This was a movie whose main protagonist was a ghost.

 

Over the next few days, everything remained peaceful and uneventful. Luo Huai’s friend wouldn’t have time to come audition until three days later, and Luo Huai didn’t see any other colleagues either—presumably Aunt Yang and the others were staying somewhere else before filming officially began.

Luo Huai didn’t even get to see Director Zhong, who lived in the same villa. He heard that Director Zhong was working day and night, forgetting to eat and sleep, revising the script, with his schedule completely reversed—awake at night and asleep during the day.

The only proof of Director Zhong’s existence was the three meals that appeared punctually on the dining table every day. Luo Huai never saw the cook; he only knew that there would definitely be food in the dining room at 7:00, 12:00, and 18:00. As for whether it was Director Zhong or Aunt Yang who cooked, he had no idea.

Director Zhong gave Luo Huai a revised version of the script. The character’s personality had not changed much, but the interactions with the other actors had been significantly altered. During the day, Luo Huai familiarized himself with the script and exercised to maintain his physique; at night, he obediently went to bed early.

Whenever it was deep into the quiet of the night, he would hear strange, rhythmic sounds. Luo Huai couldn’t quite tell what they were until one night, when he turned on the television to watch a period drama and realized that the nightly rhythmic sounds were very similar to the sound of a sewing machine.

Along with the sound of the sewing machine in operation, there was also a faintly audible, piercing crying sound, like that of textile workers complaing about capitalists’ injustice.

Ever since the night he went out and saw Aunt Yang auditioning, Luo Huai had learned one rule for living in this villa: if he heard strange noises at night, he should not go out casually.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of encountering ghosts. Rather, as an actor, if he were to be frightened into fainting by his colleagues’ acting, it would be extremely embarrassing. Luo Huai tactfully refrained from disturbing his colleagues’ rehearsals.

When Luo Huai’s friend came to audition, Qian Duoqian also brought along a cinematographer and two other female actors to the crew. This cinematographer had previously always worked as an assistant and was still something of an apprentice in the industry. This was his first time serving as the lead cinematographer, essentially giving himself a chance to practice, so his fee was not high.

The other two female actors had no fame either; they were newcomers to the film and television industry. Their pay was not high, though still much higher than Luo Huai’s—after all, actors who are good-looking and cheap like Luo Huai were hard to find.

As for the rest of the staff, unless a task required particularly strong professional expertise, Director Zhong personally handled all the miscellaneous work that a director could do. When he couldn’t manage everything himself, Qian Duoqian filled in. Whenever specialists were absolutely necessary, they were hired for only a day or two, sparing no effort to save money.

All things considered, the combined salaries of everyone amounted to only three to four hundred thousand yuan. Although the villa was luxurious, given that it was haunted, the rent was not high. Especially since the villa served not only as the filming location but also as accommodation for everyone, the rent was exceptionally cost-effective.

Half of the crew didn’t need to eat, which greatly reduced food expenses as well. All the props were rented second-hand and shabby; a batch of costumes had even been returned, and the rental fees for various props were also quite low.

All in all, the early-stage expenses would probably be between one and 1.2 million yuan, leaving eighty to ninety thousand for post-production—editing, special effects, music, art design…

Which still didn’t seem like quite enough.

Qian Duoqian was so worried about money that he was practically going bald. He found an opportunity to ask Zhong Jiudao, “With the budget this tight, what about post-production? Can’t you find a way to pull in a bit more sponsorship?”

Zhong Jiudao thought for a moment. “My connections aren’t very suitable for the film and television industry, but I can find someone to do the editing for free.”

“For free? Are you that close? Is he professional?” Qian Duoqian asked.

Zhong Jiudao let out a long sigh. “It’s a family connection.”

The editor was a cousin from his family.

The Zhong family was a lineage of Celestial Masters. Any younger generation member with even a bit of talent was required to focus wholeheartedly on studying Taoist arts.

