novelraw Chapter 358: Full Funding from Tian Guang, The Film Emperor Joins
Chapter 358: Full Funding from Tian Guang, The Film Emperor Joins
Chapter 358: Full Funding from Tian Guang, The Film Emperor Joins
The elevator doors slid open without a sound.
A pine-scented chill slipped into his collar, making him shiver.
Along the corridor there were no flashy posters, only glass display cases set into the walls.
Each case held a weighty trophy.
Golden Rooster, Hundred Flowers, Huabiao awards, even a Cannes Palme d'Or nomination certificate,
all glittered under the spotlights, dazzling enough to take your breath away.
This was Gu Huai’s domain, the closest thing the Chinese film world had to an altar.
Gu Zhiyuan hunched his shoulders, instinctively rising onto his toes—an awkward, pitiful posture.
Occasional staff carrying files paused when they saw them, then instantly returned to their professional blank expressions, treating them as air.
Lin Wan kept her back perfectly straight; her high heels made no sound on the carpet, but her clenched fists betrayed her tension.
Only Jiang Ci was at ease.
His hands were shoved in his hoodie pockets, like he was wandering his own backyard.
He even stopped now and then to peer into a glass case, studying the trophy bases.
“Pure gold?”
He actually tapped the glass with his finger, producing a soft “toc, toc” sound.
Zhou Lan stopped in front of a heavy double wooden door.
She didn’t knock; she just pushed it open.
“Please.”
A floor-to-ceiling window took up the entire wall. Noon sunlight poured in, making the whole room bright.
The light was so strong that it could only reveal a silhouette shrouded in a halo, seated on a single armchair.
The person held a stack of papers, the pages curled at the edges, clearly thumbed through countless times.
It was the script for King of Extras.
Gu Huai didn’t lift his head.
The room was so quiet you could hear your heartbeat.
“Plop.”
The script was carelessly tossed onto the marble coffee table. It slid a short distance and stopped in front of Jiang Ci.
Gu Huai finally moved.
He rose from the pool of light, his silhouette sharp against the backlight.
He walked to face the three of them, his gaze passing over Lin Wan and landing on Gu Zhiyuan.
Gu Zhiyuan’s legs went weak; he nearly couldn’t stand.
“From a commercial perspective,” Gu Huai enunciated each word, “this is a trash project.”
Gu Zhiyuan felt his heart seize.
“An anti-market subject, a washed-up director, actors trying to change tack.”
Every phrase from Gu Huai tightened Gu Zhiyuan’s chest.
“But.”
Gu Huai halted, turned,
and this time he didn’t look at Gu Zhiyuan. He fixed his stare on Jiang Ci.
In his previously indifferent eyes, there was suddenly a spark.
A kind of near-frenzy, the excitement of meeting a worthy opponent!
“From an artistic standpoint, this is the most painfully affecting comedy script I’ve seen this year!”
Gu Huai strode back to the coffee table, jabbing a finger hard on the script cover.
“Scene eighteen!”
He didn’t need to flip through; the line flew out of him.
“The protagonist Chen San holds his breath in muddy water for three minutes just for a two-second shot.”
“When the director calls cut, no one helps him out; he crawls out himself, his face caked in mud. His first reaction isn’t to wipe his face,”
“but to show the camera a big set of white teeth, grinning utterly carefree!”
As Gu Huai recounted, his pace sped up, his voice trembling.
“That part made me laugh.”
“But after the laugh, my spine went cold.”
He abruptly looked up, staring at Jiang Ci, closing the distance by a step.
“This is not comedy!”
“This is throwing a person’s dignity on the ground, stomping it to pieces, and forcing you to smile and say ‘well deserved’!”
“This is a ruthlessly high-class texture—laughter with tears!”
Lin Wan froze.
She had always assumed Gu Huai was some unearthly Film Emperor,
but she hadn’t expected him to understand the lives of lower-class people so intimately, nor to dissect her script so astutely.
Gu Huai ignored everyone else; in his world right now, there was only Jiang Ci.
“Jiang Ci.”
He spoke the name like an elder appraising a junior, but with a strict, probing tone.
“Do you know what playing this role will mean?”
He pointed at the trophies on the wall.
“You’re standing here. You have box office, reputation, countless fans who go wild over a single tear.”
