Chapter 74: Where the Lights Fade

Garen finally flubbed a take!

The crew had started a betting pool, and quite a few people had put down money on how many times he’d mess up today. Even the assistant director and Guo Cheng were enthusiastically participating.

“Let’s do it again! Start from the poem,” Zhao Xin said.

Garen nodded and resumed filming. On camera, he wore a gentle smile and exuded deep affection, but this time he had barely recited a line before Zhao Xin called cut.

“Still not right! You’re overplaying the emotion—it feels forced!”

“Oh…”

Garen furrowed his brow deeply; truth be told, he wasn’t satisfied with his performance either. He’d never studied recitation, nor was he classically trained in drama or hosting. During the recitation, he could never quite grasp the rhythm. Most importantly, he simply couldn’t connect with this poem at all.

They shot another take, but Zhao Xin was still unsatisfied and called for yet another retake.

The assistant director was starting to get anxious. He’d bet on Garen flubbing no more than five takes, and if it went beyond five or landed exactly on five, he’d lose his wager. With the fourth attempt imminent, everything hung in the balance.

Unable to help himself, he stepped forward and said to Zhao Xin, “Director Zhao, how about letting Garen step back and practice for a bit? Let him find the feeling before we shoot again?”

“Well… that could work,” Zhao Xin replied, equally troubled. He could afford to cut corners with other scenes, but not this one. This was one of the most pivotal moments in the entire show, a key opening that would shape the audience’s impression of Xue Yi. If this character was not portrayed convincingly, how could viewers believe he was the man the heroine would yearn for all her life?

Nearby, another staff member who’d also bet on Garen flubbing five times chimed in, “Director Zhao! Why not just shoot it as is? If it doesn’t work, we can fix it with voice-over later!”

“Yeah! Otherwise, we’ll waste so much time like this!”

“He’s right! Time is money!”

“No!” Guo Cheng jumped in, squinting as he spoke. “Delivering lines is an actor’s basic skill; you can’t just casually slap on a voice-over. Garen isn’t from Hong Kong or Taiwan, he doesn’t have an accent—why dub him? Besides, I think Garen’s acting is improving. Director Zhao, why not give him a few more chances?”

“Uh, well…” Zhao Xin hesitated. In truth, he agreed with the latter part of Guo Cheng’s statement—he’d noticed Garen making progress, grasping a little more with each take, yet never quite enough. If they settled for a mediocre result now and patched it up with dubbing later, Garen would miss out on a valuable opportunity to hone his craft.

Though Garen was a singer, Zhao Xin didn’t want him to be just a walk-on cameo; he hoped Garen would learn something from this experience.

But the undertone of Guo Cheng’s earlier words was clear to everyone—a hint of dissatisfaction.

In this atmosphere, everyone was bound to be emotional, and Garen himself had nowhere to vent his own frustration.

Still, as a rookie in acting, he apologized at once, “I’m sorry for holding everyone up. I just can’t capture the feeling of this poem, so my performance keeps missing the mark!”

“That’s easy enough—just try to understand the poem’s meaning. It’s a great poem; how can you not feel anything?” The on-set scriptwriter couldn’t help but grumble. “It’s just a few lines—what’s so hard about it? Maybe you’ve never acted before, but surely you’ve been to school?”

Seriously?

Just a few flubbed takes, and the director himself hasn’t complained—what’s the scriptwriter getting riled up for?

Garen was thoroughly irritated and retorted bluntly, “Did you write this poem?”

“Yes! I wrote it,” the scriptwriter replied calmly.

Writers have always been quick to criticize one another—no matter the age or place.

Everyone in the entertainment industry knew Garen was a singer, but this scriptwriter was part of both the entertainment and literary worlds. As someone who spent his days at the keyboard, Yao Xiaoqiang found much about Garen’s behavior hard to stomach.

He’d even taken part in that infamous social media spat, initially to support Huang Daming—his college classmate and frequent collaborator, with whom he had a good private rapport. Later, like many netizens, he sought out Garen’s songs and discovered that Garen wrote all his own lyrics, which sparked a twinge of jealousy in Yao Xiaoqiang.

Especially after Garen released that poem, “When Youth Knows Not Sorrow,” whose literary merit even he had to admit was outstanding. But that only deepened his resentment.

Damn it! Why was fate so unfair?

Some people barely made it through high school and held only a vocational diploma, yet possessed such stunning literary gifts. Meanwhile, others slaved away in study for ten years, immersed in books, yet ended up as mere scriptwriters, unable even to join the Writers’ Association.

Of course, these weren’t the main reasons.

What made him truly despise Garen wasn’t Garen himself, but a certain social media post by Professor Wang Kai, who taught musical theatre at the Central Academy of Drama.

Yao Xiaoqiang had also attended that academy, graduating the same year as Huang Daming, though he majored in dramatic literature, specializing in TV scriptwriting. His only girlfriend during his college years was a student in the musical theatre department.

Back then, she’d wanted to shine in the New Year’s gala and asked him to write a stage musical script. He burned the midnight oil for days to finish it, only to have the plot and characters dismissed as worthless by Wang Kai during rehearsal review. His girlfriend lost her chance to perform, and he lost a cherished relationship.

