Chapter 169: Five Years After the Main Story (Extra 3)
The movie was scheduled to release right around the May Day holiday. Once the marketing accounts released the main cast lineup, the buzz just kept growing.
Back then, when Xie Xizhao rejected Qu Hengyang, the whole thing stirred up a huge commotion—people said all kinds of things. Haters gloated, saying he’d let fame go to his head. Even his fans worried whether this incident would hurt his career in the industry. But now, this was a solid blow to all that br*inwashing and gossip.
While things were all cheer and celebration on one side, on the other, Xie Xizhao had just wrapped up filming and spent a solid two weeks at home totally slumped on the couch, cuddling cats—not for any reason except sheer exhaustion.
Although movies may seem shorter and more concise compared to TV dramas, the filming time was no less. Especially with a historical film involving court intrigue and power struggles—every glance and gesture had to be just right. Xie Xizhao hadn’t had to redo a scene more than three times in ages, but on the third day of filming, during an assassination scene, he got five takes of NG.
Qu Hengyang had come to him personally—three times—to invite him to take the role, but that didn’t mean he went easy on him. He showed no trace of someone asking for a favor. After calling cut on one scene, he said coldly, “Even a new emperor still finding his footing is still an emperor. Aura. Do you understand aura? Stop acting like some lazy, clueless tyrant waiting to be overthrown.”
Xie Xizhao, who had studied the script carefully and was giving it his all: “……”
He felt wronged to death.
When Qu Hengyang scolded him, the whole set went dead silent. This was a film emperor we’re talking about—anyone in the industry knew Xie Xizhao was no joke.
A lot of people thought Qu Hengyang was being nitpicky. Some even wondered if the two had some old grudge. But Xie Xizhao himself never took Qu Hengyang’s bluntness to heart.
At his level, honestly, it was rare to meet a mentor who could still help him grow. A challenging role combined with a good teacher was an invaluable boost to his acting skills.
Xie Xizhao spent a full six months grinding away at this film.
Six months—from starting off with strict etiquette lessons, practicing every posture under the guidance of a teacher, to later refining each shot and each expression down to the smallest detail.
During the darkest, most grueling period, he was filming from morning until the early hours of the next day, sleeping only three or four hours before diving into the next day’s shoot. He was practically a ghost during makeup sessions, his mind filled entirely with lines. He didn’t utter a single complaint—just powered through it all. Eventually, Qu Hengyang suddenly remembered his former medical miracle status and finally agreed to slow the filming pace a bit for his sake.
The filming pace slowed, but the quality demands didn’t ease up. The entire crew lived through a half-year of hell. But under that high-pressure, high-standard environment came what became the film Qu Hengyang was most satisfied with in his entire directing career.
…
On the day of the premiere, Xie Xizhao went to the theater with his family. Tagging along was Jing Jin, who by now had already started working.
The moment the first scene appeared on screen, his father straightened up in his seat, fully absorbed.
The film told the story of how Jing Heng, the founding emperor of the Yong Dynasty, quelled civil unrest, unraveled intricate schemes, and rose to power through peril and hardship, ultimately ushering in a golden era.
But in the film, pacifying rebellion was just the backdrop, and creating a prosperous age was just the outcome—neither was the true focus. The core of the story was how he first seized royal authority, then won over the hearts of the people, gaining control of both military and political power in one hand, and ultimately ascending the throne with absolute legitimacy.
Jing Heng as a character—calling him a wise sage would be overstating it, but calling him a villain would be unfair. In Xie Xizhao’s eyes, he was a ruthless, deeply calculating emperor who rose through the ranks by combining skill with timely fortune.
Qu Hengyang’s directing was already incredibly refined.
He had a penchant for subtle, nuanced storytelling, and was deeply fond of using light and shadow. The film began with Jing Heng committing fratricide. There was no blood or gore on screen—just an elegant, ornate screen and a sword tip slowly dripping blood. In the very next shot, it transitioned seamlessly into a lively banquet filled with toasts and merrymaking.
At that time, Jing Heng was still merely the crown prince of a feudal vassal state. He leaned lazily against the back of his chair as a servant leaned in and whispered something in his ear. He lowered his eyes slightly. The wine in his cup was crystal clear, and his hand holding the cup was steady—so steady that not even a ripple appeared in the liquid.
On stage, his foolish father, the reigning king, had no idea that his sons had already begun killing one another. He was drunkenly hugging a beautiful dancing girl, eyes half-lidded from intoxication. The elegant-faced queen consort sat upright beside him, exchanging a glance with the younger prince. The prince’s lips curved faintly into a smile—and in that split second of eye contact, all benefits and alignments were exchanged and set in stone.
Actually, this same banquet-at-night scene appeared in that historical drama where Xie Xizhao made a cameo. It’s one of the most cliché, overused setups in costume dramas.
