Chapter 150: Children’s Laughter (29)
Although everyone had been terribly frightened this time in the concession zone, no one had been more shaken than An Nanyuan. When he walked out of the Jing Estate, he needed help from a nearby rescue team member just to stay steady on his feet. Guilt and fear had left his legs weak.
Fortunately, the guests who encountered this incident had already toughened up a bit during the earlier episodes of the show. So even though they were stunned at the time, after taking a moment to calm down—and with the help of the calming talismans Yan Shixun handed out—their conditions remained fairly stable.
Among them, the variety show celebrity saw things the clearest.
When his assistant asked if he wanted to continue with the next episode and whether he intended to sign the contract for this round, the variety show celebrity waved a hand nonchalantly, showing zero hesitation.
“Fortune comes hand-in-hand with risk. I already knew this show was dangerous when I agreed to join. After all, I wasn’t one of the guests in the first episode—I’ve seen what happened at Gui Mountain with my own eyes.”
“Just look at how my follower count has multiplied, how hot my name is right now. The whole internet knows who I am. People are saying I’ve got top-tier variety show presence. As long as I’m in an episode, it’ll never be boring. And how many potential collaborations do you think that kind of reputation can bring me?”
“All of this was thanks to Heart-Pounding Journey of Ninety-Nine Days. If I hadn’t participated in this show, would I have this kind of popularity now? Ha—don’t even dream about it.”
“Getting both exposure and job opportunities, and then turning around to complain that the show is too dangerous? That’s like eating from a bowl and then cursing your mother as soon as you put it down. What’s the point?”
The variety show celebrity had entered the entertainment industry early. He started from the bottom as a crew member and worked his way up to where he was now. He understood how the world worked and knew how to show gratitude.
He knew that in this circle, everything came at a price.
But if you got something good and didn’t know how to be grateful, then next time, everyone would know you weren’t worth working with—and no one would give you another chance.
From a tiny village at the foot of Wild Wolf Peak to the bustling metropolis of Binhai City, the variety show celebrity had crawled his way up through every hardship imaginable. Naturally, he had developed his own mature way of dealing with people and the world.
And the most important lesson he had learned was this: if you’ve already gained the benefit, don’t complain about the cost.
Without hesitation, the variety show celebrity signed the risk disclosure form his assistant handed over, then smiled and reminded him, “If Director Zhang has any upcoming events, make sure to tell me right away. My body’s fine—I can work anytime.”
Screen time—that was what truly mattered.
The assistant looked surprised. “Bro, weren’t you having nightmares just a couple of days ago? If it weren’t for the calming talisman Mr. Yan gave you, you wouldn’t even be able to sleep.”
The variety show celebrity waved it off without a care. “Compared to An Nanyuan, what I went through doesn’t count for anything.”
If anyone had been hit the hardest this time, it was definitely An Nanyuan.
But it wasn’t because of any physical injuries or psychological trauma.
It was because An Nanyuan couldn’t get past the guilt in his own heart.
All of An Nanyuan’s fans knew that he was someone with an extremely vivid imagination.
This had already been proven in the idol group variety shows he used to participate in. In every game that required imagination or deduction, he always guessed quickly and accurately.
Coincidentally, he was also someone who loved watching movies. Even though he was a bit afraid of ghosts, he had still watched plenty of horror films.
Back when he and his idol group were bound by a contract with a livestream platform that required them to stream a certain number of hours each week, the other members all chose to play games or chat with fans. Only An Nanyuan chose to have his fans accompany him while watching horror movies.
And every time this happened, An Nanyuan would rub his hands together in excitement and say he had several movies he wanted to watch but was too scared to do it alone. With the audience keeping him company, he finally dared to watch.
Although fans found it speechless at times, they also enjoyed watching their idol freak out and flail in fear.
Because of that, they all knew exactly what kind of person An Nanyuan was—
—In other words, a classic case of being “bad at the game but addicted to it.”