From that day on, Yao Xiaoqiang held a grudge against Wang Kai. And Wang Kai’s public support for Garen had turned that jealousy into outright hatred.

So ever since Garen joined the cast, Yao Xiaoqiang had treated him with open hostility, delighting in every on-set blunder. Now, seeing Garen stumble over a poem he’d written, Yao seized the chance to mock him.

Aren’t you supposed to be a master lyricist? Don’t you write supernatural novels, too? So what now—you can’t even grasp the mood of a poem?

But to his surprise, Garen shot back without hesitation, “What a lousy poem! With writing like this, which audience member would ever believe Xue Yi was a man of rare talent and worthy of the heroine’s lifelong devotion?”

A hush fell over the crew.

Had Garen lost his mind? He couldn’t act, and now he was berating the scriptwriter?

The assistant director and Guo Cheng exchanged glances, barely suppressing their smiles. Zhao Xin looked at Garen in exasperation. Though Yao Xiaoqiang was just one of several writers on this project, he’d spent years in the industry, worked with top-tier artists, and was well connected—not least with Huang Daming. Zhao Xin realized he might not be able to help this time.

“You…” Yao Xiaoqiang stared, wide-eyed, taken aback by Garen’s words. There hadn’t been a single curse word, yet it was more humiliating than any obscenity.

As he prepared to snap back, Cao Xiwen, who had been silent all this time, suddenly spoke up. “Garen, if you think Yao’s poem is lacking, why don’t you write one yourself? Otherwise, you shouldn’t insult someone else’s heartfelt work.”

Heartfelt work? If anything, I’d call it a gut-wrenching mess! Garen chuckled. “Sure, as it happens, I have a lyric right here—perfect for the Lantern Festival theme.”

“Oh?” Cao Xiwen raised an eyebrow, her gaze tinged with condescension. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Very well.” Garen smiled again, then turned to Zhao Xin. “Director Zhao, let’s start filming.”

“…Right away?” Zhao Xin asked uncertainly.

“Of course! I’m feeling very confident now!”

Seeing Garen’s expression, many in the crew marked him as arrogant.

More than a few people clicked their tongues and rolled their eyes at him.

The assistant director turned to Zhao Xin. “Director, I don’t think this is wise. He should either perform it once or recite his lyric for us before we start filming.”

But Zhao Xin simply picked up the megaphone and called out, “All departments ready! Three, two, one—action!”

The assistant director was flustered and hurried to whisper in Zhao Xin’s ear, “Director, this really isn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Zhao Xin replied with a smile. “I believe in him.”

“This isn’t about belief—”

“Shh!” Zhao Xin made a gesture for silence and pointed at the monitor. “Watch closely!”

This time, Garen’s entrance differed from the script. Instead of appearing bookish and delicate, he exuded a calm, poised confidence—a scholar’s air fused with the bearing of a sage.

There are no sages in the modern world, and no one present had ever met one. Yet Garen’s performance evoked that very feeling—uncannily so. What made it so convincing, no one could say.

“Miss Shishi, I have a lyric here—perhaps it’s just right for the occasion.”

Seeing Garen’s gentle, yet enchanting smile, Cao Xiwen momentarily forgot she was acting and blurted out, “I’d be delighted to hear it.”

Hearing this improvised line, Yao Xiaoqiang fumed. Damn it! How dare they change my script?

But behind the monitor, headphones on, Zhao Xin clenched his fists in excitement. “Well done,” he thought.

As everyone waited for Garen’s poem, he lowered his head slightly, smiled with a quiet sigh, then turned to gaze out the door.

This was nothing like the script, which had called for Garen to stand nervously and respectfully before Cao Xiwen and recite the poem.

But now…

Just as everyone was frowning in confusion, Garen began:

“The east wind brings blossoms to a thousand trees by night, and scatters stars like rain from the sky.”

His voice was light, yet every word was clear, every emotion in his tone sincere and full.

It was a natural performance—nothing felt contrived.

Then he continued:

“Jade carriages and bejeweled horses scent the perfumed roads; music of phoenix flutes stirs, the glowing jade urn turns, and all night the shapes of fish and dragons dance.”

The camera had been meant to stay fixed, but now it had to follow him as Garen began to move, each step measured, never breaking the illusion or letting crew members stray into the shot.

At the doorway, he stopped, facing the extras.

He spoke again, “Moth-shaped hairpins, willows dusted with snow, golden threads; laughter and light banter drift away on a breeze of hidden fragrance.”

Zhao Xin kept directing the cameras, improvising as Garen’s deviation threw off the original shot list. Fortunately, his directorial chops and his unspoken rapport with Garen let them capture everything seamlessly.

“Among the crowds, I searched for her a thousand times—”

Garen recited, then suddenly turned, not hurried but full of intent.

The camera cut to the front, showing him gazing straight at Cao Xiwen, his eyes brimming with unfathomable longing.

After a moment, Garen’s lips moved:

“And suddenly, when I turned, there she was—standing in the shadows, where lantern light grows dim.”