novelraw Chapter 150: The Farewell My Concubine
Chapter 150: The Farewell My Concubine
The day of filming for The Farewell My Concubine arrived.
At the film studio on the outskirts of the capital,
Wei Song personally took command, issuing an absolute order.
All non-essential personnel were to leave the tent.
Even the crew's general assistants were repeatedly instructed not to make any unnecessary noise.
The snow machine had already started operating, simulated goose-feather snowflakes whipped up by strong winds,
pattering down continuously onto the tent roof with a soft rustling sound.
From all directions, speakers hidden in every corner simultaneously began playing that lost Chu song.
It was precisely that piece, "Eight Thousand Souls."
"The Han soldiers have seized the land, Chu songs rise from all sides.""My king's spirit is spent, how can this lowly concubine bear to live on?"
Low, mournful choral singing drifted over from the distance, layered and overlapping.
Behind the monitor, people were already crowded together.
Qin Feng, Liu Hanyu, Huang Shengqiu...
These veteran actors who had no scenes scheduled for today had all, as if by unspoken agreement, appeared here.
None of them spoke, they just watched quietly that black great tent surrounded by wind, snow, and mournful song.
Each person held a strong premonition in their heart.
The scene that was about to unfold might, perhaps, be a performance worthy of being recorded in the annals of history.
The clapper loader raised the clapperboard and snapped it shut forcefully before the camera.
"Clap!"
The crisp sound was swiftly swallowed by the howling wind and snow.
Filming officially began.
Inside the tent.
Candle flames flickered, stretching human shadows long and short.
Jiang Ci, portraying Xiang Yu, wore a coarse cloth casual robe, its edges even frayed and worn.
That set of black armor which once symbolized supreme glory was discarded casually by his side on the ground.
He sat alone, kneeling before the cold low table.
In his hand was a piece of coarse cloth, mechanically wiping, over and over again, the sword that had accompanied him through years of campaigns north and south.
His movements were slow, numb.
This was a complete "release of tension."
No longer the Conqueror of Western Chu who looked down upon the world with an aura that could swallow mountains and rivers.
He was just a man with a broken spine, utterly crushed by reality.
Zhao Yingfei, portraying Yu Ji, sat quietly to the side.
Watching Xiang Yu's utterly desolate back, her tears had long since fallen silently.
Words unspoken, tears flowed first.
Finally, she could bear it no longer.
"My king..."
Her voice choked, carrying a shattered despair.
"We... why don't we go to the Wu River?"
Jiang Ci's motion of wiping the sword halted abruptly.
He did not turn around.
After a long while, a broken and hollow voice finally came from him.
"I led eight thousand sons across the river to come here. Now, not a single one returns."
"What face do I have to see the elders of Jiangdong again?"
He slowly set down the sword in his hand, pushed against the table, and stood up.
His body swayed once before he barely steadied himself.
"I cannot live on like that scoundrel Liu Bang, surviving like a stray dog."
"I, am the Conqueror of Western Chu."
He spoke those last five words extremely softly, yet they carried the weight of a thousand pounds.
That was his final pride.
He slowly turned and walked step by step to stand before Yu Ji.
He reached out his hand.
But not to wipe the tears from her face.
That hand which once could lift a thousand-pound cauldron now trembled slightly.
His fingertips were rough, bearing the thick calluses left from years of gripping a sword.
Gently, he touched Yu Ji's cold, damp cheek.
The action did not seem like wiping away tears.
It was more like confirming whether the woman before him, who had shed all her tears for him, truly existed.
"Don't cry."
His words held a faint trace of a bitter smile.
Jiang Ci stared hollowly at the flickering candle flames on the tent ceiling, murmuring to himself.
"Dawn... is about to break."
He paused, withdrawing his hand.
"For me... dance one last time."
Zhao Yingfei nodded, tears in her eyes.
Her tears, at this moment, completely broke through the dam.
She did not say another word.
Instead, she stood up, walked over, and drew the other sword from Jiang Ci's waist.
A long sword.
Behind the monitor, Wei Song and screenwriter Li Jun exchanged a sharp glance.
Both saw extreme shock in the other's eyes.
The script called for a short sword!
A short sword, symbolizing feminine grace and poignant sorrow.
But Zhao Yingfei had chosen a long sword!
That was a warrior's weapon!
She hadn't discussed this change with anyone!
Zhao Yingfei stood firm in the tent, holding the long sword.
She did not begin to dance immediately.
Instead, she raised her head. Those tear-filled eyes seemed to pierce through the thick tent ceiling,
gazing towards that pitch-black night sky swirling with heavy snow.
As if sharing one final look with the eight thousand unyielding heroic souls outside the tent.
She slowly raised the long sword in her hand.
The tip of the sword did not point at herself.
It pointed towards the tent entrance, towards the direction from which the Chu songs came from all sides!
Her lips moved soundlessly.
As if saying: Watch!
The choral singing of "Eight Thousand Souls" outside the tent suddenly surged with passion at this moment!
Zhao Yingfei's "Po Zhen Wu" had begun!
The long sword sliced through the air with a sound like wind and thunder!
The opening move was a fierce, decisive slash!
Not a trace of grace, not a hint of lingering tenderness!
Her dance posture was filled with a wild sense of power!
Slash! Hack! Thrust! Parry!
Every movement was the most direct killing technique from the battlefield!
Sword light swirled, reflecting her pale yet incredibly resolute face.
Sweat and tears mixed together, dripping from her jaw.
Behind the monitor, silence reigned.
Everyone was struck speechless by this sacrificial dance brimming with defiance and resolve.
However, an even more unexpected scene occurred.
Jiang Ci, portraying Xiang Yu, did not immerse himself in sorrow as the script dictated,
watching Yu Ji dance her final dance for him.
He moved.
He stood up.
Step by step, with immense heaviness, he walked to the tent entrance.
He reached out with that still slightly trembling hand and lifted the heavy tent flap.
The biting cold wind, carrying goose-feather snowflakes, instantly poured in.
Whipping his robes into a furious flutter.
He gazed out at the boundless wind and snow, at the dark, dense mass of the Han Army camp in the distance.
Behind him was Yu Ji's resolute sword dance.
Before him was the final resting place of his eight thousand sons, the already predetermined dead end.
At this moment, he was not watching a dance.
He was watching his own end.
Yu Ji's dance was a farewell to the eight thousand sons of Jiangdong, and also a farewell to him.
The two were in the same space.
Yet, using completely different methods, they faced the same tragic conclusion.
This sense of tragic grandeur, of time and space interwoven, instantly elevated the entire scene's scope,
from a lovers' tearful farewell to a full-blown elegy for a dynasty.
Behind the monitor, screenwriter Li Jun's body trembled uncontrollably.
He braced himself against the chair's armrest to barely remain standing.
"Madmen..."
He murmured to himself.
"These two... are both madmen!"
Wei Song did not speak.
He stared fixedly at the image on the monitor, afraid of missing a single detail.
Jiang Ci and Zhao Yingfei were creating a myth.
A pinnacle of tragic aesthetics!