Chapter 187: Continuous Filming
Apart from not getting along too well with the cat, Lu Xu had a good relationship with everyone in the Black & White crew, including all living beings on set.
His role was not extensive, and his scenes with Ren Ningyi were scheduled for later. At least for now, the scenes he had filmed were mainly to showcase Cui Kaiwen’s personality.
The Black & White script depicted drug transactions, explosions, attacks, and even human bombs—all orchestrated behind the scenes by Cui Kaiwen. However, he was not a man driven by pure desire. Rather, he had a deep understanding of human weaknesses. The ugliness of others was his source of joy.
He had grasped this concept with absolute clarity from a young age.
Cui Kaiwen firmly believed that human beings were inherently ugly creatures. Whether it was money, drugs, or the fear of death, under these pressures, even the strongest would eventually yield.
Though he neither looked ferocious nor possessed physical strength, he had still managed to find his place in the world.
With this philosophy, Cui Kaiwen committed countless atrocities. He could be more ruthless than anyone, yet he felt no shame—he was merely helping those already harboring evil thoughts find their rightful place.
After finishing the first scene, Lu Xu and An Bin carefully analyzed the character. An Bin was the kind of director who let actors take full control of their roles. He would provide a framework and a few guiding suggestions, but the rest was up to the actors. Even if their performance was slightly exaggerated, it did not matter.
On days when he had no scenes to shoot, Lu Xu stayed in his hotel, studying the role alone. It was still cold outside, and he preferred staying in heated rooms. Only when it was time for his scenes would he slowly make his way to the set.
In the Black & White script, Ren Ningyi’s protagonist, Ji Yun, finally had a one-on-one confrontation with Cui Kaiwen after a long pursuit. By this point, Ji Yun had already uncovered Cui Kaiwen’s true identity. However, facing him in person, he was still shocked by how unrelated Cui Kaiwen’s appearance seemed to the mastermind behind everything.
Wearing glasses, Cui Kaiwen looked like an ordinary young man, resembling a university professor or a doctor. He did not appear physically strong—Ji Yun felt as if he could take him down with minimal effort.
Yet, that was only the surface.
When Cui Kaiwen began explaining his theories and displaying his so-called “trophies,” the madness that seeped from the depths of his soul sent a chill straight to the heart.
Unlike Lu Xu’s previous villainous role, Cui Kaiwen was someone who understood morality. He knew he was committing evil, yet he did it anyway. Watching the hatred in others’ eyes, seeing their regretful tears—it brought him a deep sense of satisfaction.
Ji Yun asked him, “Why?”
“This is fate.” Cui Kaiwen’s expression was subtle as he stated those words. “He was destined to fall. Even if it wasn’t me, someone else would have helped him.”
Cui Kaiwen saw his actions as nothing more than “helping.” If someone needed a gun, he gave them a gun. If they needed drugs, he provided them. Tools themselves bore no sin, and by that logic, neither did he.
“Nonsense! Do you even realize how many people you’ve harmed? Can’t you see it with your own eyes? Everything you’re saying is just an excuse!” Ji Yun, despite all the trials and horrors he had faced, could not help but lash out in anger at Cui Kaiwen.
Yet, Cui Kaiwen remained completely unfazed by his accusations.
He was like a highly intelligent killer, never swayed by the emotions of others—on the contrary, he used his own twisted emotions to manipulate those around him.
He even smiled, as if he had just heard the most ridiculous joke. “Me? Harm others?”
“No, they need me. Even without me, those weaklings would still tear each other apart. That’s simply their way of survival.”
Hearing Cui Kaiwen’s argument, Ji Yun’s anger became impossible to suppress. Yet, to the onlookers on set, the contrast between them was striking—Ji Yun and Cui Kaiwen seemed like creatures from entirely different worlds. Ji Yun’s rage was utterly meaningless to Cui Kaiwen, as if he didn’t even register it.
To Ji Yun, Cui Kaiwen was an anomaly. But in Cui Kaiwen’s eyes, wasn’t Ji Yun the same?