However, this time, due to the ghost rules, An Nanyuan’s powerful imagination actually became a dangerous liability to everyone. Wherever he went, it turned into hell mode.
At the time, he had been so overwhelmed by fear that he couldn’t control his thoughts at all.
But once he returned, he had been working hard to rein in that part of himself. He didn’t want his imaginative mind to bring harm to his teammates who had risked their lives alongside him.
An Nanyuan felt deeply guilty.
Lately, whenever he appeared on livestreams, that guilt was written all over his face. His room was covered in alpaca posters, and during broadcasts, he would randomly start muttering “alpaca, alpaca” in a low, frantic voice.
Fans couldn’t help but feel a tender kind of affection toward him, realizing that their once-brilliant, star-like idol also had a relatable, down-to-earth side.
It was as if a godly statue had suddenly become a real person, creating a sense of intimacy.
As a result, they liked An Nanyuan even more.
Unexpectedly, this misfortune turned into a blessing. His fan base quickly grew more united.
A few days ago, the variety show celebrity had called An Nanyuan and joked with him about it, saying that anything involving Brother Yan seemed to come with a mix of both good and bad. It was hard to say whether it was a blessing or a curse.
But An Nanyuan didn’t mind.
He had always said that Yan Shixun was his idol, and he meant it from the bottom of his heart. He genuinely admired him.
And more importantly, under Yan Shixun’s leadership, he had seen a much broader world.
One that was far more exciting than the constant drama of the entertainment industry—and it stirred his very soul.
An Nanyuan felt content. He even posted on social media, saying he wished the program could go on forever, and that Brother Yan would always be there.
He had no desire for this journey to end.
Thinking about An Nanyuan’s current state, the variety show celebrity could only shake his head and chuckle.
His assistant wanted to persuade him not to work so hard, but hesitated at the last moment.
After all, everyone had different priorities. Being ambitious wasn’t a bad thing. Besides, it wasn’t his decision to make anyway.
So the assistant simply said, “Director Zhang actually does have an event.”
The variety show celebrity’s eyes lit up with interest. “No matter what it is, make sure I get in on it.”
Even though the first visit to the set had ended in disaster.
But as a diehard fan of Li Xuetang, how could Zhang Wubing give up so easily?
He quickly scheduled a second set visit with Li Xuetang—using Zhao Zhen as a convenient excuse—while secretly hoping to observe Li Xuetang’s filming process up close.
The first time had been the opening ceremony.
But this time, it would be the real deal—an actual filming day.
Time waited for no one, especially considering how much it cost the crew to rent out the entire concession area. Every day of delay meant tens of thousands of yuan wasted on unused equipment, locations, and staff.
Li Xuetang couldn’t afford to waste time.
And the other actors’ schedules weren’t something that could be changed at will either.
However, although Li Xuetang had seen through Zhang Wubing’s intentions, he had no desire to keep anything to himself.
After all, during the visit to the Jing Estate, he had shared a life-and-death bond with the crew. If it weren’t for Yan Shixun, he might have died there.
Moreover, the one who caused all this—Chi Yan—had been the actress Li Xuetang himself insisted on using. He also felt guilty for creating such a situation.
So, driven by both curiosity about Zhang Wubing and a sense of responsibility to make amends, he looked up their background after returning. Unexpectedly, he discovered that Zhang Wubing’s personal social media account was filled with long threads of appreciation and analysis of his films.
There were hundreds of films and TV series listed, going back many years.
It was clear that it wasn’t some fake show put together just to flatter him, the famous director.
That day, Zhang Wubing had talked about his works in such rich detail and familiarity—it made it obvious he truly saw Li Xuetang as his idol.
Just like what Zhang Wubing had written on his account, it had been Li Xuetang’s work that had moved him many years ago. In times of despair and exhaustion, it gave him the strength to keep living.
