Chapter 29: Filming

Chen Ye never considered that his decision to leave the Supreme production was entirely his fault. A smart person would have either laid low and accepted the criticism or quietly waited for the situation to blow over. Yet, here he was, actively drawing attention to himself—a rarity in the entire entertainment industry.

When Lu Xu posted on Weibo, many bystanders, who had initially been secretly gossiping, joined in the mockery of Chen Ye.

The Book of Nine Revolutions production team also got dragged into the chaos, receiving so much ridicule from netizens that they eventually disabled the comment section.

Chen Ye’s fans wanted to defend him, but they were powerless in the face of the Supreme novel fans’ trump card—a side-by-side comparison.

On one side was a carefully retouched still of Chen Ye in costume; on the other was a candid group photo of Zheng Xiao, Wei Yi, and Lu Xu, taken by the photographer.

Even though Lu Xu’s makeup wasn’t as refined as Chen Ye’s, and the costume’s details looked somewhat rough under close scrutiny, Lu Xu’s strikingly handsome face stole the spotlight.

Without the comparison, things might have been fine, but once juxtaposed, Chen Ye—whose appearance had always been a point of pride for his fans—suddenly seemed mediocre. While his individual features were fine, the overall impression paled in comparison.

Even as Chen Ye’s fans loudly championed his looks, in an industry where physical appearance reigns supreme, the impact of an astonishingly beautiful face couldn’t be ignored.

Especially since Ji Xiuya’s character design suited Lu Xu perfectly.

Some remarked that period dramas were the most forgiving genre for actors’ appearances. A lock of hair, a beaded curtain, earrings, or silk ribbons could shape any face into an idealized oval. For actors with naturally outstanding looks, combined with the aesthetic of period costumes, only their best features remained on camera.

In front of this side-by-side comparison, Chen Ye’s fans fell silent.

Adding to the chaos, Lu Xu’s remark, “as one by one, they flee with a streak,” directly highlighted the despicable nature of Chen Ye’s actions. No matter how Chen Ye’s fans insulted Lu Xu for “relying on his looks,” mocked Supreme as a “low-budget production,” or praised the boundless potential of Book of Nine Revolutions, the fact remained: Chen Ye was just a deserter.

[The Supreme production team has spoken up—Lu Xu was brought in to save the day.]

[As a Zheng Xiao fan, I’m beyond frustrated. Because Chen Ye bailed, every scene Zheng Xiao filmed with him has to be reshot, and he even had to miss a major year-end event. And yet Chen Ye has the audacity to act all high and mighty? Why doesn’t he just slip and fall on his face already?]

[He’s climbed the social ladder, huh? So now he looks down on smaller productions. I’ll be watching to see if Book of Nine Revolutions really becomes a hit—or if it ends up like another Watchers.]

[Also, can we stop blindly idolizing so-called ‘top-tier actors’? Sure, those two may be doing well in the film industry, but when it comes to TV dramas, they’ve yet to prove themselves!]

As the debate continued, data-savvy netizens began dissecting the recent box office performance of these “top-tier actors.” Typically, film stars wouldn’t stoop to appearing in TV dramas. After all, a single movie can rake in billions at the box office, offering a return far greater than any TV series could. If they could comfortably make money in the film industry, why would they wade into the murky waters of TV dramas, risking their image?

Naturally, the recent box office records of the two Book of Nine Revolutions leads were… less than stellar.

The onlookers collectively let out an enlightened “Ohhh.” Sensing the situation might spiral further out of control, the Book of Nine Revolutions official Weibo quickly deleted its earlier post defending Chen Ye to prevent netizens from digging up even more dirt on their lead actors.

Between Chen Ye and the two film stars, the Book of Nine Revolutions production team clearly knew who was more expendable.

After the production team deleted their post and went radio silent, Chen Ye also swiftly removed his own Weibo post about “standing tall with fans.”

In the end, only Lu Xu’s lone Weibo post remained, standing as a testament to his unmatched dominance in the situation.

[Lu Xu adds another win to his record.]

