Chapter 435: The City Is Blanketed in Yellow and White Chrysanthemums; Who Dares Say You’re Not a Legend? |
May sixth.
Early that morning, flower shop owners across the country were baffled.
The May Day holiday was usually prime time for roses and lilies—a season for couples to flaunt their love.
But starting at six in the morning, order notification chimes never stopped ringing.
Oddly enough, no one was buying red roses.
Every order was eerily consistent: yellow chrysanthemums, white chrysanthemums, or sunflowers.
The notes in the remarks section were even more confusing:
“Please deliver to the nearest Martyrs’ Cemetery entrance. Just leave them there.”
“Send them to the city Public Security Bureau gate. Write on the card: ‘The dawn has broken.’”
At the capital city’s large narcotics police martyrs’ cemetery.
This place was usually solemn and quiet, with only the rustling of pines and cypresses.
But today, when the elderly caretaker pushed open the gate, his broom clattered to the ground.
Flowers.
From the cemetery’s main gate all the way to the foot of the steps.
They had all been placed there, one bundle at a time, under the cover of night by viewers who had caught the midnight screening of Icebreaker.
The old man, trembling, picked up a card.
On it, in a childish scrawl, was written: “Uncle Jiang He, the dawn has broken. Can you see it?”
Another card read: “If I never return? Then I’ll never return! With this flower, I honor the hero.”
The old man rubbed his eyes, gazing at the sea of blossoms.
He muttered to himself, “What’s going on... When has this place ever been this lively?”
...
At the same time.
Across major social media platforms, eight out of the top ten trending topics were related to Icebreaker.
#ChrysanthemumsOutOfStockNationwide
#IcebreakerBoxOfficeReverseSurge
#JiangCi_TakeMyKnee
In stark contrast, the situation for its competitors was grim.
A staff member from Laughing All the Way posted a sour comment on Weibo:
“Comedy is supposed to make people happy. Why watch a tearjerker during a holiday? Some people shouldn’t resort to moral blackmail for box office numbers.”
Within ten minutes of the post, the comment section was flooded with over one hundred thousand replies.
“Happy? That’s called tickling! I was so embarrassed I almost dug a three-bedroom apartment with my toes!”
“Moral blackmail? Sorry, I’m happy to be blackmailed! I’m not just blackmailed—I want to give the blackmailer a banner of praise!”
“Look at how Icebreaker does it! They’re laying their lives bare for people to see. You’re just treating the audience like idiots!”
Even worse off was the Hollywood blockbuster Mecha Frenzy 4.
This special effects extravaganza, boasting a three hundred million dollar budget, saw its occupancy rate cut in half by the third day of its release.
Film critic Sharp-Tongued Old Zhao posted a comparison image.
On the left was a flashy scene from Mecha Frenzy of the protagonist piloting a mech to save the world, with the caption: “Perfect special effects, but that’s someone else’s hero.”
On the right was a shot from Icebreaker of Jiang Ci, his face smeared with blood and grime, eating cake in a mud pit, with the caption: “Battered and broken, but that’s our family.”
This image went viral.
At two in the afternoon.
Maoyan updated its data.
A red curve pierced through what had been a flat trend line.
Icebreaker’s screening slot rate: 35%.
Daily box office: 280 million yuan.
Occupancy rate: 98%.
It trampled over Laughing All the Way and toppled Mecha Frenzy 4 to claim the daily crown!
...
At Jiang Ci’s home in Star City.
The curtains were drawn tightly shut.
Jiang Ci was curled up on the sofa, cradling a cup of warm water infused with Goji Berries.
He had just woken up.
After returning from the premiere, the soul-draining exhaustion had knocked him out for a full twelve hours.
The remaining lifespan on the system panel had climbed to twenty-five years,
but the bone-deep pain still lingered in his nerves.
“Ding-dong.”
His phone rang. It was a WeChat message from Sun Zhou.
“Bro! Quick, check the livestream! We’re about to... crash the server.”
Jiang Ci rubbed his messy hair and opened Douyin.
He had only planned to say a quick hello to his fans, thanking them for their support.
But the moment he tapped “Start Livestream,”
The screen went black.
It stuttered.
When it reconnected, the viewer count in the top-right corner read: 100,000+.
The bullet comments were so dense they were illegible.
Jiang Ci was stunned.
He was wearing a gray T-shirt, his hair disheveled.
“So this is... starting?”
Jiang Ci faced the camera, his voice a little hoarse.
“Well, I didn’t prepare any talent. Want me to rattle off a tongue twister?”
The bullet comments slowed down, then unified into a wall of text:
[Stop fooling around! I want to see the wounds!]
[Jiang He! Momma’s here to hug you!]
[Whoever bullies you in the future, I’ll be the first to step in!]
Jiang Ci watched the comments and smiled.
“Alright, cut out the cheesy stuff.”
He adjusted his sitting position and picked up a stack of letters from the coffee table.
“Since you’re all here, I’ll read a few of these. Sun Zhou just printed them from the company email.”
He opened the first one.
“Hello, Jiang Ci. I’m a retired narcotics officer.”
“I lost three fingers during an operation.”
“After watching the movie, I poured a drink for my old comrades-in-arms.”
“Thank you. You captured that grit, and that fear.”
“We’re human too. We’re afraid of death. But we’re even more afraid of failing our mission. Kid, you get us.”
Jiang Ci read slowly.
When he finished, he folded the letter neatly and set it aside with care.
“No need to thank me,” Jiang Ci said to the camera. “You lent me your bones. I just wore your skin.”
