MACRM Chapter 41

At the edge of the set, the assistant director caught sight of Lin Zhu’s expression and grew worried, setting down what he was doing.

Sometimes, standing by and watching a scene unfold could pull a person into it even more deeply than acting in it, especially when the person they were watching was someone like Zhong Yao, who lived and breathed his role.

Just now, during the scene of Zhong Yao’s character approaching execution, Lin Zhu’s expression had been wrong the whole time. It wasn’t impossible that he’d been drawn too far into the emotional tension Zhong Yao had brought to the performance.

Lin Zhu was usually cheerful and lively, rarely so dazed or lost in thought. The assistant director, uneasy, was about to go over and check on him when Wei Geping grabbed his arm and lowered his voice.

“Can it work this way?”

The assistant director froze, concerned. “Should we delay the shoot a bit and let Zhong-laoshi come keep Xiao Zhu company? Seeing him like this is hard for us to watch too.”

“If Zhong Yao comes over, do you think we’ll be able to film at all?”

Wei Geping, long since hardened by these two, gave a short, cold laugh. “You think he can stand seeing his agent like this? If he doesn’t coax out that silly kid with the letter and that goofy grin, I’ll thank him! Go on, hurry up! Film while he’s still in that dazed state, otherwise we’re not wrapping them up today!”

The assistant director, a family man with kids, couldn’t understand where Wei Geping’s explosive temper toward these two came from, but there was no winning against the director’s stubbornness. After hesitating for a moment, he picked up the prop letter, gritted his teeth, and walked toward Lin Zhu.

“Xiao Zhu,” he said gently, “the director says we’ll shoot these two scenes back-to-back. Can you get it all in one go?”

Even as he said it, he felt like it was pushing the poor kid too far. He glanced toward the set — Zhong Yao still hadn’t come out. Clearly, Wei Geping had already arranged for the staff to keep him out of sight somewhere behind the ruins.

Worried that Lin Zhu might have mistaken the earlier explosion for a real one, the assistant director softened his voice. “Zhong-laoshi is fine. Just do your best for this scene. Once it’s done, he’ll come find you, and you two can wrap up together and go home.”

Lin Zhu blinked himself back to awareness, reached out, and instinctively accepted the letter.

Right now, all he could think about was seeing Zhong Yao, holding onto him and not letting go, telling him he wasn’t sad anymore, not one bit…

But he had to finish filming first.

He remembered the script and his character clearly. The shots ahead were simple. His character never actually got on the ship. After waking up, he found the letter and ran madly to find the protagonist, to find his father, to beg anyone who could help him.

The spoiled young master, raised in luxury and arrogance, went door to door, kneeling, kowtowing, pleading desperately, only to be turned away again and again.

Then, in the streets, he heard the frantic cries of refugees fleeing the city: the flood had swept away the temple, the Japanese bombers had flattened the hotel, the very place where his comrade squad had been stationed.

Flattened. Nothing left. No trace. All of these, he knew.

He stumbled back through the crowd, battered and bleeding, driven by a single purpose — to find the man who had healed him, fed him medicine, and lit a lamp for him in the dark confusion of his life. The man who had given him direction, purpose, and the hope of becoming someone better.

That liar who had given him everything, his whole remaining life.

He just wanted to see him. Just once. That would be enough.

Lin Zhu lifted his head. His eyes gradually cleared, growing steady and firm. “I can do it.”

He had never let Zhong Yao see the script for this last scene.

He’d always known he would have to play it one day. He’d worried, more than once, that his emotions might take over — that he’d sink too deeply into the role and wouldn’t be able to pull himself out for days afterward… but now, he didn’t need to worry at all.

The warmth lingering in his mind still glowed softly, settling in every corner of him. His chest and his heart were both warm.

His Zhong-laoshi. His Zhong Yao.

His reality was far luckier than the story.

Lin Zhu took the letter, slowly tightening his grip, and stepped toward the ruins.

….

The young master climbed onto the wreckage.

The wind was sharp and cold, and the silence around him was suffocating. As if feeling the chill, he raised his hands and wrapped them around his arms, crouching down.

He couldn’t make out anything anymore.

Broken walls, bloodstains, scattered scraps of clothing, none of it carried any trace of the man who’d once been here.

He closed his eyes briefly and whispered, “Zhan Yuan.”

As if recalling something, the corners of his lips lifted faintly, an unfinished smile flickered across his face, fragile and fleeting, before fading under the weight of his grief.

“Look, I’m smiling…”

Lin Zhu’s eyes opened, dazed, his head tilting slightly as though trying to recall the promise they’d made that night. “I’m being good… so come hug me, okay?”

---

“Perfect!”

Wei Geping’s eyes lit up. He slapped his thigh hard, about to call “cut” and wrap, when muffled thumps — like heavy objects being dropped — came from the hidden safety point.

Lin Zhu looked up.

Zhong Yao stepped out from behind the shelter, still carrying the smell of gunpowder, undoing the top button of his suit with one hand as he strode toward him.

