Chapter 474

The crew of Journey to the West is currently resting in Yanjing, so the next day Wei Ming arrived at CCTV as chief consultant to check on the shooting progress, mainly to see off Her Majesty.

Unexpectedly, he barely showed his face before being grabbed by Yang Jie.

“Teacher Wei, could you do me a favor?”

“Oh, please go ahead,” Wei Ming replied politely.

Director Yang Jie pulled out a musical score: “This is the composition Xu Jingqing wrote for the Daughter Kingdom episode—please write lyrics for it. Since it’s about romantic feelings, I think you’re better suited for this.”

Wei Ming felt there was something unsaid in her words—why did she think he was good at romantic themes?

And wasn’t the song “Daughter’s Affection” originally written by her? Why was she coming to him now?

After confirming again that Yang Jie had no intention of writing it herself, Wei Ming accepted the task, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that she looked at him with a hint of guilt.

On the train to Suzhou, Yang Jie told Zhu Lin about this incident as a joke.

“Actually, we’ve already asked Yan Su to write the lyrics for this song,” Yang Jie said. In fact, apart from Wei Ming’s ending theme, most of the insert songs in other Journey to the West episodes were collaborations between Xu Jingqing and Yan Su.

Xu Jingqing had little fame in the industry, but Yan Su was already a well-established figure—his works like “Praise of the Red Plum,” “I Love the Blue Skies of My Motherland,” and the opera “Jiang Jie” had secured him a solid reputation.

“Then why ask Xiao Wei to write it?” Zhu Lin asked.

Yang Jie: “We’re covering both bases. I have full confidence in Yan Su for all the other songs—‘Great Sage Song,’ ‘Five Hundred Years of Fields and Seas,’ ‘He Wishes to Be a Blade of Grass’—they all fit the story and characters perfectly. But for this song meant for the Daughter Kingdom Queen, I’m not entirely confident in Yan Su.”

After all, Yan Su was over fifty, a man through and through, and Yang Jie worried he couldn’t capture Tang Sanzang’s inner struggle when facing the Daughter Kingdom Queen—she feared he’d write something too rigid, too orthodox, not matching her vision for this episode.

So she also asked Wei Ming, who understood the Daughter Kingdom Queen best, to write another version—she’d pick whichever one turned out better.

In fact, in the original timeline, Yan Su had indeed written a song called “Hard to Meet, Hard to Part” based on Xu Jingqing’s melody.

“Hard to meet, hard to part—how can I voice the thousands of words in my heart? My tender feelings meet his unyielding resolve; we’re cursed by fate in this life… Gone, gone, gone—henceforth, dreams haunt my soul, dreams haunt my soul, haunt my soul…”

For a military musician of Yan Su’s age, this was already quite good—it could convey the emotional entanglement between Tang Sanzang and the Daughter Kingdom Queen.

But Yang Jie felt the tone still wasn’t strong enough, which led her to write “Daughter’s Affection” herself: “Quietly ask the holy monk, is the daughter beautiful?”—more direct, more explicit, and far more widely circulated than “Hard to Meet, Hard to Part.”

After explaining this to Zhu Lin, Yang Jie said: “No matter whose version we use, we’ll pay proper compensation. Even if we don’t use it, we can still record and release it—no harm done.”

Zhu Lin nodded and idly flipped open the copy of “Shouhuo” Wei Ming had given her at the train station before they parted, when a sheet of paper slipped out.

Zhu Lin picked it up and her expression brightened with delight.

“Director.”

“Hmm?”

Zhu Lin: “Xiao Wei has already finished writing it.”

“Finished what?”

“‘Daughter’s Affection,’” Zhu Lin said. “The insert song for the Daughter Kingdom episode—you asked him to write. Here, take a look yourself.”

“What?!” Yang Jie was stunned. Their conversation drew the attention of Li Chengru, Six Little Monkeys, and other crew members, who gathered around.

Since they were all familiar with the melody, Yang Jie sang it aloud herself: “Mandarin ducks nest together, butterflies fly in pairs, the garden’s spring colors intoxicate…”

After just one line, she nodded inwardly—it was right. As she sang the rest, her satisfaction grew—this was exactly the feeling she wanted!

The key point was, Wei Ming had completed it in the mere time between CCTV and the train station. No wonder the legend said he could compose poetry in seven steps—it was true!

“Who cares about power and wealth? Who fears monastic rules? I only wish for heaven and earth to last, forever by my beloved’s side…”

Though Director Yang Jie, at her age, singing this song seemed slightly improper, the crew cheered enthusiastically—praising Xu Jingqing’s melody, Wei Ming’s lyrics, and especially Yang’s singing voice.

Unless something extraordinary happened, Yan Su’s version stood no chance against this lyric. Yang Jie wanted to carefully preserve Wei Ming’s version.

But Zhu Lin reached out and said: “Director, I’d like to make a copy to keep.”

“Oh, sure, take it.”

Zhu Lin copied it out, then returned the copy to Yang Jie, keeping Wei Ming’s original for herself.

Yang Jie noticed this small trick immediately. She shook her head and tucked away the copy: “Better make sure you didn’t write any wrong characters.”

Zhu Lin: “Don’t worry—I checked it three times.”

At that moment, cinematographer Wang Zhongqiu approached, reminding Director Yang Jie it was time for her medicine, and handed her warm water.

