Chapter 102: The Shooting of

It wasn’t just the launch ceremony.

Even the launch banquet was different.

He Qun imposed a ban on alcohol—everyone on and off set was forbidden to drink, and the producers would accompany the reporters.

Due to equipment failure, the shoot was delayed by two days.

The filming schedule was already behind.

They had to rush to catch up.

Only one and a half hours were given for lunch break; filming would resume immediately in the afternoon.

After eating lunch.

Li Luo returned to his room with packed meals; the master bedroom was dim, with steady breathing rising and falling.

“Shhh~”

He grabbed the curtains and yanked them open with force.

Sunlight~

Hmm.

No sun.

As the curtains pulled back, daylight spilled onto the two-meter bed, revealing the scene that stirred Li Luo’s heart:

Sheets disheveled, hair spread out.

Long legs crossed.

A flat abdomen rose and fell gently with each breath.

Arriving above them.

He traced two arcs—one large, one small.

Though the key areas were hidden by the sheets, the half-concealed allure made it even more intoxicating to look at.

“What are you doing~”

Huang Shengyi pouted, kicking her legs into the air: “I’m still sleeping!!!”

As she spoke,

she rubbed her body against the pillow in front of her.

That plump pillow clearly delighted her.

“Get up and eat.”

Li Luo walked over and slapped her twice: “I’m filming this afternoon, probably working late too. After eating, I’ll call a car to take you back to Jingcheng—will you even go to class tomorrow?”

The pale buttocks flushed faintly red with finger marks.

The two drowsy women

snapped awake instantly.

“Asshole.”

“Ow!”

Both cried out in pain and lunged forward, claws out.

“You’ve got makeup on!!!”

Li Luo spun away quickly, his long hair whipping behind him; his current look was absurd—he wore a thick down jacket but had an ancient-style hairpiece on his head.

The two women burst into laughter.

No choice.

Changing clothes was easy; putting on the hairpiece was a hassle.

As long as filming hadn’t wrapped, it had to stay fixed on his head.

Luckily, it was winter.

The insulation was good—he could pretend it was just a hat.

“What’s for food?”

Bian Xiaoxiao, ever the food lover, slipped on her robe and sat at the table by the window, opening the several meal boxes.

“Wow, sea cucumber.”

“Shrimp.”

“Roasted squab????”

All the delicacies made her exclaim in delight; she immediately hoisted one foot onto the chair, grabbed a glossy roasted squab, and devoured it with relish.

The hem of her robe slipped down her leg with her movements.

A glimpse of her thigh flashed, half-hidden.

Bian Xiaoxiao paid no attention.

After two wild nights and a day, who cared about such small things?

Huang Shengyi never ate eagerly; she slowly wrapped herself in her robe, gave Li Luo a look, then hurried to the bathroom.

“Take your time eating.”

Li Luo opened the boxes for her: “There’s squab soup here too—I’ll wash my hands.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Bian Xiaoxiao nodded vigorously.

In the bathroom, Li Luo turned on the faucet and washed his hands slowly.

“Luo-ge.”

Huang Shengyi wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned against his broad back: “It’s clear Xiaoxiao likes you, so she didn’t resist much—but I’m still afraid she’ll start thinking too much.”

“So?”

Li Luo turned around, lowering his voice.

Looking at her pure face, he eagerly awaited what came next.

It would surely be interesting.

“Be nicer to her for now.”

Huang Shengyi was annoyed, but shook her head: “Don’t let Xiaoxiao get the wrong ideas—this kind of thing spreading would be bad. I’ll talk to her again when I get back to school.”

As she spoke, she twisted his side hard.

“It’s all your fault.”

The Shanghai girl gritted her teeth, squeezing tighter: “I told you to carry her back to the room—now look, you’ve caused trouble!”

“You lucky bastard!!!”

Though frustrated inside,

there was no choice.

That night, she herself had decided to bring Bian Xiaoxiao in—she couldn’t now backtrack.

All she could do was twist him hard to vent.

Li Luo’s waist ached, but he was barely holding back laughter.

She was the one who got tricked.

Yet, with him and Bian Xiaoxiao working together, she thought she was the one who’d pulled the trick.

Damn.

He was too sneaky.

Li Luo cursed himself silently, then hooked his finger under Huang Shengyi’s pale chin: “Relax, I know what to do. You’re blaming me? If you hadn’t randomly kissed her.”

