Did the Movie Emperor Blow His Cover Today? - Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The Imperial Capital was dry and dusty. The outdoor filming location buzzed with activity as set workers scurried back and forth, their fluttering clothing kicking up fine particles of dust in the sunlight.

“I know Han Buji’s secret!” Tao Hui declared, her waist-length wig swaying as she sported a “sexless” makeup look. Her slender fingers gripped Miao Miao’s sleeve, and she whispered conspiratorially, “I think Han Buji… he’s definitely on his ‘man period’!”

“Huh?” Miao Miao’s eyes widened. “What’s a ‘man period’?”

Tao Hui patted Miao Miao’s shoulder. “You don’t know? They say men also have a few days each month when they’re irritable, moody, and pick fights for no reason—just like when we’re on our period! They call it the ‘man period’!”

“Talking about relatives?” The Assistant Director suddenly appeared beside them, his face softening with nostalgia. “My great-uncle was the best relative I had. When I was a kid, he’d always bring me a mountain of snacks whenever he visited. Now I’m fifty, and thinking about it makes me so nostalgic!”

Tao Hui: “……”

You… you just keep being happy.

Tao Hui struggled to fully grasp Qing Wan’s character. The concept of a love-hate relationship was too complex, and she didn’t know how to properly convey Qing Wan’s inner turmoil.

She pored over the script again and again, reread the original novel, and even scoured online forums for character analyses of Qing Wan, yet still felt something was missing.

When filming began that afternoon, Tao Hui suddenly grew nervous. Today’s scene required her to carry the Third Prince, who had collapsed after being shot with an arrow, back to her residence.

In Peach Blossom Valley, petals drifted down like snow. Qing Wan, her eyes veiled with a white silk ribbon, tended to Dongchuan’s chest wound.

Her herbal-stained fingertips brushed against Dongchuan’s muscular back and chest, trembling slightly. Suddenly, Dongchuan’s eyes snapped open, and he seized her wrist.

His voice rasped, “Why did you save me?”

“Qing Wan doesn’t kill the elderly, women, or children, nor does she take advantage of the vulnerable. Once you’ve recovered, I will claim your life,” Qing Wan said coolly, withdrawing her hand. “Since you’re awake, tend to your own wounds.”

Dongchuan chuckled softly, a hint of mockery in his tone. “Thank you, fair maiden. But by the time I’m healed, you might find it harder to take my life.”

A month later, Qing Wan was practicing her swordplay in the peach grove when a figure suddenly swooped down. With a swift motion, the Mystic Iron Sword in his hand swept past her face and plunged deep into a peach tree. The tree shook violently, sending petals cascading down like a fragrant rain.

“Now that I’ve recovered, it seems you’re no match for me, Miss Qing Wan,” Dongchuan said with a smile.

Qing Wan whirled around, her sword strikes radiating a chilling intent to kill. Dongchuan casually tucked one hand behind his back, parrying her attacks with the other as they clashed amidst the blossoming trees.

Dongchuan caught the blade of Qing Wan’s White Jade Sword between two fingers. With a gentle flick, he sent it flying to pin itself to another peach tree, its hilt crossed with the Mystic Iron Sword.

More petals drifted down as Qing Wan stumbled forward, collapsing into Dongchuan’s arms.

“Cut!” The director raised his hand. “Tao Hui, do the fall again. Your facial expression wasn’t right. Camera crew, focus on Tao Hui’s face this time. We need to capture her emotions.”

Tao Hui’s face stiffened. She swiftly retreated from Han Buji’s embrace, took a deep breath, and replied, “Okay!”

I’m acting. I’m an actress. An actress can’t let emotions interfere, Tao Hui repeated silently. By the time she turned back, her face was completely blank, the perfect expression for Qing Wan, a woman who made her living by killing.

When filming resumed, Han Buji stood with his back to the camera, allowing him to remain less immersed in the scene since he was only serving as a background element.

Han Buji wore a long, azure robe, his raven hair billowing in the wind against a backdrop of vibrant peach blossoms.

Was this the legendary “plasticity”? In period dramas, Han Buji’s demeanor perfectly matched that of the Third Prince from the original novel—his eyes held a smile, yet radiated a decisive, ruthless resolve.

If little Miao Miao were here, she’d probably be squealing, “Mommy, he’s so handsome! I want to marry him!”

“Click!”

Tao Hui instantly slipped into character. Following the force of Han Buji snatching the White Jade Sword from her hand, she leaned forward.

This was supposed to be a natural movement, as if she were falling into Han Buji’s arms.

But Tao Hui couldn’t shake the feeling that Han Buji’s gaze was fixed on her neck.

Had her concealer smudged?

Did she sweat it off while swinging the sword?

Nervous, Tao Hui stiffened and awkwardly collided with Han Buji’s chest.

Then, Han Buji—a towering 186-centimeter man with a goddamn eight-pack—was knocked to the ground by her! Knocked to the ground!

Thud!

The two of them tumbled to the ground simultaneously, Tao Hui landing on top of Han Buji, creating an incredibly awkward moment.

The photographer and floor manager were likely stunned into silence, as no one called “Cut!” or offered Tao Hui a hand.

