Chapter 164: Now This Is a Cop-and-Robber Movie

Ever since she discovered the existence of Tieba, Shi Hui had developed an obsessive attachment to surfing the internet. Every day could find her engrossed in her laptop, completely absorbed in the screen.

Although the primary web browser in Hong Kong was not Baidu, and the internet was filled with complex traditional Chinese characters that she found difficult to recognize, it did not dampen her enthusiasm in the slightest.

However, browsing mainland networks was no easy feat for her, making mainland news far less accessible to her than the smaller, localized updates of Hong Kong.

According to her, the very moment she exposed her identity as Liu Qingshan’s assistant, she was invited to become the first vice-moderator of the Qingshan Tieba.

Moreover, she strongly suspected that the mysterious owner of the Tieba was none other than Chen Qianhui.

This premonition of hers had been verified after she pulled out and shared several photographs of Liu Qingshan on multiple occasions.

For instance, a few pictures taken a few days prior at the Aidi Music Studio—one of which happened to feature Chen Qianhui—were actually bookmarked by the moderator within the very first minute.

Furthermore, whenever someone inquired about the status of the Chessboard Band, the moderator's occasional replies demonstrated that she was well-informed, as she even knew about Ah Jie's impending trip to the mainland.

Ah Jie had called shortly after that day, revealing that four members of their band had ultimately decided to head to the mainland: lead singer Ah Jie, drummer Li Ang, bassist Huang Yaowen, and keyboardist Meng Zhihao.

As for the guitarist, Ah Jin, he had already started a family, and with his child currently too young, his family absolutely refused to let him venture outside to carve out a path.

Nevertheless, Liu Qingshan had asked Ah Jie to convey his stance, promising that the moment Snow Domain established its Hong Kong branch, Ah Jin would be the very first person invited to join.

His reasoning was that the members of the Chessboard Band all possessed excellent character and considerable individual skills.

More importantly, these people were all his devoted fans—the kind who looked up to him with absolute adoration.

Ah Jin was even a half-baked martial artist who had studied Taekwondo, and what he admired most was Liu Qingshan's kung fu.

Naturally, a martial artist would hold fellow practitioners in high regard, and Liu Qingshan felt the same way. Feeling a bit concerned about Ah Jin's future livelihood, he had made that promise.

The next day marked the arrival of Kim Hee-sun.

Originally, there were outdoor scenes scheduled to be filmed on this day, but due to rain, the schedule was temporarily changed to free time, though no one was allowed to leave the production crew's vicinity.

Liu Qingshan gathered with the action choreography team in the hotel gym to rehearse the duel choreography between the characters Ma Jun and Ah Jie for the film.

Director Wilson Yip regarded this fight sequence as a classic highlight of the entire movie, leaving zero room for error during filming.

Because Liu Qingshan's previous single-take shooting style not only ensured that subsequent editing would proceed with extreme smoothness, but more importantly, guaranteed the sheer spectacle of the fight scenes.

Thus, Donnie Yen had taken it to heart, holding his breath in anticipation of creating an equally legendary sequence, and had been sparring with Liu Qingshan daily over the past few days.

The specifics were still led by Liu Qingshan. Following his design and adhering to the usual rules, Donnie Yen was free to unleash his signature moves and habits, while Liu Qingshan merely adapted and countered as they came.

Lately, Donnie Yen had been carrying a telescopic baton with him everywhere—commonly known in the East as a collapsible baton.

It was an ASP tactical baton from the United States, featuring expensive silver-chrome aerospace aluminum sections with electroless nickel plating, and served as standard equipment for the Hong Kong police.

Yet, this baton, harder than steel, had already been smashed and broken three times. The one responsible for this damage was Liu Qingshan, while the short-bladed knives Liu Qingshan used in the film had likewise been destroyed three times over.

There was simply no helping it. Liu Qingshan demanded that Donnie Yen attack him with full force, and since both of them were genuine martial arts and combat experts, the close-quarters clashes between their two weapons were nothing short of a hard, unyielding collision.

This demonstrated just how perilous and high-impact their sparring sessions were, long surpassing the boundaries of ordinary friendly exchanges.

The resulting visual impact was astonishingly spectacular, leaving laymen who watched from the sidelines in a state of constant trepidation.

Liu Qingshan was thoroughly satisfied with this effect. The sparks generated solely by the collision of their weapons were something absent from previous cinematic works.

In the past, those batons were made of balsa wood—common movie props that were lighter and easier to break than regular wood, with a softer texture so that when they struck someone, they would shatter easily. While it would still hurt, a certain level of safety was guaranteed.

According to Sammo Hung, who had observed them on several occasions from the sidelines, their combat was a life-or-death affair, with every single strike directed fiercely at the opponent's vital points.

One could easily imagine how such magnificent and intense dueling scenes, charged with such ferocity, were bound to become classics.

The crucial point was that the techniques employed by the two men varied with every single take, and Donnie Yen was the only one wearing protective gear.

As for Liu Qingshan, he required no protective gear whatsoever. Even if Donnie Yen replaced the baton in his hand with a massive sledgehammer, striking it against his body would cause him no injury.

Ever since his physical tempering, his physical constitution had reached a terrifying degree of toughness. Furthermore, had he not chosen to stand his ground without evading, Donnie Yen wouldn't have been able to land a single blow on him anyway.

Conversely, Donnie Yen, due to the countless close-quarters weapon clashes, repeatedly found the web of his right hand torn open from the shockwaves, which had become a running joke within the film crew.

Naturally, this was after everyone had grown accustomed to it; the injuries sustained during the first two instances had startled quite a number of people.

Speaking of which, one simply had to commend Donnie Yen; his tenacious martial artist spirit truly lived up to his standing in the Hong Kong stunt community.

Unlike Sammo Hung, Donnie Yen belonged to that die-hard, unyielding type of character, and his serious attitude toward work bordered on the harsh and exacting.

Sammo Hung, on the other hand, was a typical strategist adept at agile dodging and shifting. Yet, executed through his massive frame, those techniques often appeared less technically proficient and more focused on comedic effect.

However, in this film, Sammo Hung bucked his usual style, frequently employing hard-hitting, head-on fighting techniques—undoubtedly heavily stimulated by the relentless drive of Liu Qingshan and Donnie Yen.

In the script, there was yet another classic showdown between him and Ma Jun, and the two often sparred in their daily routines as well.

The original creative intent behind this film was to forge a pure martial arts movie with almost zero idle chatter or superfluous shots, perfectly showcasing the distinctive characteristics of Hong Kong police-action films of that era.

The Hong Kong police-action genre was the collective memory of an era, and the deep connotations explored within these films often touched upon the boundaries of justice, the bottom line of human nature, and the turbulent ebbs and flows of the human heart.

Being a police officer was no easy task; the filth and ugliness were all these law enforcement officers faced day in and day out.

That filth and ugliness were the quagmire of the world and the navel of human nature. Without a sufficiently strong heart and unwavering willpower, it was difficult to remain untainted.

Immersed in it for long periods, some grew disillusioned and resigned to drift with the current; others chose to collude with evil forces and sink into corruption.

Some grew cold, numb, and devoid of warmth, while others resorted to any means necessary—dropping at nothing—to uphold their self-righteous "sense of right and wrong."

To the point that they drove themselves to the edge of a cliff, plunging into eternal damnation. In the end, how many could truly treat the vows taken at the police academy as a lifelong faith and carry them through to the very end?

In *SPL: Sha Po Lang*, several police officers failed to uphold that faith. Perhaps they were merely persisting in justice using their own methods.

Yet, in the end, fate veered onto a devious path—one overgrown with thorns, leading them to damnation.