Chapter 54: No One's Strength Surpasses One's Own

Inside the dressing room.

Su Mu was having his look styled by the makeup artist. With the wig in place, he immediately acquired the refined, scholarly air of an ancient gentleman.

Yet the role of Mei Changsu was a tragic one. As a youth, he had suffered the destruction of his family through treachery. Later, he was saved, assumed a new identity, and resolved to return for vengeance. Thus, from beginning to end, Mei Changsu was a man plagued by old ailments—wise, restrained, never revealing his heart.

“Cough… cough, cough.”

[Expression control proficiency +1]
[Behavior imitation proficiency +1]
[Skill points +0.01… +0.01]

Su Mu coughed twice, trying to find the right state of illness for Mei Changsu.

Seeing this, Fan Xiaojv hurriedly handed him a thermos and asked in confusion, “Why did that Chen Yang leave right after seeing you? I thought he was going to say something.”

Su Mu replied, “He probably wanted to say something, but didn’t get it out.”

Xiaojv asked, “Isn’t that a bit odd?”

Su Mu shook his head. “No idea, but it feels like there’s a story there.”

Xiaojv said, “Well, at least now we know he really can’t handle close-up shots.”

Su Mu replied, “It’s not so bad. Honestly, if he weren’t unattractive… he’d actually be quite handsome.”

Xiaojv: “...”

Makeup artist: “...”

…

The photo shoot for the character posters was finished in about half a day. Su Mu took the opportunity to get acquainted with the other actors. This production had even more seasoned actors than the last. After all, a story of ancient court intrigue couldn’t be supported by just a few main characters. “Nirvana in Fire” was full of vivid characters; only if all these roles were convincingly portrayed could Su Mu’s Mei Changsu be properly established.

It was clear that, despite Zhang Huaimou complaining about the tight schedule, the preparations had been anything but careless.

In the afternoon, Qian Jida finalized the contract details without a hitch. Su Mu returned to the crew’s apartment with him, planning to get a good sleep before filming started—who knew how exhausting it would be later.

Qian Jida said, “Counting the pay for this drama, you’ve made about 170 million this year. After deducting your commission, the rest goes to the company’s account.”

“How much is left on the contract?”

Su Mu lounged lazily on the sofa, health tonic of angelica and goji berries in hand, playing the part of someone with a hidden ailment.

[Behavior imitation proficiency +1]

Qian Jida looked at Su Mu, a little worried. “Are you alright? You look so drained. Don’t tell me you’re sick before filming even starts?”

Su Mu shook his head. “No, don’t worry. Go on.”

Qian Jida continued, “Well, after this year’s 100 million or so, you’ll have 450 million left to complete over two years.”

Su Mu considered this. In fact, as long as he earned a little over 200 million per year, he’d be fine. That number didn’t seem so daunting.

With his current popularity and acting skills, as long as he stayed diligent in the coming years, there’d be no problem. There were still three scripts he hadn’t yet negotiated with Huayi and Penguin’s production teams. Even if he did Zhang Huaimou a favor and didn’t raise his price, as long as each project paid sixty million, that would be 180 million sorted. Add to that the new endorsement with Liu Qiangxi’s brand, and next year’s target would be met before he even began working—enough to make anyone envious.

And that wasn’t even counting fees for variety shows and other events.

So Su Mu wasn’t worried in the least.

Qian Jida said, “While it’s true that the company invested a lot of resources to make you a star, it’s only right for you to give back by fulfilling your contract. But with the contract not yet finished, the company should continue to support you rather than start cutting resources early. That’s just unfair.”

Su Mu guessed Qian Jida was remembering the past again, so he reassured him, “Don’t worry, Mr. Qian. I’m not bothered by such things.”

Qian Jida looked at Su Mu, his gaze serious. “Su Mu, have you thought about your future?”

Su Mu replied, “My future?”

Qian Jida nodded. “You should start thinking about it. When your contract is up, will you sign with the company again or set up your own studio? Of course, if you sign again, the revenue split will shift in your favor—you’ll get the bigger share. If you go independent, you may not have company resources, and you’ll need to build a new team, which could affect your future development. But then all the money you earn will be yours.”

Listening to Qian Jida, Su Mu fell silent for a moment. In the past, he would have immediately chosen to sign again. But things were different now.

In any industry, the longer you stay, the clearer things become. The platform is important, but in the end, the company cares about profit—no artist is truly indispensable. In the end, it’s better to rely on yourself than anyone else.

Rather than being at the mercy of the company and forced into unreasonable arrangements, it might be best to strike out on his own. Whatever happens, it would all be his to own.

But it was still too early to decide. At the very least, he’d wait until the contract ended.

…

After Qian Jida left, Su Mu stayed alone in his room, working on his proficiency. Reading the script, reciting lines, practicing expressions, releasing emotion, pretending to suffer internal injuries—going through the whole set would net him quite a bit of proficiency.

[Skill points: 15.5]

Looking at the skill points, Su Mu decided it was time to open a mission blind box. From experience, the rewards from mission blind boxes were the most worthwhile.

“Mission blind box.”

[Prompt: 1.0 skill point spent, 14.5 remaining]
[Mission blind box opening…]
[Mission 1: Successfully sell the rights to three scripts and confirm the lead actor role in all three productions. (Incomplete)
Mission rewards:
[Talent blind box x3]
[+1000 proficiency]
[Skill points +5.0]]

Not bad—he’d gotten a good one on the first try. Reading the new mission, Su Mu felt reassured. His previous talks with Zhang Huaimou had been only verbal agreements; the actual purchase and implementation hadn’t yet been discussed in detail. Zhang Huaimou had said to wait until the producers from Penguin arrived. The date wasn’t set, but it should be within a few days.

…

The next day.

The crew officially started filming. As always, incense was burned, prayers offered, and the red cloth unveiled.

Then the actors took their places, and the first scene began.

This time, Zhang Huaimou had arranged for Su Mu, the lead, to take the first shot.

Everyone knows—the first scene carries the flag.

According to the storyline of “Nirvana in Fire,” the protagonist, who had suffered years before, returns to the capital under a new identity as the Kirin Son of the Pavilion of Langya. This passage seemed calm on the surface, but it was the true beginning, the tone-setter for the entire drama. It was extremely important, as everything started with Mei Changsu. Yet his emotional state was a delicate thing to grasp—returning with a new identity to a place both familiar and strange for revenge.

Knowing that those you care about are merely pieces on the chessboard of vengeance, but being unable to turn back—you must return, you must act.

This was a torment of emotion—a resolve forged in pain and hatred, forced to walk a difficult path.

Imagine stepping into the capital with such a state of mind—what kind of expression should one wear?

Should there be a flash of murderous intent, of rage, in the eyes? No, too much anger would give him away. Should it be coldness? No, for Mei Changsu’s suppressed emotions weren’t so easily erased by time.

Thus, in the very first shot, the character’s complexity must flicker imperceptibly—a depth that allows the audience to glimpse everything in the protagonist’s heart.

This opening scene was, therefore, incredibly difficult.

Anyone who had read the script would know this. So did Su Mu.

…

At this moment, the filming location was already crowded with onlookers.