MACRM Chapter 29

Zhong Yao put down the script.

The screenwriter, who had successfully escaped the film crew and boarded an international flight, suddenly let out a fierce sneeze on the plane.

…

Lin Zhu’s shirt had been torn to shreds, hanging open and ready to fall off at the slightest tug. Zhong Yao quickly stepped forward, blocking him in a spot where the fill light didn’t reach well, and swiftly fastened a button for him.

At last the shirt barely clung to his body. Lin Zhu let out a sigh of relief, released his grip, and lifted his head with tragic heroism, “Zhong-laoshi, I’m ready!”

Zhong Yao smiled, tugging at his collar to neaten it.

Without his usual proper professional attire, the young agent actually looked less frail than usual.

Compared to Actor Zhong, who had well-defined abs from years of fitness training, Lin Zhu’s muscle lines weren’t obvious, but he had the advantage of flexibility and smooth proportions. Coupled with his naturally refined looks, even with a shirt full of holes and bloodstains, he somehow didn’t look all that disheveled.

Perhaps because of the script, some makeup had been added to Lin Zhu’s body as well. Half-hidden in the shadows, his expression couldn’t be clearly seen, which instead gave him an unusual heroic air.

“I’m not ready yet.”

Zhong Yao looked at him and, after a pause, gave a soft laugh. “What now? This is honestly the first time I’ve seen this version of the script…”

He had probably guessed the screenwriter’s intentions by now.

This scene depended mostly on his lead; as long as he didn’t call “cut,” Lin Zhu would have to follow along no matter how he played it.

The screenwriter must have really worried that this veteran actor — who had never truly done such things on or off screen — wouldn’t know how to execute it, and so had written his copy in painstaking detail, laying out the setup, transitions, and key beats, even going so far as to draw more than ten storyboard panels.

…

But he had tossed it aside without a glance and shoved it straight into Lin Zhu’s hands.

Zhong Yao rubbed his temples, looking at the young agent’s amber eyes, which were slightly widened, and a trace of tender relief welled up in his chest.

Fortunately, Lin Zhu couldn’t make heads or tails of the wild, abstract scrawls that passed for the storyboard sketches…

“See, I’ve got it memorized!”

Seeing his odd expression, Lin Zhu thought Zhong Yao was troubled and hurried to clutch at his shirt. “I can wait a bit longer, like this it’s cooler…”

The young agent was inexperienced in the industry, unaware of the true secret hidden behind the storyboard, and hadn’t realized how far the screenwriter’s imagination had gone off track.

He had simply been startled by the wild boldness of the script. He felt embarrassed, yet those warm and intimate words had also left his face flushed and his heart racing. He hadn’t wanted to return it, and couldn’t help but sneak looks at it several more times.

Zhong Yao was struck speechless, then chuckled and shook his head. “Too late. I’ll improvise… don’t worry, I won’t hold you back.”

After so many years in the industry, he had seen his fair share of documentaries that are truly open and artistic. It was true he had never filmed intimate scenes like this, but to say he knew nothing at all, even he wouldn’t believe it.

The script itself… the flow was fine, but some details were a bit excessive.

The key plot points were hidden in the storyboards, but the script still revealed hints. When Zhong Yao first read it, he had understood at once why Lin Zhu had taken a deep breath and practically purified himself with ritual before reading. Thinking back to his half-serious threats at the time made his head pound.

Threatening him with goji berry tea to tilt his head for medicine, hugging him close to change clothes, even demanding a smile before letting him eat the green dumplings…

With years of acting experience, Zhong Yao’s professionalism was unmatched. The moment he saw the storyboard, the imagined scene had already been etched into his mind.

How could he have gone this far?

Shaken to the point of confusion, the Movie Emperor began slipping into character, closing his eyes to scold himself fiercely before lifting his head with ascetic restraint.

This scene was meant to help Lin Zhu untie the knot in his heart. Under the camera, Zhong Yao could never treat him so frivolously, nor did he want Lin Zhu to mistake him for being wanton or indecent. After a long stretch of nervousness, when he saw that those amber eyes remained pure and clear, his taut heart finally relaxed a little.

