Chapter 28
Over the next few weeks, filming at the studio progressed steadily with an almost ascetic focus. Outside the studio, in stark contrast to the silence on this land, the film and television industry quietly surged and gradually spread with astonishing praise for Liu Yifan's acting skills.
Although the crew kept the specific shooting plan strictly confidential, the news that "The Fallen Kingdom has been filming for nearly a month, but the male lead is still vacant" and the rumor that "many big names auditioned for the role of King You of Zhou, but none of them matched Liu Yifan" are still spreading among the small circle of top producers, directors and agents.
Those male actors and their teams who have auditioned for roles but returned empty-handed will naturally not admit to the public that they "can't get the role". The unified explanation they give to the public is mostly "schedule conflicts" or "different understandings of artistic creation concepts."
But the more secretive it is, the more those in the industry know it. For actors of these caliber to reach out and then ultimately back off, the problem couldn't be the script or the scale of the production, but the opponent—an opponent so powerful that they feel uncomfortable or even unable to control it.
A strange consensus began to form: Liu Yifan's acting skills seemed to have undergone a complete transformation. Even the briefest descriptions of those audition scenes were enough to spark a lot of imagination.
In private conversations among senior producers, directors, and critics, comments like these began to emerge:
"It seems that it's not that she doesn't have acting skills, but those commercial and romantic films in the past didn't find the right key to unlock her."
"I used to think she was beautiful but soulless. Now I think it's those shallow characters who don't deserve her soul."
"That unique sense of alienation would be wasted in a trivial love story, but in this grand tragedy, it is the finishing touch."
When this news reached the ears of some female stars with similar experience as Liu Yifan, their reactions varied.
Backstage at a fashion event, several actresses were chatting in the lounge and inevitably mentioned Liu Yifan and "The Fallen Kingdom".
An actress known for her acting prowess took a sip of champagne, her tone tinged with subtle sourness and dissatisfaction. "Hmph, you're talking big. If they really gave me over a billion, built me a royal city, and had a director of Lin Na's caliber spend six months polishing a scene just with me, I could still be 'reborn.'"
Another actress nearby, known for her sobriety and outspokenness, chuckled, shook her head, and spoke slowly, "Resources? Of course, that's one thing. But I heard that the film was incredibly well-made. Forget billions, even if they put the same amount of resources in front of me right now,"
She paused, her eyes sweeping across the audience, her tone tinged with awe, "I wouldn't dare take it either. That's not acting, that's putting yourself on the line, sacrificing your soul. I think Liu Yifan is... risking his life this time. Taking on a role like this would drive you crazy."
The lounge fell silent instantly. The phrase "I'll go crazy" was like a pebble dropped into calm water, sending ripples flying. The actress, initially a bit indignant, fell silent, as if imagining the intense pressure, and subconsciously shook her head.
These discussions, whether of amazement, jealousy, or awe, were also transmitted back to Xiangbei Film Studio sporadically through various channels and reached Liu Yifan's ears.
She mostly just laughed it off, continuing to immerse herself in her solitary "war." But once, when Yang Wei, half-emotionally and half-relievedly, relayed the "astonishing turnaround" in her acting skills from the industry, particularly when she mentioned, "It seems it's not that she doesn't have the acting skills, but that she hasn't found someone who understands her," Liu Yifan, who was fixing Bao Si's hair in the mirror, paused slightly.
In the mirror, she saw her calm face and the alienation deep in her eyes that was difficult to dissolve.
She suddenly remembered what Zhou Ping'an had said a long time ago, when they were still relatively unfamiliar with each other, when he had commented on her inability to act out love scenes. His calm yet resolute voice echoed with remarkable clarity in her ears:
"I think her inherent beauty isn't suited to romance. Her beauty carries a sense of distance, a kind of sobriety and indifference of a 'bystander.' Forcing this beauty into the framework of romance is a waste of natural beauty, like treating diamonds like glass."
At the time, she had found the words offensive. But now, after everything she had gone through, after experiencing the ultimate intensity of acting with the Void, after feeling the pain and sublimation of being shaped and squeezed by an invisible force, she suddenly understood the meaning of Zhou Ping'an's words.
He wasn't belittling her, but stating a fact he had long since seen through. He saw the qualities within her that defied conventional emotional drama, and instead of trying to polish or change her to fit those frameworks, he chose to tailor a completely new "framework" for her that perfectly matched her essence.
He didn't want her to play "love", he wanted her to play "herself". And "herself", in the right place, can burst out with the energy to destroy all old evaluations.
Liu Yifan looked in the mirror and smiled lightly. There was no joy in that smile, only a deep, knowing weariness and a hint of indescribable complexity.
It turns out that the person who best understands her acting bottleneck and talent traits is not any director she has worked with, but this man who seems to have nothing to do with performing arts and can only think with data and logic.
Not only did he understand, but with this almost cruel understanding, he paved a path for her that was irreversible, leading to the extreme and also to a dangerous peak of loneliness.
The days inside the studio continued to flow slowly but steadily, separated from the noisy and judgmental world by an invisible barrier. Liu Yifan continued her solitary pilgrimage.
In the late autumn of Xiangbei, the air was crisp and clear. As filming entered its most demanding phase, Liu Yifan's birthday arrived.
She hadn't been expecting much, having been constantly on the road, spending most of her birthdays on work and flights. But this year was different; she was the absolute heart and soul of the entire project. After much deliberation, Lin Na finally decided to give the entire crew a day off.