This cousin of Zhong Jiudao had scored over 600 points on the college entrance exam and could have applied to an excellent “985” or “211” university, but was forcibly made by the family to return home and concentrate on studying Taoist techniques, unable to continue his formal education.

(NT: “985” and “211” refer to two Chinese government initiatives that designate and fund the country’s most prestigious universities, with 985 being the top tier and 211 a broader group of elite institutions)

Unwilling to accept the fate imposed on him by the family, the cousin studied spells and exorcism while also using his spare time to teach himself video editing. He had now become a moderately well-known content creator.

From a professional standpoint, Zhong Jiudao believed his cousin’s skill level was not low at all. Many post-production teams had invited him to join them, but unfortunately, the cousin had already become a quasi–Celestial Master and could not take on such work, only uploading videos anonymously in private.

Although the Zhong family required that no one provide Zhong Jiudao with financial support, his cousin’s editing work was unrelated to the family’s finances and had never been discovered by the elders. It was entirely possible for him to help Zhong Jiudao in secret.

Zhong Jiudao spread open his left hand, and a neutral-coloured ballpoint pen appeared in his palm.

This unusual pen seemed to be telling Zhong Jiudao that the times had changed, and that the Zhong family needed to change as well.

After entering an era of peace, the resentment of ghosts had grown weaker and weaker, and the power of Celestial Masters had likewise diminished. The entire profession was in decline.

Yet the family elders, in order to maintain the family’s legacy, only intensified their suppression of the younger generation’s development. Countless young people gave up their dreams, dropped out of school to cultivate, and had their original talents killed.

This could not continue. If the younger generation could not go out into the world, the family would only become more and more impoverished.

Zhong Jiudao clenched the pen in his left hand, clearly realizing that this was his mission.

He was determined to become a director and make films that would be widely praised and enjoyed, to show his family that the most talented person in centuries could also pursue other industries. As a leading figure among the younger generation of Celestial Masters, he wanted his younger siblings and cousins who were still students to see that they, too, were allowed to chase their dreams.

This was probably the true meaning of that pen.

So no matter how difficult it was—even if it meant using fierce ghosts as actors—Zhong Jiudao was determined to deliver a satisfactory work and thereby open the door to his path in the film industry.

Seeing the resolute expression on Zhong Jiudao’s face, Qian Duoqian was also infected by his resolve. The first time he met Zhong Jiudao, upon seeing his polite manner of speech and conduct, he already knew that this was someone who had received excellent upbringing and etiquette education from a young age, which was why he carried himself with such bearing and temperament.

And yet Zhong Jiudao was precisely someone who had been able to completely break free from his family’s control. In order to learn just a little more knowledge, he worked arduously on set, and now he was even concerned over every single yuan of one or two thousand.

From Zhong Jiudao, Qian Duoqian saw that thing called “dreams” which he himself had long since abandoned. That was why he decided to give Zhong Jiudao a hand—both as a way of fulfilling a dream and as a form of investment.

After all, Qian Duoqian was entitled to a share of the film’s profits. Who knew—what if it actually made money?

While Qian Duoqian was happily imagining a future where he became a famous producer, with countless investors holding money in their hands and begging him to serve as their producer, Luo Huai, on the other side, finally waited for his friend Pang Xinhao to arrive.

Pang Xinhao and Luo Huai were classmates. In terms of appearance, Pang Xinhao’s conditions were actually not as good as Luo Huai’s, but their luck could not have been more different.

In his freshman year, Pang Xinhao went to audition for a low-budget web drama and was selected to play the third male lead. This low-budget production initially attracted no attention at all, but because of the circumstances of the times, it suddenly became a hit. The actors who participated rose to prominence overnight, becoming the centre of attention, and were instantly flooded with offers.

Although Pang Xinhao was a trained acting student, he went into acting before receiving systematic training. The character setting in that low-budget web drama matched his real-life personality, so he performed quite well. But once he started taking on more roles, his shortcomings from lack of training were exposed. He delivered all kinds of painfully unwatchable performances. After shooting just two productions, he faded from the public eye, leaving the audience with nothing but a pile of reaction memes.