“All ready?”

The assistant director came over with a notebook. Seeing how well the two were getting along, he clapped his hands cheerfully. “Come, let’s go over the scene. Once that’s done, we’ll start rolling…”

Zhong Yao nodded, lightly putting an arm around Lin Zhu’s back and guiding him over.

This scene hadn’t originally been part of the plan; Zhong Yao had added it on the spot. The screenwriter had a flash of inspiration, weaving it seamlessly into the main plotline. No matter how the editors cut it later, a few shots would have to remain, making the reveal of Zhan Yuan’s plotline much more natural.

But that meant a heap of smaller adjustments were needed. The screenwriter had abandoned the outline and left suddenly, leaving Wei Geping simmering with nowhere to vent. He sat with a few junior screenwriters, dark-faced, laying out specific instructions for extensions and rewrites.

The assistant director took a sip of tea and picked up the script.

“This is the most critical moment. The young master already knows Zhan Yuan’s true identity, and he knows his own family’s pro-Japanese stance.”

The script in his hand was the third version submitted by the writer—serious, standard, sure to pass review. “But he doesn’t care. He still wants to tell Zhan Yuan that his identity has been exposed and warn him to hide quickly. His family forbids it and locks him up, but he risks everything to escape, determined to warn Zhan Yuan…”

Lin Zhu nodded slightly.

“More or less like that. Afterwards, Zhan Yuan takes care of you. You, in your half-conscious state, tell him to flee. He refuses and instead gives you a letter of recommendation for overseas study.”

“He watches over you all night, and by the time you wake, he has already gone to that fateful banquet.”

The assistant director finished outlining the plot, flipped through the script, and gave a helpless smile. “Liang-laoshi really keeps it brief. It only has these two dialogues…” 

Lin Zhu：“……”

Zhong Yao：“……”

Sitting on the plane flying high above the ocean, the screenwriter rubbed his nose and sneezed hard twice.

Meanwhile, the set was already in place, and the lighting stand-in had gone through the blocking twice. Wei Geping finished giving instructions, came over, and sat in front of the monitor. Everything was ready.

Zhong Yao had not yet reached his entrance point. He straightened Lin Zhu’s clothes, smiling gently as he asked in a soft voice: “Need some encouragement?”

Lin Zhu had always insisted on not taking solo shots. Every scene on set had to have Zhong Yao in frame with him. This was the very first time he had to go on alone for a few dozen seconds, with Zhong Yao just watching from the side.

His agent had more guts than him, even daring to suppress Zheng Yi in a scene. Not a hint of stage fright or nervousness ever showed.

Zhong Yao’s question was just casual teasing, and he was about to find a good vantage point that wouldn’t block the shot when Lin Zhu pressed his lips together and looked up: “…Yes.”

Zhong Yao was slightly startled, lowering his gaze at him.

After last night’s upheaval, Lin Zhu’s courage had inexplicably grown. Clearing his throat, he gathered his nerve. “Yes… will you encourage me?”

Looking at him, Zhong Yao’s features softened, his gaze filling with gentle warmth. He smiled. “Of course.”

Zhong Yao stepped forward, spreading his arms, intending to give him a hug, only to be met with the costume designer’s death glare.

He lowered his head, glanced at the fresh dirt and blood stains on Lin Zhu’s clothes, then at his own newly donned custom-tailored wool coat: “…”

He prepared to ruffle Lin Zhu’s hair, but the hairstylist, who had just sprayed half a can of hairspray onto it, stared him down. He thought of pinching his cheek, but he found out the pale foundation dusted across Lin Zhu’s delicate features accentuated his frailty. It smoothed out the feverish flush on his face. 

Left with nowhere else to place his hand, Zhong Yao finally rested it on the shell of Lin Zhu’s ear, rubbing it gently.

Lin Zhu: “!”

Zhong Yao gave him a soft smile. “Good luck.”

Lin Zhu jolted back to himself, his ears burning red in an instant. He bobbed his head hurriedly, watching as Zhong Yao retreated to the side of the set.

Hidden in the shadows, the young agent pressed a hand against his fluttering chest, his lips curling upward uncontrollably.

