Chapter 100: The Big Screen
The God of Justice, Fu Wenze, was standing beside a pillar.
The director said something to him.
He listened attentively, but those who were familiar with him, like Zou Yi and Xie Xizhao, could tell that there was a hint of unease in his eyes.
The first time was always like this.
For newcomers, the entire album production process was unfamiliar. Recording and stage performances were slightly better—after all, they had gained experience during the competition and attended related courses regularly. But when it came to filming an MV, something completely outside their expertise, they were completely at a loss.
Especially when the director had high expectations.
Zou Yi had previously said that Xie Xizhao’s vision felt like a movie, and Shenghong had indeed hired a well-known short film director to shoot this MV. The director was quite skilled, but the only issue was that he had some unrealistic expectations of them.
For example, he expected a group of idols with zero acting experience to perform at the level of professional actors.
Of course, their current filming progress was about 30%, and over the past 30%, Ai Qingyuan had successfully forced the director to lower his standards from “professional actors” to just “actors.”
Even so, it was still quite challenging.
At this moment, they were already filming the second main scene.
In the first main scene, everyone’s primary task had been to find the most flattering angle for close-up shots. That scene was the introduction, mainly meant to give the audience a quick understanding of the characters and their traits.
But the second main scene was not that simple.
Because this time, they were filming a specific event.
“‘Dinner.’” Zou Yi repeated the name of the scene. “Was the inspiration drawn from The Last Supper?”
“I suppose?” Xie Xizhao said. “It’s just an excuse to gather everyone together. You could call it lunch or breakfast if you wanted, but since we already rented the temple, the planners figured we might as well make full use of it and have a meal here together.”
“Hmm… So this part turned into dinner.”
Zou Yi: “……”
Zou Yi looked ahead. The director had finished his earnest instructions, and Fu Wenze had returned to the pillar.
In the ‘Dinner’ scene, Reason, as the main god, gathered the other four gods for a shared meal. But at the table, as the rift in their divinity began to spread, each of them reacted differently.
There were no spoken lines in the MV, only singing.
Because of that, micro-expressions played an especially crucial role in this part.
Fu Wenze still had the director’s words lingering in his mind. He took a deep breath without showing any signs of nervousness, adjusting his expression to its optimal state. The red light on the camera blinked—filming resumed once more.
—
Justice was the first to sense the wavering of his divinity.
As the God of Justice, his symbol was the bow and arrow of judgment.
Judgment had been his innate duty. He had never before questioned the significance of each arrow he released—until he realized he had begun to crave the heartfelt gratitude of those he saved.
A mute child, whose life should have ended, was spared from a tiger’s maw by one of his arrows. Before leaving, the child had given him a bouquet of wildflowers.
At this moment, those wildflowers bloomed on the dark red tip of his sword.
It made his mind waver, though the chime signaling the start of the meal quickly reminded him that he was in the midst of a crisis.
Someone had told the main god about his frequent visits to the mortal realm.
The God of Reason, who had always been aloof and emotionless, would not tolerate even the slightest “betrayal” of divinity.
Fu Wenze did not know whether this long-overdue gathering was meant to be a trial and judgment against him or a gift of grace and concern from the main god.
He looked at the small yellow flower on the tip of his arrow and thought that it was probably the former.
—
“Cut!” the director called out, stopping the scene before checking the monitor.
His expression was less than satisfied, but he also knew he couldn’t afford to be too nitpicky. Fu Wenze had already been very cooperative, but some things simply couldn’t be mastered overnight.
With a wave of his hand, he signaled, “Next.”
Ai Qingyuan swaggered forward, leading his imaginary lion.
The director stared at him, feeling a vein on his forehead start to twitch.
Ai Qingyuan blinked innocently. “Director, don’t look at me like that. I’m scared.”
The director: “……”
“I’m scared too,” he replied expressionlessly.