Over the years, it was also because of Li Xuetang that he developed an interest in filmmaking and shooting, setting it as his life goal. It gave him direction and kept him from losing his way—no matter how difficult things were, he never lost hope. Li Xuetang had been the lighthouse of his life.
Such a sincere junior deeply touched Li Xuetang.
This renowned director, known for his strictness, actually felt moved to mentor Zhang Wubing and explore the art of cinema together with him.
So when Zhang Wubing expressed his wish to tag along again, Li Xuetang smiled and agreed.
After confirming with all the guests that they were now in good health and fit to join the visit to the *Binhai Nocturne* crew, a business van picked them all up and once again drove toward the concession district.
Zhao Zhen looked out the car window at the familiar scenery and couldn’t help but feel a surge of emotion.
Zhang Wubing even started a livestream, sharing his fanboy joy with everyone.
The audience who rushed in upon hearing the news were baffled: “???”
They teased Zhang Wubing: “Director Zhang, how come you’re not wearing a skirt this time? The little ponytail was really cute too.”
Zhang Wubing: “…”
He really ought to find another planet to live on.
But then someone raised a question: “Didn’t they already visit the set once before? And didn’t they even do a deep collaboration with the production team? Why come again? Could it be that last time really *was* an accident and not scripted? So this is like a make-up visit?”
People had a tendency to follow the crowd, easily swayed by the opinions of others—parroting whatever they heard.
After this question popped up, more and more viewers in the livestream began expressing doubt. On the other side, the team monitoring public opinion started breaking out in cold sweat.
Inside the business van, the atmosphere dropped to freezing in an instant.
One of the variety show regulars, sensing the awkwardness, quickly tried to smooth things over with a joke.
But Zhang Wubing remained completely composed, not flustered in the slightest. On the contrary, he responded with righteous confidence: “Since when is chasing your idol limited to once or twice?”
“With Zhao Zhen acting as the connection, of course I need to use the excuse of visiting the set to go as many times as I can.”
Zhang Wubing got more excited the more he spoke: “Who knows when I’ll get another chance like this? Isn’t it amazing that I get to visit the set twice?”
Audience: “???”
Only then did many viewers suddenly realize—oh right, Director Zhang was Director Li Xuetang’s diehard fanboy.
There were also many viewers who were fellow fans themselves. They instantly felt Zhang Wubing was incredibly relatable and totally understood his excitement.
Yeah, when you have a chance to get close to your idol, of course you can’t pass it up!
The public opinion team saw that the tide was quickly turning back to normal and couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.
Meanwhile, the fanboy Zhang Wubing was still gleefully looking forward to the upcoming visit and chance to observe and learn. He hadn’t realized that with just one simple sentence, he had effortlessly erased the audience’s doubts.
Yan Shixun had taken all of this in with his own eyes.
He lounged lazily in the car, showing little interest in this visit to the filming set.
Yan Shixun hadn’t originally planned to come—after all, this visit wasn’t part of his job. Nowhere in his contract with Zhang Wubing did it say he had to do this.
But the official in charge had earnestly told him that if everyone didn’t show up, the recently calmed public opinion could stir up trouble again, raising unnecessary suspicion.
The incident had only just ended, and attention was still high. They needed to keep the momentum going for a while to solidify the narrative.
Oh, and if he could bring along Jing Xiaobao, that would be perfect. After all, that would make things even more convincing. Those still harboring doubts would be swayed by the very real presence of Jing Xiaobao, fully believing the script theory.
When the official visited Yan Shixun at his small courtyard in the old town, he had been so stiffened by Jing Xiaobao’s stare that he couldn’t even smile.
From the mouths of the masters, he had learned clearly that this seemingly adorable child was in fact a powerful, fierce ghost. Everything in the concession zone had been triggered by this child.
Yan Shixun had personally confirmed the strength of Jing Xiaobao.
That made the official sit on pins and needles during the entire meeting. Once their discussion ended, he had fled faster than a rabbit.
