Yun Lang was raised in the palace from a young age, a precious young marquis. He was also a young general who could ride and fight at seventeen, driving out the barbarians for a hundred miles in one night. It wouldn’t make sense for him to have only a few outfits.
He glanced at the several outfits and picked up a white folding fan nearby, testing its weight in his hand.
Chen Hongwen’s eyes lit up as he watched him. “Can you spin it?”
Liang Xiao nodded. The fan spun deftly between his fingers, completing several dazzling circles before landing steadily in his hand. “It’s just something I play around with when I’m bored…”
“Very fitting,” Chen Hongwen noted down. “We’ll add a glass-grade jade pendant to the fan later, with twisted gold threads.”
The chief producer couldn’t help but laugh. “That would make him a true dandy.”
“A dandy, but not a spoiled one,” Chen Hongwen tapped his pen twice. “A white feathered arrow tucked at his waist, while others in the palace study poetry and etiquette, he’s chasing barbarians across the desert like rabbits. What’s wrong with casually hanging a piece of jade on his fan for fun?”
The chief producer swallowed the thought of the jade’s price and nodded in agreement. “Fair enough.”
“We also need to capture this feeling,” the screenwriter added, taking the opportunity to explain to Liang Xiao. “Yun Lang was extraordinarily gifted and, among his peers in the palace at that time—even including the princes—he was the most favored.”
Liang Xiao nodded.
When Yun Lang was brought into the palace, both the emperor and empress were already in their twilight years and longed for the joy of grandchildren. The Marquis of Zhenyuan was related to the empress as her nephew, and Yun Lang, being an extraordinarily talented grandson, was doted on by both the emperor and empress. Even when he caused trouble, they would often protect him, offering only token reprimands.
Even later, when the Marquis of Zhenyuan committed a crime that warranted the execution of his entire family with no chance of redemption, upon hearing that Yun Lang had escaped, the emperor merely sighed and did not order further pursuit.
If it weren’t for the emperor’s passing and the new emperor ascending to the throne—digging up old grievances out of guilt—Yun Lang wouldn’t have been hunted down so relentlessly, forced to flee across two thousand miles soaked in blood.
“So later on during his escape, there were actually two phases,” the assistant director continued. “While the late emperor was alive, although Yun Lang had to hide his identity, he wasn’t in mortal danger.”
During this phase, although Yun Lang was fleeing as a criminal, his innate nobility couldn’t be erased. Even while hiding and evading capture, he still made an effort to keep himself tidy and presentable.
Liang Xiao nodded.
The assistant director showed him several sets of plain clothing before turning back to him: “But after the new emperor ascended to the throne, danger surrounded him at every step. A single misstep would lead to a deadly trap. He was injured multiple times and nearly lost his life.”
Liang Xiao didn’t mind wearing tattered clothes but noticed how troubled the assistant director looked. He took the initiative to explain: “In life-and-death situations, there’s no time to worry about appearances.”
The assistant director breathed a sigh of relief and nodded quickly.
As Liang Xiao looked through everything, his gaze was drawn to one particular outfit: “When does this one appear?”
From the moment Yun Lang became a fugitive, his clothing turned dark and somber—several sets in oppressive black and deep blue tones. Liang Xiao had expected this but didn’t anticipate seeing an exceptionally striking bright white outfit among them.
“The final episode,” said the screenwriter. “Yun Lang realizes there’s no one left in court who can be sent to defend the border. If they delay any longer, it will inevitably fall.”
When Yun Lang went on campaigns in his youth, he always wore luxurious attire—fine steeds, silver armor, and white robes. This time, obtaining armor was out of the question.
But for General Yun Lang, discipline came above all else. Even burdened with crimes and teetering on death’s edge, he refused to go to war dressed in rags.
This detail wasn’t explicitly written into the script. Liang Xiao thought about it for a moment before nodding: “So I went out and bought a set…”
“The young marquis never personally bought anything he liked,” interrupted the screenwriter.
“He stole it from the palace,” they clarified.
Liang Xiao: “…”
“It was made from premium cloud brocade—a tribute from Southern Jiang,” added the assistant director.
This scene wasn’t part of Liang Xiao’s script since it didn’t feature Yun Lang directly. The assistant director explained further: “Most of it had already been used for wide-sleeved robes; only enough remained for one short fitted outfit.”
“When Southern Jiang rebelled back then,” he continued, “it was Yun Lang who led troops to subdue them. That’s why they’ve been sending tributes every year since.”
In this dynasty that valued literature over martial arts, regular clothing was distributed among various officials. This set of fitted attire had no specific recipient and had been left unused in storage at the tailoring bureau.
The young general needed to go into battle. Sneaking into the palace alone, he searched everywhere but couldn’t find a suitable spear or sword. Instead, he led away a horse familiar to him—a Ferghana steed—and happened upon this outfit.
While search parties scoured outside for fugitives, no one expected that a wanted criminal would dare sneak back into the palace itself.
By the time they realized that stealing such an outfit was no ordinary theft and sent secret guards after him in haste, Yun Lang had already returned briefly to his sealed-off ruined family estate. There he retrieved his trusty white wax spear before riding out of capital on horseback for dozens of miles.
