PHWM Chapter 37.2

“Brother Duan, did you tell him?”

Liang Xiao, getting his eyebrows adjusted by the makeup artist, caught sight of Duan Ming in the mirror as he entered. “How did it go?”

“He laughed, so I think it worked.” Duan Ming had never seen Liang Xiao meddle so much in someone else’s affairs. “Helping someone to this extent—you’re practically a saint.”

Liang Xiao chuckled softly.

Duan Ming looked at him for a moment, sighed, and patted his shoulder.

There was something Duan Ming hadn’t mentioned to Chi Che: that drunken night was the only time Liang Xiao had cried his heart out during those six months.

Duan Ming couldn’t bring himself to dwell on Liang Xiao’s state of mind at the time. He suppressed the thought and changed the subject. “Teacher Jiang has been keeping a close eye on you, probably worried something might happen again.”

Liang Xiao grinned. “How sweet.”

“…!” Duan Ming was exasperated, frustrated by Liang Xiao’s lack of seriousness. After a moment of silence, he subtly reminded him, “This is the last scene.”

After all this time filming, President Huo had only watched one scene, and even that was an unpolished, deleted segment.

Although President Huo was undeniably busy, this production held significant meaning for Liang Xiao. And this was the final, climactic conclusion.

Duan Ming also wanted to gossip for real: “Can’t you just tell President Huo?”

Liang Xiao instantly flushed like a boiled shrimp. “No, no, no way.”

It was rare for Duan Ming to see him stammer. He gave Liang Xiao a curious look. “Why not?”

“It would affect my state…”

Liang Xiao mumbled an excuse and silently recited the Clear Heart Mantra. “Director Song wants me to be ethereal but not too ethereal, real but not too real.”

Duan Ming: “…”

Duan Ming: “Can they add a semi-transparent special effect for you?”

It wasn’t a fantasy drama, so obviously, they couldn’t. Liang Xiao sighed lightly, pushing aside the image of himself sitting at an office desk, and focused again on finding the mood Director Song wanted.

The final scene was both an ending and a beginning. The dust had settled, the gunfire temporarily ceased, but the looming shadows of war and death still lingered.

Yun Lian’s appearance would be the only pure light in this scene.

—

When Liang Xiao arrived on set, Song Qi was explaining the scene to the other actors and specifically called him out: “How’s it going? Have you found the right feeling?”

“I’ll do my best.” Liang Xiao nodded. “I’ll give it a try.”

Song Qi knew his demands were borderline unreasonable. He waved off the others and gestured for Liang Xiao to come over. “Come here.”

Liang Xiao put down the script and walked over, finding a stool to sit on.

“You originally didn’t plan to survive.”

Song Qi said, “But now you’ve lived, and there’s nothing you absolutely have to do, no place you absolutely have to go.”

“The world is vast,” Song Qi asked. “Can you grasp that sense of aimlessness?”

Liang Xiao nodded. “I can.”

“But you won’t be trapped by this aimlessness.”

Song Qi’s tone shifted. “You’ve never had a place to stay. You’re used to living this way. No matter what happens, it won’t make you feel particularly sad.”

Song Qi added, “And you wouldn’t allow yourself to feel sad.”

Liang Xiao lowered his gaze, thought for a moment, and said, “I can.”

At this point, they had already covered all of Song Qi’s original requirements. But the screenwriter insisted on adding more, and after three days of arguing, Song Qi had no choice but to compromise. “But this time, you suddenly want to live well.”

Liang Xiao asked, “Why?”

Song Qi snapped, “How should I know?”

Liang Xiao: “…”

Song Qi, being a professional director, suppressed his frustration and rephrased his explanation: “Maybe you found something—or someone.”

These are extensions beyond the camera’s scope, not part of the main plotline, but their ambiguity leaves room for endless interpretation.

Song Qi thought for a moment and offered a rough concept: “For example, it could be a person. This person makes you suddenly realize you can take a break and be kinder to yourself.”

Liang Xiao froze for a moment and lifted his head.

“Rootless duckweed adrift with no anchor.”

