Chapter 70: The Director Has Lost His Mind (An Eight-Thousand-Word Chapter—Please Vote and Support)

The male idol gave a shy smile and pulled two movie tickets from his pocket—he had secured them in advance.

“These are tickets for ‘Guardian’ that my roommate managed to get, but he can’t make it today, so he gave them to me,” he explained smoothly.

“Sure,” Lin Yu replied, delighted to have another opportunity to watch a film with her idol.

It wasn’t a ticket to “Youth With You,” but as long as she was with him, the film hardly mattered.

Caught up in the throes of young love, her rationality had all but vanished.

Hand in hand, the two walked into the cinema again.

This film was a major production, boasting an impressive cast and was touted as one of the blockbuster releases of the summer.

The theater was nearly full, even though tickets were just being checked; by the time the movie began, it would no doubt be at full capacity.

Unlike the previous screening, the audience for “Guardian” was made up of fewer couples or groups of female friends.

“Guardian” was branded as a patriotic, sci-fi spectacle, targeted primarily at a male audience.

Not that women didn’t enjoy such films, but in this case, the male demographic clearly dominated.

As they waited for the film to start, the idol leaned toward Lin Yu and said, “Qi Ran is one of the leads in this movie.”

Lin Yu blinked, then felt her heart warm.

So that was it.

He knew she was a fan of Qi Ran and had gotten these tickets for her sake.

As for the story about the roommate, she didn’t believe a word of it.

Love may have dulled her wits, but she wasn’t a fool.

In truth, while he did know Lin Yu was a fan, the idol’s main motivation for getting the tickets was his own desire to see the film.

He’d heard of Qi Ran—a member of a pop group, and Lin Yu was a fan of his music.

Soon, the movie began.

Unlike their previous outing to “Youth With You,” they were no longer awkward; the uncertainty was gone, their relationship now established.

The big screen flared to life, and the audience fell silent.

The film opened in a barren, sandy wasteland, where a group of foreigners was being chased by another group.

The pursued group was whittled down by gunfire until only three remained, who then fled to a massive war fortress.

This fortress, featured in the film’s promotional posters, looked even more astounding on screen—mechanical gears spinning, hundreds of thousands of troops patrolling.

It was like a black beast planted in the yellow desert.

Many in the audience gasped in awe.

The story went on.

The three foreigners, rescued by soldiers of the Xia Kingdom, were taken inside the fortress for medical care.

Once inside, the foreigners were awestruck by the fortress—a marvel unseen anywhere else.

The Xia soldiers, for their part, were unfazed by the arrival of the foreigners; they had seen and fought many such outsiders before.

Military medics tended to their wounds with meticulous care.

That night, the three foreigners gathered and revealed their true purpose for coming to the fortress.

They were not merely fleeing their pursuers—they were acting, putting on a show for the senior officers of Xia, all to gain entry to the fortress and steal the kingdom’s fearsome weapon: gunpowder.

Their injuries healed quickly, and they were brought before the war council.

Inside, the military leaders of Xia convened, including a striking female general who served as interpreter—the foreigners spoke only English, not the local language.

The Xia commanders questioned them about the outside world to predict the movements of the monsters.

Some in the theater were displeased: foreigners in a Xia Kingdom film who didn’t speak the language, but only English.

In foreign sci-fi films, when a Xia character appears, they always speak English, never the language of Xia.

This left some viewers uncomfortable.

Moreover, the foreigners were getting far too much screen time; one might mistake them for the protagonists.

Though some were dissatisfied, no one spoke up; they watched quietly.

Soon, the camera began to showcase the fortress.

On the black ramparts, five armies—distinguished by red, blue, green, white, and purple—assembled in complex, yet orderly formations.

A heavy, stirring instrumental swelled, heightening the tension.

Outside, the yellow desert was suddenly swarmed by countless dark shadows—monsters, hideous and six-legged, crawling toward the fortress.

The monsters were rendered with impressive realism; the special effects astonished many.

After all, Xia’s special effects had a reputation for being lackluster.

The endless tide of monsters surged against the fortress.

At the command of the supreme leader, tens of thousands of giant black iron spears were launched, felling swathes of monsters.

Regular arrows were useless; only these massive spears could harm them.

But the iron required for the spears was immense, and the kingdom’s reserves were limited.