"Teacher Liu needs a break, and so do everyone else," she explained to the slightly surprised executive producer, her tone unwavering. She felt that if the tension continued like this, even she, the director, would be the first to give in.
On her birthday, Liu Yifan slept until she woke naturally, a rare occasion. The morning without filming schedules was unusually quiet. She picked up her personal phone, logged into her long-unupdated Weibo account, and posted a simple message: "Another year older in 'Royal City.' Thank you for all the well wishes."
The accompanying pictures are several carefully selected stills that do not involve key plots, as well as a long-range view of the magnificent palace complex of the studio from a high vantage point. The light and shadow are well controlled and the atmosphere is full.
She didn't interact much, but she quietly uploaded several more pictures to her core fan club group, showing details of the studio and the character's state. The group instantly became excited, and fans were excited about this sudden "welfare", which also increased their anticipation for "The Fallen Kingdom".
Yang Wei watched from the side, wanting to say something but stopping herself.
Conventionally, such a release involving project content would require team review. But she immediately remembered the hundreds of pages of contracts—all rights and interests in the film, from the finished product to all promotional materials, ultimately belonged to Liu Yifan personally.
This was one of the most illogical and insincere clauses Zhou Pingan had signed. Not only her, but even Zhou Pingan had no legal right to interfere. Of course, he would never interfere.
Lin Na naturally knew this too. She just shrugged and said to Chen Feng, "Let her be. This is her 'city' after all. She has the right to decide which side of it she wants outsiders to see."
The evening's birthday party was held in a renovated tavern in the antique district of the movie studio. The atmosphere was relaxed. When Zhou Ping'an appeared at the door, he caused a small, well-intentioned commotion.
Under everyone's gaze, he walked to the main table very naturally and sat down in the empty seat next to Liu Yifan - this seat seemed natural to everyone, except Lin Na, Chen Feng and the two parties themselves who knew about it.
The atmosphere was lively and relaxed. Everyone took turns toasting and joking, temporarily detaching from the pressure of filming. After three rounds of drinks, someone urged Zhou Ping'an to bring out his birthday present. Hearing this, Zhou Ping'an subconsciously touched the pocket of his worn jacket. He paused for a moment, a rare moment of pause, a faint, almost imperceptible embarrassment crossing his face.
"I forgot." He looked at Liu Yifan, his tone frank and direct. His voice was not loud, but it was particularly clear in the moment of silence.
There was a momentary silence at the table, then a few clever staff members quickly changed the subject. The jokes started again, but the subtle awkwardness lingered, like a pebble dropped into a lake: the ripples quickly dissipated, but they were there. No one dared to actually poke fun at the big boss.
Liu Yifan watched his fleeting embarrassment, but felt nothing in her heart, and even found it a little amusing. This, in fact, was more in line with Zhou Ping'an's style than any elaborate and expensive gift—he would remember to provide a private jet for the project, but would forget to bring a birthday present.
The birthday party ended in a state of slight intoxication and relaxation. The crowd dispersed, and the coolness of the autumn night set in. Liu Yifan walked Zhou Ping'an toward the cinema exit, their footsteps the only sounds on the cobblestone pavement.
The night was beautiful, the moonlight casting a cool, clear glow across the deep outlines of the majestic rooftops. After walking in silence for a while, Liu Yifan suddenly seemed to remember something, tilted his head, and casually asked, "By the way, when is your birthday?"
Zhou Ping'an's footsteps paused imperceptibly, as if he was stumped by this sudden question. He walked a few steps in silence, and after a while, he answered with a slightly uncertain tone:
"It just happened to be yesterday."
He paused, then added as if to confirm. There was no regret or self-mockery in his tone; he was simply stating a fact:
"If you hadn't asked, I would have forgotten."
Liu Yifan stopped abruptly and turned to look at him in surprise. Under the moonlight, Zhou Ping'an's expression remained calm, as if he were simply stating a fact that had nothing to do with him. Thus, unnoticed, he quietly passed his thirty-second birthday, not even remembering it himself.
The two stood on the deserted streets of the ancient city, a foot's distance between them, their shadows stretched long by the moonlight. One had just celebrated a lively birthday, the other had just forgotten her own, a quiet one. The air was filled with an indescribable silence, cooler than an autumn night, and more complex.
Liu Yifan opened his mouth, but in the end, nothing came out.
An extremely complex emotion, a mixture of absurdity, a trace of indescribable heartache, and a certain clear sadness, quietly filled Liu Yifan's heart.
Zhou Ping'an didn't seem to think there was anything special about this. He nodded slightly at her and said, "Let's go. Have a good rest." After that, he turned and walked towards the waiting car.
Liu Yifan stood there, watching the car's taillights disappear at the end of the studio road, melting into the dark night. The coolness of the autumn night seeped through her clothes, yet she felt a tightness in her chest, a heavier, more real feeling than the emptiness she'd felt playing Bao Si.
She suddenly remembered the calmness and confidence with which he had commented long ago that she was "not suitable for love."
Only then did she understand that his calmness might have stemmed from his own being an "outsider" in the emotional world. He could build a city for her, a place to display the ultimate beauty, but he might never have thought of, nor needed anyone to light a candle for his own birthday.
In his eyes, the world is perhaps just a complex system that needs to be optimized and run. And Zhou Pingan is just an operating unit in the system that exists to achieve its goals and can ignore its emotional needs.
This realization made her feel an unprecedented deep silence and coldness after the relaxation and joy on her birthday night.
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