—It was the first time Yan Shixun had ever seen this normally composed official act like that.
Jing Xiaobao’s gaze remained innocently wide-eyed, and then Yan Shixun stuffed a persimmon into his hands, sending him off to play on his own.
—With the ghost that was perched on the courtyard wall.
In the small courtyard, two terrifyingly fierce ghosts had gathered—one alive, one dead—creating a rare and bizarre sight not seen in a thousand years.
This setup massively boosted the courtyard’s ghostly magnetism, and for the past few days, ghosts had surrounded it in layers.
Though intimidated by Yan Shixun and Jing Xiaobao’s presence—not to mention the terrifying pressure that Ye Li exuded—none of the ghosts dared set foot inside the courtyard. Still, the sheer number of them gathering outside caused concern among the masters from Haiyun Temple and other sects, who had rushed over thinking a horde of evil spirits had been unleashed.
It was only after they arrived and realized it was related to Yan Shixun that they relaxed and dispersed. But when Lu Xingxing followed Taoist Song Yi to the scene, she had nearly jumped out of her skin.
—He had whipped out his talisman right there on the spot.
If Yan Shixun hadn’t stopped him in time, Jing Xiaobao would’ve mistaken him for a threat and attacked.
That was also why Yan Shixun didn’t feel comfortable leaving Jing Xiaobao home alone. He decided to bring the little ghost with him instead.
At this moment, Jing Xiaobao was sitting obediently in the seat next to Yan Shixun, happily sipping on a small milk drink that Bai Shuang had bought for him, his feet kicking with joy.
Everyone who saw the scene couldn’t help but exclaim how adorable he was.
“Brother Yan, there are so many bad people out there these days. It’s safer to keep your kid close.”
Bai Shuang said with concern. “Just this morning, I saw a news story about a college student who disappeared near their home. For someone as little as Xiaobao, we really need to be extra careful.”
Before getting in the car, Bai Shuang had already been overwhelmed by how cute Jing Xiaobao was, and she’d gone wild in the convenience store, buying every snack a child might like.
Now, wanting to get close to him, she had deliberately taken the seat across from Yan Shixun, with a large bag of snacks at her feet. Every time she saw Jing Xiaobao’s little paws empty, she’d swiftly pass him another treat.
And with every soft, milk-sweet “Thank you, sister,” Jing Xiaobao blinked his big eyes at her, and Bai Shuang felt more and more enchanted.
She felt her heart melt into warm milk. No matter what this adorable human cub wanted, she wanted to give it all to him.
Yan Shixun looked at Bai Shuang, his expression so complicated it was hard to describe.
He thought that the scenario Bai Shuang worried about would probably never happen.
If someone *did* come to harm Jing Xiaobao, he’d have to rush back home immediately—
—to try and at least leave the perpetrator with an intact corpse.
Just imagine: a human trafficker or criminal sees a child alone at home with no adults around, happily approaches with candy in hand and knocks on the door.
“Little friend—”
The fierce ghost tilts his head, and his head “thud thud thud” rolls right off his neck and hits the ground, then “giggle giggle giggle”—a sinister laughter follows as eerie ghostly energy devours the wicked person.
Just the thought of that scene made Yan Shixun worry that if he were even slightly late getting home, the poor intruder might not even have bones left.
The others didn’t know what Yan Shixun was thinking, but they had witnessed Jing Xiaobao’s power firsthand. They knew that even though he looked cute, when he was at the Jing residence, he gave people the chills.
Now hearing Bai Shuang’s words, they all got goosebumps and thought—if someone *did* try anything, they’d be incredibly unlucky to have picked Jing Xiaobao as their target.
Only Bai Shuang, who had been knocked unconscious by Chi Yan shortly after waking up and had remained unaware of Jing Xiaobao’s true nature, continued to get close to him without a care and truly worried for his safety.
The others all wore complicated expressions.
