Chapter 451: The Film Emperor's Self-Cultivation: From the Podium to the Pig-Butchering Scam |
Flower City, Baiyun Airport.
Heat rolled off the pavement, and the roar of the crowd was even louder.
The arrivals hall was packed so tight not even water could pass through. Security guards linked arms to form a human barricade, but they still couldn’t hold back the tide of people surging forward.
Light boards, banners, and screams braided together, and on the trending chart the hashtag #WelcomeJiangGodHome# was followed by a purple-highlighted “EXPLODE.”
Everyone craned their necks, staring at the international arrivals exit, waiting for the newly crowned Asian Film Emperor to appear, clutching his golden trophy, returning like a king under the spotlights.
At the same time.
At the cargo side door of the airport.
A box truck splattered with mud, its side stamped with “Qiang Brother Cold Chain Fresh,” lumbered onto the service road.
There was no Qiang Brother inside the cargo area, only an overwhelming smell of fish that hit the head.
“Listen to the racket at the front doors. Those reporters will probably tear our entourage van apart,” he said contentedly.
Jiang Ci leaned against the opposite wall of the truck.
He wore a white tank top that God knew where it had come from, and in his hands he held the golden trophy that symbolized the highest honor in Asian cinema.
He was shoving it into the gap of a bamboo basket full of dried salted fish.
“Easy!” Jiang Wen frowned, “Don’t break off the tail.”
“Relax, it’s solid.” Jiang Ci pushed down harder, burying the trophy entirely in the salted fish pile, leaving only a corner of the base exposed.
“This thing is dead heavy. It’s a burden to hold, and if we put it in a box it might ding the fish underneath.”
If Park Tae-hyun or those Korean judges saw this, they’d probably have a stroke on the spot.
“What are we calling this?” Jiang Wen chuckled. “Dressed in finery walking at night?”
“This is called the Cicada Shedding Its Shell.” Jiang Ci patted the fishy smell off his hands, his eyes bright and clear.
The truck jolted along and finally stopped at the back gate of the closed-off Kapok Alley film set.
When the doors opened, the homely street smells unique to the old alley washed over them.
Crew members who had been waiting here already glanced up.
Seeing the man, reeking of fish and stepping down in a tank top and boxers, they instinctively almost broke into applause.
“Slap!”
Jiang Wen jumped down and smacked his cattail-leaf fan against the truck door.
“What are you doing? It’s New Year or something?”
His hawk-like eyes swept the area. The assistant director who had been about to celebrate froze mid-pull on a firecracker.
“Tighten your faces!” Jiang Wen barked, pointing to the sky, “Two hours until sunset, light doesn’t wait for anyone!”
He turned and looked at Jiang Ci as the latter flexed his wrists, then jerked his chin toward a newly set-up pork stall at the alley entrance.
“A Jie, go.”
“Cut that half-slab of pork. If it’s not sold by dinner, the whole crew eats on an empty stomach tonight.”
From the glittering podium to the fly-infested pork stall stood nothing but a salted-fish truck between them.
Without a word, Jiang Ci kicked off his sneakers,
slid into a pair of oil-stained flip-flops, and ambled toward the meat stall.
Little Zhang, an intern who had just joined the crew, held a script and felt like he was splitting open.
He stared at the male god who had been dominating the trending videos ten minutes ago with an aura radiating power, now expertly tying a dirty apron around his waist and casually grabbing the butcher cleaver off the cutting board that gleamed with grease.
“Is this… okay?” Little Zhang swallowed and quietly asked the lighting technician beside him. “Teacher Jiang just won an award. Shouldn’t he adjust his state?”
The lighting tech smoked a cigarette and looked at him sympathetically. “Adjust? In Director Jiang’s crew, being alive is the best state.”
In front of the stall.
Playing “Pork Rong” was a veteran special extra, surnamed Liu, who’d portrayed small-town characters for decades.
Uncle Liu glanced at Jiang Ci and snorted through his nose.
Although he respected Jiang Ci’s performance in Busan, in the play he simply couldn’t stand A Jie, that idle hoodlum.
Uncle Liu rubbed his boning knife against a whetstone until it screeched,
speaking in thick Flower City dialect, “Kid, cutting meat needs a steady hand and a ruthless heart. Don’t go cutting off your own fingers.”
It was both a test and a provocation once the cameras were rolling.
Jiang Ci said nothing.
At the cutting board, the half-slab of pork still steamed as blood trickled down the grain.
He sniffed disdainfully and patted the slab of belly with the back of his knife.
“Rong Uncle, this meat’s been injected with water, right?”
Jiang Ci finally spoke, his tone shameless, “So soggy, who are you trying to fool?”
Uncle Liu was stunned. “What did you say?”
“I said your meat’s bad, and your knife’s bad too.”
Jiang Ci flipped his wrist and the heavy cleaver came alive in his hand.
The blade slid along the bone seam.
“Sllk—”
The sound of torn fascia was crisp.
