Chapter 70: This Person’s Performance Was Unrestrained and Masterful

At this moment on set, Zhang Huaimo was adjusting the camera angles, directing the cinematographer on the movement details for the next scene. The film studio had recreated an ancient imperial court hall in full scale; once inside, it was almost impossible to detect anything out of place. Every piece of scenery and construction evoked a powerful sense of having truly traveled back in time.

For this particular scene, nearly all the veteran actors would share the stage. Yet the true protagonist remained Su Mu—or rather, it was a monologue under the watchful gaze of these seasoned performers. According to the script’s narrative arc: this was the banquet where Fan Xian entered the palace only to be ensnared by the Princess Royal’s plot, and in front of the ministers and Emperor Qing, he was accused of plagiarizing his poetry. In response, Fan Xian, emboldened by wine, recited poem after poem from his memory, originating from another era, ultimately stunning everyone present and venting his pent-up emotions.

Su Mu was well aware that this scene had sparked considerable debate in his previous life. Some found the sequence awkward; others felt it exhilarating, though perhaps the emotional delivery from the actors hadn’t quite satisfied them. After all, reciting so many famous verses required a precise balance of momentum and feeling—without it, the performance could easily descend into embarrassment.

“This is impressive—a solo act performed before all those veteran actors,” someone remarked.

“Just thinking about it makes me nervous. Can Su Mu pull it off?”

“I’m not sure. But do you remember Zhang Jianlin’s drama from a couple of years ago? There was a similar scene—surrounded by veteran actors, performing in the center. I heard he was so nervous he NG’d dozens of times.”

“Su Mu’s acting is on par with Zhang Jianlin’s, but the pressure from Professor Zhuang and Professor Wang isn’t small either.”

“It’s about to start.”

By now, all the actors had arrived. Zhuang Yan was playing Emperor Qing. Even before the cameras rolled, his demeanor and aura already radiated the presence of a sovereign.

Zhuang Yan said, “This scene is quite interesting—by no means easy to perform.”

Wang Ouyi replied, “Exactly. If you act well, it’s satisfying; if not, it’s stifling. I wonder how prepared young Su Mu is.”

Zhuang Yan neither agreed nor disagreed: “This kind of sequence really requires explosive emotional power from the actor.”

Their discussion was that of experienced seniors, while the actors around them listened with genuine humility. Most who had read the script understood. The male lead, Fan Xian, had grown up enduring assassination attempts, the loss of loved ones, and upon reaching the capital, gradually uncovered one cruel truth after another. With such an overwhelming influx of information inundating his heart, he needed an outlet—a breakthrough to release that pent-up energy.

Those torrents of poetry weren’t about their literal content, but about the seething anger and grievances boiling beneath the surface. Call the protagonist pretentious if you like, or say he was using his “halo” to act out while drunk—for Fan Xian at that moment, he simply wanted to do just that. This “simply” was not only willful, but uniquely his—a privilege of character. Hence, his behavior always carried a reckless intensity that outsiders could scarcely grasp.

Blending all these inner layers together, that was the Fan Xian who sat at the banquet that day. Yet, even with a thorough grasp of the protagonist’s mindset, this sequence was notoriously difficult to master. Overact, and it felt forced; underplay, and it lacked impact. A single misstep would alienate the audience, and often, the fatal flaws that made viewers abandon a story were found in just such moments.

Thus, the difficulty and pressure were self-evident. The line between emotional catharsis and deliberate pretense was razor-thin. Stay perfectly balanced, and the audience would feel exhilarated and at ease. But lean too far to either side, and the whole sequence would lose its equilibrium, even risk provoking discomfort and embarrassment.

Those present—Zhuang Yan, Wang Ouyi, even Zhang Huaimo—didn’t voice their doubts, but inwardly, they too felt uncertain. They refrained from mentioning it out loud, fearful of burdening Su Mu with extra pressure.

“Su Mu’s here!”

“Wait… Erguotou? No way, is he really drinking for the scene?”

“That’s not a weak spirit—he’s already downed half a bottle. Can he still deliver his lines?”

“Didn’t Director Zhang say to use fake wine? Is he really chasing authenticity to this extent?”

“Maybe he’s nervous and needs some courage. After all, he’s performing with all these heavyweights.”

As these discussions buzzed around, Su Mu took his seat, drank another swig, then poured the rest of the bottle into the prop wine jar for the upcoming scene.

[Behavior proficiency +1]
[Skill point +0.01]

Su Mu had actually spent the past few days contemplating this scene. He knew the boundary between emotional outburst and posturing had to be precisely gauged. And the key to hitting that seamless transition lay in the protagonist Fan Xian’s drunken state.

From a distance, Zhang Huaimo and the others never once disturbed Su Mu, allowing him to immerse himself in the role. Now, seeing the change in his demeanor, they sensed he was ready. The call went out for all actors to take their places. After a while, everything was prepared.

“Cameras ready!”

“Joy of Life, Scene 126—Action!”

With the director’s cue echoing through the set, silence fell instantly.

On the grand hall set, the actors slipped into their characters, propelling the story forward. The first part of the sequence was not complicated.

The actors took their seats and began. The Princess Royal instructed Zhuang Mokehan to expose a problem with Fan Xian’s poetry. Fan Xian then confronted Zhuang Mokehan, hurling a poem as his retort.

Now, all eyes on set turned to the center. Su Mu swallowed his food and slowly stood up, his face first displaying a hint of irreverence. Then he looked at Zhuang Mokehan, raised his cup, and spoke with calm conviction:

“This poem has nothing to do with your teacher. It belongs to another world—a world radiant with literary brilliance…”

The first half of his response was all about laying the emotional groundwork for what would come. At this point, he was still tipsy.

Then, in a sudden turn: “Who says I only memorized one poem in my dreams? Paper! Ink!”

With these words, the emotional climax began.

Su Mu strode to the center, carrying a heart full of turmoil. The effects of the Erguotou now surged to his head. From the moment he spoke his first line of verse, there was no stopping him. The script here was dense, with many disconnected lines of poetry to recall. Yet Su Mu showed no hesitation. With each recitation, his energy built higher and higher.

From “Do you not see the Yellow River…” to “Since ancient times, who has not died…” then “By lamplight in dreams, I test my sword…” and “A thousand pieces of gold, scattered, will come again…”

[Lines +1+1+1]
[Emotion +1+1+1]
[Expression… +1]
[Skill point +0.01…+0.01…]

On camera, Su Mu’s drunkenness was utterly convincing: his cheeks flushed, his eyes unfocused. Yet the alcohol never dulled the power of his lines. Everyone’s emotions rose in tandem with each poem he uttered, reaching a fever pitch.

“Cut! Excellent!”

The director called it.

Everyone let out a long breath.

“Wow…”

“Whoa!”

“Brilliant!”

They suddenly realized—a heady, exhilarating satisfaction had swept through them all.