But in that drama, he had been the one seated at the top, surrounded by indulgence and luxury. Back then, Xie Xizhao’s filming style was: if he could lie down, he wouldn’t sit; if he could stay half-asleep, he wouldn’t wake fully—he was like a boneless, fluid cat made of water. His fans even noticed this and compiled a supercut of all his “lying down” scenes from that role. At the time, there were even rumors saying, “Looks like Xie Xizhao genuinely wants to retire from acting. Just look at how completely he’s lost in that decadent dream world.”
Still, he looked beautiful.
That was probably the first time Xie Xizhao ever played a pure “flower vase” role.
It’s easy to be a “flower vase” in real life—but not easy to convincingly play one on screen. That puppet emperor had soft, delicate features, jet-black hair falling over a slender frame, a sickly and frail constitution, obsessed with opera and theater. His laziness and allure were embedded deep in his bones.
That drama had been more of a passion project. Xie Xizhao occasionally took on roles like that—characters with a strong personal flair. His fans all knew he only did them because he found them interesting. Like a cat spotting a fuzzy yarn ball—he just couldn’t help but bat at it. But to outsiders, it showed his versatility and his willingness to let go of ego—he dared to take on roles others might avoid.
He could let go, and he could pull it back.
That puppet emperor role bewitched the general public for two years. And now, meeting him again—same status, same identity—but this time, an entirely different portrayal.
In the story, Jing Heng’s demeanor was always taut and restrained. His beautiful eyes were lowered, yet his peripheral gaze constantly monitored the surrounding atmosphere. His lean waist was sharply outlined, his back ramrod straight—every second, like a bow drawn and ready to release. Though he smiled, the smile never reached his eyes, always shadowed by an ever-present gloom.
When the banquet ended, the truth finally surfaced. Also exposed was the “panicked and flustered” songstress.
The eldest prince, favored by King Liang, was caught up in wine and women. While seeking pleasure in a brothel, he was unfortunately attacked by assassins. King Liang was devastated.
And in that same year, the youngest son of King Liang was found to have witchcraft paraphernalia hidden under his bed.
King Liang wished to interrogate, but by then his son had already gathered troops outside the city. Enraged, King Liang ordered Crown Prince Jing Heng to go and suppress the rebellion. The young crown prince rode out on a fine steed, gazing down at his panicked younger brother with a calm indifference on his face.
The night wind lifted a strand of his hair, and the blade of his sword reflected his striking, extraordinary face.
Smiling, he said, “Brother, everything is clear now. Today, only one of us will walk away alive.”
The younger man holding his sword had pale lips. “No… it’s not…”
“I didn’t mean to rebel!” he cried hoarsely. “It was the queen—the queen passed a message to me, said that Father wanted to kill—”
Halfway through his words, he saw the sea-like depth in his elder brother’s eyes, and his face suddenly drained of all color.
He realized then—his elder brother had been right.
Between him and Jing Heng, only one could survive today.
The one who lived was Jing Heng.
At daybreak, he returned to the capital with his army. The young queen had shed all her jewelry and hairpins, kneeling beneath the rising sun to atone. Her silhouette was delicate, beautiful, and stubborn in its fragility.
As Jing Heng walked past her, he suddenly heard her quiet voice:
“Someday… will your sword also turn against me?”
The young man lowered his gaze slightly, his eyes tracing the intricate patterns on the blade. His voice was calm as he said,
“The queen overthinks.”
“This sword of mine only kills those who deserve to die.”
And who are the ones who deserve to die?
An elder brother consumed by greed and lust.
A foolish younger brother who basked in a deluded father’s misplaced favor.
Behind every great legacy forged in chaos lies a mountain of bones.
Half a year later, the queen was given a white silk cord and ordered to follow the late king in death. Cold winds howled through the abandoned palace halls as her shrill voice echoed from within the deserted Cold Palace:
“Jing Heng! You lied to me! May you die a terrible death!”
Inside the royal bedchamber, the young new king sat across a chessboard from his strategist. At one moment, the chess piece in his hand hovered, unmoving. After a long pause, he placed it down. The strategist looked up and saw his profile—resting his cheek on one hand, appearing absentminded.
Rumors had long spread among the people about the new king’s beauty—his features delicate to the point of innocence. But beneath that beautiful face lay a heart forged in ice and frost.
In just a few years: he had murdered his brothers, conspired with his stepmother to bring about the death of the former king, then forced her to take her own life.
Was it a moment of enlightenment?
Or… was it fear?
Cold sweat gathered at the strategist’s brow. In a soft voice, he offered comfort:
“The late queen conspired with her kin to seize power and assassinate her husband. A white silk cord was more mercy than she deserved. Your Majesty is a ruler the world sees once in a thousand years. One day, when you’ve united the realm, the former king will rest peacefully in the afterlife.”
At those words, the young king paused. Then he burst into laughter, tears welling in his eyes and sliding from the corners.
“You… you truly are…”
The next day, horses kicked up clouds of dust on a country road. A man looked up at the sun, panic in his eyes. Yesterday, he had been a minister to the emperor. Today, he was just a commoner.
