Chapter 31: Is It Really This Painful?

Most of Chu Luoxi’s scenes took place at night, and ninety percent of them were with the actor playing the protagonist’s father, Xiao Tian. As a result, her filming progressed exceptionally smoothly—so smoothly, in fact, that Director Li Shuangmu felt almost unfulfilled. He smacked his lips, finding it all a bit unnatural. From the very beginning, not a single scene between Chu Luoxi and Xiao Jingxuan had needed a retake, no matter how meticulous he was with the visuals, no matter how many times he replayed them.

The rest of the crew, having worked with Li Shuangmu for so long, naturally understood his standards and temperament. They found it nearly unbelievable—could it be that even the perfectionist Director Li had finally met a performance he couldn’t fault? For them, merely bystanders, the experience was a pure delight. Scene after scene unfolded with such beauty that, even before post-production effects, they were already a feast for the eyes.

For a time, the atmosphere in the crew reached unprecedented heights, reflected directly in their efficiency; everyone moved with remarkable alacrity, making the managers weep tears of joy in the wind. So this team could be so easy to manage after all!

Yet it was Xiao Jingxuan, acting opposite Chu Luoxi, who felt it most. The constraints that had once bound him were slowly dissolving. No matter how forceful his performance, Chu Luoxi matched his rhythm every time, as if she carried an internal regulator that always allowed her to interpret every scene in the most fitting manner.

At last, Xiao Jingxuan felt again the exhilaration of sparring with a seasoned actor—the sensation that every cell in his body was swelling, the intoxicating thrill of truly “dueling” in acting. He found himself looking at Chu Luoxi with eyes that grew more and more appreciative, until even Leng Lu couldn’t stand it. Prodding the godlike actor, he whispered, “Hey, I know you admire Junior Sister Xiao, but could you rein it in a little? If rumors start, you’ll only be making trouble for her.”

At that, Xiao Jingxuan’s gaze deepened, but he soon resumed his usual calm. “There are too many people in this crew. It’s hard to feel at ease,” he replied.

Leng Lu’s lips twitched. Was he expecting to turn the entire crew into his own people? To write the script, invest, and produce it all himself—a one-man operation?

As the final scene approached, Chu Luoxi remained vigilant. The last leg is always the hardest, she reminded herself; she’d come this far with flawless performances and had no intention of stumbling at the end. A perfect beginning and an equally perfect conclusion—then she could walk away clean. Chu Luoxi had never liked leaving loose ends.

She certainly felt the growing pressure from Xiao Jingxuan, who constantly pushed her to draw upon all the skills and experience she’d accumulated in her previous life. Still, she managed to hold her ground. She could only marvel—no wonder Xiao Jingxuan was destined to become a legend; he was already so formidable. If she hadn’t been reborn, armed with twenty years of hard-earned experience and strength, she’d have ended up nothing more than a pretty face beside such a forceful presence.

Talent, she reflected, could sometimes be as lamentable as it was admirable.

“Last scene for today—everyone to your places! Action!” As the order rang out, the celestial maiden upon the stone arch bridge transformed before their eyes—just as the narration described, ethereal yet demonic, her entire being radiating a goddess’s untouchable aura, tinged with a seductive darkness that drew every gaze, filling each onlooker with a possessive longing.

Both sides of the bridge were crowded with martial artists from all sects and factions—righteous and villainous, distinguishable by their attire and weaponry. But in this moment, the sworn enemies stood united, working together against a common foe.

Glancing at the wolves ahead and tigers behind, completely cutting off her escape, Yun Tianxue smiled serenely—mocking, resigned, and indifferent all at once. She knelt gently at the center of the bridge, cradling Xiao Tian’s lifeless form in her arms. Her downcast eyes were fixed in rapt attention on his bloodless face, full of love, yet openly mourning and wistful.

Her slender, alabaster fingers trembled as she caressed his familiar features, and an inexplicable sorrow seemed to envelop her—a goddess’s melancholy, visible to the naked eye, striking at the most vulnerable chords of the soul.

Yun Tianxue’s gaze was warm, her brows slightly arched, her eyes reddened but dry. The poppy-like allure about her only grew stronger, stirring a hidden possessiveness in some, while a tragic grief—like heartbreak from another world—rendered the tableau exquisitely poignant.

Sensing the growing coldness beneath her fingertips, Yun Tianxue paused in her caress, lips curving into a bewitching smile as enchanting as a red spider lily. Her crimson lips parted, and she uttered in a voice ethereal as the heavens, a whisper that pierced every heart with sorrow: “I thought we still had a lifetime ahead of us. But in the end, it was so heartbreakingly short…”

No one could say why, but despite knowing this scene was designed to elicit tears, everyone present found their eyes growing red.

Not only did the extras on both sides of the bridge, standing as mere background, feel suddenly self-reproachful and deeply moved, but even Director Li Shuangmu, watching from behind the camera, blinked back a trace of dampness. As for the more emotional crew members, their tears fell freely down their cheeks—they pressed hands to their chests, sharing Yun Tianxue’s rending pain. It was simply too much to bear.

Even Dong Bing, the scriptwriter who had rarely visited the set, happened to witness this scene. He couldn’t help rubbing his aching chest and began to reflect—had he written the story to be this heart-wrenching? He didn’t recall it being so.

“…Cut! That’s a wrap for today!” Though Li Shuangmu was moved, he didn’t forget his duty, his tone heavy yet letting everyone relax.

Hearing this, Dong Bing hurried over just as Li Shuangmu was reviewing the playback. Stroking his chin, he clicked his tongue. “Devastating. I can already imagine the reaction once post-production is done and this airs. How many buckets of tears will we wring from the audience? This might even become a classic scene!”

“You call it devastating?” Li Shuangmu snapped out of his emotional haze, scanning for any flaws, and glanced at Dong Bing with mild exasperation. “Didn’t you write this? And yet you say it’s heartbreaking?”

“Well, I’m just praising how well our actress performed! Far more moving than I ever envisioned.” Dong Bing admitted openly, not the least bit embarrassed. No wonder he worked so well with Li Shuangmu. “Tell me, Chief Li, where did you find such a talented beauty? Her emotional power is astounding! If only I’d known, I would have made her the female lead!”