While others used makeup to look fairer, she went in the opposite direction, using foundation three shades darker to force that excessively pale face into a wheat-colored tan.
"He's too fair. It doesn't make sense for a guard," she explained as she applied it. "What guard exposed to the wind and sun is paler than his master?"
Once the makeup was done, his skin had turned a healthy wheat color. Paired with his face and neat short hair, his entire bearing had changed.
He looked more martial and rugged without losing his original refinement. The assistant beside her stared blankly, mirror in hand, and muttered, "How is this fair?"
After fitting his wig, the makeup artist shoved a black close-fitting martial outfit into his arms and pointed at the changing room in the corner. "Go put it on."
Song Shi'an obediently carried the clothes inside.
Then he spent ages studying the heap of straps and fastenings, trying them every which way. First he tied a strap wrong, then did up a fastening crookedly. It took quite a while before he finally had everything on.
He kept feeling something was off but couldn't put his finger on it. Holding up the hem, he walked out.
"Did I put something on wrong?"
The makeup artist turned around and nearly died on the spot.
The black outfit was fitted perfectly at the waist, with crisp shoulder lines and a collar fastened snugly shut, making him look tall and straight.
His wheat-colored skin, sharp brow ridge, and defined jawline made him look exactly like a young general who had stepped out of an ancient painting.
He stood there with an impassive face, his good looks both razor-sharp and mesmerizing.
Everyone in the tent stopped what they were doing.
The makeup artist clutched her chest and said something in a breathy whisper. The assistant beside her vaguely caught words like "dear heavens" and "main character."
Song Shi'an had no time to worry about their reactions. This guard's outfit was ridiculously thick. Wrapped in it in the height of summer, he had only stood there for two minutes before a patch of his back was soaked.
He tugged at his collar and was wondering whether the outfit could even be washed when hurried footsteps sounded outside the tent.
"Where's the guy playing the guard? We're ready to shoot!"
The flap lifted, and a crew member poked his head in, his forehead covered in sweat from rushing.
His gaze swept around the tent and landed on Song Shi'an. He froze as though someone had pressed pause.
"Holy moly! You're here to play the guard?"
Song Shi'an nodded.
The crew member looked as though he had just seen someone dipping Australian lobster in Lao Gan Ma at a restaurant.
His mouth opened and closed. In the end, all he managed was, "Come with me."
The period courtyard had been built with exquisite care: blue bricks, gray roof tiles, vermilion corridor pillars, and stone lanterns lined up on either side of the steps.
An entire row of camera tracks had been laid out, and lighting technicians moved back and forth beneath the covered walkway, adjusting their reflectors.
The crew member led him to the study entrance and began explaining his task.
"You don't have any lines. Just follow Mr. Xu. You're his personal guard, so don't leave his side." After saying that, the crew member gave him another look and added, "Try to stand a little off to the side."
Song Shi'an nodded. Standing still and saying nothing-he was good at that.
The scene being filmed was the second male lead, the young lord Xiao Yichen, secretly meeting a trusted subordinate in his study late at night.
The minister of revenue had embezzled military funds. The account books were already in their hands, awaiting daybreak to be presented to the emperor.
The young lord's personal guard, Ying Qi, stood watch at the door throughout, holding his sword from the beginning of the scene to the end without a single line. His whole job was to look aloof.
Footsteps sounded nearby, and a young man in moon-white robes approached.
He had a slender figure and a face like fine jade, with a silver coronet binding his hair and a jade pendant hanging at his waist. From head to toe, he exuded the noble air of a young lord.
This was Xu Che, who played Xiao Yichen.
Xu Che reached the study entrance, looked up, and saw his "personal guard."
He visibly froze for a moment.
Song Shi'an was standing beneath the covered walkway, examining the prop sword in his hands. It was fairly heavy, and the patterns carved into its sheath looked convincing.
He shifted the sword through several angles before settling on the pose he found most pleasing and cradling it in his arms.
Xu Che stopped at the bottom of the steps.
He tilted his head, then slowly climbed the steps, his voice distinctly hesitant. "You're playing Ying Qi?"
"Yes."
Just one word, low yet clear, with a slight upward lilt at the end that made the listener's ears tingle.
Seated behind the monitor, the director raised his megaphone and began adjusting their positions.
"You playing the guard, move half a step to the left. Don't block the camera with the back of your head."
Song Shi'an hurriedly moved half a step.
The director stared at the monitor, then suddenly took off his headphones.
He watched for another two seconds and raised his megaphone, his voice loud enough to reach the entire set. "Put a mask on that guard! Props! Hurry up! What dumbass cast him?"
Song Shi'an stood beneath the covered walkway holding his sword, feeling a little stabbed in the heart.
From Assistant Director Zhang all the way to the director, everyone had found fault with him. His path as cannon fodder was far too rocky.
Still, a mask was fine. With his face covered, he wouldn't have to keep holding an expression, and standing still would be even easier. A blessing for the socially anxious.
A young man from the props team ran over carrying a box and dug out a gold-thread mask.
The mask covered the lower half of his face, from the bridge of his nose to his jaw, leaving only his eyes and forehead exposed.
Once Song Shi'an had put it on, he returned to his original position.
The director looked at the monitor, rubbing his chin in silence for a long while.
With his whole face exposed earlier, the impact had been direct. Now, with the mask on and only his brow ridge and eyes visible, there was instead an added air of something left tantalizingly unsaid.
The gold-thread mask covered the lower half of his face, yet drew everyone's attention to his eyes.
He wasn't looking at the camera. His eyes were lowered, his lashes casting a small patch of shadow beneath them, leaving people itching and aching to know what lay beneath the mask.
"Fine, we'll go with that." The director lowered his megaphone. This could become a talking point too.
The clapperboard snapped shut.
Xu Che pushed open the study door and strode inside.
His line delivery was solid, his steady tone carrying the sharpness of a young lord. His scene with the trusted subordinate flowed like drifting clouds and running water.
Song Shi'an followed two paces behind him, then stopped at the study entrance, holding his sword without moving a muscle.
His breathing was light, his footsteps almost soundless.
As he walked behind Xu Che, all his power came from his waist. His shoulders stayed steady and his legs straight, his hem swaying gently with his steps, every movement taut with energy.
He needed neither lines nor expressions. Just standing there, he looked like a meticulously detailed painting with a perfectly balanced composition.
Behind the monitor, the director never took his eyes off the screen.
The first scene passed in one take.
After the crew member called cut, Song Shi'an felt a weight lift from his shoulders and was about to find an empty corner where he could loosen his collar.
The outfit was unbearably stuffy. Wrapped in it in the height of summer, he felt as though he were in a sauna. Another ten minutes and he would start to go sour.
Before he had taken two steps, the director's voice rang out again.
"You playing the guard, come here!"
Song Shi'an stopped, turned, and hurried over.
"Director, what is it?"
The director ignored him, turning toward the lounge and bellowing, "Where's the screenwriter?"
The lounge door opened, and a woman came stumbling out.
Her glasses sat crooked on her nose, and a tuft of hair stuck up from sleeping. One look made it clear she had been forcibly dragged out of her afternoon nap.