Chapter 974: The Hope of Science Fiction

After earning 2.1 billion yuan at the box office, "The Dawn Era" finally ended its reign over the Chinese film market.

When it first premiered and achieved strong box office results, many said it was merely cashing in on fan loyalty—that once the hype faded, ticket sales would plummet, ending up at best around 700 million to 800 million yuan, barely breaking even.

But "The Dawn Era" did not follow their predictions; instead, its box office kept rising all the way to 2 billion yuan.

Though it now shows signs of decline, it’s only slowed compared to its earlier explosive growth—surpassing 3 billion yuan at the final tally was almost effortless.

Though it didn’t crack the top ten Chinese-language box office films, this result had already silenced countless skeptics who had dismissed it.

The current slowdown in box office growth is normal; no film can sustain rising numbers indefinitely, especially after such a massive opening day—holding strong for three days was already impressive.

The gradual decline of "The Dawn Era"’s box office also signaled the arrival of the New Year’s Day film season.

Director Ming showed real guts, daring to release a film during the off-season; though he avoided competition from major domestic and international blockbusters, he also missed out on the impulse viewers who flocked to theaters during the holiday.

In hindsight, his decision was flawless—he still made all the money he should have.

But even bolder than Director Ming was Director Tong Xia.

Few might recognize his name, but he had just released a long-awaited film: the famous "Shanghai Fortress."

This film, adapted from a bestselling novel and starring a top idol, began heavy promotion in early spring, claiming to rival "The Wandering Earth" and poised to become a landmark in Chinese sci-fi cinema.

Originally, fans had high hopes for this well-known IP; though it wasn’t the author Poppy’s masterpiece, it was still a bestseller with a substantial fanbase.

But as soon as audiences saw the cast list, their enthusiasm instantly cooled.

Everyone knew that fresh-faced idols and bad movies were like China’s legendary swords Ganjiang and Moye—always paired, never separate.

So when it was confirmed that Lu Han was the lead, half the eager fans vanished overnight; Lu Han himself was forced to post on Weibo, pleading with people not to skip the movie because of him, and to give both him and the film a chance.

His tone was genuinely sincere, and since he’d recently starred in a decent-quality TV drama, he’d regained some public goodwill—so even netizens who hated idol stars held their tongues and didn’t launch direct attacks.

But that didn’t mean the backlash was over; they simply held all their fury for after the film’s release.

Whether they’d praise or condemn it would depend entirely on the film’s quality.

Unfortunately, the pre-released trailers offered very little content—just a few disjointed wide shots made it impossible to judge whether it was good or terrible.

Reports claimed "Shanghai Fortress" had a budget of 300 million yuan, packed with heavy visual effects; from director to producer to cast, everyone was boasting about this aspect.

The originally scheduled New Year’s Day release of "Shanghai Fortress" was moved up due to unforeseen circumstances.

Though the director didn’t say why, some netizens guessed the reason: "Avatar 2" had also moved its release to mid-November.

From a timing perspective, "Shanghai Fortress" had originally been set to open over a month after "Avatar 2"—a prime slot in the New Year’s Day season, but now it faced the awkward reality that audiences had already seen a major sci-fi blockbuster.

To avoid audience fatigue, it made perfect sense for "Shanghai Fortress" to move up its release.

But no matter how early it came out, the two films would still be directly competing—this was precisely why netizens had previously praised "Shanghai Fortress" for its boldness.

While every other film avoided confrontation, this one, as a fellow sci-fi movie, dared to go head-to-head—it was truly rare.

Lu Han’s fans seized the moment to hype it up: Chinese sci-fi cinema would welcome a new era tomorrow, "Shanghai Fortress" would earn at least 5 billion yuan, and Lu Han would be crowned the first 10-billion-yuan box office king.

As one of the Four Returnees, Lu Han had initially enjoyed the highest fan support and best resources.

But after his relationship was made public, his career went into freefall.

Though his actions were brave and manly for an idol, they devastated his career, dropping him instantly from China’s top idol to second-tier status.

"Shanghai Fortress" was filmed during Lu Han’s peak popularity, but it was delayed through his decline and only now reached theaters.

His remaining fans believed this was his best chance for redemption.

If the box office exploded, his stagnant career could revive instantly; with good management, he might even return to top-tier status.

Of the Four Returnees, one had already vanished into obscurity, another had started his own company and focused entirely on promoting new talent—leaving only one real competitor.

As for other fresh-faced idols, they were merely fleeting trends, nowhere near Lu Han’s stable, long-term fanbase.

So if "Shanghai Fortress" succeeded, Lu Han wouldn’t just be a fresh-faced idol anymore—he might even shed that label entirely and become a legitimate actor.

Thus, fans began organizing group viewings with fierce determination, vowing to secure a full-house opening for Lu Han on release day.

………………

“Sis, are you going to see 'Shanghai Fortress'?”

In the living room, Leon asked his older sister curiously.

As a sci-fi movie fan, he loved both domestic and international films; back abroad, he mostly used Netflix and sometimes even made time to go to theaters.

But in China, he discovered a website called Moonlight Movies, which had every resource imaginable—for free, even films still in theaters could be downloaded.

This resource-hunting godsend left Leon exclaiming: “Amazing, my China!”

At first, he felt guilty using it, since he’d always paid for such content abroad; suddenly finding himself in an environment where everything was free felt unnatural.

But the joy of free access quickly erased his shame, and he soon fully adapted.

Of course, Moonlight Movies wasn’t without flaws—the main one being that newly released films took time to appear, and Leon, being impatient, found this frustrating.

Since "Shanghai Fortress" had been so heavily marketed, he was curious enough to want to see it in theaters, treating it as a prelude to "Avatar 2."

