`Chapter 27

Chapter 27

The start date for Jianqiao 1937 was finally set for early December, a full half month later than originally planned.

The “culprit” behind the delay was none other than director Xu Qingsui—the notorious “on-location filming fanatic” within the industry.

Jianqiao Airport was now under military control, making on-site filming practically impossible. Xu Qingsui, however, replicated the entire airport next to Yunxi Film Base at a one-to-one scale. The set construction had already begun months earlier, with the main structures such as the runway, hangars, and control tower completed. Just then, with Xinghe Pictures’ sudden investment, the already well-funded Xu Qingsui decided to upgrade the plan—not only insisting on authentic brick-and-mortar “hard set” construction but also demanding that all “soft set” details be perfected to fully recreate the look of the era.

The originally scheduled construction timeline quietly extended under this pursuit of perfection.

Wen Jinhe was unhappy upon hearing the news: “It would have been perfect to start filming mid-month. We could have finished just in time for the winter break and picked up another project, but now everything’s ruined. Finding you a suitable script wasn’t easy.”

As a first-year college student, Shi Yin had to balance filming with her studies, and frequent leave requests were her biggest headache. She felt content, however, and replied, “Filming in December is fine. The airport scenes will be shot in Tancheng, so I won’t need to ask for leave. Once the winter break starts, I can follow the crew without worries—it’ll be easier on my mind.”

Her voice gradually lowered, almost muttering at the end: “…I don’t even dare to go ask my advisor for a signature anymore.”

To maintain attendance and grades, she had been attending classes faithfully all month, without being late or leaving early even once. Even so, wandering around campus, it seemed that some students in her major had recognized her.

Wen Jinhe sighed. “When do you graduate?”

Shi Yin could only laugh and cry at the same time: “Wen Jie! I just started my first year. This semester isn’t even over yet!”

~

In November, Tancheng skipped autumn and plunged straight into early winter.

One week before filming, all main actors gathered at Yunxi to conduct the first script read-through with the director, screenwriter, producers, and other core staff.

It was on this day that Shi Yin met the legendary Zhong Li Yu for the first time.

Her first impression: handsome. Very handsome.

It was a striking, yet unassuming kind of handsomeness. His eyebrows were like brushstrokes of ink, his eyes like cold stars, his nose straight and sharp; every line of his features perfectly aligned, epitomizing the classic elegance of Eastern aesthetics. His posture was tall and upright, shoulders broad, legs long. Even in a simple black knit sweater, he exuded a refined, understated presence.

Yet more captivating than his appearance was the aura surrounding Zhong Li Yu. It was a calm composure nurtured by fame, neither rushed nor forced. His gentle, bright gaze swept across the room, like a piece of jade finely polished by time and renown, quietly glowing with inner brilliance.

Shi Yin could only think of the phrase “a gentleman is like jade.”

Zhong Li Yu’s gaze briefly landed on the deliberately empty C-seat beside Zhen Xue, right in the center. He strode across the room to the other side of the table, stopping by Su Feibai and Shi Yin, casually pulling out a chair and sitting down as if it were completely natural.

Zhen Xue’s smile stiffened instantly, her expression visibly falling.

At that moment, the meeting room door opened.

Director Xu Qingsui, head screenwriter Yan Wen, and the rest of the core crew entered in succession. Xu Qingsui sat directly in the C-seat. Yan Wen smiled and patted Zhen Xue on the shoulder, gesturing for her to move over a seat, then took the seat next to Xu Qingsui herself.

Only then did Zhen Xue realize, her face flashing with embarrassment as she awkwardly adjusted her seat.

Yan Wen stood first, her gaze slowly sweeping across the room.

“Hello, everyone. I’m Yan Wen. You might not believe it,” she said with a hint of nostalgia in her smile, “when I first started writing, I only had an ordinary Republic-era love story in mind, wanting to craft some classic scenes of talented scholars and beauties.”

A ripple of friendly laughter went through the room.

