They were filming a night scene that evening.
Song Shi'an changed into the dark blue martial outfit, masked as before, with a gold-thread mask covering the lower half of his face.
The props crew fastened his wire harness, and he climbed a ladder to one corner of the roof, lying prone at the designated spot.
The roof tiles had baked in the sun all day and still held some warmth, feeling pleasantly warm beneath him.
He adjusted his breathing, lowered his center of gravity, and mentally ran through the moves he had practiced that day.
Director Wang called up through a megaphone from below, "Make the moves look cool! No hesitation! Even if you get a move wrong, keep fighting smoothly! I want it all in one flowing sequence!"
The clapperboard snapped shut.
A masked death warrior slipped in from the right side of the frame, moving so fast that he vaulted into the prime minister's daughter's bedchamber in just a few motions.
The camera cut to the roof. Ying Qi rose, bent low, and hurried a few steps along the ridge without shifting a single tile beneath his feet.
He did not pause at the corner of the eaves. Bracing himself with one hand, he flipped down.
His knees bent slightly as he landed. Before the hem of his robe had fully settled, he had already darted into the shadows behind a tree.
He tilted his head, revealing one eye as he watched ahead.
The death warrior emerged from the room carrying the unconscious daughter of the prime minister, his steps hurried as he moved toward the perimeter wall.
Ying Qi drew his sword.
The blade made barely a sound as it left the scabbard. He did not charge out immediately, first watching the death warrior's movements for a second before making his move.
He strode out of the tree's shadow, leaning forward with his sword tip angled toward the ground, his whole body tracing a dark blue arc through the night.
Sensing someone behind him, the death warrior flung three hidden weapons backward without even turning his head.
They sliced through the air with sharp, brief whistles, flying toward Ying Qi in a triangular formation.
He did not slow down. Twisting sideways from the waist, he spun halfway around with his body almost grazing the ground. The hidden weapons skimmed past his shoulder and waist and embedded themselves in the tree trunk behind him.
Using the momentum of his spin, he touched his sword tip to the ground and pressed down with his wrist, springing up with his center of gravity shifting forward, his steps linking together without a pause.
A sprint, a horizontal sweep of the blade.
That strike cut in from the death warrior's left at a tricky angle, catching the exact opening before his opponent could turn his head.
The blade swept across his throat with exquisitely controlled force, slicing only through the surface of the skin without going the slightest bit deeper.
The camera pushed in for a close-up of the death warrior's neck. An extremely fine line of blood slowly seeped out, even and straight, without so much as a spatter.
Ying Qi withdrew his sword, its blade smooth as a mirror, without a single drop of blood on it.
With a reverse grip, he slid the sword back into its scabbard. The metal struck with a clear, ringing note, especially distinct in the stillness of the night.
He lowered his head to glance at the corpse on the ground, then lifted his foot and kicked over a nearby flowerpot.
The crash of shattering porcelain erupted, immediately followed by the footsteps and shouts of the courtyard guards.
Ying Qi lingered no longer. Pushing off with his toes, he sprang upward, caught the top of the perimeter wall with one hand, and flipped over it, disappearing beyond the wall.
"Cut!"
Director Wang stood up from behind the monitor and led the applause.
Applause rose across the set. One continuous take, nailed on the first try.
Everyone had held their breath watching that sequence, afraid something might go wrong, but it had turned out even smoother than the daytime rehearsal.
Song Shi'an came around from outside the wall, his wire harness still attached, a short length of cable trailing behind him. As he walked, he scooped it up to keep it from tripping him.
"Director, was that a good take?"
Director Wang walked over, clapping. "Perfect. One continuous take, and your moves were even steadier than in rehearsal. Kid, you were born to earn your rice bowl as an actor. Won't you reconsider?"
Song Shi'an quickly waved his hands. "No, no, thank you, Director Wang."
Nearby, crew members were helping the girl playing the prime minister's daughter up from the ground. She brushed the dust off herself and said with a smile, "I'd braced myself to get dropped a few times. I didn't expect us to nail it in one take. You're unbelievably steady."
Song Shi'an moved the harness cables aside and said, "Everyone worked well together, too. Instructor Zhao taught me every detail, and Director Wang's staging was precise."
Director Wang gave a huff beside him, clearly still recovering from the blow of being rejected. "All right, that scene's done. Your character has just one scene left before you wrap, probably in three or four days. We'll let you know in advance."
Song Shi'an nodded. "Okay."
After changing out of his costume, he returned the prop sword to the props crew and said goodbye to Instructor Zhao and the stunt guys who had worked with him that day.
He felt light all over as he walked out of the changing room. Tonight's fight scene had been especially satisfying to film, and he could still feel that final sheathing of the sword in his palm. It had been so damn cool!
He had just reached the parking shelter when he heard running footsteps behind him.
"Um, wait a second."
It was the girl who had played the prime minister's daughter. She had changed into her own clothes and let her hair down from its bun, and she was still a little breathless when she reached Song Shi'an.
"There were too many people earlier. I felt shy about asking." She took out her phone and held it up openly in front of Song Shi'an. "Could we exchange contact info?"
Song Shi'an paused, then took out his phone. "Sure."
They scanned the code. After accepting his friend request, the girl waved and said, "Let's work together again if we get the chance." Song Shi'an said, "Sure," then turned and left, leaving a hint of helplessness in her eyes.
As if being handsome weren't enough, his EQ really was low. Anyone else would at least send a message after adding her to confirm the connection, but this guy just tucked his phone into his pocket, gave her a polite, courteous smile, and walked off.
Song Shi'an really had not thought that much about it. He put his phone away, climbed onto his little electric scooter, twisted the throttle, and rode out through the film studio complex's gates.
The summer evening breeze felt quite cool against him.
He rode slowly. After passing two intersections, he caught a delicious smell and turned a corner to follow it, finding a sprawling night market ahead.
The entire street blazed with lights. Right beside the university district and several office buildings, it was at its liveliest just before nine in the evening.
Coals glowed red on the barbecue grills, squid sizzled and smoked on the griddles, and the aromas of cumin and sauces mingled in the air.
He even spotted a few familiar faces from the film studio complex in the crowd. They had probably just finished work and come for a late-night snack, too.
Song Shi'an pushed his little electric scooter around the night market, with every stall launching a mental attack on him.
He resisted and resisted, but in the end he could not hold out and spent eight yuan on a portion of fried tofu.
The first bite convinced him it was worth it: crisp outside and tender inside, with a savory sauce that carried a hint of sweetness.
He was standing beside the stall, thoroughly enjoying his food, when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that a child beside him kept staring at him.
The boy was about seven or eight, wearing a white top and a pair of little leather shoes, making him especially conspicuous among the diners in slippers.