MACRM Chapter 40

With his agent as a hostage, Film Emperor Zhong’s performance was always steady, even beyond exceptional.

After running the scene a few more times, Director Wei was finally satisfied. His expression eased, and he waved for the official shoot to begin.

“[No Bridge], Scene 97, Act 3, action!”

The remote charges went off one after another, as if they cost nothing. The wail of the air raid siren shrieked through the air, leaving ears ringing.

Inside the prison cell, Zhan Yuan feigned illness to lure the guards inside.

The usually gentle merchant shed his mask of civility, his every move swift and ruthless. With ease, he struck down the guards who rushed in, then vaulted through the hotel’s hidden service door meant for delivering dishes.

The secret passage was known only to insiders, with no defenses along the way. Zhan Yuan moved in silence. As he passed the guards’ lounge, he happened to hear Okada’s voice — exuberant and loud in Japanese — as he interrogated the traitor.

Zhan Yuan halted.

The hotel had telephones, and he remembered the traitor’s voice. That man was a senior figure in the underground organization. Within ten minutes, Okada would extract every secret he wanted.

Ten minutes was too little to send word out so that Wu Qiao’s entire network could evacuate, and too little to carve a bloody path through the layers of guards, kill Okada himself, and silence everyone who might overhear.

But there was still one thing he could do.

The weather that day was terrible, visibility low, the ground blanketed in heavy fog. The bomber pilots could not identify landmarks with the naked eye. They could only rely on flares fired from the ground to guide their strikes.

The hotel had become a temporary garrison. Zhong Yao doubled back, raided the ammunition depot for a powerful flare, and climbed all the way up to the rooftop.

Under the bombardment, the world was nothing but ruin.

…

Wei Geping disliked relying on CG in post-production. Nearly three months of outdoor shooting had all been poured into this one explosion. The effect of the charges shifted in an instant. Once Zhong Yao began, he had to carry the performance smoothly all the way through to the end.

Temper tantrums aside, at this point Wei Geping’s palms were damp with sweat. He walked over to Lin Zhu, who was staring unblinking at the monitor.

Zhong Yao rushed onto the rooftop, breath unsteady but expression calm, his hand gently brushing over the flare.

There was no more time left for hesitation.

Zhong Yao lit the flare. Blinding white light tore through the thick fog, almost completely swallowing his figure.

With no way to coordinate real fighter planes under current conditions, the team could only switch locations later for compositing. For now, the sound engineers amplified the roar of airplane engines, while wind machines whipped Zhong Yao’s clothing into a violent flutter.

……

“Good!” 

Next, all that was left was for a few of the charges to go off in front of the main camera. Once Zhong Yao received the signal and exited, the building could be blown smoothly.

Wei Geping let out a long breath and was about to straighten when, in the monitor, Zhong Yao — who should have been standing still in silence — suddenly moved ever so slightly.

Zhong Yao turned his head back.

“At this point he’s supposed to have no ties left. What’s he doing?!”

This was the moment for a close-up of the back view. Wei Geping clutched the script, baffled, and was about to explode when his gaze swept over Lin Zhu’s dazed, upturned face. In a flash, realization struck. “Quick, quick, quick! Patch through to the sound team, cue the ferry horn now—”

The assistant director immediately relayed the order. Just seconds before the charges went off, the sound of a ferry horn echoed faintly.

It was drawn-out and ethereal, nearly drowned out by the roar of bombs and sirens, yet still just barely audible.

In the original script, Zhan Yuan had no ties. But this version of Zhan Yuan has his little young master. 

Behind the hotel was the port. Attached to that recommendation letter had been today’s ferry ticket. The young master, whom he had held close, tended to his wounds, and fed medicine to, should now be aboard that very evacuation ship.

Zhong Yao’s calm expression shifted slightly, his gaze seeming to search for something before fixing on a point just outside the frame, a gentle smile softening his features.

Lin Zhu had no time to react. His chest suddenly gave a sharp jolt, and all color drained from his face.

Zhong Yao was looking at him.

Several smoke machines were set up in front of the cameras; in real life there was no fog blocking the view. Wei Geping had kept the crew close for direct supervision. He wasn’t nearsighted. He could see everything clearly…

—Even if he couldn’t see, Zhong Yao’s ability would not allow him any leeway.

The moment their eyes met, every thought in Zhong Yao’s heart at that instant poured into Lin Zhu’s mind. It was gentle, inescapable.

Lin Zhu squeezed his eyes shut, his body trembling instinctively from head to toe.

Every time he read minds, it was a kind of trespass. Good and evil, tangled together, came crashing in. It was never pleasant.

But Zhong Yao’s inner voice was softer than any he had ever touched.

Instead of the usual dizzying impact, it felt like a hand brushing gently across him, patiently smoothing over every scar left behind by time… even softly asking him, “Does it still hurt?”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore…” 

One touch, and the pain is gone.

Lin Zhu’s lashes quivered, the corners of his eyes going red.

He both longed for that warmth and dreaded knowing what he might see. He was about to forcefully muddle his senses before he could react, when the familiar low, tender voice sounded in his mind.

“…Are you still sad?”

A sharp stab pierced Lin Zhu’s chest, and he snapped his eyes open.

The voice fell silent.

The charges in front of the camera detonated, and Zhong Yao was smoothly guided out by the crew standing by.

Once everyone was confirmed safe, the pre-set explosives went off together, swallowing the furious shouts of the Japanese soldiers inside.

Zhan Yuan had buried himself along with the entire inspection squad, and the vital secrets of the political faction he had always been both enemy and ally to… All forever entombed here.

With that, Zhong Yao officially wrapped his final scene.

Lin Zhu panted lightly, reassuring himself it hadn’t been an illusion, his hand pressing cautiously against his chest.

Twelve years ago, when the teenage Zhong Yao had lifted him out of the mud, they had once met eyes directly.

But back then, he had seen nothing in Zhong Yao’s gaze, and always assumed his fever had been too severe, interfering with his ability, leaving him unable to read successfully. Only now did he realize — perhaps, even then, Zhong Yao’s thoughts had been about him.

To save him. To heal him. To find any way to pull him out of the mire.

Zhong Yao’s thoughts had been simple: think it, then do it. That was why Lin Zhu had thought he had read nothing at all…

Lin Zhu steadied his mind and listened again, quietly confirming with himself.

There truly was no more voice in his head. That overwhelming heart-song that had filled him so tenderly, so unavoidably, pressing into every corner of his mind. In the end, nothing more than this one sentence:

Zhong Yao was thinking, “Is my agent still sad now?”