“You are the god of the Broken Feeling. When you stand there, you are the epitome of tragic-beauty!”
Gu Huai’s presence filled the room.
“If you play Chen San.”
“You will have to make yourself ugly, crawl on the ground, give the camera the most ingratiating smile!”
“You will shatter your outer shell with your own hands!”
“The fans who only want you as a beautiful, strong, tragic figure will scatter. You will fall from the altar and be mocked across the internet as ‘playing a clown’!”
Gu Huai paused, leaning forward, his face less than ten centimeters from Jiang Ci’s.
He wanted to find hesitation or fear on Jiang Ci’s expression.
“For a role that is eighty percent likely to flop, destroying all of that—”
“Is it worth it?”
“Are you ready?”
The question hit like thunder.
Gu Zhiyuan bowed his head, unable to look at Jiang Ci.
Silence fell again.
Lin Wan pinched at the hem of her clothes.
Although she supported Jiang Ci, what Gu Huai said was the harshest reality.
All eyes in the room were on Jiang Ci.
But Jiang Ci made no big move.
He reached out, grabbed a mint candy from the fruit plate on the coffee table,
slowly unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth.
“Crunch.”
The brittle sound of the candy being bitten echoed crisply.
Jiang Ci lifted his head and met Gu Huai’s oppressive gaze.
He smiled.
It was a relaxed, casual smile, the kind that carried a hint of weary composure.
“Gu-ge.”
Jiang Ci mumbled through chewing, his words slurred.
“When we were on the set of Three Lifetimes Tribulation, you got to know me. It’s not like we’re strangers.”
“The altar is too high.”
He pointed at the skyscrapers outside the window.
“It’s windy up there and kind of cold.”
Gu Huai blinked.
He had pictured Jiang Ci saying he’d do it for art, for a breakthrough, for a dream.
He had never expected this reason.
Cold?
Jiang Ci took his hand out of his pocket and made a vague sweeping motion in the air.
“I want to play Chen San.”
“He rolls in the mud, he gets cursed at, he gets stepped on.”
“But he can still smile, he can be happy over a boxed lunch for half a day.”
Jiang Ci looked at Gu Huai and said earnestly:
“He lives warm.”
“I want to come down and warm up.”
“As for whether fans will leave…” Jiang Ci shrugged, “Anyone who truly likes me probably hopes I don’t freeze to death, right?”
When his words fell,
Gu Huai’s expression froze.
He looked at this young man a few years his junior.
That clarity, that near ‘give-up’ attitude that nonetheless hit the heart—so candid it was almost rebellious.
He had stood at the top for too long.
He had always chased extreme art, the kind of tragic beauty that made people gaze up.
But Jiang Ci told him that being worshipped was exhausting; it might be nicer to sit down and eat a boxed lunch together.
Gu Zhiyuan was dumbstruck.
He stared at Jiang Ci and felt this young man suddenly unfamiliar.
“Altar too cold?” That was human talk?
Only someone who had truly reached the summit, yet scoffed at staying there, could say such “madness”!
“Ha… ha ha!”
Gu Huai’s booming laughter shattered the silence.
His shoulders shook with mirth; at one point he even raised a hand to prop his forehead.
“Good! What a wonderful complaint about the cold!”
“What a glorious plan to come down and warm up!”
He turned and strode to the broad redwood desk, grabbing the internal phone.
His fingers pressed a number with force.
“This is Gu Huai.”
“Notify legal and finance, get them up here immediately.”
“Draft the contract.”
He looked back at Lin Wan and Gu Zhiyuan, his face alight.
“This project—Tian Guang is funding it.”
“Fully funded.”
Gu Zhiyuan felt as if a pie from the sky had hit him over the head.
Fully funded? Tian Guang full funding?
That meant not only would the money be solved, but distribution, cinema chains, screening slots—all the problems causing him hair loss—would be resolved!
“However.”
Gu Huai put down the phone and returned to the coffee table.
His fervor toward Jiang Ci had only increased.
“I have one condition.”
Lin Wan tensed immediately. “What condition? If it involves Jiang Ci’s agency contract or—”
“No.”
Gu Huai waved her off, interrupting.
He looked at Jiang Ci and extended one finger.
“I’m in for this film.”