They were like two hunters from opposite sides of a river. Ji Yun was undeniably stronger in terms of physical combat, yet he couldn’t shake Cui Kaiwen in the slightest.
Even as Cui Kaiwen defended himself with his twisted logic, he had a way of making his arguments unassailable, to the point where one might even start to believe he was right.
Beyond his words, Cui Kaiwen’s expressions were equally compelling. He could present himself as the most innocent person in the world, yet when he acted, he was ruthless—without the slightest hesitation.
Ren Ningyi had been a film emperor for years, and when an actor of his caliber fully immersed himself in a role, his presence was undeniable. But standing across from him, Lu Xu—despite showing no outward bursts of emotion, looking gentle and harmless—never once gave off the impression that he was weaker than Ren Ningyi.
In this scene, their confrontation reached a perfect equilibrium.
An Bin did not call for a cut. The entire set fell into silence. Only Ren Ningyi and Lu Xu continued their quiet yet intense performance.
Anyone watching could tell—Lu Xu had fully caught Ren Ningyi’s energy and matched it flawlessly.
Because Lu Xu stood firmly on the other side, Ren Ningyi wasn’t performing in vain—he had a solid scene partner to respond to his energy. Even as Ren Ningyi unleashed his full potential, Lu Xu kept Cui Kaiwen’s character steady, subtly mirroring Ren Ningyi’s performance in a way that maintained the balance of the scene.
Lu Xu’s ability to hold his ground allowed Ren Ningyi to push his performance even further.
If one actor performed passionately while the other remained expressionless, detached like an outsider, the scene would inevitably fall flat.
Cui Kaiwen was a twisted character—emotionally indifferent to his own atrocities—but that didn’t mean Lu Xu played him with detachment.
According to the script, this was meant to be a particularly challenging scene. Yet, thanks to Lu Xu and Ren Ningyi, the difficulty dissolved entirely.
The two still had one or two more key confrontations ahead. An Bin had initially expected these scenes to take a long time to shoot, but from the moment this one began, he realized that with Lu Xu and Ren Ningyi’s level of engagement, they would nail it no matter when they filmed.
Lu Xu hadn’t been with the crew for long, whereas Ren Ningyi had been filming for quite some time.
Objectively speaking, Ren Ningyi’s performance had always been excellent—he could deliver high-quality work in any scene, and the director had complete confidence in him. But in this particular exchange with Lu Xu, An Bin saw a side of Ren Ningyi that could only be described as fiery—a level of intensity that even he hadn’t expected.
Was it Lu Xu inspiring him? Or was it the pressure of a strong opponent pushing him further?
Either way, as far as the director was concerned, seeing actors perform at this level was the best possible outcome.
While An Bin marveled at Ren Ningyi’s skill, he couldn’t help but acknowledge Lu Xu’s talent as well.
With just a few performances, Lu Xu had fully brought out the loathsome nature of Cui Kaiwen.
Ren Ningyi was thoroughly enjoying himself. And when he was in a good mood, he insisted on dragging Lu Xu along to grab some stir-fried dishes next door. Eating alone wasn’t fun, so with his usual stingy reluctance, he begrudgingly invited the director along as well.
Lu Xu felt like he had encountered a middle-aged version of Shao Yao.
“Why are you so stingy?” the director asked, speechless. “Out of ten times, I’d be lucky if you invited me twice.”
“Didn’t I just invite you?” Ren Ningyi retorted without hesitation. “You should be grateful there’s food—quit talking so much.”
Ren Ningyi was surprisingly generous toward Lu Xu. In his words, Lu Xu had come to help the production solve a problem, so treating him well was only fair. The director, on the other hand, was someone who was supposed to be responsible for everything—so treating him worse was also fair.
An Bin: “…Considering how long we’ve known each other…”
That statement was practically begging for a beating.
But while Ren Ningyi had a reputation for being stingy, he wasn’t actually that miserly. Since the weather was cold, he had covered the entire production team’s hot milk tea and hand warmers. He even bulk-ordered down jackets for the crew, and the one Lu Xu was wearing was from him.