—
The team pieced together this part of Yun Lang’s story with just a few words while waiting for Liang Xiao to get into character and change costumes for makeup tests.
“He’s always proud,” said the screenwriter. “Not arrogant or conceited—he truly sees no one as his equal.”
Director Jin entered at that moment and nodded at these words: “He chose his own path to survival; he also sought out his own path to death.”
“When he was born under the White Tiger star,” continued the screenwriter, “rumors spread wildly within both court and palace that he would bring disaster—short-lived fortune followed by endless calamities—and die violently in bloodshed.”
“He didn’t care,” they added. “‘The White Tiger isn’t more dangerous than me,’ he said.”
“But he was still a little marquis spoiled by everyone around him.”
Director Jin glanced at the screenwriter before pulling Liang Xiao back into focus: “He has both the sharpness of a young general and the temperamental arrogance of someone raised in luxury.”
The assistant director nodded while flipping through scripts: “Back when negotiating peace with foreign tribes at the borderlands, he found their harsh conditions unbearable. It took nothing less than an imperial gift—a prized white fox fur—to appease him before he stormed off angrily with troops ready to wipe out their stronghold.”
Liang Xiao roughly understood now and nodded as he accepted a prop sword tossed casually by Director Jin.
Director Jin had recently hired an experienced wirework team and seemed unusually cheerful as he said: “Give it a try.”
To achieve better visual effects on camera, even prop swords were made from metal—they were heavy but unsharpened.
Liang Xiao tested its weight in his hand before drawing it smoothly from its scabbard and twirling it skillfully in several intricate moves.
Having spent much time on set as a stunt double previously during idle moments, Liang Xiao had picked up these tricks effortlessly over time. The sword hilt spun along his palm before its shining blade flickered sharply mid-air—the tassel wrapping itself neatly around his wrist with precision.
“Beautiful!” Chen Hongwen’s eyes lit up as he reminded, “Put more effort into designing his fight choreography with the stunt team.”
Director Jin nodded. “No need to worry; the wirework team is already taken care of.”
“Taken care of?” The chief producer was stunned. “Where did these people come from? Aren’t the stuntmen usually the ones handling the wirework?”
Director Jin wasn’t entirely sure either, but since a top-tier wirework team had been donated, he wasn’t going to refuse. “The production just received a donation.”
The chief producer: “…”
Having worked on countless films and TV shows, the chief producer had seen his fair share of fan or artist team donations—fans donating fans or heaters, reclining chairs, sun umbrellas, or even quirky gifts like instant snail noodle hot pot bases.
But no one had ever gone as far as this.
…
Someone donated an entire wirework team.
Liang Xiao vaguely knew who the “unique donor” was and subtly shook his head at his manager, sheathing the sword and putting it back.
Duan Ming caught on quickly, kept quiet, and instead fanned Liang Xiao’s flushed ears and neck. “Control it—try to keep it at a rosy pink.”
Liang Xiao: “…Okay.”
Duan Ming pulled the assistant over to block him from view.
While a regular stunt team could handle wirework just fine, having professionals on board was undoubtedly good news.
Duan Ming had reviewed Yun Lang’s fight choreography. The young marquis was naturally gifted, picking up martial arts effortlessly. He would use light-footed techniques instead of walking properly and rarely stood still on the ground—always either on rooftops or on his way to them.
With this added assurance, Duan Ming felt much more at ease and happily chatted with Liang Xiao in a low voice: “President Huo even thought about this. Did he mention how you’ll handle meals in the future?”
Liang Xiao coughed lightly: “Xingguan… has a team.”
After all, Huo Lan still had work to handle and couldn’t blow up the kitchen every day. This time, he had brought along several chefs from the villa.
Initially, Liang Xiao thought it was unnecessary, but when Huo Lan handed him a bag of freshly shelled walnuts, he didn’t have the heart to say anything else.
There were too many people in the crew, and since they were discussing work matters, Liang Xiao couldn’t openly express his joy.
Touching the walnuts in his pocket gave him inspiration—he even felt like staying up all night to write a heartfelt 400-word essay about his lunch experience for President Huo.
Duan Ming noticed his expression slipping into smugness and cleared his throat before plugging in Liang Xiao’s headphones: “What are you thinking about?”
Unable to hold back, Liang Xiao lowered his voice and happily said, “I’m thinking about President Huo receiving my painstakingly written 400-word essay…”
“…” Duan Ming: “How many words?”
Liang Xiao gritted his teeth: “Four hundred and two.”
Duan Ming patted Liang Xiao’s shoulder, opened The Heart Sutra, and put the headphones on him.
Suddenly immersed in grand Buddhist chants, Liang Xiao blinked in confusion. He glanced at the crew still enthusiastically discussing who could have donated an entire wirework team and drew a question mark in the air for Duan Ming.
“Don’t think about it.”
Duan Ming didn’t have the heart to tell him that even 3,000 words from the head of operations couldn’t move President Huo. Looking at Liang Xiao, he sighed: “Just listen to some music for now.”