Seeing the fifty-something Director Yang and the forty-year-old cinematographer, Zhu Lin felt she was glimpsing her own future with Xiao Wei—they were over ten years apart and still so affectionate; she and Xiao Wei were only nine years apart, surely they could grow old together too.

Yes, surely!

After seeing Zhu Lin off, Wei Ming felt a hollow emptiness in his life, so he went to the post office again to check if any overseas letters had arrived for him.

He wasn’t sure whether the Cannes reply would go to the Children’s Film Studio or be sent directly to him.

Also, he’d been corresponding frequently with A Min lately—perhaps she’d written too.

This time luck was with him: though he didn’t see the Cannes letter, he found letters and telegrams from Melinda, Zhou Hui, and Gong Ying.

Wei Ming really didn’t want to read Melinda’s—he knew it was a follow-up letter urging him to submit his work.

A week ago, she’d written to report the great success of “Dear, I Shrunk the Kids,” especially its popularity in the U.S., and urged him to send new manuscripts quickly—but Wei Ming had been delayed by the Hong Kong script.

“Dear, I Shrunk the Kids” had a first printing of 500,000 copies in North America, and the publishing speed was astonishing—Melinda received the manuscript at the end of February and it was published by April.

She believed the “Goosebumps” series should be played this way: rapid releases to build brand momentum, then slowing down later.

Fortunately, Wei Ming had already finished the second story—he could send it to her soon.

Next, he opened A Min’s letter.

“To shoot this music video, I met Xu Ke through Teddy Robin—I’m sure he’ll agree to join…”

Wow, inviting Old Weird Xu to shoot a music video? My A Min really wants to set the standard for music videos.

“But the male lead hasn’t been decided yet. Since the plot includes a wedding and consummation, Rong Shao and Ah Lun are both fighting to play it, and Ah Mei wants to cross-dress, but I want to give it to you—would you be willing?”

Wei Ming stroked his chin. He thought it would be more interesting if Anita Mui cross-dressed.

At the end of the letter, A Min mentioned that all costumes for the video were designed personally by Long’s wife.

Gong Ying designing costumes for A Min? Wei Ming read this line, glanced at the unopened letter from Xue Jie, and his heartbeat quickened—had they already met in Hong Kong?

Finally, Wei Ming opened Xue Jie’s telegram. It made no mention of A Min. She concisely explained that Xia Meng had invited her to audition for the female lead in “Paper Butterfly,” and she wanted to take on the challenge.

So she’d stay in Hong Kong for a while to experience life and wouldn’t return for now.

Gong Ying in Hong Kong style—Wei Ming had no idea what that would look like. Though the original female lead was already excellent, and ultimately the award went to Si Qin Gao Wa.

But Gong Ying was someone deeply committed to acting, hungry for a bigger stage—something Xue Jie lacked. Most of the time, Xue Jie was quite lazy, except in bed, where she was fiercely active.

Since Xue Jie wanted to challenge herself, Wei Ming could only support her—and offer his advice.

He first wrote a long letter to Gong Ying, then sent it by telegram.

It was a detailed letter, analyzing the character Shan Shan, and offering methods for Gong Ying, a mainlander, to better embody her.

“You must make up for the twenty years of Hong Kong life you’ve never had. So observe not only thirty-year-old Hong Kong women, but also immigrant girls from their teens—gradually enrich your character: how did she go to school at ten? How did she date in her teens? How did she prepare for university? What could she do after entering society at twenty? What was her life like after marrying a Hong Kong man?

“After years of marriage with no children and an unhappy union, how did she cope after the divorce? How did she rebuild her independence?

“After living in Hong Kong for twenty years, your appearance will have become thoroughly Hong Kong—no trace of the mainland visible. But don’t forget you still carry ten years of rural mainland childhood—your entire early life. Don’t let yourself become a completely Hong Kong woman.”

When Gong Ying received Wei Ming’s telegram in Hong Kong, she sighed with sympathy: so many characters—how much did this cost?

But Wei Ming’s support and advice were genuinely helpful, igniting Gong Ying’s determination.

She was separated from her character by twenty years of Hong Kong life, so she needed more living examples to bridge the gap.

But finding so many examples herself was difficult—she’d have to rely on Ying and Long’s connections—they knew many mainlanders living in Hong Kong, some newly arrived, others settled for two or three decades or longer.

Long also offered advice to his second sister: “I remember a supervisor at Lanning Toys who handled the Crazy Comics collaboration—she’s exactly like the Shan Shan you described. She’s in her thirties, recently divorced, raising a daughter, and immigrated to Hong Kong as a child with her parents.”

So Gong Ying drove her second sister straight to the Lanning office. This time, Gong Ying brought gifts—after all, Wei Lingling was technically an elder, even if she was a few years younger than her.

Lanning’s CEO office.

Wei Lingling was reviewing some sketches. After deciding to launch Lanning’s own gift shop, she realized the company lacked a cute mascot like Hello Kitty.

Too many historical cat characters would dilute focus, and other toys were too male-oriented, so she wanted to introduce more new toy designs—cute, appealing to female users.

So Lanning placed ads in “Crazy Comics,” offering big rewards to get Hong Kong artists to submit designs—including many cartoonists from Crazy Comics and Yulang.

But after reviewing them, Wei Lingling was mostly dissatisfied. She needed a cartoon image with simple lines yet distinct personality and emotional resonance.

Did she really have to trouble her nephew?

Seeing the boss still unsatisfied, Li Zhi quickly brought over another stack of new sketches.

“Hmm.”