Chapter 443: Busan Crashing the Hall, I’m Going to Smash the Place! |
Jiang Ci ended the call, that rascal vibe of a Flower City tough still clinging to him.
He shoved his phone into the pocket of his floral shirt, all casual swagger.
“Is that it already?”
From behind, a hoarse voice suddenly sounded.
Jiang Ci turned.
Jiang Wen had somehow planted himself under the kapok tree,
holding the ever-present megaphone that never left him except when he slept,
a cigar clamped in his other hand, his hawk-like eyes fixed on him.
“Director Jiang, your habit of eavesdropping isn’t good, you know.”
“Don’t mouth off to me.”
Jiang Wen snorted and strode over, the pressure he radiated making Sun Zhou instinctively step back two paces.
“That email about Busan, I got it two hours ago.”
Jiang Ci arched an eyebrow. “So you already knew? And you still have to act all mysterious here?”
“Why would I tell you? So you’d get a big head?”
Jiang Wen took a long drag of his cigar, exhaled a cloud of thick smoke,
then shoved his hand into his baggy shorts and pulled out a crumpled A4 sheet.
“Take it.”
He slapped the paper against Jiang Ci’s chest with a sharp smack.
Jiang Ci glanced down. Good lord—densely printed black text, all shooting schedules,
and each line had a fierce red exclamation mark after it.
This intensity would make even a collective farm donkey run off overnight!
“You planning to go claim the award?” Jiang Wen squinted, showing teeth stained yellow by smoke.
“Fine, I won’t stop you. But don’t get any ideas, the crew won’t halt production for just you.”
He jabbed his thick finger at the paper:
“This is a week’s worth of scenes. If you want to go to Busan, finish this week’s work in these two days.”
The assistant director eavesdropping nearby froze, his breath caught in his throat.
“Director, this… this is too cruel, right? Shooting seven days’ worth in two days? It’s all high-intensity action, even an iron man couldn’t handle it!”
The assistant director looked at Jiang Ci, worry written all over his face.
“Besides, Teacher Jiang just got A Jie into the right state. He’s a street punk!”
“And the awards ceremony requires a suit and walking the red carpet. If he’s just been rolling in the mud fighting, then heads straight to the red carpet and can’t switch back…”
This kind of thing wasn’t unheard of.
Some method actors got too deep into character—act out a murderer and then go to accept an award, their eyes so terrifying reporters wouldn’t get close.
Jiang Wen ignored him and stared at Jiang Ci.
He was waiting for the kid to cave.
Jiang Ci glanced down at that “death notice”,
then looked up with A Jie’s trademark mix of clingy defiance and swagger in his smile.
He swept his messy fringe back with one hand.
“No big deal.”
He rattled the paper in his hand,
“We live by one rule—fight! Put on the suit and I’m a Film Emperor; take off the suit…”
He shoved the paper into his pocket, slapped his chest, grinning wildly.
“I’ll still come back to haul bricks!”
Jiang Wen laughed, unable to hide his admiration.
He raised the megaphone to his mouth, his voice making the leaves tremble.
“All departments, listen up! Full first-level readiness! These next two days, unless you die, you better damn well get filmed to death!”
The next forty-eight hours,
Kapok Alley was completely transformed into a living hell.
No stand-ins, no camera tricks.
In pursuit of ultimate realism, Jiang Wen had half a ton of sludge dumped into the alley,
mixed with rotten vegetable leaves from the market—the stench was overwhelming.
“Scene 32, take 8! Action!”
In the mud pit, Jiang Ci was pinned down by three burly stuntmen.
He roared, limbs thrashing in the muck, muddy water splashing all over his face.
This scene was A Jie’s first awakening—he gets humiliated underfoot by the Tiger Gang while protecting A Xiu’s lion head.
“Cut! Over! One saved!”
Jiang Ci had barely climbed out of the mud and caught his breath when a set assistant hauled him aside to change into dry clothes and move to the next set.
Next up, a Qilou chase.
He sprinted across wet tiles, slipped, and slammed hard onto a roof ridge!
Boom!
A muffled thud that made everyone on set flinch.