All in all, he was a generous and kindhearted person.
One day, while eating with Lu Xu, the conversation shifted to Ren Ningyi’s acting career. He said that his journey as an actor had been fairly smooth—playing supporting roles when he was younger, transitioning to lead roles and winning awards after turning 35. His only real failure in his career was The Watchers.
Lu Xu’s chopsticks froze mid-air. “…Please, stop talking.”
Ren Ningyi chuckled. “Did Yue Hui say the same thing?”
Lu Xu nodded honestly.
“I knew it. There’s no way he wouldn’t bring it up,” Ren Ningyi laughed. “If I suffered, he had to suffer too.”
Lu Xu: “I’m not suffering. I’m just embarrassed.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one embarrassed?” Ren Ningyi said. “I was so excited to shoot that drama, and it ended up being a total disaster. I didn’t even want to see anyone for a while.” He sighed, then grinned. “Back then, I never imagined that one day, you and I would actually be working together.”
“And we’re having a great time working together,” Ren Ningyi added. “No wonder after Yue Hui worked with you once, he wanted to collaborate a second and third time.”
Lu Xu realized that Ren Ningyi was also the type to speak his mind—straightforward, with no unnecessary detours.
After being burned by The Watchers, Ren Ningyi went back to making movies honestly and never entertained the idea of making a name for himself in the TV drama industry again.
TV series were too long, and there was too much room for editing. If his scenes hadn’t been cut in favor of Gu Sinian’s, The Watchers might not have flopped so badly.
From that point on, Lin Ge Entertainment and everyone associated with it were completely blacklisted by Ren Ningyi.
“Then we’re the same. I blacklisted them too.”
Hearing Lu Xu’s words, Ren Ningyi felt a sense of comfort. At least he wasn’t the only one who got screwed over.
…
After that, Lu Xu and Ren Ningyi filmed a few more scenes together.
Ren Ningyi mostly played righteous characters. Unlike Yue Hui, who occasionally got the chance to experiment with villain roles, Ren Ningyi was stuck playing heroes—simply because he had a face that just couldn’t pass for a bad guy.
He had considered changing things up, but every time he tried to play a villain, it wasn’t that his acting was bad—it just felt off. He lacked the necessary conviction to be truly convincing.
He envied actors like Lu Xu, who could effortlessly switch between protagonists and antagonists. “That makes acting a lot more fun, doesn’t it?”
“It’s better than being stuck playing villains.”
Ren Ningyi nodded. “That’s true.”
He had a few actor friends who were great at playing villains—so convincing, in fact, that they had been scolded by passersby on the street.
That kind of thing didn’t happen anymore. Nowadays, audiences had a much better sense of boundaries.
But to be honest, this newfound sense of boundaries took away some of the joy of being an actor. When the audience kept too much distance, it meant there was a gap between them and the performers.
Back when Ren Ningyi was younger, actors would all sleep in the same room while filming. The conditions were tough—no one had much money, and the production teams weren’t wealthy either. There was no need for fancy travel arrangements, and as a result, the bonds between actors were much stronger.
The reason they were able to hone their acting skills was that, in those days, if a performance was bad, viewers would literally write letters to the TV station to complain. Some would even submit articles to newspapers. If an actor didn’t perform well, the whole country would know about it.
Ren Ningyi wasn’t trying to criticize the changes in the industry. The evolution of the acting profession was shaped by the times, not by the will of just one or two people.
Besides, just looking at paychecks alone, he had made a fortune—something no other profession could really compare to.
…
When Lu Xu filmed his final scene with the Black & White crew, the director suddenly remembered that when Lu Xu first joined, he had warned him that the filming schedule wouldn’t be short.
Yet, Lu Xu had wrapped up his scenes in nearly half the expected time. The only words to describe his work were efficient and high-quality.
At that moment, the director recalled that a friend of his was struggling to find the right actor for a project. Without saying much, he quietly recommended Lu Xu and passed along the contact information.
Lu Xu: “…”
New script acquired.
#The feeling of being in high demand#