He returned to school wanting to study properly, but unfortunately he had fallen too far behind in his coursework. His whole state of mind became restless and irritable, making it impossible for him to study seriously again. He couldn’t even recover his original mindset, and his acting only grew worse and worse.

During the years when he was popular, Pang Xinhao made quite a lot of money, so he wasn’t short on cash. However, his reputation had become too bad, and no one wanted to hire him for acting roles. He could only take on small promotional appearances in minor cities—jobs like performing at the opening of a large shopping mall. If this continued, even a mountain of gold would eventually be eaten away.

He urgently needed to improve his acting skills. After Luo Huai thumped his chest and guaranteed that this crew was full of acting powerhouses and that the director was especially good at teaching actors, Pang Xinhao came over, half-believing and half-doubting.

Pang Xinhao had a car. Following the location Luo Huai sent him, he drove all the way there, but the farther he went, the more something felt wrong. It was clearly an afternoon during the height of summer, yet as he approached the villa, he began to feel an eerie chill in the air.

After finally making it through the broken, dilapidated roads that had fallen into disrepair over many years and arriving in front of the villa’s main gate, Pang Xinhao hadn’t even had time to call Luo Huai to come pick him up when the gate opened by itself with a “squick.”

Pang Xinhao drove the car into the courtyard, parked it on the flat ground outside the villa, and got out of the vehicle.

Trees all around covered the sky above the villa, and only the central part of the courtyard received a little sunlight.

In the garden, a gardener wearing a heavy straw hat was ploughing the soil and sowing seeds. From time to time, he squatted down and said to the seeds, “Grow up quickly. Once you grow up, I can eat you all—he he he.”

Pang Xinhao was so frightened by this eerie, gloomy gardener that he wanted to jump back into the car and flee. Just then, Luo Huai—who had received the message—walked out and called to him, “You’re here! Hurry up and come audition, everyone’s been waiting for you. Our cast is already complete—once you’re confirmed, we can start shooting tomorrow!”

Pang Xinhao grabbed Luo Huai and pointed at the gardener, whispering, “Isn’t that guy… mentally unstable?”

Luo Huai smacked him lightly. “What are you saying? That’s our assistant stagehand. He’s in charge of our meals—he specially grows pure, natural, pollution-free organic vegetables for us. In another two or three weeks, we’ll be able to eat the eggplants, cucumbers, tomatoes, and Chinese cabbage he grows. For now, we’ll just make do with vegetables bought from the market.”

“The production crew… doesn’t provide boxed meals?” Pang Xinhao asked in shock.

“Boxed meals aren’t hygienic and don’t taste good anyway. Cooking for ourselves is better. Director Zhong’s cooking is really delicious,” Luo Huai said.

“Director Zhong? The director cooks personally for this crew? Have you been scammed—”

Before Pang Xinhao could finish speaking, Luo Huai forcibly dragged him into the villa. Although Luo Huai was a bit foolish, he wasn’t short, and he paid attention to fitness to maintain his figure—his strength was no joke. Pang Xinhao, a skinny weakling who relied on dieting to stay thin, had absolutely no power to resist in front of Luo Huai.

After they went inside, the gardener slightly raised his head, looked at their backs, and muttered, “One Chinese cabbage, two Chinese cabbages… the cabbages can be harvested now… ah, but Director Zhong won’t allow it.”

Unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows, Luo Huai brought Pang Xinhao before Zhong Jiudao. At this moment, Zhong Jiudao was carrying props back and forth, setting up the scenery.

There was no helping it—the crew was poor. Anything the director could do himself, he did without troubling others.

“Director Zhong, my friend is here. Please give him a chance!” Luo Huai said.

“He’s the director?” Pang Xinhao looked at the bulging muscles on Zhong Jiudao’s arms and suddenly felt that he might have been tricked by Luo Huai.

Zhong Jiudao glanced at Pang Xinhao, saw that he looked decent, and asked, “What’s your expected pay?”

