Chapter 230: Filming in Progress
Lu Xu and Zheng Xiao joined the production team at the same time. To make it up to Shao Yao, they each bought him a big bag of extra-spicy chips from different brands, all claiming to be the spiciest.
After tasting them, Shao Yao concluded that both brands were just average and had nothing particularly special about them. However, not wanting to waste food, he still ate them and even shared some with his manager—who, despite his age, ended up with a pimple on his chin.
Lu Xu: “…”
That was such a typical Shao Yao move.
The historical film was being shot on a specially built set. Since most of the story took place within the palace, constructing the set wasn’t too expensive, though the preparation time was slightly longer.
As a historical film, respecting history was clearly the top priority.
The production team had considered filming at an existing film studio, but palace-themed sets were too common. At the same time, two other productions were already shooting in similar locations. After reviewing the options, the director was dissatisfied and preferred to spend extra money to build a new set.
Once Lu Xu was confirmed as the lead actor, funding was no longer a concern.
When it came to Lu Xu’s costume fitting, the production team’s highest priority was authenticity. Although the film didn’t rely heavily on special effects, its estimated production cost wasn’t low. Aside from set construction, a significant amount of money was also spent on costumes and makeup.
In the eyes of the audience, drama crews that boasted about their “historical accuracy” and “top-tier styling” often ended up producing a disaster. When there was nothing to praise about the plot, costume design was all they had to hype up.
Sometimes, what these productions called “historical accuracy” was merely their own version of it—something completely incomprehensible to the audience. That is, if that mess could even be called art.
However, The Sovereign Descends the World was being considered as a potential series, making it crucial to leave a lasting impression on the audience. The Empress Dowager’s dream could extend into palace intrigues and conflicts beyond the court. Although the world was stable during the Chengping era, numerous significant events still took place—folk legends, beauties, and hidden treasures, all of which could provide material for future sequels.
Moreover, during Qi Yi’s reign, many renowned ministers emerged, each with their own compelling stories to tell.
Shao Yao didn’t land a role this time, partly because The Sovereign Descends the World might have a sequel. While there wasn’t a suitable character for him in this installment, that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be one in the next.
Shao Yao agreed, and Lu Xu couldn’t help but marvel at how easy it was to placate his friend.
Because… Shao Yao truly was a kind and trusting person.
Even though he knew Lu Xu might just be giving him false hope, he still chose to believe him.
…
The director of The Sovereign Descends the World, Chang Aiwei, was already well into his years. He was considered a solid figure in the film industry—never a blockbuster success, but never out of work either. Objectively speaking, his films had performed reasonably well. Though he occasionally suffered losses, he rarely faced major financial failures, and the sale of his films to streaming platforms usually helped him break even.
He had worked on historical films before. This genre was one that neither audiences nor directors particularly enjoyed—until enough time had passed for audiences to start feeling nostalgic about it.
In his early years, Chang Aiwei developed his career in Hong Kong. When he first returned, his historical films had a strong “unofficial history” vibe, which even led to formal complaints from his peers. That criticism had been a wake-up call for him. Determined to improve, he refined his craft while continuing to make films. Ironically, one of his past works, The History of Emperor X, had recently experienced a small resurgence in popularity.
Modern films had become too rigid, with increasingly high moral standards for protagonists. In the past, audiences were just looking for entertainment and weren’t so demanding about a main character’s morality. Over time, this shift in expectations actually made Chang Aiwei’s older films more appealing.
Chang Aiwei was quite satisfied with his career as a director and content with simply having films to shoot. The only thing that frustrated him was how difficult it had become to secure funding.
He was fairly familiar with Xu Wen and had even vented to him about it. “Everyone keeps saying the industry is struggling, yet somehow, people are still throwing in billions. Meanwhile, I have to wear my voice out just to scrape together a bit of investment for a single film.”
“If I hadn’t been lucky enough to have Lu Xu this time, then what?”
Still, Chang Aiwei wasn’t one to dwell on complaints—he was grateful just to be making movies.
With his perpetually cheerful face, Lu Xu had assumed he would be an easygoing director. However, from the very first scene he filmed, he realized just how strict Chang Aiwei could be.