“But as I kept writing, strange things began to happen.” She shifted her tone, her voice gaining weight. “Gao Zhenxiao was no longer content being a mere romantic officer, and Ge Huijun was no longer satisfied with being controlled by fate. They, along with every young person—and even the nameless paperboys and workers in the script—seemed to come alive in my mind, arguing, resisting, laughing, and crying. They were no longer puppets on my strings but living people making choices and walking paths in that turbulent era.”

Yan Wen paused, her gaze deep and solemn.

“So today, standing here, I have an unusual request. I’m not handing over cold words to you—I’m entrusting you with their souls, their burning hearts, for now. Cherish them, understand them, and bring them to life again in front of the camera.”

Her words were met with thunderous applause, which slowly subsided.

As everyone knew, Yan Wen was one of the very few screenwriters in the industry with absolute authority, even dubbed “the first Chinese female screenwriter.” In other productions, actors might get away with rewriting or adding scenes, but in her team—absolutely not. Yan Wen guarded the independent soul of each character in her writing.

Xu Qingsui pressed her hands lightly, signaling the room to quiet down: “Our first read-through will focus on flow, not perfection. Let’s get the lines down and let me see everyone’s basic skills.”

The director’s assistant read the scene description: “Above Jianqiao Airport, dark clouds gather. One by one, weary Hawker III planes returning from sorties, fuel almost exhausted, prepare to land on the runway. At this moment—a strange shriek comes from the sky! Enemy aircraft approaching!”

The first to speak was Zhong Li Yu.

He didn’t even glance at the script, his gaze piercing as if it could see through walls, staring directly at the smoky battlefield in the sky.

“Pull up! All of you, pull up! Can’t you see the enemy is at our doorstep?!”

Zhong Li Yu didn’t shout, yet his voice carried the metallic friction of steel, gripping everyone’s attention instantly. His pace quickened, commands firing like a rapid volley:

“Listen to my orders: All aircraft, first squadron immediately climb, seize altitude! Use every last drop of fuel to keep the enemy out of Jianqiao! Second squadron, replenish fuel quickly and be ready to support and counterattack at any moment!”

Reading to this point, he paused mid-sentence, then said in a deep voice: “Remember, behind us is Tancheng, the Southern Capital, the whole of Huaguo! We have nowhere to retreat—”

For the last line, his voice was not loud, but carried the determination of no turning back: “Fourth Squadron, follow me into the sky!”

There was a brief silence in the meeting room, as if the roar of fighter planes and the shriek of alarms still echoed in everyone’s ears.

Xu Qingsui was the first to break the silence. He looked at Zhong Li Yu and nodded appreciatively: “Strong projection, good rhythm and layers, there’s context, there’s imagery, makes it easy to immerse.”

Shi Yin quietly drew a breath beside him.

No wonder he’s a White Magnolia Best Actor—every word was perfectly clear, even without subtitles.

Next were Shi Yin and Su Feibai. Xu Qingsui occasionally interrupted, pointing out small emotional flaws, but overall, her expression remained satisfied.

Then it was Zhen Xue’s turn.

The assistant director once again set the scene for everyone: “Ge Huijun stands at the wooden platform in the school auditorium, her blue shirt and black skirt fluttering in the wind, scanning the faces of her peers below. Begin.”

“Classmates!” Zhen Xue’s voice came out sharp due to nervousness, even cracking at one point.

She cleared her throat, readjusted her posture, and raised her tone: “Earlier, the teacher taught us to read Zuo Zhuan—‘In times of peace, think of danger; to think is to prepare.’ But today in Huaguo, where can we sit safely?”

She seemed eager to show the character’s passion, delivering her lines with dramatic intonation, her expression animated.

“Three days ago, Captain Gao Zhenxiao shot down six enemy aircraft! This morning, the newspaper said the Fourth Squadron lost three more seniors from the seventh class of the flight school! The time they bought with their lives—”

“Stop.” Xu Qingsui rubbed his ear.