[I wish I could hire Lu Xu to argue for me. I really need his sharp tongue!]

[Hilarious. You insisted on ‘standing tall,’ huh? So why aren’t you standing anymore?]

Zheng Xiao and Wei Yi witnessed Lu Xu’s takedown of Chen Ye in its entirety, and their respect for this new addition to the crew grew immensely.

Wei Yi admitted that she had seen Lu Xu confront people a few times before, and each time, it felt like the moment he stepped in, events would spiral unpredictably and escalate at lightning speed. The aftermath? Usually, a complete disaster for the other party.

Perhaps Lu Xu just had a natural talent for stirring up drama.

He seemed to draw attention effortlessly. Even without doing much, the buzz he generated would make other stars—who poured endless resources into marketing themselves—burn with envy at their inability to match his impact.

When it came to sparking discussions, Lu Xu was undoubtedly formidable.

The pity was that Lu Xu still lacked a solid body of work. If he had even one or two notable productions under his belt, combined with some halfway decent acting skills…

But after seeing Lu Xu film his first scene, Wei Yi quickly corrected herself: that “halfway decent acting skills” comment needed to be erased.

Was this “halfway decent”?

This was phenomenal!

No exaggeration, but after her first scene with Lu Xu, Wei Yi’s mind went completely blank. The lines she had memorized for ages suddenly vanished, or rather, as a fellow actor, she had been utterly overwhelmed by Lu Xu’s commanding presence.

Supreme was a xianxia drama that told the story of a young man, He Ziqing, who, in his journey to becoming the Supreme, crossed paths with a young woman, Yun Hui. Together, they overcame countless trials, ultimately saving the world, only to meet a tragic bad ending for their relationship.

During the peak of xianxia’s popularity, Supreme wasn’t particularly well-known as a novel.

However, the villain Ji Xiuya had a striking presence in the story. Firstly, the original author had spent an excessive amount of time describing just how breathtakingly beautiful Ji Xiuya was, leading some to suspect the author was secretly his fan. Secondly, while the male lead He Ziqing was confirmed to have died, whether Ji Xiuya survived was left ambiguous, with the author dropping the cryptic hint: “In ten thousand years, when darkness returns…”

Ji Xiuya was raised from a young age by one of his father’s admirers. This person, harboring personal grudges, vented their resentment on him by raising him as a daughter. Through threats and intimidation, they made Ji Xiuya suffer immensely, shaping his deeply twisted personality.

In Ji Xiuya’s first on-screen appearance, he was ambushed by the righteous sects, losing four of his seven souls in the process. Left in the mortal world as a simpleton, he was discovered and taken in by Yun Hui.

No one in this world had ever treated Ji Xiuya with kindness before—no one except Yun Hui.

Ji Xiuya followed Yun Hui everywhere, refusing to leave her side. Despite He Ziqing warning Yun Hui that Ji Xiuya’s origins were suspicious, and even pointing out that he shared a name with the infamous demon Ji Xiuya, Yun Hui continued to show him compassion.

This particular scene wasn’t long. All Lu Xu had to do was consistently flash Yun Hui a silly, childlike grin and then—after his soul fragments returned—transform back into the Ji Xiuya capable of silencing a crying child with a single glance.

“Action!”

This scene featured all three actors: Wei Yi, Zheng Xiao, and Lu Xu.

Wei Yi and Zheng Xiao were seasoned members of the production, having already filmed many scenes. The clear focus here was on Lu Xu’s performance.

As Jiang Wangshu called for the shoot to begin, the actors moved into position. The moment Lu Xu appeared on the monitor, everyone on set realized one thing—Ji Xiuya as a simpleton and Ji Xiuya as a demon lord were two entirely different people.

This version of Ji Xiuya carried an innocence that felt untouched by the world.

After all, he was portraying a simple-minded child.

He trailed behind Yun Hui step by step, his bright, clear eyes reflecting a curiosity for everything he saw.

Seeing this, Jiang Wangshu couldn’t help but sigh in admiration—Lu Xu’s ability to act with his eyes was exceptional.