He opened another letter.
“Jiang gege, my dad is a police officer too. He hasn’t been home in three years.”
“Mom says he went on a secret mission.”
“After watching your movie, I know where Dad went.”
“I don’t blame him anymore. I’ll eat my meals properly and wait for the dawn.”
Jiang Ci’s fingers paused.
His throat tightened.
In the livestream room, half a million people.
No gift effects.
Only a screen-wide, uniform [Salute].
Just then.
“Click.”
The bedroom door opened.
Chu Hong walked out carrying a stainless steel basin.
It was filled with freshly washed apples, pears, and two cucumbers.
She was wearing her loose loungewear, her hair casually tied up in a bun.
Completely unaware that hundreds of thousands of people were watching her.
“Awake?” Chu Hong set the basin down on the coffee table with a thud.
“Have some fruit. Your complexion looks terrible.”
Jiang Ci quickly covered the camera. “Mom! I’m livestreaming!”
“Livestreaming?” Chu Hong leaned in, her face filling the lens. “How many people?”
Jiang Ci sighed helplessly. “Maybe a few hundred thousand.”
Chu Hong paused, then straightened up calmly.
She looked at the camera, her expression serious.
“Since so many of you are here, let me say a few words.”
Chu Hong picked up a cucumber and took a loud, crisp bite.
“Don’t just cry online. What good does crying do?”
“Live your lives well. Stay away from that garbage. That’s the best way to repay them.”
“And stop sending my son razor blades. You’ve stopped now, but you sure sent plenty before.”
“He’s just an actor. If he ever plays a villain, don’t take it to heart.”
With that, Chu Hong picked up the basin and shuffled back to the kitchen.
“Alright, you keep talking. I’m going to cook dinner. Braised pork belly tonight.”
The livestream exploded.
[Holy crap! The Empress Dowager is a beast!]
[So this is Mother Jiang? That aura is legendary!]
[Auntie is right! Living well is the best tribute!]
[That cucumber bite sounded so crisp! I’m going to buy one too!]
[Hardcore Empress Dowager! This is the kind of mom who raised a beast like Jiang Ci!]
Jiang Ci watched the screen flood with “Long live the Empress Dowager,” unsure whether to laugh or cry.
This unscripted, filter-free, cucumber-crashing livestream became the hottest topic online that night.
...
Three days later, in a private room at a Quanjude restaurant in the capital.
The Icebreaker crew’s celebration banquet.
Producer Old Zhang was completely hammered.
This old hand, who had weathered decades in the industry, was clinging to Jiang Ci’s arm.
“Ci, ah... you know? If this film had flopped, I’d have to sell my house.”
Old Zhang wiped his nose on Jiang Ci’s sleeve. “My wife already had the divorce papers drawn up.”
“But now... now it’s great! Three hundred million in a single day! Three hundred million!”
Jiang Ci pulled his arm away in disgust and casually handed Old Zhang a rag from the table. “Uncle Zhang, take it easy. This is just the beginning.”
Beside them, Director Jiang Wen was smoking.
Through the haze of smoke, his perpetually stern face rarely showed a hint of a smile.
“Next film.”
Jiang Wen stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and looked at Jiang Ci. “The script is already being written.”
Jiang Ci’s heart skipped a beat. “Director Jiang, can we negotiate something? Could the next film be a little less blood-draining?”
“No.” Jiang Wen’s answer was final. “But I can promise you one condition.”
“What?”
“In the next one, you live until the end.”
Jiang Wen patted Jiang Ci on the shoulder.
“You died too miserably this time. Next time, I’ll let you raise the flag yourself.”
It was the biggest promise this hard-boiled director could make.
Just as everyone was raising their glasses in toast.
The private room door opened.
Lin Wan walked in.
“Stop! Everyone, stop!”
The room fell silent. All eyes were on her.
Lin Wan walked straight up to Jiang Ci and handed him a document with both hands.
It was a red-headed document.
On the cover, the bright red national emblem gleamed under the light.
“This is...” Jiang Ci froze.
“Just received it.”
“An urgent dispatch from the Public Security Bureau’s Publicity Department.”
She opened the file and pointed to the line of gold-embossed characters.
[Letter Regarding the Appointment of Comrade Jiang Ci as the “National Anti-Drug Ambassador of Hua Country”]
Besides that, there was also an internal reference invitation from a top-tier official media outlet.
The title had only eight words:
[Art for the People, Let This Be the Standard.]
The entire private room was dead silent.
Everyone stared wide-eyed at the thin document.
In the entertainment industry, titles like Film Emperor or top star were just labels in the vortex of fame and fortune.
But this document... what did it mean?
It meant a shield.
It meant that from today onward, Jiang Ci was no longer just an entertainer.
Veteran actor Lei Zhong, who played Cha Cai, was holding a wine glass. His hand trembled, and wine spilled all over his pants.
He looked at Jiang Ci, his expression complex.
“Kid...” Lei Zhong murmured, “You’ve just ascended to heaven in one step.”
Jiang Ci took the document.
He looked at the words “Comrade Jiang Ci.”
For a moment, he saw it—the beam of sunlight piercing through the clouds at the end of the movie.
“Sister Wan.” Jiang Ci closed the document and lifted his head, his gaze clear.
“Hm?” Lin Wan was still catching her breath.
“Reply for me.”
Jiang Ci smiled—a smile that carried the youthful, spirited confidence of a young man, yet also held the steady calm of someone who had lived two lives.
“I’ll take the job.”