His gaze swept over Zhong Li Yu, Shi Yin, and Su Feibai, finally landing on Zhen Xue.

At that moment, Xu Qingsui suddenly thought of the phrase his daughter often said online—“We just go crazy and kill everything.” The scene in front of him matched perfectly: Zhong Li Yu and the others were responsible for “crazy killing,” while Zhen Xue was the “go crazy” part.

“What are you doing? Performing a play?” Xu Qingsui spoke slowly, each word like a whip: “This isn’t a stage where you scare people with your voice and gestures. I want authenticity, empathy! Speak as if you’re a real person talking to your peers. Be natural, but clearer and stronger than normal! Right now, you’re more pretentious than reading a textbook.”

As a heavily promoted rising actress by Peach TV, Zhen Xue’s face couldn’t hide her embarrassment. She reflexively argued: “Director, I just wanted to deliver it passionately. Isn’t Ge Huijun motivating her classmates?”

“Passionate?” Xu Qingsui laughed in disbelief, “You call this passionate? This is affectation! I’ll tell you, if Ge Huijun really shouted slogans on stage like this, I’d be the first to walk out!”

“I don’t care how you got this role. Here, you have two options—either adjust your state immediately and act properly, or I get someone to buy you a ticket home right now. Your choice.” Xu Qingsui said bluntly.

Zhen Xue’s face turned from red to pale, her fingers gripping the edge of the script. She pressed her lips together tightly, ultimately daring not to argue further, lowering her head and squeezing out a few words through clenched teeth: “Sorry, Director… I’ll adjust.”

After this lesson, the whole meeting room fell silent, everyone subconsciously sitting up straighter. The read-through that followed was much more serious, yet proceeded smoothly.

~

A week later, the crew officially began filming.

The first scene was the “intimate scene” of Shen Wangshu and Cheng Daisy at the airport, after surviving a battle.

Xu Qingsui had her reasoning: “Starting with a high-intensity scene helps you break the initial awkwardness. Once this scene is done, shooting daily interactions will be much smoother.”

For Shi Yin and Su Feibai, who were still unfamiliar with each other, it was indeed a simple but potentially effective strategy.

The scene’s context: Jianqiao was under enemy attack. After shooting down an enemy plane, Shen Wangshu was surrounded by eight enemy aircraft, forced to glide and land urgently; his plane crashed into a tree, and he was injured. Meanwhile, Cheng Daisy, who had been busy fundraising for the flight school and promoting aircraft development, dropped everything when she heard the alarm and rushed anxiously to the airport.

On camera, Shen Wangshu limped as he inspected the damaged Hawker plane, the special effects makeup realistically showing the scars and blood on his face. His flight suit was covered in dirt and dark stains.

“Shen Wangshu!”

Cheng Daisy’s voice came from a short distance, choked with emotion.

Hearing her, Shen Wangshu’s dim eyes lit up, and a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. He wincing through pain, staggered forward two steps, opening his arms to catch the figure rushing toward him.

The Steadicam rotated smoothly, precisely framing the point where the two were about to meet.

However, the anticipated heartfelt embrace did not happen—Su Feibai rushed forward too forcefully, and Shi Yin accidentally stepped on his foot in the momentum. Immediately, a muffled sound rang out as Su Feibai’s nose collided firmly with Shi Yin’s forehead.

“Ugh…” Su Feibai bent over in pain, his whole face contorted.

“Cut!” Xu Qingsui’s loud voice rang through the speaker.

“Sorry, Teacher Su! Are you okay?” Shi Yin covered her forehead, apologizing repeatedly, guilt written across her face.

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s my fault, I rushed too hard.” Su Feibai covered his nose, his voice deep and gruff as he bowed slightly in apology.

The two of them bent forward face-to-face, each trying to out-apologize the other, their bows progressively lower, as if competing for who could be more polite.