When they arrived at the set, the place was bustling with activity, and Zhao Zhen was quickly dragged off by the makeup artist for styling.
Zhao Zhen apologized to everyone before leaving, urging them to feel at home.
Then he was whisked away in a whirlwind.
The group didn’t see Director Li Xuetang anywhere on set. When they asked the assistant, they learned that Director Li had gone to the concession area for a location scout.
Zhang Wubing looked at the competent assistant with a trace of envy in his eyes. “I’m a director too. Why don’t I have an assistant? I still have to do everything myself—so exhausting.”
And most importantly, the little fanboy thought, he had to follow his idol’s example.
Director Li had an assistant, so he needed one too. That way, he’d feel like he was one step closer to his dream of being a director.
Yan Shixun: “……”
He glanced at Ye Li beside him, unsure whether he should remind Zhang Wubing—
—that he *did* have an assistant.
It was just that this assistant had more presence than the director himself…
Trying to boss around Ye Li…
Yan Shixun imagined the scene of Ye Li’s emotionless face speaking to someone, and figured the person might not even catch what Ye Li said before being scared half to death.
Snapping out of his imagination, Yan Shixun sighed in silence.
He figured it was best to advise Zhang Wubing to find another assistant. As for Ye Li… best not to even consider it.
Ye Li understood what Yan Shixun meant and smiled as he asked, “Shixun, are you hoping I’ll become the director’s assistant?”
Though he had no interest in mundane tasks, if it was something Shixun wanted, he was willing to give it a try.
—Just no promises on the results.
Who knows, maybe he could help boost the ghost enforcer statistics for Fengdu while he was at it.
It was almost year-end. Catching a couple more unlucky souls to take to Fengdu wouldn’t hurt.
Yan Shixun opened his mouth, then said dryly, “Forget it. Xiao Bing’s show still needs to go on.”
He couldn’t risk losing all their collaborators just because of one assistant, could he?
As they walked down the wide street of the concession zone, Yan Shixun turned to look at Ye Li. After a few minutes of contemplation, he said, “You’d better be *my* assistant instead. Let’s give the director assistant role back to poor Zhang Dabing.”
A glint of delight flashed in Ye Li’s eyes. “Alright.”
“Then—please take care of me.”
In a spot no one was paying attention to, Ye Li leaned down slightly. His inky black hair slipped from his squared shoulders and brushed against Yan Shixun’s cheek.
Leaning in close to Yan Shixun’s ear, he spoke in a raspy, low voice with a touch of enchantment:
“My… Promised One.”
The ticklish feeling at his ear made Yan Shixun momentarily dazed.
By the time he came back to his senses, he suddenly realized—
“Wait a second, what do you mean by ‘Promised One’? What kind of weird title is that?”
Yan Shixun sighed helplessly. “Can’t you use something more modern? The way you talk, people will immediately guess you just came down from some secluded mountain forest.”
Ye Li blinked and obediently rattled off a list: “Boss, employer, superior, manager…”
“Forget it,” Yan Shixun quickly cut him off. “Just call me by my name.”
He gave in.
It just felt like anything Ye Li called him never sounded normal.
Standing nearby, quietly observing the entire exchange, Jing Xiaobao took a sip from the oversized baby bottle in his hands—one as big as his own face—and looked at Ye Li with growing wariness.
This person… was terrifying.
…
When everyone found Li Xuetang, he was standing on the steps outside the Jing family residence, angrily scolding a nearby actor.
The young actor looked a little intimidated, seemingly shaken by the incident at the opening ceremony. The experience seemed to have left a psychological shadow regarding the concession area, and he was trying to persuade Li Xuetang to make an exception—letting him film in front of a green screen indoors instead of doing live location shoots.
After being scolded, the actor looked defiant and complained, “This place is haunted! Everyone saw it that day! If one of us gets hurt because of the ghosts, who’s going to take responsibility?”
“How can you expect people to film in such a dangerous place?”
