The More Tragic I Act, the Stronger I Get — My Fans Beg Me to Stop Killing Off My Roles-Chapter 279: One Line Decides Heaven and Earth
Wei Song’s words landed like a hammer.
He wasn’t just speaking to the reporters; he was speaking to everyone in the hall,
and to every person online waiting for a spectacle.
The line was brazen to the extreme.
It meant Wei Song was staking decades of his industry reputation
to give Jiang Ci the most hardcore endorsement possible.
The reporters’ area exploded.
The bespectacled reporter who had asked the question stood frozen with the microphone in hand, neither able to move nor sit.
Backstage, Lin Wan watched the monitor and the scene unfold, a faint smile lifting the corner of her mouth.
Beautiful.
Wei Song and Qin Feng, those two seasoned veterans, one playing the hard guy, the other playing the soft, were perfectly in sync.
They were using their strongest posture to build Jiang Ci a higher, firmer stage.
The host on stage reacted instantly, seizing the moment to steer the atmosphere toward even more excitement.
“Looks like Director Wei and Teacher Qin are absolutely confident in Jiang Ci’s performance in the film!”
“If that’s the case, I’m sure everyone is very curious.”
“What kind of performance could earn such praise from two industry titans?”
“So next…”
The host planned to ride the momentum into the next segment and flip past the awkwardness.
But before he could finish, people in the audience’s rear—
those paid media and anti-fans—seized the little crack in his words
and poured gasoline on the fire.
A louder, harsher chorus of jeers rose up.
“Nice words! We want the real skill, not your commercial back-patting!”
“Yeah! All talk and no action is fake! If you’ve got it, do a scene right here!”
“Show us what the five-hundred-million-investment lead actor can actually do!”
“Right! Act something! Act something!”
With no props or set, it all depended on the actor’s conviction and control.
This was the highest-difficulty exam question for acting school — one wrong move and it becomes the butt of the whole room’s jokes.
Wei Song’s face darkened in an instant; he moved to grab the microphone and use his directorial authority to forcibly shut down this bad vibe.
A hand pressed on the back of his hand.
It was Qin Feng.
Wei Song looked at him in confusion.
Qin Feng said nothing, he simply sent a quiet encouraging signal in Jiang Ci’s direction.
He understood.
This was a threshold Jiang Ci had to cross himself.
All explanations were pale, all endorsements were external force.
In this industry, actors must ultimately let their acting speak.
Under the mixed gazes of expectation, doubt, and malice.
Jiang Ci stood.
These people were less professional at heckling than the extras on The Lurker’s set; their jeers missed the mark.
Fine, then he would shut them up.
He unhurriedly unbuttoned the top button of his black suit.
Then he rolled his neck slightly; a soft click of bone echoed.
The movement was casual, even a touch lazy.
Yet the surrounding noise oddly shrank.
Everyone watched him, waiting to see what he would do.
Jiang Ci turned.
He did not face the audience. Instead, he looked to the man beside him,
Qin Feng, who was just now holding a thermos and looking perfectly composed.
At that moment,
the dazzling stage lights lost their color; a single beam fell between the two of them.
The atmosphere shifted.
As a film emperor steeped in decades of sets, Qin Feng understood in a second.
No words were necessary.
His body reacted instantly.
The erect posture dipped into a stoop.
He put on a complex smile that mixed humility and ingratiation.
His eyes darted nervously, hands unconsciously rubbing at his knees.
In that instant, he became Duke of Pei Liu Bang, who had just walked into the Hongmen Feast tent with his life hanging by a thread.
Jiang Ci’s gaze started above Qin Feng’s head and moved down inch by inch, agonizingly slow.
That cool contempt and appraisal, devoid of any emotion,
was projected clearly onto everyone’s retinas through the giant screen.
The audience below—reporters and anti-fans alike—felt a nameless suffocating pressure.
It was as if each of them were standing at the center of the tent, awaiting fate’s verdict as Liu Bang.
Finally,
in the deathly silence, Jiang Ci spoke.
His tone was the easy, lazy kind of arrogance.
“Ah, the King of Guanzhong has arrived.”
The words floated lightly.
But they hit like a thousand-pound weight, smashing into every heart in the hall.
The loudest anti-fan leader froze, mouth agape, his expression locked;
the protest banner in his hand had somehow fallen to the floor.
Someone in the press pit reflexively raised a camera, but their finger froze over the shutter, unable to press it.
They forgot to take photos. They forgot to record.
Everyone present was stunned by the contempt hidden in that single line—
a disdain for the chaotic-era strongman that paralyzed the room.
On stage, Qin Feng, playing Liu Bang,
met Jiang Ci’s stare and felt his entire aura condense.
He summoned every ounce of acting craft to release Liu Bang’s terror, resentment, and cunning without reservation,
colliding violently with that domineering force.
But in only two seconds, a chill ran up his spine.
His heart roared one inward thought: “This kid’s acting has improved since filming!”
Jiang Ci withdrew that gaze that could have flayed a person alive.
He turned back, rebuttoned his suit with elegant composure.
Then, under the continued deathly silence, he sat back down.
The young movie star in the black suit, expression impassive and unreadable, returned to the stage.
Ten seconds passed.
It was as if someone had pressed play.
Thunderous applause and uncontrollable screams erupted!
“Holy—!”
“My God! That performance!”
“My goosebumps are going crazy! That look he gave me—my legs went weak!”
Those reporters who had prepared piles of negative material, waiting for Jiang Ci’s fall,
now stared at the drafts on their laptops feeling all their words were pale and powerless.
Backstage, Lin Wan exhaled in a long, relieved breath and relaxed into her chair.
Her assistant beside her was flushed with excitement, babbling incoherently.
“Lin… Director Lin! We won! We won!”
On site,
media response was astonishingly fast.
Countless articles went out at once; the headlines were no longer skeptical or neutral.
They coalesced into a unified, emotionally charged exclamation.
#After Jiang Ci, There Is No More Hegemon#
Just as this roadshow was pushing toward a climactic, divine reversal,
the giant screen suddenly went dark.
Then a stirring, tragic drumbeat began.
The logo for The Legend of Han and Chu appeared.
The final trailer, at a moment no one expected, began.
Thousands of cavalry charging, clashes of blade and sword, power struggles colliding…
A rapid succession of cinematic images flashed.
The brutality of the Battle of Pengcheng, the danger of the Hongmen Feast, the desolation of the Siege of Gaixia…
Finally, all the scenes faded to silence.
On the screen remained only a blood-soaked riverbank.
A solitary figure lay with a sword across his neck.
The frame froze at the moment he fell, that geyser of red
became the trailer’s most striking color.