“Shut up, shut up.”

With her scolding, her tiny fists pounded against him repeatedly.

After a lavish lunch,

they freshened up.

Li Luo called the front desk to arrange a business car, then accompanied them to the elevator and down to the hotel lobby.

Is it a problem for classmates to visit each other on set?

If it were one man and one woman,

someone might suspect something.

But two female classmates arriving together? Any normal person would think nothing of it—so Li Luo was perfectly open, even smiling and greeting acquaintances.

The more you sneak around, the more people notice.

His attitude,

ironically, made no one suspect anything.

“If you get hungry on the way, buy something to eat,” Li Luo said, slipping a thousand yuan into Bian Xiaoxiao’s hand while avoiding the driver’s view: “The car’s from the hotel—you don’t need to pay.”

Good job—deserved a reward.

Huang Shengyi thought Li Luo had taken her words to heart and secretly gave him two thumbs-up.

“No thanks.”

Bian Xiaoxiao quickly refused: “It’s only a few hours’ drive.”

“Oh come on, take it,” Huang Shengyi pressed her hand down firmly, her tone warm: “I know a great Western restaurant—we’ll treat ourselves tonight.”

“Consider it Li Luo’s treat!”

Delighted inside, Bian Xiaoxiao reluctantly accepted.

“Master.”

Returning to the passenger side, Li Luo handed twenty yuan through the car window: “Buy some water, stay safe on the road, thank you!”

This was the hotel’s business car.

The car rental fees would be settled directly through the room bill.

Tip.

It was to show consideration.

Though he had no idea what water could be worth twenty yuan, the driver still took it with a beaming smile, repeatedly thanking him and pounding his chest to guarantee safe delivery.

That amount could equal a common worker’s entire day’s pay!

Waving at the departing vehicle, Li Luo walked cheerfully into the hotel’s revolving door.

“We’ve started. Everyone, stay sharp.”

He Qun scanned the area, shouting through a loudspeaker: “Why is the threshold so clean? Don’t you think snowflakes won’t fall here? Quickly bring some snow and scatter it!”

Filming officially began in the afternoon.

He Qun, usually so easygoing, kept barking orders.

Unless you’re just a nominal director.

Otherwise, most people in this line of work become irritable once immersed in production, weighed down by the countless demands of the set.

And sometimes, if you’re not a bit short-tempered, you can’t keep the set’s chaos under control.

“Li Luo, come here.”

Putting down the loudspeaker, He Qun waved him over: “You’ll walk out from behind the camera, follow the courtyard straight to the house. The two servants sweeping snow will greet you—just acknowledge them.”

“Start with something simple, to warm you up.”

“Got it.”

Li Luo confirmed he was ready.

He jumped in place, quickly shifting into character, reactivating his acting mindset after months of inactivity.

Though it was his first day on set.

Yet the scene they were shooting was set after Zhang Zongzhou’s assassination.

“All departments, attention.”

He Qun returned behind the monitor and raised the loudspeaker again: “Non-essential personnel, clear the set—we’re about to roll!”

“Actors, take your positions.”

Li Luo moved to the side of the camera, squinting at the bright sky.

His heartbeat quickened.

His palms grew sweaty.

He’d been in this business a long time, but every time he took on a new role, he felt an inexplicable surge of excitement.

Each time, a fresh challenge.

“Scene six, take three.”

The clapper loader stepped before the camera, displayed the recorded details on the clapperboard, then slammed the stick down hard.

“Clap.”

The wooden stick struck sharply, echoing a crisp sound.

The clear crack reverberated through the courtyard.

“Shadow of the Sword” officially began filming!

Li Luo took a deep breath, darted out from beside the camera, leapt up three steps in swift strides, hurried across the snow-covered ground, and headed straight for the main house.

“Young Master.”

The two extras sweeping snow paused, leaning on their brooms to bow respectfully.

“Hmm.”

Li Luo grunted, not slowing his pace.

His robe fluttered behind him.

The camera slowly pushed forward, bringing the entire frame to life.

“Cut.”

As he descended the steps, the loudspeaker called stop.

The first shot of “Shadow of the Sword” was complete—just a brief walk away from the camera, simple enough—but He Qun frowned slightly behind the monitor.

