Chapter 64: Finally Enjoying a Taste of Luxury

The camera zooms in from a distance, giving Gu Cheng about ten seconds to deliver that ostentatious line. He had to conjure tears in the shortest possible time.

Any seasoned actor knows how to cry on cue: one method is deep and immersive, taking time to build up emotion and truly embody the character, resulting in a convincing performance. The other involves constructing a “scene memory” in one’s mind—a memory so heartbreaking that the mere thought of it brings tears every time.

Yet, in the scene with Hua Zelei and Sugi, Gu Cheng couldn't see any genuine reason for tears—it was all forced melancholy without substance.

So the first method was useless; he didn’t know how to do it anyway. He could only rely on the second, more formulaic approach—thankfully, he’d practiced it.

Before the scene, Gu Cheng had already spent a few minutes building up emotion in the break room. For some reason, whenever he tilted his head at a 45-degree angle to gaze up at the sky, a particular figure would naturally come to mind.

It was from the time he’d just acquired the rights to “Legend.” Quan Baoya had invited him to dinner to talk about Han Geng’s emotional instability. At the table, when Gu Cheng revealed the truth and made Quan Baoya think he was a money-grubber with no ideals, she forced back her tears just like this.

In the heart of that young girl, a friend she once thought she could make music and become famous with had become a sellout, abandoning his ideals for money. That must have been a hard blow.

The key was that Gu Cheng’s rebellious nature made him too proud to explain himself.

Back then, Quan Baoya had pretended to look up at the ceiling, or anywhere but Gu Cheng, trying to swallow back her tears.

Gu Cheng knew he’d deeply wounded the little girl’s trust.

“They’re coming! The tears are really coming!” The crew monitoring his performance immediately noticed the subtle change in his expression. The camera shifted from a medium shot to a perfectly timed close-up.

Gu Cheng felt a cool dampness at the corner of his eye—he knew he was right on the edge. Forcing himself out of the memory, he tilted his head back another sixty degrees, his neck now drooping slightly, slumping into a pose of defeat, and managed to hold the tears at bay.

Xu Xiyuan quickly composed herself and picked up her lines.

“Cut! That’s it!” Director Cai let out a long breath, thinking at last this troublesome scene was done.

With the rooftop scene wrapped, the cast rotated as others continued filming. Xu Xiyuan returned to her seat for some water, and Yang Chenlin sidled up, both envious and nosy. “Hey, the two of you get so into character—Cheng isn’t falling for you, is he? He’s putting a lot of emotion into it.”

Xu Xiyuan set down her bottle and scoffed, “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s passionate, sure, but I know he’s definitely thinking of another woman.”

Yang Chenlin was mildly surprised. “Really? I heard from Sister Zhilin that he doesn’t have a girlfriend. If it’s not you, could something be going on between him and Sister Zhilin? Like Hua Zelei and Senior Jing—though they’re practically siblings, nine years apart!”

“Enough gossiping! With all this free time, you’d be better off preparing for your romantic scenes with Zhou Yumin.” With that, Xu Xiyuan slipped away.

...

Gu Cheng spent Christmas and New Year’s with the crew, and just like that, the clock of history ticked into 2001.

As the episodes went on, Gu Cheng found himself increasingly enjoying this life, taking pleasure in the sense of accomplishment each day.

A month earlier, he might have worried that acting in an idol drama would lower his artistic standing, but that concern had vanished. He was learning far more from acting than he’d ever imagined. If he hadn’t taken this role, he might have gone his whole life without ever witnessing, firsthand, the creative process of film and television in the era of celluloid.

This was the last golden age of film photography; for that alone, the job was worth it.

Industry and automation erase the flaws of handmade creation, but they also strip away subtle individuality. Gu Cheng understood this well. In his later years, he’d spent years helping humanity recover the detail and humanity that art lost to industrialization. But some things can only be truly grasped through direct experience; otherwise, you can never truly feel what was lost, or how much.

No one else in the crew could understand the value Gu Cheng was gaining. In a sense, he was an outsider.

It was like a nineteenth-century tailor, watching the widespread adoption of sewing machines and factories, might not mourn the loss of bespoke clothing. But someone in the twenty-first century who still sought out a tailor would know exactly what unique details a craftsman could provide that a factory never could.

It was already mid-January. The crew finished filming at one location and prepared to move the next day. This year, Lunar New Year fell on January 24; after filming two more episodes, everyone would be on break for the holiday.

As they wrapped for the day, producer Chai Zhiping braced herself and approached Gu Cheng again. “Gu, about the additional investment you mentioned…”

Gu Cheng had just washed his face. He replied earnestly, “Very soon, within the next couple of days at most.”