And with that, two-thirds of the story had already passed.
What followed next was the assassination scene—the one Xie Xizhao had been NG’d five times for.
Jing Heng had become the newly appointed vassal king. Naturally, not everyone accepted his rule. The stone steps before the palace stretched on layer after layer. In the most critical moment, an assassin’s blade sliced across the new king’s neck—
—and above the bloodied wound was a pair of eyes, cold and unwavering.
The assassin was torn apart by five horses, his dismembered body hung on the city walls. The new king had executed him with his own hands. Warm blood splattered across his face, and he wiped it off with an embroidered handkerchief, as if wiping away something filthy.
Truthfully, Xie Xizhao didn’t really feel all that wronged by the scolding he’d gotten. The scenes were filmed out of order. By the point in the plot where this scene occurred, Jing Heng was already a man who had weathered the world and reached emotional maturity. But when they shot it, Xie Xizhao had just joined the crew—still adjusting, still finding his footing. Looking back on his performance and state back then… it was hard to watch.
Of course, it was nowhere near as bad as Qu Hengyang had scolded him for—”a muddle-headed emperor,” really? That was just Qu Hengyang’s standards and expectations for him being sky-high.
Jing Heng’s name was carved into the history books, though even then, opinions of him were mixed.
Qu Hengyang wanted Xie Xizhao’s name carved into the annals of showbiz.
And not just carved—immortalized.
No one can predict the future, but at the very least, it was already clear this film would be a huge success.
The remaining storyline opened up into full-scale drama—assassination attempts, entering the capital, power struggles, the cleansing of the court.
In the entire 150-minute runtime, not a single shot was wasted, not a single line of dialogue felt unnecessary. By the time the film came to an end, the emperor in his prime stood atop a towering building, bathed in the light of dawn, radiating a new aura of clarity and strength.
Outside the story, the film too was already receiving rave reviews.
Back when Xie Xizhao was still within the system, he had wondered—if he ever returned to the real world, and became an outstanding actor, what would that look like?
He hadn’t really thought much about box office numbers. He hadn’t imagined too clearly what it would be like to win awards.
Life is like a play. The world is ever-changing.
He only hoped that one day, with the name Xie Xizhao, he could be seen by the entire world.
He did it.
And the truth was—these things were always intertwined. In the end, they would all follow—fame, accolades, recognition—all arriving hand in hand with success, as the things he had rightfully earned.
Just like Qu Hengyang had once said—if he had agreed earlier, maybe he could’ve reached the peak of his career even faster. But clearly, for who he was now, this kind of honor wasn’t too late at all.
“State of Affairs” broke box office records. In fact, by now, the name Xie Xizhao had already become synonymous with box office success. Even the most niche, artsy films—normally praised but not profitable—would perform a whole tier higher just because of his name. Not to mention a historical epic with broad appeal.
As the box office climbed, the film was also met with widespread critical acclaim. And with that came the usual wave of award predictions.
That year, the Lingxiao Awards, held once every three years, arrived on schedule.
When he stood on the Lingxiao stage and took home the final major award—completing a full sweep—the hall erupted into thunderous applause and warm congratulations. But Xie Xizhao himself no longer felt the floaty unreality he once did, when all he could hear was the sound of his own racing heart.
Now, there was only a calm assurance, a grounded peace, just like the weight of the trophy in his hands.
That year was also a milestone year for his music.
Best Album. Best Singer.
Every time people started to forget his other identity because of his success in film, he—and his music—would come back in some new, surprising form, reminding everyone:
This is a one-of-a-kind artist.
Irreplaceable. Unrepeatable.
A true treasure of the entertainment world.
When everything finally wrapped up, Xie Xizhao and Qu Hengyang sat drinking on the terrace.
A short-lived collaboration, followed by another inevitable parting.
But just because the work ended didn’t mean the friendship would.
That had always been one of Xie Xizhao’s quiet, steadfast principles.
They let themselves collapse onto the cushions like a couple of slackers, just for a moment. Then Qu Hengyang suddenly recalled an old rumor and asked, half-joking, half-testing,
“So… any plans for the future?”
Xie Xizhao closed his eyes, voice low and relaxed, “One… two… three…”
Qu Hengyang: “???”
“Number of appearances lined up after vacation,” Xie Xizhao opened his eyes and smiled. “Director Qu, if you want to cast me again, better book early. My schedule’s filling fast.”
Qu Hengyang gave a snort, the unnecessary weight in his heart lifting as he couldn’t help but laugh.
“Cocky little brat,” he said with a grin.
A brief moment of rest—just to go further, go better.
This wasn’t the beginning. But it was far from the end.
The night was beautiful.
The road ahead, bright.
The future, within reach.
Under the pale moonlight, he finished the last sip of his cool, clear wine.
And just beyond, the sky began to lighten.
Dawn broke. A new day had begun.