“Do you need me to go over the scene with you again?” His professional instincts kicked in, and the familiar question slipped out automatically.
Ai Qingyuan grinned. “No need!”
In the previous scene, Ai Qingyuan had set a new record with 23 consecutive NGs. The reason? The director had wanted him to tone down his over-the-top “I’m-the-king-of-the-world” arrogance just a little.
But Ai Qingyuan simply couldn’t do it.
He genuinely looked that confident.
So, half-skeptical, the director signaled for filming to start.
The camera rolled. The playful smirk vanished from Ai Qingyuan’s face in an instant. He strode into the grand hall with commanding energy, exuding an undeniable presence.
Then, the moment his gaze fell upon the people sitting inside, he suddenly stopped in his tracks.
A moment later, maintaining his usual indifferent expression, he pulled out a chair and sat down.
The faint sound of wood scraping against the floor echoed as the table and chair collided.
He did not look at the person sitting across from him. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the towering divine throne.
Behind the monitor, the director hesitated for a moment.
—
Justice had no idea what his companion was thinking.
He was still preoccupied with his own anxieties. And it was only when he felt anxiety that he finally realized—he was drifting further from the existence of a “god” and closer to that of a “human.”
He looked at the companion before him.
He and Courage had never gotten along. He found the other’s impulsiveness difficult to tolerate, while the other found him too rigid and cold.
They never had much to talk about, so silence had always been their way of dealing with each other.
But today, he noticed something different—his companion seemed to disregard his presence even more than usual. Instead, his attention was repeatedly drawn to the empty divine throne above, as if waiting for the main god to arrive.
No, waiting wasn’t the right word.
Justice studied the side profile of the man across from him.
There was no smile on his face—only tightly pressed lips, as if lost in deep thought.
That normally defiant face now seemed unsettled, even anxious. His fingers unconsciously gripped the stem of a wine glass beside him, as though desperately trying to make sense of something.
Justice had originally suspected that this man was the one who had betrayed him.
But now, it seemed that perhaps he, too, had his own troubles to deal with.
He caught sight of his companion’s lion—the white, wild yet oddly endearing beast pacing restlessly in the void. Though silent, he could see it roaring.
Guardian beasts were demigods, possessing divine essence just like their masters.
But for some reason—perhaps it was just his imagination—he felt as if something new had appeared in the lion’s once-clear eyes.
If he wasn’t mistaken, it was a human emotion—
One called attachment.
—
Filming wrapped up, but the director remained silent for a long time.
Ai Qingyuan was still seated, but his sharp focus from earlier had faded. Now, he was busy bickering with Fu Wenze across the table.
“Can you not glare at me like that during the shoot? It felt like you were cursing me with your eyes.”
Fu Wenze shot back, deadpan, “Brother, it’s called acting.”
The two were completely oblivious to the stunned expressions of the director’s assistants, who had all perked up their ears, shocked to hear that this supposedly close-knit boy band was arguing over such petty nonsense.
Zou Yi turned to the person next to him. “Did you give him extra lessons again?”
Xie Xizhao hesitated for a second before admitting, “…Mostly because I was worried he’d push the director to the point of needing blood pressure meds again.”
Zou Yi nodded approvingly. “Well, it worked. How’d you manage it?”
Xie Xizhao didn’t answer directly. Instead, he mused, “Courage is the second to awaken in the script—later than Justice, but he progresses faster. Justice is traditional, but Courage is reckless.”
Zou Yi: “……”
“That… sounds a lot like them in real life.”
Xie Xizhao gave him a strange look.
“Well, yeah. What else would it be?”
“It’s not entirely like them,” Xie Xizhao said. “It’s just an exaggeration of certain traits. Actually, Brother Fu isn’t that rigid—his inspiration comes from his family. He has that kind of traditional eldest brother as a father sense of responsibility.”
He paused. “Ai Qingyuan, though… let’s not even go there.”