Director Li Xuetang snorted coldly, clearly not falling for any of it.
He rolled up the script in his hands and tapped the young actor on the head, his tone stern and serious.
“This was Mr. Jing Shiwen’s former residence. The surrounding homes belonged to patriots who once served the country. Even if there are ghosts here, they’re simply the lingering spirits of those unwilling to leave.”
“They died to protect your fathers and grandfathers. Without them, your grandfather might not have even survived—let alone you. And even in death, they still worry for the safety of your generation. They stay behind because they’re afraid you might still need them. Why would they hurt you? They’re more likely to protect you.”
“So what are you afraid of?”
The young actor was struck dumb, his expression troubled and ashamed.
Li Xuetang wasn’t about to coddle him. He snorted again and said coldly, “If you can film, then film. If not, cancel the contract right now and get lost.”
This film was a tribute to Mr. Jing Shiwen and Mr. Lin Ting. Especially after seeing Mr. Lin Ting in person that day at the Jing Estate and being deeply moved by her character and presence, Li Xuetang felt only admiration and respect.
How could he allow someone who lacked respect for these two figures to participate in their story?
When he spotted Zhang Wubing and the others approaching from afar, Li Xuetang’s stern demeanor finally softened a bit.
When he saw that Yan Shixun was also among them, Li Xuetang suddenly remembered how fond he had once been of Yan Shixun.
After learning the truth about Chi Yan, and with the help of a master invited by his old collaborator, Li Xuetang finally understood why Chi Yan had seemed identical to the heroine he had envisioned.
It was because Jing Xiaobao was Lin Ting’s child, and Chi Yan had been deliberately blurring the lines of identity, secretly taking Lin Ting’s place as Jing Xiaobao’s “mother.”
At the same time, due to years of receiving fortune and spiritual energy from Jing Xiaobao, Chi Yan gradually came to resemble the mother figure Jing Xiaobao imagined.
To Li Xuetang, this explained why Chi Yan bore such a striking resemblance to Lin Ting—so much so that he was moved, thinking she was the very embodiment of his heroine, Ms. Lin Ting.
Once the misunderstanding had been cleared up, Li Xuetang found himself thinking more and more about Yan Shixun, who had played the role of Jing Bin at the time.
The more he thought about it, the more he felt that Yan Shixun was a perfect match for the male lead in his script.
Unfortunately, when Li Xuetang extended the invitation once more, Yan Shixun rejected it again.
The actors around them, who had been watching Yan Shixun with a mix of envy and jealousy, now looked at him with shock.
They wondered if this guy was out of his mind—how could he dare reject an invitation from such a famous director? Was he crazy?
Did he even realize how valuable the opportunity he was turning down was?
But Yan Shixun looked calm, as if what he had just turned down was nothing more than a bowl of soup with his lunch.
“I have no interest in acting out someone else’s life,” Yan Shixun said coldly. “I have my own life script.”
“As for fame and fans—”
Yan Shixun gave a dismissive laugh, his eyes full of disdain. “I’ve never cared about any of that.”
Yan Shixun’s fans in the livestream: [!!!]
[There’s nothing more heartbreaking than your idol saying he doesn’t care about you. Boohoo… he doesn’t even want us.]
[So savage! This is exactly the vibe! Maybe I’m sick, I’ll admit it. I’m Zhang Wubing’s brother and I’m sick. But I really love seeing Brother Yan reluctantly show up on camera with that annoyed expression. He’s killing me!]
[LMAO, confirmed: he’s the anti-celebrity of showbiz. Anyone else’s fans would be declaring they’re unfollowing by now. Meanwhile, Yan’s fans are tearing up with emotion.]
[Maybe it’s because I was drawn to him in the first place because of that indifferent attitude. Idols who beg for your attention feel too commercial. But someone like Brother Yan… now that’s got some flavor!]
[??? RIP to the reputation of Yan Mai.]