Song Qi clarified his thoughts and finalized it: “This time, you can no longer drift.”

Song Qi continued, “Because of this person, you suddenly feel tired and want to stop. And also because of this person, you resolve to keep moving forward.”

He looked at Liang Xiao. “Can you find that feeling?”

Liang Xiao sat silently for a while, his throat moving slightly, but he didn’t respond immediately.

Song Qi, seeing his blank expression, felt a headache coming on. “If you can’t—”

“I can,” Liang Xiao said.

Song Qi was skeptical. “Really?”

Liang Xiao smiled faintly and released his lightly clenched hand. “Really.”

—

The final scene was set in a semi-outdoor location, with natural light for an open shot. The assistant director timed it perfectly, capturing the pale light of dusk.

The only lighting setup was on the second floor of the teahouse. After adjusting the angles a few times, the D-unit director made an OK gesture and gave a thumbs-up. “This shot will definitely make the top 10 scene compilations.”

“Don’t lean on the railing alone,” Song Qi said, shaking the script one last time to help Liang Xiao get into character. “The teahouse is on the second floor, with light streaming out. Your scene is visually separated from the darker scenes of the others, but in reality, you’re still with them.”

Liang Xiao nodded.

Song Qi signaled to the assistant director and turned to go downstairs.

“Scene 91, third take of Year-End. Action!”

—

The echoes of the bombing gradually faded.

The enemy forces were nearly annihilated, leaving behind only a ruined city. Aircraft circled a few times in frustration before roaring away.

Amid the devastation, people slowly began to move, converging and brushing past one another.

Jing Zhe, half-covered in blood, stumbled to his feet from the rubble, his expression dazed.

The daze lasted only a moment. He stood there in a trance, then lifted his head. Light ignited in his eyes as he staggered forward, crashing into the arms of his lover.

The roads were destroyed, making vehicles useless. Jing Ming abandoned the Jing family entourage, spurring his horse to its limits, nearly coughing up blood in his desperation.

Amid the debris, Jing Ming reined in his horse sharply, his gaze scanning frantically until it finally landed on the figure in the crowd. Exhaustion washed over him as he slumped in relief.

Amid the wandering crowd searching for a way home, amidst the blood and tears, cloaked in smoke and ash, they embraced each other tightly.

The main camera didn’t deliberately linger, instead panning slowly across the scene. It moved past the cold, gray remnants of broken walls, over fresh and dried bloodstains, through the faint light of the setting sun, and finally to the teahouse at the street corner.

Yun Lian leaned against the railing, dressed as usual, his expression calm and gentle.

There was no way he wasn’t injured, but aside from his pale complexion, no other signs were visible.

Warm-toned light spilled out from the teahouse, illuminating the bittersweet gatherings and partings of the human world, stories that seemed to have nothing to do with him.

Liang Xiao closed his eyes briefly, recalling Song Qi’s words.

The world is vast, yet you’re utterly alone.

Liang Xiao summoned his emotions, opened his eyes, and prepared to align with the camera’s position. But then, he froze slightly.

It wasn’t just his imagination—he thought he saw Huo Lan.

The crew bustled about, each focused on perfecting this critical long take. No one noticed the edge of the set.

Huo Lan hadn’t approached the crowd. Without his butler by his side, he stood a little farther away.

The distance was too great to see clearly. But judging by the general direction of Huo Lan’s gaze, Liang Xiao had a faint sense that… Huo Lan might be looking at him.

The memories Liang Xiao had stirred up to capture the right feeling suddenly scattered completely.

“Think about the person you’ve met,” Song Qi had reminded him before heading downstairs. “You’re not without a place to return to.”

—

The D-unit director’s eyes lit up as he watched the monitor, grabbing the cameraman’s arm silently.

Yun Lian lowered his gaze, and a faint light emerged in his eyes.

“Perfect!”

Song Qi slammed the script down, unable to hide his excitement. “This is it! This is the final shot we needed to wrap it up!”