Zhong Yao rarely looked so urgent. He didn’t even go around the jagged ruins underfoot but pushed off and leapt up, practically taking the shortest, most direct line, moving toward Lin Zhu without stopping.

Lin Zhu’s smile tightened; in an instant he peeled himself out of the character he’d been completely immersed in, carefully tucking away the warm, swelling joy in his chest. His heart filled again and began to beat lively.

He wasn’t afraid anymore.

He wasn’t sad, he wasn’t afraid, and it didn’t hurt at all.

Watching him, Lin Zhu couldn’t help the bright smile, his eyes sparkling. He jumped down and waved. “Zhong-laoshi, don’t move, stand firm—”

Zhong Yao blinked, met the clear bright smile in his eyes, and snapped back to himself. The tense, reined-in energy that had been compressing him dissolved in an instant.

Zhong Yao smiled and opened his arms.

The rubble was hard to cross, so Lin Zhu hopped across safe spots and bounded down, and Zhong Yao swept him right into his arms.

A steady heartbeat thudded through his chest; Lin Zhu buried his face into Zhong Yao’s chest, tightened his arms and hugged him hard.

“No more acting for you… I won’t make you act anymore.”

Zhong Yao smoothed his back repeatedly, holding him tightly with his entire chest and shoulders, his voice a little deeper than usual, as if he himself had been more shaken by the scene than anyone else.

When he’d heard Wei Geping call the crew earlier, he’d known something was off and had tried to rush over, but extra crew had been assigned specifically to form a tight cordon, and he’d been forced to watch Lin Zhu finish the scene. God knew how badly he wanted to blow up the screenwriter and bury him properly after hearing those lines.

Lin Zhu relaxed in his arms, rubbed the wetness from his eyes, and smiled up at him. “Zhong-laoshi.”

Zhong Yao lowered his head and waited patiently for him to continue.

But Lin Zhu didn’t say anything more; he just called his name softly every so often, his eyes full of sparkling light.

Zhong Yao finally relaxed completely, holding the agent who’d worried him sick, hoisted him up a little and smiled down: “Happy? I told the assistant director we want the uncut footage. The crew still owns copyright on raw footage over 720p; just don’t leak it…”

“Happy.”

Lin Zhu felt fulfilled no matter what he said, nodding repeatedly, his arms tightening. “Especially, especially happy…” 

Lin Zhu’s emotional surge seemed to be about more than this one thing; Zhong Yao noticed vaguely but didn’t press. He just smiled and, with an extra squeeze, ruffled the hair at the nape of Lin Zhu’s neck.

As long as his agent was happy, that was enough.

Zhong Yao held him, slowly stroking that soft hair, and glanced around the set.

Wei Geping was checking the playback frame by frame; the assistant director was instructing staff to confirm all explosive charges had been safely recovered; the grips were busily cleaning up the explosion’s aftermath. The outdoor set, which had been standing for months, was now a wreck. The production agent sat squatting nearby, heartbroken, his face stormy.

Not exactly a good time to sneak off to the rest area and feed the agent a wrap-party cake.

Zhong Yao felt a twinge of regret, loosened one arm, and led Lin Zhu back into the shooting area. “Let’s go… once the crew clears everything out, we’ll celebrate.”

The wrap celebration was customary; because this scene had been so huge, they wouldn’t be able to head to the rest area and hand out gifts for at least half a day.

He couldn’t take Lin Zhu home immediately and felt a little sorry about it. He kept coaxing him about what he wanted to eat, already mentally planning the Mid-Autumn dinner menu.

“Good footage. Send the reel straight away. Have them cut it quickly, hit the Mid-Autumn reunion angle hard…Make it at least three minutes. Don’t forget, ensure it is brutally tragic.” 

Wei Geping had just finished inspecting the tapes and was telling his assistant the key points for the leading clip when he looked up and saw Zhong Yao bringing Lin Zhu over. He looked a little off-balance. “Already hugged? It’s only been fifteen minutes… is there something wrong with your relationship?” 

“What’s going on?”

The assistant director, used to on-set flings, reacted to Wei Geping’s remark with alarm and quickly tried to smooth things over. “You can’t do that. The acting is fake, but the feelings are real. They’re still young, it’s normal for them to be like this.” 

Zhong Yao cleared his throat and tucked the thoroughly contented agent behind him. “Thanks for your concern. We’re fine.”

Wei Geping scanned them suspiciously but said no more. He waved Lin Zhu over to discuss fees. The assistant director kept glancing around, about to offer more consolation, when Zhong Yao quietly pulled him aside.

“Is something really wrong? Because of what happened just now?”

The assistant director was anxious; he worried Wei Geping’s outburst had actually broken them up. “I can explain! The director insisted on shooting consecutively and had people hold you back. If someone hadn’t flipped three guys, you wouldn’t have gotten out…”

“No, that’s not important.”

The Zhong Yao who could flip three people with his bare hands waved him off, glanced at the agent being led away, somewhat relieved, and lowered his voice: “I’ve got twenty-something throw pillows on my couch, and I’m not keeping them. There’s free shipping, but it must be sent out before tonight. Interested?”