The lighting adjusted. The stunt doubles playing guards crowded in around Lin Zhu, surrounding him tightly.

“No Bridge, Scene 72, Act 1, Take 1. Action!”

The lighting flickered dimly as Lin Zhu grappled with the guards outside. The foley artist crouched by the boom mic, layering in muffled thuds, every punch landing with realistic force.

The guards had been ordered by the family head: under no circumstances was the young master allowed to escape. At first, they had held back, hesitant to use real force, but the young master’s skill was too sharp. Any slack might actually let him break free.

Orders were absolute. The guards dared not hold back anymore, relying on numbers to trap him, using real strength to twist his arms.

“Originally we thought about using a stunt double, but who knew Lin Zhu would be so talented? The stunt choreographer only taught him twice, sparred with him once, and he remembered it all.”

This sequence wasn’t long. On film it would be cut to barely ten seconds, but by Sichuan Film’s standards, it would still take at least a dozen minutes of shooting before the director would call cut.

The assistant director, hiding in a sound-safe zone with a teacup, sighed and filled Zhong Yao in on the plot between takes.

“This scene ties the young master’s identity directly with the main villain from the earlier acts. Their family, even if aristocratic, is still a military clan, and he’s been trained since young. Even if the fight only shows a few seconds on screen, it has to be crisp and impressive. Look at Xiao Zhu’s downward strike here…”

As he spoke, Lin Zhu executed a clean spin kick, sending three or four guards sprawling before lunging forward again.

Zhong Yao’s eyes flickered.

He had long suspected Lin Zhu’s skills weren’t weak, but this was the first time he had seen him in a full-scale fight scene, for real.

This level… wasn’t something that talent alone could achieve.

Real brawlers couldn’t automatically perform good fight scenes. Bamera sense, positioning, and stage form were all crucial. For Lin Zhu to have honed his physical expression to this degree, it was impossible without arduous training.

Zhong Yao himself had debuted in a historical drama, where fight scenes were unavoidable. He knew better than anyone how much sweat, pain, and practice it took to grind one’s form into such shape.

He shut his eyes briefly.

——Lin Zhu had once casually mentioned that he originally wanted to enter the entertainment industry as an actor just to follow him. But an accident changed his path, and he gave up on that thought.

The young agent, now nearly two years in the business, had looked back on that memory with a shy awkwardness, recounting it like a silly joke, cheeks red, teasing himself for his youthful impulsiveness.

Zhong Yao lifted his gaze, watching Lin Zhu bend low to dodge the swing of a rifle butt.

So many things were easy to say in passing.

But the basic skills hammered in through gritted teeth, the endless repetition, the bitter tedium, training in winter’s cold and summer’s heat, the restless mind, the aching body…

All of it, when spoken of later as casual anecdotes, rarely reminded anyone of just how grueling, how torturous, how exhausting it truly was.

Zhong Yao had lived through it. At the age of 25, he was crowned as Best Actor, bathed in accolades, every scar a testament to what he had earned.

He rose and walked toward the set.

One shot’s worth of footage was already captured. Wei Geping gave a hand signal, and the guards gradually loosened their hold, allowing Lin Zhu to break free.

The night was dark, the streets here complex. The guards chased futilely for dozens of meters, only to lose the young master in the tangled alleys.

Stumbling footsteps crashed into the alleyways.

The camera tilted upward: the proud, unruly young master, now ragged and battered, staggered through the dim, narrow alleyways on sheer willpower. Exhaustion and injury finally dragged him down, his body faltering as he collapsed forward.

A broad, steady chest caught him.

Lin Zhu’s breath came fast, his chest heaving with spent strength. Lifting his head, he peered through the haze, eyes suddenly brightening as he grabbed the man’s tie. “Go quickly, someone wants to kill you—”

“I know. Don’t make a sound.”

Zhong Yao’s voice was soft, his arm braced firmly behind Lin Zhu’s back.

His other arm hooked gently under the crook of the little young master’s leg — kicked and beaten just moments ago — and lifted him smoothly, carrying him steadily in his arms.