Extra 2

After the Wanxiang, starring Chi Qingzhou, passed the review process, it was scheduled for its premiere on a rather absurd date.

That day was the fifteenth of the seventh lunar month, also known in folklore as the Ghost Festival.

Several film critics invited to the premiere checked their phones and couldn’t help but reveal expressions as complex as an old man on the subway seeing a smartphone for the first time.

If they weren’t mistaken, Wanxiang seemed to be a film about feng shui,, religion, and supernatural?

Then this choice of premiere date was really…

“Uncannily eerie.”

In the pitch-black theater, someone muttered under their breath, instantly receiving silent agreement from many others.

Qing Yajian also secretly nodded.

He was one of the invited film critics, specializing in niche genres. His account didn’t have a massive following, but his fans were fiercely loyal.

The supernatural horror genre, or more precisely, works rooted in folklore, had always been his favorite. Ever since Wanxiang started filming, he had been keeping an eye on it and was quite eager for the premiere.

But even so, he still felt that the timing of this premiere was too eerie.

And not just that…

Qing Yajian glanced at Director Fang sitting in the front row, recalled his previous remarks, and couldn’t help but twitch the corners of his mouth.

What did he mean by, “Although we don’t have an exceptional script, we have the most suitable team”?

And what was that about, “Despite numerous unexpected incidents, I believe the film will ultimately present its best effect”?

These subtly unsettling comments made the whole thing sound so unreliable.

Coupled with the fact that Director Fang wasn’t too keen on media interviews, Qing Yajian felt even less certain about Wanxiang’s quality.

The other film critics shared similar thoughts.

Mainly because Fang Mingge’s behavior had been too dramatic, making it difficult to imagine what Wanxiang would actually be like.

Not to mention, one of the key roles in the film was played by Chi Qingzhou, the artist who had been frequently trending on social media lately.

Yes, they admitted that his life experiences were truly tragic and evoked great sympathy, but that had nothing to do with his acting skills!

They had seen his performance clips from Scenery Along the Way, and while it was decent, could reality shows really be trusted to showcase true acting ability?

Big screens and small screens were completely different worlds. Movies and variety shows were two entirely separate things!

The delicate acting required for the big screen, aside from actors like Song Yuzhi, could the others really meet the standard?

Fang Mingge was a skilled director, but even he wouldn’t be able to deliver a competent final product without a good script, good actors, and with so many reshoots.

The critics rubbed their temples, pulled out their notebooks, and began considering how they should approach their reviews.

“A commission? You want me to take on this kind of commission? Are you kidding me?”

Lines of dialogue echoed through the theater. The dim, cold-toned colors flickered on the screen, making the already dark cinema feel even more chilling.

A young man sat at an old wooden table, his lips moving slightly before he swallowed his words, his expression unusually complicated.

“I’m just an ordinary person. I don’t have that kind of ability. You should find someone more capable.”

The person sitting across from him lowered their voice and murmured something.

A shadow streaked across the screen.

Darkness.

A sharp intake of breath swept through the audience, followed by suppressed gasps and startled murmurs.

Qing Yajian’s face went pale, his fingers trembling so much that he accidentally dropped his notebook on the floor.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, bent down to retrieve it. Something soft brushed against the back of his hand.

It felt like the skin of a human fingertip, but the temperature was chillingly low. Perhaps just some sort of hanging ornament?

Qing Yajian didn’t want to overthink it, but in this setting, his expression still froze.

He had no idea how he managed to sit back in his seat. He remained dazed for a few seconds before his vision refocused on the big screen.

The breathtaking visuals continued.

The flickering glow of the formation, the figures struggling to survive within it, and the unnatural entities floating in the air, things that should not exist in this world.

It was clearly a fictional scene, yet it felt shockingly real.

It was as if the scene was shot live.

But that was impossible… right?

“These special effects are incredible.”

“It looks so realistic, not artificial at all.”

“Even the monster in the background has subtle facial expressions, and they’re so clear, there’s no cutting corners… Just for the effects alone, this film is worth the ticket price!”

Qing Yajian kept nodding in agreement.

Yes, special effects.

This had to be special effects.

What else could it be?

He hadn’t expected Director Fang to position this as a commercial film, but based on what he was seeing, that statement wasn’t an exaggeration.

Just from the special effects alone, Wanxiang was already proving itself to be an outstanding blockbuster.

Qing Yajian scribbled a few notes in his notebook, casually labeled the film as a commercial hit, and then checked his phone for more details.

The production team had previously revealed that Wanxiang had been reshot three times, with costs spiraling out of control, exceeding 80 million yuan.

Eighty million.

…Eighty million??

Eighty million to produce special effects this spectacular?

It should’ve cost at least 800 million!

Qing Yajian nearly blurted out a curse and instinctively muttered,

“Which VFX studio descended from heaven to do charity work?!”

A murmur of agreement rose around them.

Perhaps their voices were a little too loud, as one of the actors sitting in the front row turned his head and glanced at them.

He had an exceptionally refined face, his brows and eyes carrying a touch of distant purity, giving him an almost ethereal presence.

Qing Yajian recognized him at a glance.

Chi Qingzhou, the actor playing the most important supporting role in this film.

Just based on his appearance alone, he was undoubtedly suited for the big screen.

