Chapter 118.1: Shen Xiu’s Personal Attack
Xuan Ji recalled something he’d heard from the crew earlier that day and muttered, “But Shen Xiu said Fang Chengxing’s acting was poisonous.”
Xuan Yushu: “…Of course he did. That’s Shen Xiu for you—doesn’t bother with niceties. Cold-blooded to the core.”
“Xuan Ji, even a zombie would give up and walk away disappointed after cracking open your brain, you know that?”
He’d just been trying to dig a rhetorical hole for Xuan Ji to fall into—he never expected the kid wouldn’t even push back. Worse, he was seriously planning to ask Shen Xiu to coach Fang Chengxing.
Youth really was a curse sometimes—untouched by the harsh beatdown of real life. That assistant director, Zhao Heng, was way more perceptive than his own clueless son.
Didn’t this idiot realize that a film crew was basically a miniature workplace? Everyone was a temporary colleague. Even if you had a higher rank, you couldn’t just order one worker to help another like it was no big deal.
Especially when that “worker” was actually the boss of the entire Immortal Path crew—Shen Xiu.
And you want the boss to tutor a junior? The sheer audacity.
Even if the boss was willing, that help had to come from genuine willingness—and the request had to come from the person in need, not some third-party matchmaker.
“Why are you roasting me now?” Xuan Ji blinked in confusion.
“Dad, that’s not the point! The point is, things have already gotten to this stage. Would Shen Xiu still be willing to help Fang Chengxing?”
Xuan Yushu sighed and laid it out plainly: “Don’t get involved in this. Shen Xiu appreciates people who actually put in the effort. If Fang Chengxing really wants his help, he’ll have to ask him himself. As long as Shen Xiu sees that he’s genuinely trying, it should be fine.”
Xuan Ji gave a confident “OK” gesture. “Got it, Dad. I’ll go tell Fang Chengxing right now!”
“Hey—wait—”
Before Xuan Yushu could finish, Xuan Ji had already vanished from the room.
Xuan Yushu: “…”
Tell Fang Chengxing?
Great—trying not to offend Shen Xiu just meant he was going to offend Fang Chengxing instead.
That kid really did act purely on impulse, running on nothing but youthful passion. He was naïve enough to think that just because he was the director, actors were supposed to listen to him without question. He had no idea that these days, many directors had to suck up to actors—either because they were big names or because investors insisted on them.
Back when Xuan Yushu hadn’t yet won awards or earned his place, he’d had to sweet-talk more actors than he could count. There were plenty of awful scenes left untouched just because the actor had powerful backing and he couldn’t afford to step on toes.
But Xuan Ji? He was laughably green. He thought that just because his dad was a renowned director, and he had a sudden whim, he could be a director too. When someone acted well, he just assumed it was good—he had no clue why it was good.
As long as someone’s performance looked passable on the surface, as if it matched the script’s requirements, he’d give it a pass—completely unaware whether the actor had actually put in any heart or thought.
He was a complete novice. Just because he’d grown up hanging around set watching his dad work, he thought that meant he was ready to call the shots himself.
—
Meanwhile, Fang Chengxing stared at the WeChat message from Xuan Ji and felt like his entire worldview was collapsing.
It had been ages since he’d “enjoyed” the feeling of being thoroughly directed.
Being directed wasn’t the problem—Xuan Ji might be a rookie director, but everyone knew his father was the award-winning director Xuan Yushu. So following instructions from him didn’t feel degrading at all.
What did make Fang Chengxing’s skin crawl was… Why did Xuan Yushu have to assign Shen Xiu of all people to coach him?!
Shen Xiu’s cold, merciless words from the day before still echoed in his ears. Fang Chengxing shivered involuntarily and had a sudden urge to say, “Maybe the world should just end already.”
—
The Next Morning
When Liang Cheng saw the dark circles under Fang Chengxing’s eyes, she jumped in shock. “What, did you go out robbing houses last night?”
Shen Xiu’s makeup and styling took longer than theirs, so the two of them lingered not far from the makeup room, sneaking around with a shared unspoken agreement: survive as long as possible by stalling as long as possible. They silently vowed not to step inside until absolutely necessary.
“No,” Fang Chengxing replied weakly.
“I just… couldn’t sleep at all last night. My dreams were full of Shen Xiu cutting off my hands and digging out my heart.”
Liang Cheng: “……”
In Immortal Path, Fang Chengxing played Gong Zihen, a character whose body could regenerate infinitely. Shen Xiu’s character, Master Li Yang, was either on his way to dismember Gong Zihen or already mid-dismemberment—completely ruthless and horrific.
Liang Cheng tried to comfort him. “Well… I guess you could say this is another kind of method acting?”
Fang Chengxing gave a tired laugh. “I’d rather not get into character at all!”
Since there was a scene between Shen Xiu and Liang Cheng today, the two couldn’t stall outside forever. Eventually, they had to go in for makeup.
Liang Cheng, remembering Fang Chengxing’s disastrous experience acting opposite Shen Xiu the day before, decided to prepare herself. To avoid the same fate, she grabbed her script and sat down next to Shen Xiu at the makeup station.
“Morning, Shen Xiu!”
The crew had gotten into the habit of calling actors “Teacher” as a form of respect—yesterday, both Liang Cheng and Fang Chengxing had addressed Shen Xiu as “Teacher Shen.”
But Shen Xiu wasn’t a licensed teacher, nor did he plan on becoming one. The title made him uncomfortable, so he’d quietly asked everyone to just call him by name.
Being greeted so directly made him a bit nervous but also a little happy. Since he was still getting styled, he couldn’t turn his head, so he kept his neck stiff and replied, “Good morning.”