Liang Xiao hadn’t fully stepped out of character yet, still struggling to return from Schrodinger’s ethereal state. “Director Song, this isn’t appropriate.”

“What’s not appropriate?” Song Qi, caught in the rush of inspiration, didn’t let him continue. “We’re keeping this whole shot! How’s the D-unit coverage? Make sure we save two versions of the close-up. This kind of state is rare; I doubt he could recreate it…”

Liang Xiao: “…”

“Don’t worry.” The screenwriter patted him on the shoulder, calm and unhurried. “Yun Lian is a character who exists outside the entire story. In other words, only through his perspective does the story become complete.”

The screenwriter continued, “He’s both a participant and an observer. Ending the story through his eyes is just right.”

Liang Xiao couldn’t shake the feeling that the screenwriter had planned this all along. “What about Teacher Jiang and the others—”

“They won’t mind,” the screenwriter said. “Everyone has their own highlight moments. As long as the arrangement is balanced, there’s no such thing as stealing the spotlight.”

Liang Xiao had nothing to say and gave a helpless smile.

“Don’t overthink it.” Su Man had already grabbed a monitor to review the final shot. After watching it, she patted him on the shoulder. “It’s stunning. If I were the director, I’d put this shot at the end of the opening credits.”

“…” Liang Xiao quickly stopped her. “Man-jei.”

Standing right behind Su Man was Song Qi. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t continue pretending not to notice her “accidental” suggestion. Instead, he patted Liang Xiao on the shoulder with a serious expression. “Congratulations on wrapping up. The future is bright.”

“Congratulations,” Meng Feibai approached, smiling at Liang Xiao. “You’ve earned it. Five years from now, this scene will probably be part of your acting highlight reel.”

Meng Feibai and Jiang Pingchao both had emotionally intense scenes in the finale. The two brothers had a brutal fight amid the ruins, only to end up crying and hugging each other in a tangled mess. They had just washed their faces and returned, still looking somewhat disheveled.

Jiang Pingchao, preoccupied with watching his manager, kept glancing back as he shook Liang Xiao’s hand in passing. “Congrats, congrats…”

“…” Chi Che couldn’t bear to watch anymore and stepped in behind Liang Xiao.

Jiang Pingchao sighed in relief and looked at Liang Xiao. “Let’s work together again in the future.”

Since none of the lead actors had any objections to the final shot, Liang Xiao couldn’t argue further. He smiled. “It would be my honor.”

Liang Xiao was the only one wrapping up. After this scene, the crew would relocate, and the other lead actors, who had just resolved their on-screen conflicts with tears and hugs, would have to reset to their earlier antagonistic states and spend another month filming war scenes.

Liang Xiao was well-liked in the crew. Not just the lead actors but also the assistant directors, script supervisors, and producers all came to shake his hand and congratulate him on wrapping up successfully.

The screenwriter also shook his hand, smiling as he recited, “People fail to recognize the lofty tree, only when it towers do they see its height.”

Liang Xiao smiled. “You flatter me.”

“It’s no exaggeration,” Song Qi interjected, looking at him with rare approval. “Go on. The road ahead is boundless.”

Although the war scenes would continue for another month, this was the final day of filming in Jiangnan. The group, boisterous and celebratory, quickly turned the wrap-up into a farewell party for the crew’s relocation.

Surrounded by the crowd, Liang Xiao finally managed to thank everyone and had Duan Ming distribute the customary wrap gifts to the crew. After breaking free, he took a deep breath and glanced around.

Duan Ming followed him out. “What are you looking for?”

Liang Xiao lowered his voice. “President Huo.”

“President Huo came?” Duan Ming was stunned. “I didn’t notice—I was too busy keeping an eye on you…”

Liang Xiao thought for a moment, then glanced back. He realized that Huo Lan probably wouldn’t blend seamlessly into the crowd rolling around in the dusty ruins behind him.

At this moment, Liang Xiao especially wanted to see Huo Lan. He took off his jacket and tossed it into Duan Ming’s hands. “Brother Duan, cover for me.”