When monsters reached the base of the fortress, a legion of female soldiers in blue armor, ropes tied around their waists, launched themselves from the walls to stab at the beasts—none survived, all were torn apart.

Many women in the audience frowned.

Knowing full well that ordinary arrows were useless, why send the female soldiers in bright blue armor to certain death?

It felt as if the commander was using their lives as bait.

Then, at the rear of the monster horde, a colossal beast ambled forward—revealed by the general to be the monster king.

If the monster king was slain, all the beasts would be rendered inert.

The guns appeared.

Countless black cannons aimed at the monster king, and at the order, hundreds of shells exploded around it—yet the king survived, and one monster managed to breach the fortress.

Soldiers fell in droves, torn apart. When the Xia forces were at a loss, the three foreigners became heroes, slaying the beast with their spears.

Murmurs of discontent rippled through the theater.

Dozens of Xia soldiers fell like paper before the monsters, yet the foreigners dispatched them with ease.

Was this film just pandering to foreigners?

The leads weren’t the Xia generals, but these three outsiders.

After the first wave of monsters was repelled, the complaints subsided.

At the victory banquet, the three foreigners were lauded as heroes by the Xia leadership.

The sole female commander even appeared to be developing a romantic subplot with the strongest of the three.

As the monsters attacked again, the foreigners succeeded in stealing the blueprints for the firearms.

But Tom, the strongest among them, announced he would stay and fight alongside the Xia soldiers.

The others thought him moved by their courage; only Tom knew he stayed for the female commander.

Many viewers were now incensed.

The foreigners had clearly become the protagonists, and the only female commander was all but handed over to Tom.

Then, the emperor of Xia appeared, played by Qi Ran. His awkward acting failed to convey any imperial presence; some even remarked that it was little wonder the kingdom was doomed with such a ruler.

Many shared this sentiment, including the idol.

Near the film’s climax, Tom discovered the monsters’ weakness during another attack—it was their third eye, set in the brow.

Destroy that eye, and the monster would die.

This discovery made Tom a near-savior in the army.

The final battle began.

The monster king appeared.

The four Xia commanders vied to shoot out the monster king’s eye and failed.

Only one black iron spear remained; all hope was pinned on Tom.

The general entrusted him with the mission; the female commander looked on with tender affection.

Tom strode out from the fortress, weaving through the monsters, and in a near-miraculous moment, destroyed the king’s third eye.

The beast fell.

Instantly, all the monsters stopped, as if turned to lifeless puppets.

Tom had succeeded.

He had slain the monster king and saved countless citizens of Xia.

The audience was stunned.

Indeed, the foreigner was the true protagonist, the one who saved the nation.

If not for the production credits, viewers would have sworn this was a foreign film.

It was the height of individual heroism.

But even so, it was a foreigner who saved Xia.

It was baffling.

A nation with millions of soldiers and citizens, yet not a single native hero could be found.

Instead, three random foreigners from the desert easily saved the entire country.

Unbelievable.

Suddenly, agitation swept through the theater.

People began to curse aloud.

“Does the director have a screw loose? It’s a Xia film, but the lead is a foreigner!”

“Just sucking up to foreigners. I bet Wen Shan is making his fortune here before moving abroad.”

“An investment of a hundred million, and this is what we get? Utter trash.”

“Who played the emperor? What sort of performance was that? Such a crucial role given to an idiot—no skill, no presence, just painful to watch.”

Even Lin Yu, as a Qi Ran fan, was left speechless; his portrayal of the emperor was so awkward, it made her want to curse.

“I heard an American director was brought in to advise on this film—did they swap out the actual director at the last minute?”

“I can’t believe I wasted my time and money on this. Should have stayed home and played games.”

In the back row, Li He watched the scene unfold.

He’d already read the plot and compared it to an infamous flop from his previous life.

After watching, he realized this was even worse.

“Guardian” was outright groveling to foreigners, and did so without restraint.

Old Qin beside him wore a shifting expression, silently fuming.

At length, he turned to Li He and asked, “Do you think this film is going to flop?”

“Old Qin, be confident—drop the ‘do you think,’” Li He replied mercilessly.

Nearby, Old Qin’s daughter, Little Qin, piped up with a clear voice, “Dad, your company’s movies are terrible. I’m never coming to one again.”

If not for supporting the company, I wouldn’t have come either, Li He thought.

He wasn’t here for the promised dinner, but to support the company’s foray into film.