Chai Zhiping, reassured but still anxious, started to warn him, “You’ve only injected funds twice since filming began, totaling just one million. We at Fulong Productions have already spent three-quarters of our budget. The next two episodes are set on a cruise ship, and we were supposed to film those earlier. You insisted on renting a real cruise ship, but the budget wasn’t enough, so it got pushed back…”

“Aunt Chai, trust me—tomorrow I’ll wire the money, and it’ll be in your account the day after. Once it’s sent, I’ll have the domestic office fax you the transaction slip. As soon as you see it, use the remaining Fulong funds to rent the ship. The game is making money now; once early accounts are settled, the payment will go through.”

Gu Cheng had to say a truckload of reassuring words before Chai Zhiping finally left, still worried. Then, in private, he called his cousin back home.

The online game “Legend” had officially begun charging users for over ten days—it was finally turning a profit!

Every day, Gu Cheng would chat with his cousin and hear good news about the steadily increasing number of paying users. However, since most players weren’t idle college students, there was a strong weekly pattern to game spending. It took at least a week to see the real trend, so his cousin couldn’t give him a definite answer before now.

After all, only college students could spend all day, seven days a week, gaming. Most others only had time on weekends. Without observing a full week, there was no way to know whether those who’d tried the beta but hadn’t paid were really gone, or just hadn’t logged in yet.

But today was the day the accounts would close.

After several rings, the call connected.

Gu Cheng asked directly, “Sis, how are things looking?”

On the other end, Pan Jieying sounded both excited and proud. “The first week’s paying users are in—150,000! Besides the twenty thousand or so who prepaid during last year’s events, we brought in four million just from point card sales in the first ten days. The number of partner internet cafés offering the payment system is skyrocketing—twelve thousand now, and many café owners are recommending the game. By the end of the month, we should hit three hundred thousand paying users and eighty thousand concurrent online. No problem!”

Gu Cheng did a quick calculation. To promote the “Alipay recharge system,” the company was spending nearly a million a month on marketing. Previously, Pan Jieying likely hadn’t had enough cash to pay for the first quarter’s telecom bandwidth and server hosting, probably only covering one month, so he’d need to set aside over a million for the next two months of broadband and hosting fees.

After deducting other miscellaneous costs—staff, development, maintenance—it still seemed feasible to pull out a million.

Without hesitation, he said, “Then wire me one million tomorrow. Yes, through Chengpin Media’s account—just call it an internal loan.”

Pan Jieying thought the paperwork would be a hassle, but she gritted her teeth and agreed, not forgetting to tease her cousin, “Good thing we’re the only two shareholders. If this were any other company, you’d be sued for related-party transactions!”

Gu Cheng soothed her, “I know there are a lot of financial hoops to jump through. I couldn’t do this without you, so just consider it a headache from your silly little brother.”

Hearing he appreciated her effort, Pan Jieying let go of any complaints and set about raising the funds.

The next day, Gu Cheng handed Chai Zhiping the wire transfer slip for the million. At last, she relaxed, immediately using the last of Fulong’s budget to pay the cruise ship’s rental balance.

All the cast and crew boarded the ship on schedule and began work. Before they went up the gangway, Chai Zhiping stood at the entrance, encouraging them one by one, “Let’s give it our all! Once we finish these two episodes on the cruise, it’s holiday time—everyone gets a red envelope!”

Xu Xiyuan, Yang Chenlin, and Lin Zhilin lugged their luggage aboard and started prepping their makeup and costumes. While getting ready, the girls couldn’t help but chatter away.

Due to budget limitations, the “Meteor Garden” crew had only planned to rent a large luxury liner at Kaohsiung Port for distant shots, using a small two-deck boat for close-ups. As for the less-than-glamorous interiors, they’d just rely on strings of tacky market-bought lights for decoration.

But after reading the script, Gu Cheng found this intolerable. He gave Chai Zhiping an extra three hundred thousand, urging her to rent a luxury ship for four days at seventy thousand per day. Even though it was only a mid-sized vessel under a hundred meters with a few dozen cabins, the top deck was lavishly appointed, ensuring there’d be no mistakes on camera.

For these two episodes, the props budget was double that of any other, enough to shoot five indoor episodes.

Yang Chenlin, never one to hold back, remarked after her makeup was done, “Hey, Zhilin, do you think Cheng is in this for the money? He’s throwing so much at props, I bet he’s losing money. Maybe he’s just used to splashing out from working in the internet industry?”

Lin Zhilin, amused and exasperated, replied while changing, “Silly girl, you’re not even out of high school—what do you know about the internet? Does working in tech mean you have to be a big spender?”

Yang Chenlin pouted, unconvinced. “Isn’t it all about appearances for them? That’s why the bubble burst, right? I don’t know, but that’s what my friends say.”

As the three continued chatting, their makeup was finished. Then a female script supervisor knocked and entered. “Miss Lin, please get ready. The next scene is in the presidential suite next door—Hua Zelei and Fujido Jing’s night scene. By the way, do you have any special requests? For example, should the kissing scene be shot with a stand-in?”

Lin Zhilin paused, “A stand-in? Um, Mr. Gu didn’t mention anything, did he?”