There was no reproach or threat in Chi Qingzhou’s gaze, only a hint of mild curiosity, but even so, both Qing Yajian and his colleagues instinctively avoided his eyes.

They focused intently on the movie, as if they had been completely drawn into the plot.

To be honest, Wanxiang’s storyline was indeed solid.

Among commercial blockbusters, it was a rare gem, its plot flowed smoothly, its twists felt natural, its pacing was well-balanced, and it had no glaring logical flaws.

However, its genre was not a market advantage. With a niche audience, it was inherently disadvantaged as a commercial film.

No matter how good its special effects were, if viewers weren’t interested in its subject matter, they wouldn’t step into the theater for it.

What a shame.

Qing Yajian watched Chi Qingzhou’s outstanding performance on screen and couldn’t help but feel regret on his behalf.

Even if Wanxiang’s box office performance wasn’t great, would such an exceptional actor still manage to attract the attention of other directors?

Qing Yajian wasn’t too sure.

“Sigh.”

A deep sigh echoed beside him, filled with bitterness and regret.

Thinking his colleague also found it a pity, Qing Yajian turned his head to look.

The seat next to him was completely empty. Not a single person was there.

His expression went blank, his mind stalling for two seconds before he stiffly thought.

In a film like this, in such a dimly lit space, who the hell was playing a prank?

“Sigh.”

Another sigh.

This time, Qing Yajian heard it clearly, it came from the empty seat beside him.

But… there was no one there?!

He froze entirely.

“Sigh.” The third sigh sounded, followed by a mournful voice: “Aren’t you writing a review? Why did you stop?”

Qing Yajian jolted and immediately grabbed his notebook, furiously jotting down his previous thoughts.

“I’m writing, I’m writing!”

Don’t rush me!

Especially when I don’t even know what is rushing me!

The voice fell silent for a moment, then sighed a fourth time. “Sigh, your review is really well-written. You’re quite talented.”

Qing Yajian let out a dry laugh. “Haha, really?”

The voice replied, “Yes. You even praised their acting. I’m so envious.”

Perhaps because the envy in its tone was so obvious, or perhaps because it sounded rather harmless, Qing Yajian, though frightened at first, couldn’t help but respond.

“Why are you envious?” he asked softly.

The voice sighed again. “They get to be on the big screen and receive praise. That’s so nice. Sigh, I wish I could be in a movie too. Do you think Director Fang would want to cast me?”

“Uh…”

Qing Yajian glanced at the empty seat beside him and thought. Even if Director Fang is willing, the audience might not be able to see you…

The voice didn’t seem to mind his hesitation. It sighed again, urging him to continue writing.

Qing Yajian had no choice but to focus on his review in the dark.

He didn’t dare to critique the film too harshly, so he carefully selected positive aspects to highlight.

Fortunately, Wanxiang had solid quality. Although the first half of the story was somewhat unremarkable, the final battle and that towering, almost godlike figure standing between heaven and earth were truly stunning, not necessarily elevating the theme, but at the very least, leaving room for boundless imagination.

His inspiration surged, and line after line of text filled his notebook.

“Our ancestors braved hardships to carve out civilization from the wilderness. Through the years, the survival and prosperity of humankind have never depended on ghosts or deities, but on our own hands.”

“Those high above, who look down upon the mortal world and impose disasters upon the people – even beings that surpass human imagination, so-called ‘gods’ – will ultimately fall before human hands.”

“This is humanity’s courage. And it will be humanity’s eternal conviction.”

Finishing his last sentence, Qing Yajian set down his pen, his face filled with emotion.

The voice beside him praised, “That was really well-written. You must be quite cultured.”

Qing Yajian humbly replied, “It’s mainly because the movie was good. At least it didn’t go for the ‘mental hospital delusion’ cliché–huh??”

He froze mid-sentence.

Wait a minute. This film, which was full of feng shui, and supernatural beings, why didn’t it end up explaining everything away as hallucinations or dreams? Instead, it actually depicted those things as real?

He slowly looked up, his face blank with shock.

…How did this even pass censorship?

—

Amidst the scattered whispers of shock, Chi Qingzhou used his shadow to catch a small ghost scurrying around the theater. Tilting his head, he watched as the film critics and reporters gradually made their way out.

They all walked unsteadily, their faces pale with lingering fear. If not for their bodies still having weight, they might have floated away entirely.

Chi Qingzhou retracted his shadow, which had subtly tugged at a film critic’s pant leg. Under Fang Mingge’s indescribable gaze, he innocently asked, “Their nerves are pretty weak. Is it really okay to screen this version?”

Fang Mingge was silent for two seconds before answering bluntly, “As long as Mr. Chi isn’t in the theater, it should be fine.”

Chi Qingzhou blinked, tilting his head. “I see. Then are you still treating us to dinner tonight? If we’re eating out, I’ll let Su-ge know.”

“Yes. You can invite Mr. Xing too.”

Fang Mingge sighed and stood up, calling everyone to go out for hot pot.

The actors who had been packing up instantly cheered, and Chi Qingning even shouted, “Thanks, Second Brother!”

In an instant, the theater was filled with cries of “Thanks, Chi-ge!”

Chi Qingzhou turned back to glance at them, then smiled, his eyes curving into crescents.