown prince’s retainer had been drinking with various officials from Shaanxi. During their conversations, the retainer had bragged about his connections in the region, claiming that he could influence anyone there. Furthermore, the retainer mentioned that he had been ordered by the crown prince to investigate the Ministry of Revenue’s accounts. Instead of promptly returning to report his findings, the crown prince had made an unexplained stop along the way.
Qin Zhao explained that it was all a coincidence.
However, Emperor Cheng’s remarks, each one sharp and to the point, painted a damning picture. Although the crown prince was telling the truth, his words were disorganized and lacked focus, making his explanations easy to misinterpret.
The courtiers, all veterans of the imperial examination system and decades of political maneuvering, immediately recognized the disparity. Compared to them, the crown prince’s wit was sorely lacking. It became clear that while the crown prince might have played a part in the incident, he was certainly not the mastermind.
This section of dialogue was long, filled with convoluted political terminology. It was challenging to memorize and recite, and on top of that, Lu Xu had to portray Qin Zhao’s lack of intelligence. He couldn’t deliver the lines too smoothly; instead, his speech needed to appear scattered and unfocused, without clear priorities.
By this point, Lu Xu had fully immersed himself in the role of Qin Zhao. Qin Zhao was him, and he was Qin Zhao.
He didn’t need to make Qin Zhao appear particularly handsome or intelligent. Qin Zhao was, after all, the loser in this political struggle.
When the crown prince finished speaking, Emperor Cheng responded with nothing more than a cold snort.
That single sound made Qin Zhao’s face turn deathly pale. He had believed that after participating in court affairs, he had gradually earned his father’s approval. In recent days, he had even enjoyed a brief period of satisfaction. Yet now, with just a few words, he was effortlessly pushed back to square one.
By this point, sweat was beading on Qin Zhao’s forehead. Earlier, he could steady himself by fixing his gaze on the floor of the golden hall, but now, the crown prince—second only to the emperor—was beginning to show signs of fatigue in his eyes.
Had he been born into an ordinary family, he might have been able to cry.
But he was the crown prince. Crying was not an option for him.
The Shaanxi disaster relief case was one thing; the spring examination corruption scandal was another. The words of the officials, combined with Emperor Cheng’s distrust, struck Qin Zhao like sharp swords.
Qin Zhao could only tremble as he defended himself:
“Father, your son did not!”
“Your son does not have the courage to commit such a heinous and treasonous act!”
Had he stubbornly refused to admit guilt, Emperor Cheng might have admired him to some extent. But instead, Qin Zhao mentioned his own lack of courage—something Emperor Cheng disliked most about him. If he knew he lacked courage, why didn’t he work to change it?
As a result, Emperor Cheng ignored his defense, simply looking at him with a chillingly sinister expression.
Qin Zhao’s gaze was empty.
Liu Chunfeng stared at the monitor for a long time before glancing toward Qin Yu.
He hadn’t expected Lu Xu to interpret the role this way.
Or rather, he had hoped Lu Xu would portray Qin Zhao’s collapse by showing obvious emotions like despair, sadness, or disappointment.
But in this moment, Qin Zhao was entirely hollow.
This emptiness, however, was even more poignant.
Whatever Qin Zhao might do in the future, or whatever transformations he might undergo, this scene was the perfect setup.
“Cut!”
To be honest, Liu Chunfeng had prepared for this scene to require three or four takes. The lines were long and filled with tedious, technical dialogue.
Some productions might cut such dialogue for various reasons, but Liu Chunfeng had never considered doing so.
The lines, though centered on evidence, were interwoven with the personal interests of the officials. Keeping them intact allowed the audience to understand the subtle machinations among the bureaucrats.
Remarkably, the scene passed smoothly in one take.
Liu Chunfeng went out of his way to review the footage and confirmed it was flawless on the first attempt.
In this scene, the Crown Prince’s faction, the factions of other princes, the upright officials, and the emperor each delivered their performances flawlessly. The rhythm of the scene was carefully calibrated—one official finishing their report before another began, every moment measured with the precision of a ruler, creating a pace that was both engaging and comfortable for the audience to follow.
