Chapter 54: Night Shoot

The startup ceremony ended.

All crew members, both front and back, along with media staff, moved to the hotel.

After a short rest, the startup banquet followed immediately.

In any circle, certain things are hard to avoid unless you reach a certain height—though if you raise a glass to others but don’t drink yourself, that’s another matter entirely.

Inside the banquet hall, nearly a hundred people filled the space.

Even if your alcohol tolerance is excellent, one round of drinks from each person will leave you utterly drunk.

The banquet began.

Li Luo took the initiative without hesitation.

He toasted the main table in a full circle, then circled the table of veteran actors, then moved to the press table for another round, and didn’t miss the special effects team’s familiar stuntmen either.

For the film’s startup, Yuan Bin brought over his core team.

Meeting old friends naturally called for greetings; after downing several drinks with Du Yun, Lin Can, and others, he passed out cold.

Supported by attendants, he staggered back to his room.

He vomited violently into the toilet.

Then he fell onto the bed, half-conscious, and slept.

Deep night.

Feiteng Film Base, The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber set.

Li Luo dodged a few crew members carrying lights and walked behind the monitor, twirling the iron judge’s pen in his hand.

“That last scene was good.”

Lai Shuiqing took a deep drag from his cigarette and waved his hand: “Take a break.”

“Thank you, Director.”

The black-painted wooden judge’s pen spun fluidly in Li Luo’s hand as he stared intently at the monitor.

A scene was being shot with intense focus.

After the startup ceremony, the crew officially entered operation; he found the new team’s working style was completely different from his previous ones—a fresh experience for Li Luo.

Zhang Zhongzhi methodically refined every shot, sometimes waiting if natural lighting wasn’t ideal.

He’d rather shut down the entire crew.

Just to capture the exact shot he wanted.

But Lai Shuiqing was the fast-paced Hong Kong-Taiwan type: if they couldn’t shoot by day, they shot by night, keeping the crew running nonstop—progress could never lag.

Eight hours a day was considered a holiday; ten or more hours was the norm.

“Actors in position.”

“Wire rig ready.”

“Roll camera.”

Several strong men pulled the wires; Guo Feili kicked off the table and spun upward.

She landed cleanly and neatly on the roof.

“Good.”

Lai Shuiqing grabbed the megaphone and shouted: “Feili, don’t move—we’re going for a close-up.”

Beneath a star-strewn sky.

Guo Feili, standing on the roof, gave a thumbs-up.

Normally, during filming, crews adjust to set arrangements and don’t shoot scenes in story order, to save costs.

But Jia Jingwen had to promote The Emperor of Han.

Guo Feili’s schedule was limited, so they had to concentrate on shooting her scenes in the first few episodes.

What they were filming now was the scene where Zhang Cuishan arrives at the Longmen Escort Agency, trying to uncover the mystery behind Yu Daiyan’s poisoning, only to clash with two Shaolin monks, until Yin Susu intervenes to save him.

Filming resumed quickly.

Guo Feili made several expressions of surprise, then swept her arm as if to strike.

Another take was completed in just a few minutes.

In post-production, they’d add a visual effect of silver needles flying out from her sleeves.

To blind the eye of an elderly Shaolin monk.

To rescue Zhang Cuishan.

The wires pulled again; Guo Feili, in her red dress, descended slowly from the roof.

Nowadays, actors—whether professional or not—generally put in real effort; their wire work looked convincing, rarely showing the painfully unrealistic martial arts or flight poses common later.

“Let’s go.”

Du Yun yawned and patted Li Luo’s shoulder: “Let’s run through your positions again—be careful, don’t hurt me.”

Li Luo smiled and shook his head, turning the judge’s pen as he stepped forward.

The silver tiger-head hook could be swung like a sword—audiences wouldn’t notice the difference—but the iron judge’s pen was different; it had to be used exactly as Yuan Bin designed.

To master it thoroughly, he’d been playing with this twenty-centimeter-long pen whenever he had free time these past few days.

“Feili.”

Seeing the red-clad Yin Susu walking toward him, he greeted her with a smile:

“That wire move was great.”

“Thank you.”

Guo Feili stretched her arm and smiled sweetly at Li Luo: “Your turn now.”

After days of working together, everyone had grown familiar.

So far, they’d only shot dialogue scenes.

Li Luo had memorized his lines perfectly and portrayed Zhang Cuishan’s scholarly air with vivid precision, making Guo Feili, who’d initially been worried, thoroughly enjoy their scenes together.