Zou Yi didn’t comment on that deliberate omission. Instead, he smoothly picked up the conversation. “So?”
“I was just thinking,” Xie Xizhao continued, “I kind of forced the idea of making Courage’s divine flaw tied to his guardian spirit because I couldn’t find a better symbol. But looking at it now, for someone as self-centered as him, the only thing that could truly shake his divinity would be the threat of losing his one and only close companion. So in the end, I think it works.”
Zou Yi: “.”
“…Okay. So how exactly did you teach him?”
Xie Xizhao hesitated for a second. “Well, it was a crash course, and we were on a tight schedule…”
He rarely sounded guilty about anything. That usually meant he had done something truly questionable. And sure enough—
“So I told him to think about Brother Heng’s situation during filming.”
Zou Yi: “……”
Yeah, that was messed up.
Xie Xizhao looked at him with innocent eyes.
Before Zou Yi could say anything, the director called out, “Next.”
Next up: Zou Yi and Yun Pan.
Yun Pan had just come in from the snow, clutching his crystal ball as he padded over with light, eager steps.
Dressed in pure white, with delicate snowflake decorations at the corners of his eyes, he looked like a little prince straight out of a winter fairytale.
Zou Yi patted him on the shoulder, then turned to Xie Xizhao. “I’m up.”
With that, he headed toward the director.
The reason Zou Yi and Yun Pan were placed last—or rather, as a pair—was because they were the only gods in the script who had not developed a “rift in divinity.” Their task was simple: they only needed to play the role of beautiful puppets.
—
While the two were filming, Xie Xizhao stood nearby, watching.
A sudden sense of unreality washed over him.
The entire worldview of the MV had been his creation—from the personalities of each character to how they fit within the concept. For certain dramatized character traits, he had consulted the other members.
He had hesitated, worried about leaving a stereotypical impression on their fans. But everyone reassured him that it didn’t matter.
Ai Qingyuan had said, “Actors don’t all play good guys, do they? It’s still just acting. Just go for it.”
And so, with everyone’s support, he had created this “story.”
Or rather, it wasn’t quite a story—strictly speaking, this MV was only a fragment of a particular moment in this world. Perhaps in the future, this universe would continue to expand. But for now, it had taken shape as a completed work.
It was a strange feeling.
Much like the performances they had created during the competition.
In the past, he had lived under someone else’s name and identity. But these—these were things crafted by his own hands. Works that belonged, at least in part, to him.
He was exhausted, but at the same time, he relished the feeling of striving for something of his own.
And because of this, he found himself growing more and more eager to see how the work they had spent so long preparing would be received.
Praise? Disappointment?
Xie Xizhao felt that he could accept either.
Because this was the result of all their hard work and dedication.
No matter what, they had no regrets.
—
The MV ultimately took a week to film, with the most challenging part being the group scene shot on the final day.
Aside from those two days of group filming, the rest of the MV was completed one scene at a time, with each member taking turns. Overall, thanks to everyone’s efforts, the filming process became increasingly efficient.
By the end, even the director was able to smile at Ai Qingyuan.
However, on the last night of filming, he privately called Xie Xizhao to his suite.
In the luxurious room, the fragrance of tea curled softly in the air. Xie Xizhao took a sip, the taste lingering pleasantly on his tongue.
Within the quiet scent of tea, the director looked at him, his gaze filled with curiosity.
“Who is your teacher?”
Xie Xizhao chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” The director feigned a stern expression. “Don’t try to fool me. At your age, with acting skills like this… I asked around, and you don’t have any formal training. If no one taught you, how could you act like that?”
Xie Xizhao’s performance over the past few days had been undeniable.
He had the fewest NGs and was the fastest to get into character.
At first, the director had simply assumed he was naturally gifted, but the more he watched, the more something felt off.
Especially in the final scene.
That was also an incredibly difficult scene, but the only reason it didn’t take long to film was that it was Xie Xizhao’s solo scene. As usual, he finished it almost without any NGs.