The meal didn’t matter; what mattered was a sense of collective honor.

As the grumbling continued, a drumbeat reverberated.

It made every heart tremble.

Amid the drums, a male voice sang:

“At the border in the Qin and Han dynasties,
The long march, never to return.
If only the flying general guards Dragon City,
Never let the barbarians cross Yinshan…”

The venting subsided; the theater fell silent.

He Xi’er’s voice rang out:

“Wolves smoke on mass graves,
Nameless tombs in troubled times left unvisited.
Silent heavens, ink cold as frost,
Spring and autumn repaid in blood…”

The stirring drums and impassioned singing left everyone still; some even closed their eyes just to listen.

At this moment, Little Qin recognized He Xi’er’s voice and exclaimed in a daze, “Isn’t this the song He Xi’er sang halfway through Jiang Qi’s livestream?!”

Though she spoke quietly, many nearby heard her and gasped.

“It really is! The beginning’s a male voice, threw me off at first.”

“He Xi’er played guitar in the livestream, but here it’s drums—it’s even more stirring, more rousing.”

“So I paid all this money just to hear the full version of the song?”

The movie had ended; the credits were rolling.

But no one left their seats. The theater was still.

“Love and hate can’t be careless,
War drums beat and beat,
Trust forms a vow I’ll endure.
Fate is like a bridge,
Banners flutter and flutter,
If you wish to leave,
Then draw your sword,
And let love be written off…”

Old Qin was stunned.

He knew exactly who wrote this song.

Lyrics, melody, arrangement—all by one person, who just so happened to be sitting beside him.

Li He leaned in and whispered, “Not bad, right? Passable.”

Damn.

Old Qin was practically beside himself.

Was it really necessary to torment an old man like this?

Didn’t his conscience ache?

It was infuriating.

The chorus swelled:

“Love and hate can’t be careless,
The mortal world burns and burns,
With life and death, who’s proven worthy…”

This chorus set the audience alight.

To the song, they felt as if they truly stood atop the black fortress, battling monsters.

For the people of Xia, life and death no longer mattered.

Old Qin was so moved he nearly leaped up, ready to throw his aging bones into the fray.

The film ended, the song closing with:

“Fate is like a bridge,
Look at the story,
Travel the world,
We lay down our armor,
Dreaming back to the Ballad of the Great Wall.”

The lights brightened, illuminating every face.

No one moved, unwilling to break the spell. Li He even saw someone quietly pumping their fist, as if monsters truly stood before them.

“I held it in for over an hour, but that last song made it worthwhile.”

“The whole movie is about a foreigner saving Xia, becoming the hero, but only the final song—with its many Xia instruments—truly captures the spirit of Xia’s soldiers.”

“That song made me feel as though I stood atop the black fortress, facing endless monsters, but not once did I retreat.”

“I think the ticket was worth it. Sure, I could stream the song at home, but nothing beats hearing it with the MV, in the theater.”

“You’re right—the movie is just a glorified MV for this song. It’s good, it’s moving, but it’s expensive.”

“A hundred million spent on an MV—must be the priciest ever made.”

“I know the singers are He Xi’er and Wen Hao.”

“Who wrote this song? It’s incredible.”

“Yeah, who wrote it? I’m completely drained—how am I supposed to explain this to my wife?”

Old Qin nudged Li He and whispered, “Brilliant.”

The song was extraordinary.

Especially with this MV—no, with this film—it was utterly overwhelming.

Old Qin was puzzled.

How did Gabe’s mind work? Each song he wrote was better than the last.

And the range—from the ballad “Dissolving Sorrow,” to the pop hit “Bubbles,” and now this soul-stirring, traditional “Fate is Like a Bridge.”

The range was so broad, Old Qin felt it might snap at any moment.

It was absurd.

When theater staff entered to clean up, they were stunned.

The film was over, yet not a single person had left; all sat gazing at the credits.

What the hell?

The staff wondered if they were seeing things.

They rubbed their eyes—no mistake.

Surely they’d opened the door wrong.

The credits rolled quickly.

At the end:

“Ending theme: Fate is Like a Bridge”
“Performed by: He Xi’er, Wen Hao”
“Lyrics: Gabe”
“Composer: Gabe”
“Arrangement: Gabe”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

“The lyricist and composer are the same person—unbelievable.”

“Who is this Gabe, does anyone know?”

