Chapter Ten: The Art of Positioning and Movement

The sudden response left Liu Qingshan momentarily stunned, but he quickly regained his composure. “It seems my performance has some merit after all. Director Qian, if this is your way of complimenting me, it’s certainly rather unusual!”

Seeing that Liu Qingshan hadn’t fully grasped his meaning, Qian Yangqiu simply smiled and didn’t elaborate further. “For now, stay with the production team. We’ll be shooting a lot of action scenes at the next film base, so make sure to design the fight choreography ahead of time. Wu San has the complete script.”

Back at the house where the special effects team resided, Liu Qingshan asked Wu San for the script. When questioned about any instructions from the director, he repeated what had been said. Upon hearing Liu Qingshan’s account, Wu San and those nearby, including Qiu Xingguang, immediately grew solemn.

After a brief silence, Qiu Xingguang was the first to break it. “If I’m not mistaken, the role of Hu Jinghui is likely yours!”

Liu Qingshan was slow to realize, though he had entertained some guesses on the way back. Now, his face was filled with disbelief. “Is that possible? Setting aside my lack of acting experience, this role was supposed to belong to Zhu Yanping—even the contract should have been signed, right?”

“Nothing’s impossible. For this role alone, which won’t require a stunt double from now on, no one is more suitable than you! Hu Jinghui isn’t one of the main leads, so the actor’s fame isn’t crucial. The real impact lies in his impressive martial skill,” Qiu Xingguang reasoned.

“Xingguang’s analysis is sound,” Wu San added. “The script says this character is called ‘the most terrifying man’ by Li Yuanfang. He’s third among the six Snake Heads of the Snake Spirit, known as the Sword Spirit and nicknamed the Viper—a professional assassin wielding a ghostly Orchid Sword. Qingshan, you’ll need to focus on sword practice.”

Liu Qingshan remained confused. “But why would Zhu Yanping agree? I heard this role was practically tailor-made for him!”

Zhang Chengzhi chuckled, dispelling the misconception. “Is the role really so important that the writers would tie a killer’s image to a real-life celebrity like Zhu Yanping? At most, his temperament matches the character.”

Wu San nodded. “Hu Jinghui is, at best, the sixth or seventh most important figure in the series. He’s not entirely expendable, but he isn’t central to every case, and he dies by episode thirteen!”

“But that’s not reason enough for Zhu Yanping to step down. If it were me, I wouldn’t give up the role either—it wouldn’t sound good for his reputation,” Liu Qingshan said, his concern not unwarranted.

At this moment, Liao Xin spoke up. “If Hu Jinghui is being switched to Qingshan, there’s only one possibility: Zhu Yanping requested it himself, probably for a role better suited to him.”

Wu San pondered this, then slapped his thigh in realization. “That makes sense. The actor for Li Xian, the Crown Prince, hasn’t appeared yet—they say he’s ill!”

Liu Qingshan wasn’t familiar with the script’s characters, so he looked around, searching everyone’s expressions. Zhang Chengzhi voiced his doubts. “That can’t be. Zhu Yanping’s burly build hardly fits the Crown Prince.”

“Chengzhi, you’re so rigid. Why must it be a direct swap between two roles? Even Di Chun, the steward of Di Renjie’s household, has martial arts skills. Does Zhao Gang, with his skinny arms and legs, fit the part?” Liao Xin, usually quiet, always hit the mark when he spoke.

Wu San’s expression grew livelier. “Yes, Zhu Yanping can play Di Chun, and Zhao Gang can take the Crown Prince Li Xian. That solves everything!”

“But that still doesn’t add up. Who is Zhao Gang? He’s Director Qian’s protégé, his fellow disciple, and the assistant director of the production. Would he agree?” Zhang Chengzhi remained unconvinced.

Liao Xin patted him on the shoulder. “Put aside his status for a moment. The Crown Prince doesn’t have many scenes, but he’s a central thread throughout. Zhao Gang’s role is essentially expanded! Di Chun is the same; at least Zhu Yanping won’t leave after episode thirteen!”

Wu San concluded the speculation. “If Qingshan can secure the role, this is a clever and harmonious reshuffling. Regardless of whether our guess holds, Qingshan, you should prepare your swordsmanship, and the director’s team will likely test your acting. Is that a problem?”

Though still uncertain, Liu Qingshan wasn’t about to let a rare opportunity slip through his fingers. “Acting isn’t an issue, but you know, San, some things can be learned privately, but without professional training, it’s hard to grasp the intricacies just by watching. For example, actor positioning and movement—I only understand the camera’s perspective as a spectator.”

He spoke honestly; currently, he only possessed skill in controlling facial expressions, while other professional experience was lacking. These weren’t things an extra could pick up by observing—they required guidance from professionals.

“That’s not an issue. Liao Xin is handsome and has been on camera plenty these past years—not in major roles, just ones with a few lines—but he’s experienced in the areas you mentioned,” Wu San said.

No need for Wu San to arrange it, as Liao Xin took the initiative. “Experience is just part of it. Once you get the basics, paying attention during filming will keep mistakes minimal. Let’s do this—today, let’s drop everything and dive deep into these matters.”

Since joining the team, Liao Xin had not only practiced martial arts diligently but found himself increasingly interested in acting. He knew he was late to the game and could never catch up to those who’d trained since childhood; age had put him past the optimal stage for bone development. Still, his efforts not to burden the team had led him to learn some acting fundamentals, and today, they proved useful.

Like his other brothers, he was eager for their team to have a real actor, believing it would greatly benefit their future prospects. Thus, he taught Liu Qingshan with genuine dedication, intent on helping him make rapid progress.

Fortunately, Liu Qingshan had intermediate acting skills, so he grasped positioning and movement instantly, learning with ease. Even so, night soon fell over the production team.

In high spirits, Wu San gathered everyone at his home for a feast. By the time Liu Qingshan returned to his own place, it was already midnight.

Though Wu San appeared rough-hewn, he was quite attentive and had remembered to procure a genuine iron sword from the set beforehand. This sword accompanied Liu Qingshan home, and he immediately entered the skill training room.

The training room was akin to an altered mental space, allowing for highly efficient practice and seamless integration of acquired skills.

Thus, when he appeared at the production team again the next morning, he felt far more confident than the day before.