As usual, before going, Leon asked if she’d join.

If it were just an ordinary film, if Luo Quan didn’t want to go, she’d simply say, “I’d rather not.”

But upon hearing her brother wanted to see "Shanghai Fortress," Luo Quan immediately shook her head: “This movie has zero merit. Go if you want—I’m not going.”

If "The Dawn Era" had terrible plot but decent everything else,

then "Shanghai Fortress" was utterly terrible in every single aspect, with not a single redeeming quality.

For Luo Quan, who disliked wasting money, buying a ticket for "Shanghai Fortress" was pure shameful waste.

Only when such bad films become rarer can China’s film industry environment improve.

It’s not just about industry professionals striving for change—it also requires support from moviegoers.

How to support? By making these bad films flop completely—earning zero box office!

So Luo Quan would never enable such nonsense; the more "Shanghai Fortress" is hyped now, the harder it will be slammed tomorrow.

But Leon had no foresight—he had no idea just how bad "Shanghai Fortress" would turn out.

Online reviews said it was comparable to "The Wandering Earth," a film he’d seen and found truly excellent, with top-tier visual effects.

If it truly matched "The Wandering Earth," it would be another visual feast—so Leon wanted to go see it for himself.

But after his sister’s warning, he began to doubt: “Is it really that bad? Did you read the script?”

“No,” Luo Quan immediately denied. “But I’ve seen the trailer. Some movies only need a trailer to reveal their awfulness—and unfortunately, 'Shanghai Fortress' is one of them.”

Besides, its so-called effects being compared to "The Wandering Earth" are completely unconvincing—even in the trailer.

Saying it’s 50-cent effects is exaggerated, but it’s no more than 50-cent quality—go watch again if you don’t believe me.”

“Then no need to watch,” Leon waved his hand. “If you say so, I won’t bother. I’ll wait for reviews after it releases.”

Leon loved sci-fi movies, but he wasn’t a fool.

He had no stubbornness to sit through a clearly bad film just to see how bad it was.

Besides, with today’s internet, the truth would be clear soon enough.

“By the way, how’s your 'Wolf of Wall Street' project? When are you heading back to the U.S. to shoot?”

Luo Quan suddenly remembered and asked curiously.

“I had Seifert return the script.”

Leon’s answer shocked Luo Quan: “Why? Is the script bad?”

“I haven’t even read it yet—but no matter how good the script is, I can’t leave China,” Leon said, glancing at Mia, who was wearing headphones and binge-watching a drama. “After all, the mom’s pregnant—I can’t be away from her right now.”

“Compared to my career, I care more about my family—even if it meant passing up an Oscar-worthy film, I won’t leave Mia now.”

“So cheesy,” Luo Quan shuddered, hugging herself. “Too bad Mia didn’t hear that.”

“What happened?” Mia noticed both of them looking at her and immediately took off her headphones.

Whether because her headphones were too loud or she was too absorbed in the drama, she hadn’t heard a word Leon said.

Luo Quan quickly replied: “Nothing. Just talking about a bad movie coming out—I told Leon not to waste money on it.”

“Is it 'Shanghai Fortress'?” Mia often browsed online and had seen the trailers more than once—its hype was indeed massive.

“I remember you love sci-fi films. Why don’t we go see it together?” Mia recalled Leon’s hobby and nudged him.

“But this movie seems terrible,” Leon’s tone grew hesitant.

“Oh, who cares if it’s bad? Going is just for fun,” Mia sat beside Leon and linked her arm through his. “Besides, after the movie we can go shopping—I’ve been cooped up at home so long, I need to get out and breathe.”

“That’s true—we can shop after,” Leon turned and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, smiling fondly.

Luo Quan watched silently, sipped some hot water, then said: “Am I the third wheel here?”

“Not at all! Why don’t all three of us go see the movie?” Mia suggested cheerfully.

“Then I’d be a 800-watt lightbulb,” Luo Quan chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Nah, you two go on your date—I’ll stay behind. Eat well, drink well, have fun, and be careful—don’t push into crowded places.”

At that moment, Luo Quan transformed into a doting mother, fussing over Leon and Mia.

“Got it, my dear sister,” Leon replied, dragging out his words like any child tired of parental nagging.

Luo Quan glanced at him, stood up, and said: “I can’t take another bite of your lovey-dovey dog food!”

Then she walked upstairs.

The next day, Leon and Mia left early for their date.

Their first stop was the cinema—right when "Shanghai Fortress" had just started screening, and no reviews were online yet.

After fifteen minutes of watching, they finally understood why Luo Quan refused to come.

This was an absolutely terrible movie!

The ridiculous plot, terrible acting, shoddy costumes, and low-quality visual effects.

It had achieved the worst possible standard in every single aspect—so much so that Leon was left deeply wondering how anyone could make a film this bad.

Guang

As the first wave of viewers finished watching, angry audiences drowned "Shanghai Fortress" in a tidal wave of condemnation, nailing it to the shame pillar of Chinese film history.

Douban ratings hadn’t been released yet, but Maoyan’s current score stood at only 6.0.

What does this mean? The universally acknowledged worst film in cinema history, Dreaming in the Entertainment Circle, still has a 6.8 rating; even Sea Fortress scored lower than Dreaming in the Entertainment Circle, revealing just how terrible it was.

More direct than the ratings was the uniform wave of online criticism.

As a flow star, Lu Han’s own fans could no longer control their comments—they even joined the chorus of complaints, making it clear how everyone felt about it.

Despite the film’s official account posting four consecutive Weibo posts, questioning whether this could possibly be called a bad movie, and attaching stills from the film,

it still could not escape its flop fate, and because it was so stubborn, the film’s official account and the director both landed on the trending list.