Now came his first action scene.

She was curious how he’d perform—after all, this Zhang Cuishan in his white robe carried a faint air of frail scholarship.

He didn’t look like someone who could fight.

As Guo Feili’s curiosity swelled, Li Luo followed Du Yun into the Longmen Escort Agency’s funeral hall set.

The night wind blew cold and hollow.

White funeral banners hung everywhere.

At the far end, the table was piled with memorial plaques; a large white cloth hung on the wall.

The character “Mourning” fluttered in the wind.

Smoke drifted through the air, lending an eerie, chilling atmosphere.

But seeing the crew members hiding nervously in corners, and the actors dressed as monks holding ritual staves, the feeling vanished quickly.

Looking at the two bald heads, Li Luo’s thoughts stirred.

He recalled his time with the young nun—too bad things had changed so completely.

That lovely little Yilin.

He could no longer reach her.

“Perfect timing.” Yuan Bin was also in the funeral hall; he gestured for Li Luo to take his designated position.

“A Can, jab him first with your staff.”

“Li Luo, step one step left.”

Lin Can, dressed in monk’s robes, nodded and slowly thrust his staff forward; Li Luo moved nimbly, evading the first strike.

“Yun, sweep his legs here.”

“Jump, Li Luo.”

“All three of you turn, switch positions.”

“Start with the judge’s pen.”

Yuan Bin kept giving orders; he took the pen from Li Luo and gestured to the elderly actor beside him in monk’s robes: “Close-up here—the tip brushes past his eyes.”

“Step back—back outside the courtyard.”

Li Luo and the stuntmen moved through the motions, stepping into the small courtyard.

Under Yuan Bin’s constant demonstrations,

They repeated the movements over and over.

The two elderly actors playing Shaolin monks watched nervously nearby, memorizing when to appear and what pose to strike—they couldn’t actually fight, of course.

But they still had to show up occasionally, or it would look fake.

That’s how acting works.

Dialogue scenes were easier; action scenes demanded repeated rehearsals and constant use of stunt doubles.

Actors who could actually fight were rare.

“No wonder it’s the Yuan Clan Troupe.”

After running through the positions twice, Li Luo praised Yuan Bin sincerely.

Based on his own understanding,

This fight sequence would look absolutely stunning.

Unlike the original Su version, which looked wildly energetic but, on closer inspection, was just endless spinning, jumping, and frantic cutting—so dizzying it made viewers nauseous.

All to create the illusion of intensity.

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

Yuan Bin’s expression was full of pride.

Once the camera and lighting were all set, he took charge without hesitation.

Under the gaze of all the crew, he gripped the megaphone and shouted:

“Action.”

The camera rolled.

Dodging the whistling staff thrust at him, Li Luo calmly drew his Judge’s Pen from his pack.

“Ha~”

Du Yun bent low and swept his leg, kicking up the powder scattered on the ground—his motion looked fiercely sharp.

Li Luo leapt upward, easily evading the attack.

But he hadn’t landed yet.

The wooden staff came crashing down at him with a rush of wind.

Realizing he’d lost the rhythm, Lin Can quickly pulled back his strength—but still knocked Li Luo off balance.

“Thud~”

He hit the ground hard.

Guo Feili and several crew members sprang to their feet in alarm, staring anxiously at Li Luo, as if expecting him to erupt in curses any second.

She had experienced this before.

If a stuntman accidentally hit the lead actor, he’d be screamed at until he was covered in blood and dirt.

“Cut!”

Yuan Bin raised the megaphone as if it were routine: “Remember your marks. Let’s do it again.”

He knew Li Luo had martial skills—he didn’t need to worry too much—and he understood this guy loved to perform his own stunts, rarely used a double, and wasn’t one of those actors who cried over every little bump.

That was exactly why he admired him so much.

Before Lin Can could reach out a hand,

Li Luo flipped up like a leaping carp and stood up cleanly and efficiently.

“No problem.”

After exchanging a punch, he and Lin Can shared a smile, as if they’d returned to the days of shooting The Smiling, Proud Wanderer.

A little bump or bruise during a fight scene? What’s the big deal?

That radiant smile and positive attitude filled Guo Feili with admiration; she turned and sat back down.

Lai Shuiqing nodded in satisfaction.

He calmly lit a cigarette.

“Action.”

“One more take.”

“Good.”

“Put some force into it—did you skip breakfast??”

Amid Yuan Bin’s constant shouts, the crew wrapped up the day’s shooting.