The More Tragic I Act, the Stronger I Get — My Fans Beg Me to Stop Killing Off My Roles-Chapter 231: A Prison Named "Yearning"

That modern room, perfectly recreated by the film crew to belong to "A Li," was filled with the warm traces of everyday life in every detail.

Family photos on the desk, a soft stuffed toy at the bedside, everything fit this time and space flawlessly.

Yet that warmth was the greatest torture for Su Qingying in this moment, or rather for "A Li."

She turned, moved slowly to the desk, and absentmindedly picked up an open history book.

It was a chronicle about the fictional dynasty "Shangdu."

The camera pulled in for a close-up of the pages.

In the most objective printed type, it described the end of that era, wars raging, the people's livelihood ruined.

The collapse of an entire dynasty condensed into a few lines of emotionless lead type.

Behind the monitors, Jiang Ci stood perfectly still, he did not go to the lounge, choosing instead to stand behind Zhang Mouyi.

What he watched was not how superb Su Qingying's acting was, but rather how greedily he drew in the pain of the woman on the screen.

He could clearly feel that "A Li"'s entire world was falling apart in front of those lines.

Everything she cherished, the time she would do anything to return to, was nothing more than a fading footnote that would be easily forgotten.

That pain, that despair of being abandoned by two times at once, was transmitted precisely through the lens.

On Jiang Ci's system panel, the Heartbreak Value did not move.

Because the performance was not over yet, the audience had not seen it.

But his own heart had already given a prelude of tremor for this impending grand tragedy.

The set was terrifyingly quiet.

Zhang Mouyi uncharacteristically did not make a sound; he just stared at the monitor.

That oppressive silence chilled the backs of the crew more than any roar would.

The last shot of the day.

"A Li," played by Su Qingying, curled up in the corner of the sofa. In her hand she clutched the broken spirit jade that served as a token.

Tears slid silently, hitting the pendant and breaking into smaller splashes. Her lips moved, silently calling that name over and over.

"Ye... Chen..."

No sound, only lip movement.

But that heart-wrenching yearning pierced the entire set.

"Cut!"

Zhang Mouyi's voice finally rang out, shattering the suffocating atmosphere.

Su Qingying's body relaxed; she slowly lifted her head, and after several seconds, detached herself from that extreme emotion.

The crew exhaled as if surfacing from deep water.

Yet Zhang Mouyi's next words made the relief they had just felt shoot back up into their throats.

He didn't even comfort Su Qingying, he only picked up the loudspeaker and announced to the whole set.

"Wrap! Lighting and set dressing, change everything!"

"Tomorrow, we film Ye Chen."

He paused, each word landing like a blow to the heart.

"Demonic transformation."

The crew exchanged stunned looks, no one daring to breathe.

Su Qingying, just pulled back from extreme sorrow, faltered in her step; she didn't turn back, but Jiang Ci knew the director's order was meant for her as well.

They were the two pivots of this grand tragedy; one person's pain was the other's prelude.

That night, no one disturbed Su Qingying, and no one dared speak to Jiang Ci.

...

The next day.

The main set shifted from modern city back to the outskirts of ancient Shangdu.

The enormous, twisted Divine Tree cast grotesque shadows under dozens of cold-toned lights, its gloom making it hard to breathe.

Jiang Ci arrived early.

He refused the breakfast Sun Zhou offered, and avoided anyone trying to talk to him.

He sat alone under the Divine Tree in thin costume, quietly embodying the self-enclosed despair that comes from having the whole world abandon and betray you.

"All departments, prepare!"

At Zhang Mouyi's command, the set sank again into that familiar, high-pressure silence.

Filming began.

There were no lines.

The first shot gave Jiang Ci only a silhouette from behind.

He stood alone under the tree, his body beginning to tremble.

It started with his shoulders, then his spine, finally spreading throughout his entire body,

a pain from the depths of the soul, fiercely suppressing something that was about to break through the flesh.

"Cut! Special effects makeup, keep up!"

A few makeup artists rushed forward and painted spreading black demonic markings on his neck and the backs of his hands at top speed.

They rolled again.

Jiang Ci curled in pain, then suddenly stretched, bones cracking under the strain.

He was no longer human, more like a beast trapped in a cage about to burst its bonds.

The agony intensified.

He head-butted the ground, the dull thud making some of the people behind the monitors' teeth ache.

He lay on the ground, fingers clawing wildly at the dirt, leaving deep grooves, mud and prop "blood" packed into the gaps beneath his nails.

A timid female set assistant instinctively turned her face away, no longer daring to watch.

Paramedics at the edge of the set involuntarily stepped forward, palms sweating.

The scene had surpassed mere acting, resembling a real collapse.

"Close-up! Get his face close!" Zhang Mouyi's voice crackled over the walkie-talkie.

The camera pushed in fast.

Jiang Ci threw his head back, his whole face contorted by unbearable pain. He opened his mouth wide, but no sound came out.

Everyone was nailed in place by that image.

It pierced more deeply than any hoarse scream ever could.

He began tearing at his chest garments; the prop claws scored bleeding wounds across his skin,

and the system panel started to faintly signal an increase in Heartbreak Value.

Good... he thought.

This scene of Ye Chen's near-death, complete demonic transformation had to be brutal enough to earn the richest reward.

An audience will not pay for tepid sorrow.

Thick "blood" tracked down the grooves of his muscles.

He seemed to be trying, in the most savage way, to dig out the demonic power within him that maddened him with pain.

Zhang Mouyi still did not call a stop.

"Push in more! Give me his eyes close-up! I want to see the light go out in them, the whole process!"

Even the most seasoned cinematographer operating the crane had the slightest tremble in his hands.

In the lens, the eyes that still retained struggle and reluctance had all emotions peeled away.

Finally, all frantic struggles ceased.

Jiang Ci slowly dropped to his knees, the previous world-shattering power vanished without a trace.

He raised his head.

In those eyes remained only hollow, numb crimson.

"Cut—!"

Zhang Mouyi rasped out the word.

The next moment, thunderous applause erupted without warning.

Sun Zhou reacted first; he grabbed a blanket like a madman and wrapped the staggering body.

The touch was icy.

Jiang Ci's costume was already soaked through with cold sweat.