Li Luo’s heart sank. He hurried over and asked:

“Director, how was it?”

“The framing’s fine.”

He Qun hesitated, then tapped the screen with a finger: “Why did you walk so fast? You didn’t even pause when the servants greeted you?”

Life is a process of adjustment—with all kinds of people.

Directors and actors are no exception.

For a minor role, he could simply demand they follow his vision.

But this was the lead.

Sometimes, discussion was necessary.

Directors and actors often debated how to portray a scene; He Qun hesitated because this was only the first shot—he didn’t want to seem nitpicky.

But if he didn’t speak up, he couldn’t bear it.

He Qun believed Zhang Danfeng was a well-read man; ignoring the servants entirely seemed too rude. A slight pause would be better.

“Director.”

Li Luo sat down beside him, earnestly saying: “I think he should hurry here—it’s not the time for formalities.”

“Why?”

He Qun lit a cigarette and offered one to him.

“Thanks.”

He waved off the cigarette, continuing: “Zhang Zongzhou was assassinated. Even if Zhang Danfeng knows his father’s alive, his priority now is reaching him.”

“Not worrying about etiquette.”

He Qun exhaled smoke and slowly nodded.

He hadn’t considered that. He looked at Li Luo with approval: “You’ve really understood the character.”

“That’s my job.”

Li Luo smiled, spreading his hands: “So, is the shot good?”

“Cut! It’s a pass!”

He Qun flicked ash.

At his signal, the assistant director immediately grabbed the walkie-talkie to direct crew to reposition.

Li Luo stood up from his chair.

Preparing for the next scene.

Filming was this tedious—shot by shot, slowly refined; every new location required extensive prep work.

Camera positions adjusted.

Zhang Danfeng hurried up the steps, nodding to the steward at the door.

Scene change.

This time, the camera moved inside the house.

“Li Luo, Shi Chang, and you two.”

While crew moved equipment, He Qun called the actors over: “Next is the first meeting between Zhang Danfeng and his father after learning of the assassination. I’ll explain how to play it.”

The “Shi Chang” He Qun mentioned was the actor playing Zhang Zongzhou.

He was unknown.

But his experience was extraordinary.

He’d been making films since the 1960s.

The named actors stepped forward, listening intently as He Qun explained the scene.

After the briefing, they rehearsed their blocking.

This was essential before filming.

This scene involved four characters: Zhang Danfeng, Zhang Zongzhou, the steward, and the maid. Except for Zhang Zongzhou, who sat, the other three had precise steps and positions—no room for error.

Otherwise, the visual balance would break.

After several rehearsals, He Qun finally nodded in satisfaction.

“Clear the set.”

Adjusting his glasses, he sat back in his director’s chair: “All departments, positions. Actors, ready. Roll!”

“Three, two, one.”

“Roll camera.”

“Again.”

“No, again.”

“Once more!”

Zhang Zongzhou sat upright, Zhang Danfeng entered to speak, the steward followed behind, and the maid brought tea; though the shot lasted nine seconds, it wasn’t particularly complex, yet it took eight takes to get right.

Walking to the back, Li Luo didn’t know which leg to move!

He couldn’t get any clear answer.

Just cooperate, that’s all.

Sometimes during filming, the director doesn’t even know what effect he wants.

In this regard, Wong Kar-wai is especially extreme.

Li Luo had seen a news clip: during the filming of Chungking Express, Wong Kar-wai never specified what effect he wanted—he made Leon Lai repeat a single line twenty-seven times, leaving the actor so devastated he nearly broke down.

Wu Ying also appeared in this film, filming a single head-tilt motion over sixty times.

In the final cut, it still wasn’t used!

“It has nothing to do with you.”

Seeing Li Luo’s confused expression, Zhang Zongzhou, who had come over to rest, shook his head with a faint smile: “Do you know what nickname our Director He goes by?”

“What nickname?”

Sun Hao, who played Yun Zhong, turned his head aside.

“He Batiao.”

Zhang Zongzhou made a gesture, brushing his fake beard: “It’s not aimed at anyone—Director He just loves overthinking things; it’s common for a single shot to be filmed eight times.”

Watching He Qun waving his arms in the distance, Li Luo swallowed a gulp of hot water.

Compared to Lai Shuiqing,

it’s truly two completely different approaches to filming.