Two days and two nights, relentless.
Jiang Ci barely slept, his floral shirt alternately soaked and dry until a crust of white salt formed.
Two massive dark circles hung under his eyes, his lips chapped and flaking.
During a break, he collapsed onto a reclining chair, feeling soreness like acid seeping from his bones.
Sun Zhou felt heartbroken, clutching an expensive thousand-yuan anti-aging serum and several emergency masks, nearly dropping to his knees.
“Brother! My dear brother! What are you doing to your face? The day after tomorrow is the red carpet! Those high-definition cameras are like demon-revealing mirrors, you could probably dig two kilos of mud out of your pores right now!”
Sun Zhou wailed as he reached to smear serum onto Jiang Ci’s face.
Smack.
A hand smeared with mud and makeup casually slapped the bottle aside.
Jiang Ci kept his eyes closed. “No need.”
“Bro—”
“A Jie doesn’t need that crap.” Jiang Ci snorted and pointed at a battered table nearby, “Get me some medicated oil, that’ll wake me up.”
Sun Zhou stared at that filthy hand.
Suddenly he understood.
His boss wasn’t acting.
He was risking his life.
…
The night before departure.
The crew finally wrapped.
The exhausted set assistants and background actors had long since gone home to collapse.
Kapok Alley returned to silence, only the century-old kapok tree swaying gently in the night breeze.
Jiang Wen hadn’t left.
He set a small table under the tree with a cheap bottle of Erguotou and a dish of peanuts.
“Come over.” He waved to Jiang Ci, who was about to go sleep.
Jiang Ci dragged his nearly broken legs over and plopped down on a folding stool.
“Director Jiang, planning to drown me in booze so I can’t walk tomorrow?”
Jiang Wen ignored his jab, twisted the cap and poured two full cups.
They were disposable plastic cups.
“Drink.”
Brief and to the point.
Jiang Ci didn’t refuse, knocking one back in a gulp.
The burning liquid scorched down his throat, producing a shiver, yet somehow eased that bone-deep exhaustion.
Jiang Wen stared at Jiang Ci’s grimy face, his expression softening for a moment—less fury, more weariness.
“Do you know why I insist you go?”
Jiang Ci popped a peanut into his mouth. “Isn’t it to get me out of the way and save two days’ worth of boxed lunches?”
Jiang Wen smiled, a little bitter.
He raised his cup, and through the cloudy spirit, he seemed to see years long past.
“Twenty years ago, I went to one of those so-called international A-list film festivals.” His voice was low, like he was muttering to himself.
“Back then, our Chinese films to those foreigners were a joke.”
Either they filmed big red lanterns for their exotic curiosity, or they filmed impoverished backwaters to show how backward we were.”
Jiang Wen downed a gulp, a ruthless glint flashing in his eyes.
“I stood in the corner and heard those bastards say Chinese men only came in two kinds: guys with queues, and those who did martial arts like performing monkeys.”
Jiang Ci’s chewing stopped.
He looked at Jiang Wen.
This tyrant director who could verbally shred people on set—his eyes now shimmered red.
“I thought, screw them.”
Jiang Wen slammed his plastic cup down, half the drink spilling out.
“One day I’ll make a film about a true Chinese tough guy and throw it in those sons of bitches’ faces. I’ll show them what backbone really is!”
The wind rustled the treetops.
Jiang Ci was silent for a few seconds, then filled Jiang Wen’s cup and his own.
He lifted his cup; the bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep were frighteningly bright.
They held A Jie’s ferocity and Jiang Ci’s recklessness.
“Director Jiang.”
His tone was soft, but each word carried tremendous weight.
“This drink is for you.”
Their cups clinked.
“This trip to Busan, I don’t intend to come back with just a trophy.”
Jiang Ci tilted his head and drained the spirit.
He stood and smoothed the wrinkled floral shirt on his body.
A faint curl of smile tugged at his mouth, three parts A Jie’s thug swagger, seven parts Jiang Ci’s arrogance.
“We’re not going to accept an award.”
He looked at the distant night sky, his gaze sharp as a blade.
“We’re going to crash the hall.”