Li Xuetang could see how firm Yan Shixun was and wisely dropped the matter.
Still, under the pitiful glare of his almost-bald scriptwriter, he managed to dig up a small role from the script and offered it to Yan Shixun with great enthusiasm.
“Mr. Yan, this character only appears once and doesn’t have any lines. It’s perfect for you. Would you consider it?”
Yan Shixun was about to reject it without a second thought.
But then Li Xuetang added, “Since the story takes place in Old Binhai a hundred years ago, the backdrop includes the Haiyun Temple.”
Yan Shixun paused just before refusing.
Li Xuetang continued, “Based on the timeline, it should’ve been when that current Taoist of Haiyun Temple, Taoist Li, was still a young man.”
For a moment, Yan Shixun’s expression turned dazed.
When Taoist Li was young… that would’ve been his own master, Li Chengyun, as a child.
Li Xuetang explained, “The character is a Taoist who came down from Haiyun Temple. Back then, the entire temple mobilized, but only one in ten returned. All those Taoists gave their lives to protect the people. It was deeply admirable. This character was one of them.”
Beside him, Zhang Wubing looked pitifully at Yan Shixun, hoping he would say yes.
Yan Shixun thought for a moment, then gave a slight nod. “Alright.”
Li Xuetang lit up with joy. He immediately called for the costume and makeup team to dress Yan Shixun, fearing he might change his mind, and insisted on starting the shoot right away.
However, when the makeup artist saw Yan Shixun’s strikingly handsome face, they hesitated. They told Li Xuetang there was really nothing that needed to be done—his features required no enhancement.
Heaven and earth had already sculpted this face with the utmost care.
And in truth, Li Xuetang had an excellent eye. Yan Shixun, just as he was, matched the character in the script perfectly. Any makeup would’ve only been unnecessary embellishment.
—After all, Yan Shixun had spent years roaming the streets and alleyways, not in pursuit of wealth or status, but to exorcise evil and protect the common people.
In that way, he aligned perfectly with the core beliefs of Haiyun Temple.
The Great Path is cultivated among the people.
This wasn’t book knowledge memorized by rote, nor was it about chanting a few scriptures and calling it cultivation.
His path had always been beneath his feet.
The Taoist priests from Haiyun Temple who had come down the mountain to save the people from disaster a century ago had upheld the same spiritual conviction.
In chaotic times, Taoists ought to descend the mountain all the more.
Although Li Xuetang didn’t know this reasoning, he relied on his experience as a renowned director to trust the makeup artist’s advice.
So, he only dressed Yan Shixun in a pale gray Taoist robe, faded almost white.
With wide sleeves and a flowing robe, a single lift of the arm carried an air of grace, as if he could transcend to immortality at any moment.
Yan Shixun’s face remained cold and indifferent. His tall, upright figure stood like a pine on a mountaintop, firm and immovable in swirling mist.
That only accentuated his immortal appearance and dignified air.
When he casually raised his sleeve, the movement was sharp and commanding, giving off an extraordinary presence.
Li Xuetang, afraid Yan Shixun might change his mind, held himself back. Even though he was inwardly thrilled by how perfect Yan Shixun looked, he restrained his urge to give him more scenes.
—With Yan Shixun, all conventional wisdom seemed to work in reverse.
For other actors, you had to tempt them with more lines and screen time to get them interested. But for Yan Shixun, the fewer the scenes and lines, the better—as long as Haiyun Temple was mentioned, he might reluctantly agree.
Li Xuetang didn’t know about Yan Shixun’s master, Li Chengyun, so he also didn’t realize that what had actually convinced Yan Shixun to agree had been the mention of the Taoist priests from Haiyun Temple descending the mountain—an event that had occurred during Li Chengyun’s era.
Li Chengyun had once told him that it was seeing his senior brothers and uncles sacrifice themselves one by one that had deeply shaken him and solidified his own Taoist resolve.