At this moment, there wasn’t a trace of malice on Ji Xiuya. Though an adult, his expression belonged wholly to a child.

He was like a blank sheet of paper, pure and untainted.

When He Ziqing suggested that Yun Hui ignore Ji Xiuya, Lu Xu instinctively hid behind Yun Hui, his face showing a blend of confusion and innocence.

If Yun Hui walked quickly, Ji Xiuya would trot after her. If she slowed down, he would beam at her with a radiant smile. At bedtime, he would mumble for his mother in his dreams. No one could possibly associate this simple, childlike figure with the notorious demon lord Ji Xiuya.

In the tranquil village, Ji Xiuya experienced a brief but unforgettable period of peace.

The villagers called him a fool, but Yun Hui never uttered the word “fool.” If life could remain so quiet, it would have benefited both sides—good and evil alike.

But Ji Xiuya was, after all, Ji Xiuya.

One late night, his soul fragments returned.

Notably, this scene didn’t require many lines from Ji Xiuya. Most of his dialogue consisted of simple syllables—asking for food or drink, or occasionally calling out for his mother.

This made the scene a true test of the actor’s skill.

Portraying the mannerisms of a child wasn’t easy. Overdo it, and the character might come across as overly foolish or even annoying, leaving the audience with a sense of unease.

During Ji Xiuya’s time on screen, Lu Xu’s performance was impeccably measured. Jiang Wangshu even wondered if he had played a similar role in the past.

Then came the pivotal moment when Ji Xiuya’s true self returned.

This moment, lasting just a few dozen seconds, had once stumped Chen Ye, who required ten takes to get it right.

The difficulty lay in portraying the shift from innocence to malice. When playing the evil version of Ji Xiuya, Chen Ye had relied heavily on makeup, which had added an intimidating edge to his appearance.

But in this scene, there was no elaborate makeup to lean on.

Jiang Wangshu held his breath.

In the frame, Ji Xiuya opened his eyes.

That single glance sent a shiver down Jiang Wangshu’s spine.

The eyes were still the same, and Lu Xu refrained from using overt gestures to convey Ji Xiuya’s sinister transformation—there was no crooked smirk or lip-licking. On the surface, this Ji Xiuya appeared no different from the one he had been just hours earlier.

The only thing that had changed was his gaze.

The innocence in Ji Xiuya’s eyes vanished in an instant, leaving behind only a pair of deep, unfathomable orbs, as dark and bottomless as a cold abyss.

These were the eyes of a demon.

When Yun Hui checked on Ji Xiuya to see if he was sleeping soundly, it was those very eyes she encountered.

In that moment, she understood everything.

The next second, Ji Xiuya smiled. Though dressed in the simplest of clothes, his subtle motion of tilting his head and resting his hand lightly on his forehead exuded an aura so overwhelming that Yun Hui found herself struggling to breathe.

In this scene, Wei Yi originally had a line to deliver. However, for some inexplicable reason, panic welled up in her heart. That single line spun around in her mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Even with the considerable distance between them, Wei Yi clearly heard the director’s sigh.

This shot was notoriously difficult to film. Chen Ye had gone through multiple takes to get it right, and though Lu Xu had nailed it in a single try, Wei Yi’s failure to deliver her line meant they would have to shoot it again.

Jiang Wangshu couldn’t be sure if Lu Xu would replicate his stellar performance.

Though inwardly frustrated, there was no choice but to reshoot.

What happened next left Jiang Wangshu astonished—

Lu Xu’s performance was precisely the same as before, as if measured with a ruler. Every detail, every nuance of his portrayal, was perfectly replicated. If anything, this second take demonstrated an even greater command of the character’s aura.

Jiang Wangshu fell silent.

At that moment, he desperately wanted to ask Liu Chunfeng where he had found such a treasure like Lu Xu. This young actor seemed born to act, as if he’d been steeped in the craft for decades.

‘Why,’ Director Jiang wondered bitterly, ‘did I have the misfortune of working with someone like Chen Ye?’

Was it because he wasn’t unattractive enough to ward off such troubles?

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