Xu Qingsui: “……”

Watching this ridiculous scene, she had wanted to scold them but ended up shaking her head with a smile. After all, it was their first collaboration; mistakes were inevitable.

“Alright, alright, let’s do it again from the top.” Xu Qingsui picked up the walkie-talkie, her tone much softer. “Feibai, watch your strength. This is a reunion after surviving a disaster, not a rugby charge. All departments, get ready!”

Filming resumed. Cheng Daisy threw herself into Shen Wangshu’s arms.

“You bastard, I almost… almost didn’t get to see you!”

Shi Yin’s voice was choked with restrained sobs, each word soaked in genuine fear.

Su Feibai lifted his pale face, forcing out a weak smile. Shi Yin reached out, her fingertips hovering over the scars on his cheek, slowing just before contact, as if handling a fragile, priceless treasure. Her eyes swirled with relief at finding him, heart-wrenching concern, and almost overwhelming lingering fear—all emotions layered yet seamless, perfectly captured by the camera.

“Don’t cry…”

Su Feibai flailed, trying to wipe her tears. He lifted his blood-stained sleeve, hesitated as if it were too dirty, and awkwardly put it down.

“Cut!!”

Xu Qingsui called for another stop.

Turning first to Shi Yin, her tone softened: “Xiaoshi, the emotion was perfect, details were well-controlled. Just slow down the tears a little. Let them fall when the camera pushes in for a close-up, okay?”

Then, she shifted her firepower toward Su Feibai: “Su Feibai! You’ve never held a girlfriend, have you? She’s your fiancée, why so polite?”

Su Feibai’s face turned crimson: “Director, you—you’re talking nonsense! I—I don’t have a girlfriend!”

“It’s obvious, little Su is hugging a colleague,” the assistant director teased quietly.

A low ripple of laughter ran through the set.

Shi Yin couldn’t help but curve the corners of her mouth—of course, Su Feibai didn’t dare raise his hands; they were at least half a meter apart.

First scene, third take.

This time, Shi Yin controlled the tears, and just as the camera pushed in, a single tear rolled down perfectly.

“Cut cut cut cut!!” Xu Qingsui shouted again.

“Su Feibai, what are you doing?! I want the after-survival feeling! That delayed, long-suppressed despair, fear, love exploding in this moment! It’s a flood breaking, a volcano erupting! You love her! Where’s your love?! Show me!”

Su Feibai scratched his head in panic. The early winter air, yet sweat streamed down his neck. The makeup artist had to keep stepping forward to touch him up.

A lifelong single man, his mind was blank, utterly incapable of conjuring the extreme, layered, bone-deep love Xu Qingsui demanded.

Xu Qingsui was frantic too, eyebrows nearly standing on end. Just as she was about to continue scolding, her eyes caught Zhong Li Yu calmly observing beside them.

“Zhong Li, you go!” she shouted. “Show that blockhead how it’s done!”

Hearing this, Zhong Li Yu nodded composedly and stepped to the center of the set.

“Teacher Shi, my apologies,” he said with a slight bow, tone gentle and gentlemanly.

“No, no, Teacher Zhong!” Shi Yin waved her hands frantically, almost bowing in return.

Oh my! How could she deserve the title of “Teacher” from Zhong Li Yu? That a Best Actor could personally demonstrate—she could only be grateful. Su Feibai kept flubbing; she felt terrible too, repeatedly exhausting her emotions.

The clapperboard snapped, and the demonstration began.

Shi Yin ran forward, but Zhong Li Yu was faster. He released the hand covering his wound as if the pain didn’t matter, striding toward her. His strong arms encircled Shi Yin’s tiny waist, the force assertive and irresistible, nearly lifting her off the ground.

Zhong Li Yu’s tall figure completely enveloped her, the scent of gunpowder and blood dominating her senses, yet burying his face in her neck felt like a dying man seeking final salvation. His heated breath pressed against her skin, greedily drinking in the lingering warm scent of her hair, enough to make his soul tremble.

The noisy runway seemed muted.