Amidst this ensemble of actors, Lu Xu’s performance stood out as remarkably polished.
He carried the role of the Crown Prince with confidence.
Though the Crown Prince lacked intelligence and was, in the grand scheme of the court’s power struggles, an outsider—a mere prop—Lu Xu still managed to give him a palpable presence.
And that was enough.
This was exactly what Liu Chunfeng had wanted: an actor capable of breathing life into such a Crown Prince.
The Emperor depicted the sweeping, dramatic life of Emperor Cheng, but it didn’t shy away from his flaws.
The Crown Prince’s downfall, as written in the script, was orchestrated by Emperor Cheng himself.
The emperor wished to replace the Crown Prince but didn’t want to face criticism from the court or bear the pressure from the faction advocating for the legitimacy of the eldest son. Thus, the Crown Prince had to be the one to err first, handing the emperor a reason to justify the change.
The tragedy of Qin Zhao’s life lay in this cruel reality.
Liu Chunfeng had been searching for an actor like Lu Xu—someone who could convincingly portray the Crown Prince’s gradual descent into despair.
Based on Lu Xu’s performance to date, Liu Chunfeng was willing to give him a score of 99 out of 100.
The missing point? Lu Xu was simply too handsome. Liu Chunfeng suspected that when the series aired, he might get flak for “mistreating” such a good-looking actor.
This wasn’t an exaggeration.
Back when Liu Chunfeng first became a director, popular young actors couldn’t play villains. Audience members would write letters in protest.
At the time, he lived in the studio dormitory. One morning, he opened the door to find seven or eight familiar aunties blocking his way, berating him for “ruining” a character. His own mother was among them, scolding him for being “jealous of someone’s good looks.”
Liu Chunfeng: “…”
To be honest, Liu Chunfeng hadn’t even considered casting a good-looking actor for the role of Qin Zhao. Historical records never mentioned that Qin Zhao was handsome.
However, just as some actors are so good-looking that the audience overlooks their lack of acting skills, Lu Xu was the opposite: his acting was so compelling that it made the audience forget his striking appearance. Someone with his looks could easily make a living in the entertainment industry, but he also happened to have other outstanding qualities.
Liu Chunfeng couldn’t help but feel that when Son of Heaven aired, his mother would definitely nag him again. She’d probably accuse him of bringing in a good-looking kid and refusing to give him a role where he could shine as a heartthrob—obviously out of jealousy for his good looks.
His mother’s greatest regret was that Liu Chunfeng himself wasn’t handsome. Worse, his daughter inherited his looks instead of her grandmother’s. His mother never hesitated to express her disdain about that.
…
After the scene wrapped, Liu Chunfeng felt increasingly satisfied with Lu Xu, and the rest of the cast agreed.
In a collaborative environment like a film set, everyone wants a partner who works efficiently and effectively. Nobody enjoys dealing with unreliable actors who rack up endless takes, dragging everyone else along for the ride without even realizing how much of a nuisance they are.
By the time Lu Xu came out of his Qin Zhao state and started greeting the crew, his demeanor had completely changed. With a bright smile and sunny disposition, he seemed like a different person altogether. Yet, as soon as the cameras rolled, he transformed into Qin Zhao, fully embodying the role. The contrast was striking.
At this point, it was inevitable that people began asking if Lu Xu had signed with a talent agency. When they found out he hadn’t, several people started making phone calls on the spot, including Cheng Yun.
“We won’t mess with you! Trust me, we know these agencies better than you do!” they told Lu Xu with full sincerity.
Lu Xu: “…”
Meanwhile, on the other end of those calls at the agencies—
“Hey, interested in making a hundred million?”
“…Are you trying to scam me into going to northern Myanmar?”
“…No! I’ve got an absolutely phenomenal actor to recommend to you. Several companies are already fighting over him. If you miss this chance, you won’t find another like it!”
Ahahaha. I love that the older cast treats MC like a good seedling they need to nurture.
Indeed, it’s funny too, lol.