Chapter 465: When the Lion Sharpens Its Blade, No One Can Stop It |
After the rain last night, the film crew immediately moved locations overnight.
The narrow alley, once filled with the warmth of everyday life, was now tightly covered in stark white cloth strips. When the wind blew, the white funeral banners rustled loudly.
"Lighting! What the hell are you doing?!"
Jiang Wen gripped the walkie-talkie, spraying spit everywhere as he yelled at the lighting team on the second floor:
"I want it cold and gloomy! That kind of despair that's completely dead! Why are you hitting it with such warm light? Are we shooting a wedding here? Kill two of those warm lights and add blue filters! Now!"
You could hear a pin drop on set. No one dared to answer. The lighting technician wiped his cold sweat, scrambling to cover the lights with thick blue filters.
Instantly, the entire alley was shrouded in a bluish-gray tone, chilly and oozing an otherworldly, hellish vibe.
Jiang Ci was curled up in a corner of the funeral tent.
The black mourning clothes on him were absurdly oversized—leftovers from Fa Shu's old clothes before he died.
In the center of the funeral hall, Uncle Long's black-and-white portrait hung high.
In the photo, the old man was holding his large iron ladle, his face creased with a warm smile.
Under this cold, gloomy backdrop, that smile only made it more heartbreaking to look at.
"Roll camera!"
Jiang Wen gave the order.
Aunt Feng knelt before the coffin. This heroic woman had now shrunk into a small, broken figure.
She mechanically tossed spirit money into the fire basin,
her eyes fixed and empty,
a dry heave trapped in her throat—a cry that couldn't come out.
According to Flower City tradition, after the funeral, there was the "cleansing meal."
Several rickety eight-immortal tables were lined up in a row down the alley.
White rice, plain vegetable soup—so bland it made you want to throw up.
Jiang Ci stood up.
Staggering, he walked toward the tables.
The neighbors around him, who had once been cared for by Uncle Long, now stared at him with nothing but disgust in their eyes.
"That jinx who got Uncle Long killed—how does he still have the nerve to stand here?"
A scripted line cut through the dead silence of the alley, sharp and bone-chillingly harsh.
Jiang Ci didn't respond.
He fixed his gaze on the bowl of white rice piled high like a small mountain.
He reached out.
Didn't use chopsticks.
Drove his hand straight into the bowl, violently scooping up a huge fistful of cold, hard rice, and crammed it all into his mouth.
His cheeks bulged out of shape, but he didn't chew. He just kept shoving it in.
In the script, Uncle Long was dead.
Even in death, he'd been worried about the cooking fire.
This bowl of rice—Jiang Ci couldn't swallow it, but he had to force it down.
He began frantically making swallowing motions.
The rice ball was too hard, too much, stuck in his esophagus and wouldn't go down. His face instantly turned a purple-red, veins bulging one by one on his forehead.
He suddenly raised his fist and slammed it against his own chest.
*Thump! Thump!*
The dull, heavy impact echoed through the set via the microphone.
What kind of eating was this?
"Oh my god, Jiang-ge's acting..."
The sound recordist took off his headphones, not daring to look at the monitor.
All he could hear through the headphones was the sound of bones compressing and throat spasms,
sending chills down his spine.
Jiang Ci kept grabbing.
A second handful. A third.
White grains of rice clung to the corners of his lips,
some choked back up, coughing out through his nostrils,
looking utterly pathetic.
His eyes began to roll back. His body swayed, ready to collapse at any moment, but his hand was welded to that rice bowl.
"Look at him, Uncle Long just died, and this piece of trash is already stuffing his face."
"Animal. A real ungrateful bastard."
Jiang Wen stared dead at the screen.
Even though Jiang Ci looked like he might stop breathing at any second, he didn't call "Cut."
Jiang Ci finally hit his physiological limit.
He collapsed face-first into the muddy water.
"Waaah—!!"
The rejection reaction erupted.
He vomited violently, a mix of sour liquid and rice clumps pouring down his chin and into the mud pit.
His fingers trembled, desperately trying to claw at the ground, but he had no strength left.
In that moment, Jiang Ci was no longer just A Jie.
He seemed to have purged all the weakness and innocence from his soul, vomiting it out with that bowl of rice.
Jiang Wen signaled the cameraman to shoot blind, close to the ground.
In the frame: a pair of hands soaked in muddy water, trembling uncontrollably, and a conspicuous pool of filth.
Behind them, a sky full of white funeral banners. In the distance, Aunt Feng was still silently convulsing.
The entire alley was eerily silent.
Only Jiang Ci's heavy, wheezing breath, mixed with a whistling sound, rampaged through the cold air.
"Cut."
Jiang Wen's voice was very soft, carrying an unprecedented heaviness.
He put down the walkie-talkie and lit a cigar, but didn't smoke it.
The smoke veiled his face, hiding the shock in his eyes.
Jiang Ci was still lying in the mud, unable to get up.
The medical staff was about to rush in, but Jiang Wen raised a hand to stop them.
"Let him stay for a while," Jiang Wen said, his voice hoarse. "If you pull him out now, this whole scene will have been for nothing."
Jiang Ci's hand was tightly clenched around the broken, bone-shattered cattail-leaf fan.
Scenes flashed through his mind like a lantern show—Uncle Long's last gentle smile.
He felt like he was the pile of vomit on the ground: pathetic, dirty, completely rotten.
A full ten minutes passed before Jiang Ci, with his assistant's support, managed to prop up his upper body, trembling.
But his legs were still weak; he couldn't stand.
Sun Zhou handed him some saline, but his hands shook so much he couldn't take it, spilling water all over himself.
He let the mud on his face mix with the sour stench of vomit.
After another long while, he finally forced out two words: "...Help me up."
As Sun Zhou half-dragged, half-pulled him to his feet, Jiang Ci's gaze was still unfocused.
He stared blankly ahead.
That killing intent, from deep in his pupils, spread slowly and steadily like ink dripping into clear water.
"Director Jiang."
Jiang Ci spoke.
Jiang Wen looked up. "Talk."
Jiang Ci looked toward the end of the alley—the Tiger Gang's territory, swallowed by shadow.
"When... do we kill Ghost Claw Chen?"
Jiang Wen was stunned for a second, then broke into a grin.
He walked over and patted Jiang Ci on the shoulder, his words coming out at lightning speed:
"Don't rush. Before you kill him, you've got to completely feed that lion first."
Jiang Wen flipped open the script. That page was clean, with only a few words.
Jiang Ci glanced at it, and his eyes narrowed sharply.
**[Next Scene: Rainy Night, Storming the Tiger Gang Alone, The Lion Sharpens Its Blade.]**
Jiang Wen crushed his cigarette butt into the mud, producing a hissing sizzle.
He turned to the assistant director, his tone icy:
"Go tell Tony and Master Chen. The next scenes—everyone fights for real. No one holds back."
"Because..."
Jiang Wen stared at Jiang Ci's back as he walked toward the makeup room, lowering his voice:
"That kid... he doesn't even see himself as human anymore."
Just as Jiang Ci stepped into the shadow of the eaves, he suddenly stopped and turned back.
The pile of vomit hadn't been cleaned up yet. A startled stray cat was sniffing at it.
Jiang Ci stared at the cat and murmured softly:
"The heat... really was too much."
Those words echoed through the empty funeral scene, so eerie it sent chills down your spine.
In the distance, the bell tower struck a single, dull chime.
The lingering sound wound through Kapok Alley, refusing to fade.