Everything else vanished; the world existed only as their burning, chaotic, interwoven breaths.

Shi Yin tilted her head, nails digging into Zhong Li Yu’s tense back as if clawing into flesh, hot tears sliding down her cheeks, merging with his sweat. He responded with stronger force, his iron-like arms tightening, bones faintly groaning, the posture less a hug than a fierce act of possession.

She trembled slightly in his arms, repeatedly tracing the strong lines of his back, as if confirming a recovered dream, her eyes holding godlike pity and tenderness, silently comforting this wounded beast.

Xu Qingsui’s camera language was displayed to its fullest at this moment—she skillfully extended the anticipation of the moment before the embrace, using slow motion to dissect every subtle expression and movement of the two, and when they finally embraced, time suddenly accelerated, as if a single glance spanned eternity.

“Cut!” Xu Qingsui shouted abruptly, unable to contain her excitement. “That’s it! Perfect! Su Feibai, did you see that?”

The set erupted in heartfelt applause. Such explosive performances always easily stirred resonance.

Yan Wen, at some point, had come up beside Xu Qingsui: “Tsk tsk, a twenty-year-old little wolf, really can’t compare to a thirty-year-old wild man.”

“Nonsense,” Xu Qingsui replied, her eyes fixed on the monitor replay. “That’s Zhong Li Yu.”

“Xiaoshi also acted well, rare to match his performance without being overshadowed,” Yan Wen feigned a sigh. “Honestly, cutting all of Gao Zhenxiao’s emotional lines is still a pity.”

Xu Qingsui snorted, unimpressed.

Was she willing? It wasn’t that the female lead couldn’t carry it, the male lead explicitly refused, leaving no other choice.

In the center of the set, Zhong Li Yu patiently coached Su Feibai: “Your emotion is full, but your body language tends to overdo it, which looks false. Pull back slightly. Consider the composition and aesthetics of the shot, ensure both angles are just right.”

Su Feibai’s eyes lit up in understanding, nodding repeatedly.

When filming resumed, progress was much smoother. Su Feibai was already perceptive, and with Zhong Li Yu’s guidance, he managed to mimic accurately, finally delivering eighty to ninety percent of the essence.

Only a few days into Jianqiao’s shoot, Zhong Li Yu’s presence alone drew fans’ attention with every movement. No matter how tight the crew kept secrets, they couldn’t stop intrusive paparazzi and fan-site photographers—they lurked in forests, climbed tall trees, and even used drones, turning the set into a live broadcast stage.

That evening, a few blurry yet tension-filled paparazzi photos went viral online.

“Explosive! Zhong Li Yu caught in a passionate embrace on set! Female actor’s identity unknown!”

In the photos, Zhong Li Yu held the petite actress tightly, one hand at her waist, the other pressing her head, completely restraining her. The actress’s toes barely touched the ground as she leaned back in his arms, forming a fragile yet beautiful curve.

The public reaction erupted instantly:

“What is this? I need a bite.”

“Whoa, can I see this for free?! I’m losing it!”

“Yu’s arms! Those big hands! I’m dead, sisters!!!”

“Wait… who’s the woman? Not Zhen Xue, right? Height and build don’t match!”

“Wasn’t Jianqiao supposed to be an air combat film? Why an embrace? Where’s the patriotic sentiment? (But if this is the kind of scene, never mind)”

“Although…but…this atmosphere is incredible. Can’t see her face, but she acts so well, I kind of empathize…”

“+1, this sexual tension is clearer than my life plan…”

“If it’s this kind of romantic scene, I love to watch.”

“Love to watch +1.”

“Calm down! Focus on the work, focus on your own, don’t discuss unrelated people! Reject paparazzi! Wait for official news!”

Author’s note: What? The female second lead hugging the male lead?! Chaos in a pot of porridge, everyone eat while it’s hot.

·

After Jianqiao aired, fans collectively protested: Why does it look different from what we saw! This is a scam!!