His movements were lightning-fast, yet brutal.
He wasn’t merely cutting meat, he was venting,
letting all the hypocrisy, fake smiles, and stifled resentment piled up in the vortex of fame and fortune flow down the blade into this dead pork.
Fat spatter hit his face, and he didn’t even bother to wipe it.
In three short minutes
the half-slab was separated into bone and flesh.
Ribs were chopped neatly, and the belly was diced into bite-sized chunks.
“Bang!”
Jiang Ci drove the cleaver into the board; the blade sank deep into the wood.
He casually wiped his greasy hands on his apron, then, as if it were the most natural thing, slipped his hand into Uncle Liu’s pocket, which had gone utterly still.
He pulled out a crumpled pack of Red Double Happiness, extracted a cigarette, and clamped it between his teeth.
“Got a light?” Jiang Ci tilted his head and leaned in.
Uncle Liu looked at this oily-faced young man whose eyes shone like a thief’s, and reflexively produced a lighter to light him.
“Shh—huh.”
Jiang Ci inhaled hard and exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke. Through the haze he grinned at Uncle Liu, showing a set of clean teeth.
“Rong Uncle, your cigarettes are no good either, a bit damp.”
Only then did Uncle Liu come to his senses. He looked at the perfect “piece of work” on the cutting board, then at the man in front of him who was more rogue than any rogue film star.
“You little bastard…” Uncle Liu said with a laugh-cuss, and the contempt left his eyes entirely. “Nice knife work. Trained before?”
“Nope.” Jiang Ci held the cigarette between his lips, flopped onto a lounge chair, and crossed one leg high over the other. “Just been hungry for a long time. Everyone looks like pork to me.”
Behind the monitor.
Jiang Wen watched the footage of that figure who even acted with his toes and, satisfied, lit his cigar.
“Approved! Keep one copy!”
That shout marked the complete decommissioning of the Busan God of War.
Flower City hoodlum A Jie officially took over the body.
...
Night fell.
Kapok Alley shed its daytime clamor, and the yellow streetlamps stretched the arcades’ shadows long.
Jiang Ci had just finished a single-man scene atop a roof.
No lines, just him sitting on tiles, staring at the neon of the distant city, his eyes hollow and adrift.
The powerlessness of a small person was rendered with cold precision.
After wrap, when Jiang Ci climbed down from the roof,
he saw Old Zhang from props standing before Jiang Wen getting scolded like he’d lost a parent.
“What do you mean they took it back?!”
Jiang Wen’s roar rattled the leaves.
“Wasn’t the contract signed? That lion head is the soul of the scene! Now you tell me they won’t lend it?!”
Old Zhang shrank and was about to cry.
“They said yes, but that collector saw the news and said… said we’re shooting action scenes and he’s afraid the lion head will get damaged.”
“They’ve already sent the breach penalty…”
“Do you think I need his breach penalty?!” Jiang Wen slammed the script down hard.
“Without that lion head, how do we get that sense of historical weight?”
The set fell silent.
If props weren’t right, Jiang Wen could rage forever.
Jiang Ci stood in the shadows, still playing with the butcher cleaver he’d used earlier.
He looked at Jiang Wen’s furious back, then at the spare lion head in the prop box—brand-new, utterly lifeless.
Too new.
The patina rubbed into something by the fires of time,
the subtle sheen born of generations of lion dancers’ sweat—those signs of age couldn’t be faked.
“Director Jiang.”
Jiang Ci suddenly spoke.
Jiang Wen spun around sharply, the fire in his eyes not yet out. “Spit it out!”
“I know where to find a real one.”
Jiang Ci flicked a lazy, imperfect flourish with the cleaver in the air; the blade reflected the streetlamp’s cold light.
Jiang Wen blinked. “Where?”
“The real lions aren’t in museums, and they’re not in collectors’ safes.”
Jiang Ci re-sheathed the cleaver at his waist and casually picked up two unopened bottles of Red Star Erguotou by his foot.
“They’re in the underworld.”
...
One a.m.
Deep in Flower City’s old quarter, in an area slated for demolition.
This place couldn’t even be found on a map. Surrounding it were crumbling houses spray-painted with red “DEMOLISH” characters.
Jiang Ci, wearing the same ragged tank top, carrying two bottles, a newspaper-wrapped cleaver tucked into his waistband, stopped in front of a wooden mezzanine that looked ready to collapse at any moment.
No light came from the loft; it was a black mouth of a monster.
He didn’t hesitate and raised his hand.
Knock, knock, knock.
Three knocks.
Two long, one short.
After a while.
“Creak—”
The battered wooden door split open a hairline.
In the dark, a muddied but sharp eye fixed on Jiang Ci.
“Young man, bringing a knife to knock on doors at this hour—”
The man asked, “Do you want to die, or do you want to be an apprentice?”
Jiang Ci grinned and lifted one of the Erguotou bottles.
“Neither.”
“I came to… invite the lion out of the mountain.”