Luo Huai: “He doesn’t want any pay!”

Although it wasn’t quite the “paying to join the production” he’d claimed at the beginning, it still saved a sum of money. Zhong Jiudao nodded. “Take him to Producer Qian to sign the contract.”

“That’s not right—I didn’t say I wanted to sign!” Pang Xinhao struggled and protested.

Luo Huai said, “Filming under Director Zhong, you’ll improve a lot. Even without paying tuition, you’re already making a profit. If Director Zhong weren’t about to start shooting and still short of suitable actors, this opportunity wouldn’t have come to you. Come on—let’s go sign.”

He dragged Pang Xinhao over to a thin, weather-worn man whose face bore the marks of life’s hardships. “Brother Qian, this is my friend. Director Zhong told us to come sign the contract.”

“I’ve been waiting for you for ages!” Qian Duoqian strode forward, grabbed Pang Xinhao’s hand so he couldn’t escape, rummaged through the briefcase beside him, pulled out the already-printed “zero-pay” contract—two copies—and stuffed them into Pang Xinhao’s hands. “Sign.”

Pang Xinhao didn’t have an agency, so he could decide for himself. Two copies were enough.

Luo Huai shoved a pen into his hand, wearing an expression that clearly said “You’ve hit the jackpot.”

Pang Xinhao signed and pressed his fingerprint in a daze. Only then did he have time to look over this impoverished production crew, and a trace of doubt rose in his heart: ‘Have I been scammed?’

He believed Luo Huai wouldn’t lie to him—but Luo Huai could very well have been deceived himself! How could he sign a contract without even reading it?

This doubt persisted all the way until the opening ceremony. Looking at a crew so small that you could count everyone—from director to actors to staff—on both hands, Pang Xinhao’s doubts reached their peak.

He privately asked Luo Huai, “Didn’t you say there were ten veteran actors?”

“Director Zhong said they won’t attend the opening ceremony. They’ll come when filming starts. You’ll see them then—I’ve seen them once before, their looks were all amazing!” Luo Huai said.

Pang Xinhao reluctantly believed him, thinking that since no one was hiring him anyway, wasting two or three months didn’t really matter.

But that night, when Director Zhong personally cooked eight dishes and two soups for the entire crew, Pang Xinhao was dumbfounded again. There was only one director—acting as director, prop master, and also part-time chef?

The two other actresses were also full of doubts. However, unlike Pang Xinhao, they were being paid a proper salary. No matter how unreasonable things seemed, they could simply pretend not to notice.

Still, when rooms were assigned, the two actresses strongly insisted on sharing a room and refused single-room treatment. Their keen sixth sense told them that sharing a room would be safer.

“Do you want to share a room with me?” Luo Huai asked. “We can rehearse scenes together at night or something.”

“No.” Pang Xinhao shook his head. “There are so many rooms to choose from—why would two people share one?”
He felt that the only truly satisfying thing about this production crew was the rooms, and of course he had to enjoy that.

He always felt that Director Zhong looked like the kind of fortune-telling, ghost-exorcising wandering charlatan, so he cautiously chose a room as far away from Director Zhong as possible. Upstairs was the third floor’s home theatre.

Filming had already begun, so the time that night naturally couldn’t be wasted. Zhong Jiudao gathered all the actors together—it was time for everyone to meet and get familiar with one another.

In the hall at night, Zhong Jiudao turned off the villa’s electric lights. The kerosene lamps on the walls suddenly lit themselves.

A classical beauty wearing a white qipao, swaying gracefully as she walked, emerged slowly from the darkness holding a candle, and stopped beside Zhong Jiudao.

Her sorrowful, affectionate eyes swept over the four human actors. She let out a soft laugh and introduced herself: “Hello, everyone. I am called Qi Wanlian, and I am the protagonist of this film.”

That was right— in this movie, all four human actors were supporting roles.
Only actors who worked for free could be the leads.

This was a film whose main protagonist was a ghost.

 

Translator : DarNan