He wandered the world, helping those in need wherever he went. He wanted to die for his path, just like those senior brothers before him.
To prove the Dao with his life.
As Yan Shixun listened to Li Xuetang explain the scene to him, his thoughts drifted, blurred, and returned to his youth—back to when Li Chengyun had first spoken those words to him.
In a way, this gave him a deeper understanding of his master.
That thought lingered in Yan Shixun’s mind as he carelessly followed Li Xuetang’s directions. He portrayed a man suppressing his anger with icy composure before raising his sleeve to shield a sickly, thin refugee who had collapsed nearby.
His eyes shone brightly, sharp and resolute. He was so handsome, he looked like an otherworldly immortal. But in that moment of fury, he became vividly alive—he had entered the human realm.
The swirling hem of his gray-white sleeve stirred a powerful air current, billowing like spiritual energy. An invisible force burst forth from the Taoist’s movement and wrapped around the refugee in protection.
He moved like drifting wind and falling snow. As his sleeve swept up the wind, sand and stones flew, the force overwhelming. It made people question whether they were truly witnessing a celestial being.
He was powerful, yet brought peace of mind.
Gravel struck people and equipment violently. Even Li Xuetang, behind the camera, had to turn his head to avoid getting a face full of flying sand.
The background actor nearest to Yan Shixun was completely dumbfounded.
He stared up at Yan Shixun in a daze, feeling as if a god had just descended beside him.
Others might not have noticed, but he had clearly felt it: at the exact moment Yan Shixun lifted his sleeve, a gust of air had rushed toward him, enveloping him in its protective embrace.
The background actor questioned reality.
And the audience watching the livestream was stunned too.
[You were supposed to *act* like an immortal—not *invite* one for real!]
[Is the bar for background actors this high now? You have to know actual immortal techniques?]
[I swear, Brother Yan spaced out for a second and accidentally revealed his true form.]
[Mom! Your daughter has finally made it—I’ve become a fan of an actual god!]
[Overnight fame for Yan Mai! From now on, I’m a person of status too. *hands on hips.jpg*]
[Director: “Play a Taoist priest!” Brother Yan hears: “Ba-la-ba-la Immortal!” Brother Yan: “Got it. Watch this!”]
[The director’s face is killing me—look at him, he’s totally stunned too.]
Li Xuetang stared blankly at Yan Shixun, unable to snap out of it for a long time.
And it wasn’t just Li Xuetang—everyone around them was stunned.
Only the show crew remained relatively composed.
An Nanyuan: *Brother Yan, my idol, you’re amazing! I could sing your praises for a whole year without repeating myself. So he’s an immortal—why is anyone even surprised?*
Zhang Wubing: *Brother Yan, my father! He saved my life from a horde of ghosts. Isn’t this kind of thing totally normal for him?*
In Ye Li’s eyes, a smile appeared—but it carried unease.
He felt that in that moment, Yan Shixun might just ride the wind and disappear into the Dao.
That gave him a deep fear of losing Yan Shixun.
He just wanted to reach out, grab his sleeve, and keep him from leaving.
Li Xuetang stayed dazed for a long while before finally remembering to flip through the script.
He recalled that this character was supposed to be a regular Taoist priest—not some sort of celestial being… Right?
Li Xuetang began to question his whole reality. His worldview was on the verge of collapse once again.
But after hesitating for a long time, he gritted his teeth and decided to keep the take and use it in the film.
—After all, Yan Shixun wouldn’t give him another chance to reshoot it anyway.
Once Yan Shixun realized he had unintentionally used real force, he was convinced he wasn’t suited for acting.
He had no interest in reshooting the scene.
As soon as the take was done, Yan Shixun turned and went to change clothes.
Ye Li quietly followed him into the costume and makeup room.
And when *Binhai Nocturne* was released, even more people, in a daze, came to understand how the livestream viewers had felt.
—These days, do actors need to master immortal cultivation too?!
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