“…” Duan Ming watched him leave, sighed heavily in resignation, and put on the jacket. “Slow down! Don’t catch a cold…”

Liang Xiao waved back without turning and quickly left the set.

The teahouse set, for once, wasn’t covered in dust and grime. Liang Xiao changed out of his costume, took a quick shower, and got dressed. Despite his efficiency, the sky had completely darkened, filled with countless stars.

He didn’t bring his assistant and entered the elevator alone.

Huo Lan was sitting at his desk. Hearing the door open, he looked up and paused in surprise.

Liang Xiao, who had been feeling restless and excited all day on set, suddenly felt a wave of heat when he saw him. “…President Huo.”

Huo Lan lowered his gaze slightly.

Liang Xiao closed the door behind him and walked toward him.

“Congratulations… on wrapping up,” Huo Lan said. Unfamiliar with film crew traditions, he awkwardly mimicked what he’d overheard, stood up, and extended his hand. “You’ve worked hard.”

Liang Xiao froze for a moment.

He knew Huo Lan had been to the set but had been surrounded by people as soon as he stepped off. He had no idea how long Huo Lan had stayed.

For Huo Lan to have even picked up this line, it seemed he must have been there for quite some time.

Liang Xiao’s heart raced. Having learned his lesson, he didn’t dare ask if Huo Lan had waited for him alone at the edge of the set for that long.

After waiting for a moment and seeing that Liang Xiao had no intention of shaking his hand, Huo Lan didn’t insist and withdrew his hand.

Liang Xiao snapped back to reality, cleared his throat, and said, “President Huo.”

Huo Lan looked up at him.

“The wrap…” Liang Xiao steeled himself, throwing caution to the wind. “Do you have a wrap gift for me?”

Huo Lan replied, “I do.”

Liang Xiao had already made up his mind: if Huo Lan didn’t have one, he’d seize the opportunity to shamelessly extend his stay in Huo Lan’s villa for a few more days.

He felt like he couldn’t drift anymore.

He didn’t know if he could stop, but he wanted to—he wanted to stop and walk alongside Huo Lan.

Liang Xiao had even rehearsed what he would say and was about to speak when Huo Lan caught him off guard. “…What?”

Huo Lan opened a drawer, took out a small paper package, and handed it to him.

Liang Xiao dazedly took the package, carefully opened it, and stared at the ten perfectly shelled walnut kernels inside. “…”

Huo Lan rewrapped the package, slipped it into Liang Xiao’s pocket, and bent down to hold his wrist. “You’ve washed up?”

Still stunned by the walnuts, Liang Xiao instinctively nodded at the question.

Huo Lan lightly touched his wrist, then firmly grasped it and led him toward the master bedroom.

Liang Xiao wondered if he had walked into the wrong room. Letting Huo Lan guide him to the bed, he murmured, “President Huo.”

Huo Lan’s shoulders tensed slightly. He stood by the bed for a long moment, closed his eyes as if making a decision, and then lay down.

“…” Liang Xiao wasn’t sure if he should call the butler. “Do you… need any special services?”

Huo Lan, entirely new to being a human pillow, frowned at him. “Is this not enough?”

Liang Xiao: “…Huh?”

Huo Lan wasn’t sure if a high-quality pillow should avoid wearing a shirt, but since today was a special occasion and he wanted to celebrate Liang Xiao’s wrap, he hesitated for a moment. Finally, with one hand, he propped himself up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Liang Xiao practically combusted on the spot. “P-P-President Huo!”

He averted his eyes in a panic. “This… doesn’t seem appropriate…”

Huo Lan, losing patience, closed his eyes and suppressed his irritation. He grabbed Liang Xiao, pulled him onto the bed, and positioned Liang Xiao’s arm around his waist.

Liang Xiao: “…”

Huo Lan lay stiffly, his hand hovering near his leg. Closing his eyes, he said, “Sleep.”

…

The night deepened, and the world grew quiet.

Trapped in bed, hugging the rigid President Huo, Liang Xiao dazedly reached into his pocket.

He pulled out the paper package, opened it, took out a walnut, and ate it.

 

 

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