It wasn’t that the director had an issue with Lu Xu—on the contrary, he was actually quite satisfied with Lu Xu’s performance. It was obvious to everyone that Lu Xu had fully grasped the script. But precisely because Lu Xu delivered such a strong performance, the flaws in the set design became glaringly apparent.
Chang Aiwei had sharper eyes than a scanner—any problem, no matter how minor, was immediately caught by him, sometimes even before the props team noticed.
Beyond that, his expectations for actors were also quite high. He might not have been a famous “big-name” director, but to Lu Xu, working on The Sovereign Descends the World felt no different from working on a major director’s set.
He even discussed this with Zheng Xiao, realizing that, at times, the gap between an ordinary director and a renowned one wasn’t as wide as people imagined.
Take Liu Rennong, for example—he could have been a major director. Before his downfall, the public generally considered Miao Zhi to be far inferior to him.
However, according to Xu Wen, Chang Aiwei’s situation was different from Miao Zhi’s. Chang Aiwei had spent years repaying the debts of his past choices. When he should have been building his reputation, he was making lower-quality films, which cemented a certain image of him in the audience’s mind. In a way, he was a late bloomer—but unfortunately, the industry now belonged to a new generation of directors.
“He’s okay with it himself, and I think that’s not a bad thing,” Xu Wen said. “Liu Rennong enjoyed being in the spotlight, but Chang Aiwei doesn’t. Filmmaking is just his passion.”
In short, Lu Xu and Zheng Xiao immediately straightened up and braced themselves.
In the script for The Sovereign Descends the World, Zheng Xiao’s character, the scholar-official Jiang Henian, had a late introduction. However, Zheng Xiao had been relatively free lately, and he wasn’t satisfied with the jobs his manager had lined up for him, so he decided to arrive early on set.
As he put it, this was the perfect opportunity to observe Lu Xu and then swiftly replace him.
Aside from the two of them, most of the other actors in The Sovereign Descends the World were older and preferred to stay out of industry drama. They were the kind to wrap up filming and head straight home, so Lu Xu and Zheng Xiao didn’t have many interactions with them.
That morning, Zheng Xiao acted like Lu Xu’s personal fan, occasionally helping him carry things. Neither of them had brought an assistant this time, opting instead for a “mutual service” arrangement.
The rest of the time, Zheng Xiao was focused on watching Lu Xu’s performance.
The last time they worked together was on Supreme. After that, Lu Xu had only made a cameo in a drama where Zheng Xiao played the lead—back then, Lu Xu’s acting had not yet reached a level that could be described as “transcendent.”
And “transcendent” wasn’t just Lu Xu boasting about himself—it was the exact word Zheng Xiao had used to describe him.
Now, he wanted to witness with his own eyes the transformation in Lu Xu’s performance.
Lu Xu did not disappoint.
While chatting and laughing with a young concubine, Lu Xu’s portrayal of Qi Yi revealed a rare moment of warmth. But when facing his ministers, Qi Yi was every bit the imposing emperor, his authority unquestionable.
Zheng Xiao had been observing for a full week, and he noticed something remarkable—Qi Yi had not shown a single outburst of anger in all that time, yet Lu Xu’s performance never felt repetitive in the slightest.
He could be deep and unreadable, cold and ruthless, or decisive and commanding… Lu Xu switched between these modes seamlessly. At least from Zheng Xiao’s perspective, there was nothing to criticize.
And they hadn’t even reached the infamous “When the emperor is enraged, blood flows like a river” scene yet.
Qi Yi was a ruler with a deep mind, a master of political maneuvering. When Lu Xu, in character, occasionally cast his gaze over, the sheer authority in his eyes made Zheng Xiao’s scalp tingle.
At times, Zheng Xiao felt like Lu Xu, when fully immersed in the role of Qi Yi, was no longer the person he knew.
The most noticeable side effect of all this? Zheng Xiao’s frequency of sending meme stickers in their group chat had significantly decreased. Even when he did send them, they only went to Shao Yao—never to Lu Xu.
Even though Lu Xu quickly reverted to his usual self once filming wrapped, the contrast was still unsettling. Watching him go from exuding imperial dominance one second to acting like an overgrown golden retriever the next left Zheng Xiao wondering, Is this guy a psychopath? How does he switch so fast?
It was honestly terrifying.