Then quickly added, “Sorry—I can’t turn to look at you right now.”
Liang Cheng waved it off casually. “No worries, I get it.”
“Thank you.”
After Shen Xiu gratefully said thank you, he realized he had no idea what to talk about. The awkwardness made him so stiff, he didn’t even dare glance around in the mirror, afraid he’d meet the makeup artist’s eyes and they’d see right through him—he had no clue how to make small talk, which only made things worse.
Liang Cheng sat down, and her makeup artist started working on her look. She subtly glanced sideways at Shen Xiu’s cold profile and was quietly thankful that, for the sake of the makeup, he couldn’t turn his head to look at her—otherwise, the pressure on her would’ve been even worse.
Determined not to get steamrolled by Shen Xiu’s flawless performance in their upcoming scene—or worse, make him dissatisfied with her acting—Liang Cheng mustered her courage and asked:
“Could you help me look over the script? I marked the lines in red—I’m worried I might’ve misunderstood them.”
Shen Xiu: “!”
Even if the Jade Emperor himself walked in right now, Shen Xiu would still firmly believe that Liang Cheng’s voice was the sound of heaven itself!
“Okay!”
He finally had a reason to talk. The joy in his voice made it come out louder than intended.
Startled by his enthusiasm, Liang Cheng nervously handed him the script. “Thanks…”
“You’re welcome!” Shen Xiu was so happy he could hardly contain it.
Taking the script, Shen Xiu noticed it was filled with handwritten notes and markings—almost like his own. That discovery made him inexplicably pleased.
Ever since Liang Cheng started acting, no matter what kind of character she played, whenever she encountered a line she didn’t fully understand or felt uncertain about, she’d underline it with a red marker.
After carefully reading through the scene, Shen Xiu asked, “Would you mind telling me how you’ve interpreted this part?”
At that moment, Shen Xiu no longer saw Liang Cheng as just a temporary coworker on set—she was a classmate, someone he could discuss problems and ideas with.
“I think… since Gu Yueying is a killer who crawled out of a pile of corpses, she couldn’t possibly have any affection for Gong Zihen at this point. She’s calculating—after all, his monster-like body can regenerate infinitely. That’s incredibly useful to her. She was never a kind person to begin with. But when she watches Gong Zihen go to his death the first time, just as she expected, the hint of pity in her eyes—I don’t really get that part…”
After listening, Shen Xiu recalled the description of Gu Yueying and Gong Zihen’s first meeting in the novel, and responded:
“When Gu Yueying first met Gong Zihen, she watched him regenerate from a pile of mangled flesh into a living, breathing person. That gory scene didn’t really shock her—she’s a killer, after all. Watching his body knit itself back together just made her feel disgusted.”
“But the novel also mentions that Gu Yueying has a fondness for all things beautiful. When she saw his face fully formed again, that disgust disappeared. Her eyes even showed a flash of amazement.”
“So, I think… that flicker of pity probably wasn’t about him dying again. It was about not wanting to see that face—which had once stunned her—get shredded to pieces again.”
Liang Cheng listened, feeling as if someone had poured enlightenment straight into her head.
“That detail’s not in the script at all!”
Then, a little sheepishly, she added, “I accepted this role in a rush… only skimmed through the novel. I’ve been focusing entirely on the script the production gave me. I missed all of that.”
Sure enough, the script alone wasn’t enough. The soul and essence of Immortal Path lived in the original novel.
She hadn’t expected Shen Xiu to have read it—much less so thoroughly.
She imagined Shen Xiu, expression cold and stern, seriously scrolling through a web novel on his phone—
The image was so jarring, it defied all logic. Liang Cheng simply couldn’t picture it.
Snapping out of that jarring mental image, Liang Cheng couldn’t help but exclaim, “No wonder Gu Yueying is known for being ruthless and cold-hearted. Even just that tiny detail really nailed the character! No wonder Li Yang wanted her as his disciple the moment he saw her.”
In the early part of the story, Gu Yueying’s only trace of reluctance toward Gong Zihen was over his unmarred face. When it came to his mangled, pulpy body, she could coldly look on—just like Li Yang, who was indifferent even though his hands were stained with blood, but could still mourn for years over a single piece of dragon scale naturally falling from his body.
Liang Cheng always felt Gu Yueying was more like Li Yang’s true disciple—their emotional detachment and freedom from sentiment made them seem perfectly aligned.
Shen Xiu nodded in agreement. “Mm.”
“And this part here…”
Liang Cheng continued. Though Shen Xiu spoke with a chilly tone, he was fully engaged and serious—there was no sign of him brushing her off. That made Liang Cheng bolder, seizing the opportunity to dive deeper into the script with him.
Whether in group discussions back at school or now on set, Shen Xiu always dreaded the awkward silence that settled when someone was sitting beside him but no one knew what to say.
So when Liang Cheng proactively struck up a conversation, he was genuinely touched.
Fang Chengxing: “…”
He felt like the sauerkraut fish he ate after filming yesterday—sour, pitiful, and entirely unnecessary.
Did Liang Cheng eat ten servings of lion’s courage for breakfast? How could she be so brave?
Thinking of what Xuan Ji had told him last night, and for the sake of Xuan Yushu’s reputation, Fang Chengxing clutched his script, braced himself with the resolve of a man going to the gallows, and after Liang Cheng finished asking her question, tried to imitate her and strike up a conversation with Shen Xiu.
“Shen Xiu, could you take a look at this for me?” Fang Chengxing was so nervous, he could hear his own heartbeat.
