The More Tragic I Act, the Stronger I Get — My Fans Beg Me to Stop Killing Off My Roles-Chapter 209: Don’t Use the Knife, You’ll Break Character
Zhang Mouyi grabbed the walkie-talkie.
“Don’t move!”
His voice exploded through the walkie, hoarse, yet carrying an irresistible fervor.
“Qingying, hold it!”
Su Qingying stood motionless with her back against the Divine Tree.
The gale had ceased, but she felt herself being swept by an even colder storm.
Zhang Mouyi’s commands kept coming.
He turned his attention to another angle, lowering his voice.
“Jiang Ci.”
“Hand.” 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢
“Give your hand a close-up, move it a little.”
That instruction made every heart on set pause.
Move a little?
How could he move?
This was a man nailed to the tree by three arrows, his demon core shattered, clinging to his last breath—nearly dead!
Any unnecessary motion would destroy all the carefully laid groundwork of realism!
Jiang Ci’s clenched eyelashes trembled.
Madman.
He almost immediately understood the other madman’s direction.
Zhang Mouyi was trying to pile tragedy upon tragedy, squeezing tears out of the audience until there was nothing left!
In Jiang Ci’s mind, he could almost see the backend system metrics as the scene aired, the Heartbreak Value counters spinning wildly.
A KPI handed to him on a silver platter—why refuse it?
What Zhang Mouyi wanted was a dying man, in whose final moments before consciousness slipped into darkness, he showed one last attachment to this world.
Jiang Ci summoned the last of his strength.
That right hand, crusted with dried blood, twitched.
Then, slowly, inch by inch, it began to lift.
His fingertips groped in the air in a futile search.
Finally.
They hooked on.
The fluttering black Priestess Robe, after the wind died, had a corner drape right by his hand.
Jiang Ci’s fingers, so light they barely applied any force, caught that cold strip of fabric.
So light.
Light enough that a mild breeze could have unfurled it.
That touch, as delicate as a butterfly’s wing,
burned through her thousand-year chill as a departed soul. Along that strip of cloth, the burn crawled up and seared her spine.
Su Qingying’s whole body froze.
The aloofness and resolution she had built for the role of Ling Xi were shattered in that instant by this almost insolent, mundane little tug.
She felt it.
A faint, almost hallucinatory tug at the hem.
He woke?
No.
He had not woken.
It was unconscious motion.
Even in his stupor, from the depths of his soul, an instinct begged her not to leave.
A sour flood overwhelmed her nose and throat.
She bit her lower lip, using sharp pain to suppress the thought of turning back.
She was afraid that if she turned, all the coldness and resolve she had created for Ling Xi would collapse instantly.
She was afraid that if she turned, she would never be able to leave.
On the monitor.
Under the enormous Divine Tree.
The red-clad half-demon nailed to the tree, and the black-robed witch holding a long bow.
Life and death.
Past lives and present.
Through that tiny corner of cloth being gently hooked, they achieved one last connection.
One clinging to life.
One saying goodbye in silence.
This wordless image painted the cross-time tragedy in its most extreme hue.
Behind the monitor, the assistant director’s eyes were already red.
Several female crew members beside him had long since raised hands to their mouths, stifling the sobs about to burst forth.
Zhang Mouyi watched this inspired stroke on the screen, this pinnacle of tragic aesthetics he had crafted with his own hands.
His chest rose and fell. He had finally seen the perfect prey.
He grabbed the walkie, using all his force to roar the word.
“—Cut!”
When that word dropped, sounds from the real world surged back.
The scrape of equipment being moved, the suppressed sobs of the crew, the engine noise of a vehicle driving by in the distance.
Human sounds shattered that frozen sorrow, tearing that tragic atmosphere to pieces.
Su Qingying’s tense body suddenly slumped, as if drained, and she collapsed onto the cold ground.
The Lingxi Bow slid from her limp hand and clattered aside.
She was exhausted.
Torn back and forth between the two opposing souls of A Li and Ling Xi had drained every ounce of her spirit.
“Hurry! Go check on her!”
“Teacher Su!”
The assistant and several crew members rushed over, exclaiming.
On the other side, the props team also hurried up, hands everywhere, beginning to remove the prop arrows fixed to Jiang Ci.
“Bro, are you okay?”
“Easy, easy, don’t pull the prosthetics…”
Jiang Ci was “taken down” from the tree. He moved his stiff shoulder and neck.
When he opened his eyes, he saw not far off the figure slumped on the ground, surrounded by people—Su Qingying.
Her head bowed, long hair veiling her face, expression unreadable, but her slightly trembling shoulders gave everything away.
Jiang Ci even saw her assistant reach out to support her, then helplessly lower the hand mid-air.
Jiang Ci exhaled softly from his chest.
This is terrible—this year’s best KPI partner has fallen in and can’t get out.
If this continues, forget the next scenes—her spirit will be harmed first.
That won’t do. This excellent senior’s physical and mental health must be preserved.
With Sun Zhou’s help, she steadied herself.
Then Jiang Ci reached out his hand.
From the tattered, bloodstained layers of his costume, he deliberately fished around.
After a moment.
He produced something.
A throat lozenge wrapped in transparent candy paper.
He parted the assistant who was by Su Qingying and crouched in front of her.
He held the candy out before her eyes.
“Teacher Su.”
He spoke, his face still painted with “blood,” the dying-wound makeup, but his expression was utterly sincere.
“Have a candy.”
Su Qingying slowly raised her head.
Tears clung to her eyes, still carrying Ling Xi’s sadness.
She stared blankly at the candy before her.
Jiang Ci’s voice sounded again, the same flat cadence with little inflection.
“This one’s mint.”
He was concise.
“Clears the head.”
“…”
Su Qingying looked at the candy, then at Jiang Ci’s blood-painted yet earnest face recommending a candy flavor.
The absurdity pierced the sadness of Ling Xi in her heart.
She could no longer hold it together.
“Pfft.”
A tiny laugh slipped from her tear-tinged throat.
That laugh blew away the haze of “destiny” that had hung over her.
Her laugh let everyone around exhale.
Zhang Mouyi stepped forward.
He looked at Jiang Ci crouched on the ground and then at Su Qingying, who had finally laughed. His usually harsh face was full of appreciation.
He walked up and gave Jiang Ci a solid pat on the shoulder.
Then he glanced at Su Qingying.
“That take is safe.”
He paused, declaring the final verdict.
“Pass!”
The assistant director immediately got it, grabbed the loudspeaker, and shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Wrap! Thanks for your hard work today! Wrap!”
The set finally returned to full bustle.
Crew members chatted loudly, packed up equipment, and the whole space buzzed with the vivid noise of the mortal world.
But in the center of that clamor,
under the Divine Tree, on the ground still stained with prop blood,
Jiang Ci and Su Qingying, one crouched, one seated,
formed their own small, quiet world.
It was the bond between actors, a camaraderie beyond life.
It was also an unspoken tacit understanding.