That said, Lu Xu’s level of immersive acting was something Zheng Xiao deeply respected. Holding a full copy of the script, he had read the written description of Qi Yi’s character—on paper, the words were lifeless. But in Lu Xu’s hands, Qi Yi came alive.
[You’re insane, Lu Puppy!]
[Absolutely god-tier!!]
Zheng Xiao had barely sent his exclamation in their group chat when Lu Xu immediately shut him down with a “What kind of fit are you throwing now?” meme.
[I’m extremely nervous right now,] Zheng Xiao admitted.
[Doesn’t show,] was Lu Xu’s response.
Soon, the two of them would be filming their first scene together since joining the set.
Whether the “prophetic dream” was real or fake remained uncertain, but one thing was clear—someone in the imperial court had used it as an excuse to orchestrate a massacre.
Qi Yi assigned the Ministry of Justice’s Deputy Minister, Hu Qing, to investigate the case.
And Hu Qing was precisely the character Zheng Xiao played.
Qi Yi summoning Hu Qing was the first scene Lu Xu and Zheng Xiao would perform together.
To suit the role, Zheng Xiao’s styling was made to appear more mature, emphasizing stability and gravitas. Right before filming, when the two of them saw each other in full costume, they couldn’t help but burst into laughter.
It wasn’t that their appearances were completely different from their real-life selves, but there was hardly any resemblance either.
“Get it together,” Chang Aiwei clapped his hands to remind them.
Later, the director realized he had been overthinking it. Before filming, Lu Xu and Zheng Xiao had been joking around, but the moment the cameras rolled, Lu Xu exuded the sharp presence of a ruler, while Zheng Xiao perfectly embodied a courtier who feared his sovereign as one feared a tiger.
Qi Yi, clad in his imperial robes, questioned Hu Qing in an utterly nonchalant manner. His tone was indifferent, his expression unreadable, and he barely even looked directly at Hu Qing. Yet, this very sense of detachment created an even greater pressure on him.
Chang Aiwei watched the two of them intently.
Objectively speaking, this scene was less of an exchange between equals and more of a display of absolute suppression—Qi Yi completely overpowering Hu Qing.
Lu Xu had fully immersed himself in the role, bringing Qi Yi’s unpredictable and enigmatic nature to life. Every movement carried the unmistakable aura of someone in power.
And yet, there was something even more unnerving—beneath his authority, he remained unreadable. He had power, and he knew how to wield it.
From the moment Lu Xu started portraying this character, Chang Aiwei found it impossible to shift the camera away from him.
In terms of looks, even in an industry overflowing with handsome men and beautiful women, Lu Xu was undeniably charismatic. But once he stepped into a role, his charm seemed to amplify tenfold. Immersed in character, he was even more captivating than he was outside of the performance.
It didn’t feel like Lu Xu was acting. Instead, it was as if he had read the script so thoroughly, so intimately, that he had plunged straight into the character’s soul—dissecting it completely from the inside out.
How could someone be this skilled?
Chang Aiwei had worked with many actors before, some of them exceptionally talented. He had noticed that many actors relied on a certain framework or pattern in their performances. But Lu Xu was different—he thrived on spontaneity.
His acting was extraordinary, yet never rigid.
Before working together, Chang Aiwei already knew that Lu Xu was an incredible actor. Otherwise, the Contention Awards wouldn’t have handed him three Best Actor trophies. There was no shortage of actors vying for that title. And yet, Lu Xu’s portrayal of Qi Yi still exceeded Chang Aiwei’s expectations.
And it wasn’t just Lu Xu—Zheng Xiao’s performance also caught him by surprise.
Faced with Qi Yi’s interrogation, Hu Qing, though a subordinate, still struggled to assert himself. He was indeed expressing his loyalty, but beneath his words, he was also carefully leaving himself a way out.
The power of the emperor was absolute, but no matter how oppressive the throne, history had proven that even the most ruthless of rulers had cunning courtiers under their command. Hu Qing’s fear was genuine, but so was his calculation.
The script hadn’t explicitly detailed this aspect of Hu Qing’s character. To bring it to life required an understanding of the narrative’s broader context. The fact that Zheng Xiao had portrayed this complexity so well was proof that he had analyzed the script in great depth.
**TN
Only 20 chapters left. >.< Btw, check out Superstar, another no-romance showbiz novel. 😀