“Have you heard He Luoluo’s ‘Dissolving Sorrow’ and Jiang Qi’s ‘Bubbles’? Gabe wrote and composed both.”

“No way—seriously? Gabe is a genius.”

“It’s true. Gabe’s musical talent is unmatched, but he’s never appeared publicly.”

“July’s top downloads—‘Fate is Like a Bridge’ is a shoo-in.”

“Now that you mention it, starting in April, Gabe’s songs have dominated the charts nonstop.”

The crowd gasped again.

It was terrifying.

“Is Gabe even human? In April, he made He Luoluo the Newcomer King, then in May and June, his songs ruled the charts. July is bound to belong to ‘Fate is Like a Bridge.’”

“Three songs, three months at number one—unreal.”

People began to leave at last.

Old Qin rose, noticing Li He was making no move to go. Confused, he said, “The movie’s over, time to go.”

Li He waved a hand, whispering, “Wait a bit. Let them finish praising me, then I’ll leave.”

Old Qin: …?

Little Qin: …?

You’re really something.

Before long, theater staff came to usher people out. Li He was a little disappointed; the compliments hadn’t stopped.

This cinema had no sense—he wouldn’t come here again, he thought, and left.

Outside, feeling a pang of hunger, Li He asked, “Old Qin, where are we going for the big meal?”

Big meal?

Little Qin, sensing something, glanced at her father, then couldn’t hold back: “Dad, is this really okay?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Old Qin retorted. “What’s wrong with a big meal?”

Listening to their exchange, Li He began to suspect the “big meal” held a secret he wasn’t aware of.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked, quietly pulling aside twelve-year-old Little Qin while Old Qin wasn’t looking.

He felt uneasy.

Little Qin hesitated, then said, “This will be the most special ‘big meal’ you’ve ever had,” and ran off.

On the way, the savvy Li He turned off his phone—he’d heard of tricks where the host claims their phone is dead and makes the guest pay.

Though he doubted Old Qin would stoop to that, it was better to be safe.

When they reached their destination, Li He stood on the sidewalk, staring in confusion at a shop with a black and gold sign.

In the center: “Big Meal Spicy Hotpot.”

At that moment, he understood what Little Qin meant by “the most special big meal.”

It certainly was special.

Old Qin, you really are shameless, Li He thought, following him inside. Once seated, he praised, “Old Qin, you’re too good to me. When I write a new song, you’ll be the first to hear it.”

Old Qin had felt a pang of guilt—after all, he’d played a word game, essentially tricking Li He.

But hearing that, he was momentarily confused—did Gabe like spicy hotpot? Maybe he should treat him to more “big meals” in the future.

Tasty and cheap—ten bucks apiece.

As Li He and the two Qins enjoyed their meal, companies across the industry had already received the opening day data for the new films released on July 2nd.

At Shengshi Entertainment, director Wen Shan gathered the film’s core team in the office to analyze the data—specifically, the first wave of audience reviews for “Guardian.”

These initial reviews would have a decisive impact on the film’s future performance.

Many people decide whether to see a film based on its first-day ratings, both online and in real life.

Wen Shan first opened the official Film & TV platform, which, like its Literature and Music counterparts, served only to record and aggregate data.

It consolidated the latest box office figures from theaters nationwide, displaying them as percentages, charts, or rankings.

The data was absolutely authentic and reliable.

The platform’s star rating system was identical to those for Literature and Music.

Upon seeing the film’s rating, Wen Shan was stunned.

The rest of the core team, seeing it in turn, were equally shocked.

“How is this possible?” the action director couldn’t believe it.

“Only two stars? Could it be…” He left the thought unsaid—he knew it was impossible.

The official platform’s rating system was unique, unconnected to cinemas or other rating sites.

There was no way to fake the numbers.

In other words, Shengshi’s first foray into the film industry had netted just two stars.

An abysmal reception.

“Check the comments, check the comments,” the assistant director said, trying to smooth things over, though he knew if the official site only gave two stars, reviews elsewhere would be no better.

Wen Shan’s hand trembled; he didn’t understand why the rating was so low.

To do justice to this patriotic sci-fi film, he’d invited a famous American associate director to consult, taking on many of his suggestions.

In the realm of sci-fi, America’s directors and special effects teams were far ahead, while Xia’s market was still a blank slate.

Bringing in an American director was meant to ensure the film’s quality.