“Huh?”
Even Jiang Ci froze, almost choking on his candy.
The Triple Crown Film Emperor, Gu Huai, wanted to act in King of Extras?
“Master Gu, there aren’t any roles in this script that suit you…” Gu Zhiyuan stammered, “The supporting male two is fat, the third male is—”
“Who said I want to play the lead?”
Gu Huai snorted lightly, opened the script, and flipped to the last page.
“I’ll play that superstar who comes on stage at the end to present the award to Chen San, but mumbles Chen San’s name wrong.”
A cameo.
And he’d portray an arrogant, hypocritical, high-and-mighty superstar.
Using his real persona to mock the very “real persona” of that circle.
This was… utterly insane!
Gu Huai watched the three of them gape and felt elated.
“What? Director Gu, do you doubt my acting?”
“No no no! How dare we! Absolutely not!” Gu Zhiyuan shook his head, “If you can come, that would be… like our ancestor’s grave steaming with good fortune!”
Gu Huai turned to Jiang Ci.
“Jiang Ci, you’re right.”
“It’s pretty cold up there.”
He unbuttoned his suit, exhaled, visibly more relaxed.
“I want to come down and snag a boxed lunch too.”
“Welcome?”
Jiang Ci looked at him, swallowed the candy remnants, and grinned.
“Welcome.”
“But Gu-ge, the crew boxed lunches don’t come with chicken drumsticks. You have to pay for those yourself.”
They exchanged a look, and the atmosphere immediately loosened.
It was like two lunatics in a ward finally signaling each other successfully.
Gu Zhiyuan stood aside, watching these two top men of the Chinese film world.
One had never fallen from the altar, the true god.
One actively jumped off the altar, a madman.
And now, the two of them were going to team up in his pile of garbage and hopefully make something blossom.
He suddenly felt his five years of bad luck might have just been saving up luck for this moment.
Half an hour later.
Outside Tian Guang Entertainment, the Hongqi L5 still waited.
Lin Wan held the investment contract that still smelled of ink and felt unreal.
It was… done?
No tug-of-war, no performance-based bets, not even a rewritten script.
All because of a conversation between two men about “cold and warmth”?
“Jiang Ci.”
Lin Wan sat in the car and glanced at the rear seat where the man had already put on an eye mask, ready to nap.
“You really meant it at the time?”
“What?” Jiang Ci’s voice was muffled.
“The altar is too cold.”
Jiang Ci pushed his eye mask up and revealed a pair of clear, innocent eyes.
“Wan-jie, you’ve never been up to Tian Guang’s top floor?”
“I had goosebumps just now. Go up next time and feel it yourself.”
Lin Wan was about to roll her eyes.
Jiang Ci suddenly added, his voice softening as if talking to himself:
“Still, always playing those tragedies does get a little cold inside. Every so often playing a jerk who rolls in mud but can still laugh—should be… pretty warm.”
He pulled the eye mask back down, settled into a comfortable position, and flopped down completely. “Going to sleep. Otherwise when we start shooting I’ll have no strength to fight for boxed lunch.”
Lin Wan watched him and finally smiled helplessly. This bastard always managed to say the truest things at the most unexpected moments.
At the same time,
On Tian Guang Entertainment’s top floor.
Gu Huai stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the car drive away.
Zhou Lan stood behind him, puzzled.
“Master Gu, are you really optimistic about this project? The risk is huge; it’s pure gambling, and that role… it ruins one’s image.”
Gu Huai watched the tiny stream of cars outside and tapped the glass with his finger.
“Zhou Lan.”
“I’ve sat in that place for too long. Everyone smiles at me; everyone applauds me.”
“But I can’t act the kind of pain in that position.”
He turned and looked at the copy of King of Extras on the coffee table.
“That Jiang Ci—he has something I envy.”
“What?”
“He’s not afraid of getting dirty.”
Gu Huai’s gaze drifted back to the distance as he smiled meaningfully.
“This film may well lose terribly.”
“But if it wins…”
He stopped, leaving the rest unsaid.
If it won, it would be an earthquake in Chinese cinema.
“Clear my schedule for next month.”
Gu Huai turned and walked toward the lounge, his posture still upright but with a little less loneliness.
“I’m going to the set to get a boxed lunch.”