So, everyone was thrilled to wrap up early.
Only the director stood there, staring at the camera, utterly bewildered.
The others weren’t professionals, and he had already noticed that Xie Xizhao held a strangely natural authority among them. Those close to him seemed entirely unfazed by his ability to excel at everything, as if they had grown numb to it.
But the director wasn’t.
This was his first time working with Xie Xizhao, and he felt that this young man…
The only way he could describe him was as having an extraordinary, innate talent.
The director couldn’t figure it out. He was convinced that Xie Xizhao must have had some kind of master guiding him.
And Xie Xizhao didn’t disappoint him.
“Sort of,” he said.
The director perked up his ears.
After spending these past days together, they had become quite familiar with each other, and at this moment, their conversation felt more like that of old friends.
Xie Xizhao looked at him and said, “You have to keep it a secret.”
“Alright,” the director agreed without hesitation.
Xie Xizhao leaned in and whispered a name.
The director: ?!
Then Xie Xizhao pulled a die out of his pocket and, with complete seriousness, said, “Yes, it’s this. My soul’s guiding flame, the source of my talent. I found this lonely little die next to a trash can by the roadside and took it home.”
“From that moment on,” he even emphasized, “I mastered the ultimate skills and honed the acting abilities I have today.”
The director: “…”
The director and the little die, which had inexplicably become a homeless child from a trash can with grievances it couldn’t voice, stared at each other in silence: “…”
“It was just a joke.” Xie Xizhao put away the die and spoke seriously. “But it really is a fortunate encounter that I can’t talk about. Thank you for your appreciation and compliments—I truly don’t deserve them.”
He apologized quickly and sincerely.
The director stared at him for a long moment before finally giving up.
“Alright,” he said. “Anyway, the entertainment industry is full of strange people. If you told me that during those four years in a coma, you were actually training your acting skills in a dream, I’d probably believe it. The world is full of mysteries.”
Xie Xizhao: “…”
Director, you really did your homework.
The two ended up discussing professional topics for the rest of the evening and surprisingly had a great conversation.
As Xie Xizhao was leaving, the director suddenly asked, “Is being an idol truly your dream?”
Without hesitation, Xie Xizhao answered, “Yes.”
The director’s expression showed clear regret.
After thinking for a moment, Xie Xizhao added, “As for acting, if I ever get the opportunity, I’d like to give it a try as well.”
Hearing this, the director’s expression finally softened.
“I’ll look forward to seeing you on the big screen,” he said.
He had specifically said “big screen” rather than anything else.
Xie Xizhao smiled, responded earnestly with an “Alright,” gave the director a brief hug, and then walked out of the room.
—
Xie Xizhao had originally planned to celebrate the wrap-up of filming with his teammates over a big meal, take a nice shower, and then sleep like a rock. However, his plan was completely thrown off.
By the time he returned to his room, the hour was awkward—neither too late nor too early.
His drowsiness had already worn off, so he simply pulled out his alternate account and scrolled through Weibo for a while.
After the release of the first teaser image, Shenghong had continued to roll out two more concept teasers along with the official promotional schedule.
When it came to marketing, Shenghong was always reliable.
That is, once a release date was set, their promotional efforts were thorough and well-executed—never dragging things out unnecessarily or using cheap suspense tactics to build artificial hype.
The new teasers had provided more information, leading fans to actively discuss them. Xie Xizhao skimmed through the comments and found some that came close to the truth.
However, when it came to anyone completely guessing the core concept—so far, he hadn’t seen any.
That was to be expected, given that only a few teaser images had been released.
He scrolled for a while, amused by the wild theories fans were coming up with. Just as he was starting to feel a little sleepy, a new post suddenly popped up on his feed.
It was from a well-known marketing account.
[Holy crap! I’m hearing rumors that Newstar is about to announce their comeback very soon—like, really soon. Is this for real?!]