It had taken Wen Shan considerable effort and numerous contacts to persuade the director to come to Xia as a consultant.

With a trembling hand, Wen Shan opened the comments on Doupu for “Guardian.”

[464946]: “I cried after watching the film—moved by the female soldiers who leaped from the fortress to stab the monsters.”

[313484]: “The effects were decent, but the story was eye-watering, and the director and writer must be brain-damaged.”

[6586996]: “One dares to write, the other dares to film.”

[797346]: “You could only make a film this idiotic after ten years of cerebral thrombosis.”

[Night of Starlight]: “Why must it be female soldiers? Why jump down on ropes in blue uniforms? Do monsters prefer tender meat? Is blue more eye-catching, so the monsters notice? Are the ropes so the monsters can enjoy the flavor, and pulling up uneaten soldiers just shows the monsters, ‘If you want more, come and get it’? That’s how Director Wen Shan captured such a grand scene. His imagination is truly impressive.”

[Ah Yi]: “This film gave me a year’s worth of laughs. I really don’t see the point of tying ropes and jumping to feed the monsters—it was hilarious.”

[Pet for Exams]: “The cast is all wrong; they should have used foreigners for every role. Having Xia people in a foreign film is its greatest flaw.”

[Li Kuo Kuo]: “It’s a joke. Xia’s history, Xia’s culture, Xia’s film, but the leads are foreigners. A vast nation needs three random foreigners to save it? Ridiculous.”

[Tian Yuan Stronger]: “Are music videos always this long now?”

[Dormitory]: “If not for ‘Fate is Like a Bridge,’ I wouldn’t give even one star.”

[Little Foreigner]: “The movie is trash, but the song is great.”

[An Lei]: “This film is remarkable—winner of Worst Film and Best Soundtrack.”

[Tragic Fatty]: “Honestly, if not for the song, this would barely scrape one star.”

…

Out of a possible five stars, “Guardian” had earned only two, most of which were due to the ending theme “Fate is Like a Bridge.” The creative team was despondent. “Are we done for?”

Without the song, “Guardian” would barely merit a single star. It was already a frontrunner for worst film of the year.

No one on the team had anticipated this.

For Shengshi Entertainment, “Guardian” was critical.

They had poured all their resources, time, and hopes into it.

Aside from releasing Jiang Qi’s debut album, the music division had lain dormant all year.

Everything was staked on “Guardian.”

They’d arranged the best promotions, cast, screening slots, and even had the lyric and music teams working overtime for the theme song.

And what did all that effort yield? The year’s biggest flop.

They hadn’t spent a hundred million just to make a music video, had they?

If so, it was a very expensive MV.

The assistant director sighed—it was just as he’d feared, the reviews were scathing.

There was some praise—always for the ending song.

“Ahem.”

He cleared his throat, gathering everyone’s attention, then forced a smile. “It’s not all bad—no one’s criticizing the acting.”

If not for the plot taking the blame, Qi Ran’s performance as emperor would have been torn to shreds, the stage manager thought, feeling that Qi Ran was incredibly lucky.

“I’ll take full responsibility. I’ll face the company,” Wen Shan said, collapsing into a chair, his fighting spirit gone.

When he’d formed the film division at Shengshi, he’d vowed to help the company establish itself in the industry.

The assistant director sighed. “Now isn’t the time to assign blame. We should focus on damage control.”

“If word of mouth keeps falling, we’ll be lucky to recoup half the investment, let alone make a profit.”

The audience wasn’t stupid.

They could see the ratings—they knew a film’s reputation.

If the opening day rating was two stars, and most of those were for the theme song, it didn’t bode well.

“Fate is Like a Bridge” was released on music platforms the same day.

The song’s impact on the rating would only diminish over time.

If the trend wasn’t reversed, the film might even drop below one star and be pulled from theaters.

Wen Shan nodded, his spirits slightly revived. He stood and said, “I’ll ask the company about any contingency plans.”

With that, he left the conference room.

The assistant director watched his longtime collaborator, now aged in an instant, and felt a bitter helplessness.

As Wen Shan left, the assistant director hurried after him, stopping him to offer comfort. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself—no one could have seen this coming.”

“I’m fine,” Wen Shan forced a smile. “I’ve made films for decades—storms far worse than this. This won’t break me.”

He patted his friend’s shoulder and stepped into the elevator.

——

PS. To be revised later.