Tao Hui was equally dumbfounded, staring wide-eyed at Han Buji.

Are those sleek muscles of yours just inflated?

Were those eight-pack abs on your poster drawn on with eyeliner?

You fell over from just one little push?

A faint smile flickered across Han Buji’s eyes as he softly reminded Tao Hui, “Aren’t you going to get up?”

“Oh, right, right, right. I’m getting up now,” Tao Hui stammered. When she looked up, she saw the photographer and crew struggling to suppress their laughter.

After all, she was an actress—the nation’s former “first love”! How could she have knocked her male co-star to the ground? What did this say about her?

It meant she was fat!

She muttered under her breath, “I only weigh 89 pounds.”

“Hmm, not heavy at all,” the man beneath her replied.

Tao Hui irritably scrambled off Han Buji and heard him explaining to Director Chen, “My apologies, Director Chen. I lost focus for a moment and might have affected Tao Hui.”

The assistant director handed Tao Hui a tissue. “This scene is a bit long. Are you tired? Where’s the makeup artist? Come touch up her makeup. We’ll take a ten-minute break and reshoot.”

Han Buji noticed a figure slipping away, clutching their neck. He raised an eyebrow slightly and politely said, “Director, I’d like to use the restroom.”

“Go ahead,” Director Chen nodded.

In the restroom, Tao Hui nervously gripped Miao Miao’s arm, tossing her long hair over her shoulder to expose the elegant curve of her neck and its fair skin. “Quick, quick! Check if my concealer has worn off!”

Miao Miao examined her closely. “No, it looks perfect, just like when we applied it. Sister Huihui, why are you suddenly so tense?”

Tao Hui continued to anxiously study her reflection. Her neck was flawless, showing no trace of concealer. “That’s strange,” she muttered. “Then what was he looking at?”

Tao Hui was certain she hadn’t imagined it. The moment Han Buji snatched the sword from her hand, his gaze had definitely lingered on her neck—specifically on the right side where she had applied concealer.

Was that faint, probing look in his eyes just her imagination?

Miao Miao, bubbling with excitement, waved her arms wildly. “Sister Huihui, you’re incredible! You’re the woman who pinned down the Best Actor! You’ve fulfilled the dreams of millions of Han Meimeis by getting him under you. I can’t believe I didn’t record that historic moment—what a blunder!”

After chattering away without a response, Miao Miao turned to see Tao Hui still examining her neck in the mirror. She laughed boisterously, “You can’t see a thing! I told you, this concealer Sister Xun brought back from overseas is super long-lasting!”

“Alright, you go back first. I’ll wash my hands and join you,” Tao Hui said.

Once Miao Miao left, Tao Hui stood alone at the sink. The two retakes had made her nervous. She kept replaying Qing Wan’s experiences in her mind, trying to build the emotional intensity needed for the next scene.

Click. The bathroom door swung open.

Tao Hui glanced back and saw a slender, bony hand and a wide, teal-colored sleeve.

The film crew’s resources were limited. The fact that the bathroom wasn’t a temporary structure was already considered a luxury. Inside were two small stalls, symbolically labeled “Male” and “Female,” but the sink was shared. It wasn’t surprising to see Han Buji here.

Outside of filming, Tao Hui’s instinct upon seeing Han Buji was always to flee.

The moment she moved, Han Buji moved too.

He casually locked the bathroom door, leaned against it, and slowly raised a finger to his lips.

A silent “Shh”?

Tao Hui eyed Han Buji warily, sensing his smug, half-smiling expression hid some mischief.

Sure enough, Han Buji spoke, “Very enduring?”

Tao Hui’s eyes widened in shock. Damn it, he overheard my conversation with Miao Miao.

This was the performance of her life. Tao Hui felt even her award-winning acting at eighteen hadn’t been this natural.

She swept her long hair aside, her gaze slowly sliding down Han Buji’s body with a half-smile. “Teacher Han, eavesdropping on girls’ conversations isn’t very gentlemanly. After all, we girls have our little secrets too. Like discussing someone’s endurance… That’s quite a private topic.”

Tao Hui wanted to slap herself for saying that. Aside from holding hands with male dance partners in elementary school and on set, she hadn’t even had a boyfriend in years. If Han Buji pressed her for details, what could she possibly say?

Would three or five hours count as “lasting long”?

Didn’t novels always talk about “seven times a night” or something?

Or should she just say eight hours?

Fortunately, Han Buji didn’t dwell on the question. After giving her a thoughtful glance, he rolled up his sleeves and went to wash his hands.

Tao Hui felt like she’d been granted a reprieve, secretly exhaling in relief.

But as she finished exhaling and glanced at Han Buji, her eyelid suddenly twitched.

Wait, why are you locking the door just to wash your hands? I’m still in here, Mr. Best Actor!

Tao Hui’s heart leaped into her throat, and she could almost see the headline that would inevitably land her back on the trending topics.

“Shocking! Tao Hui and Best Actor Discuss ‘Endurance’ in a Shared Outhouse!”

Warning: Second career crisis imminent!

Trembling, Tao Hui stammered, “Um, I’m done washing up. I’ll head back first.”

Han Buji didn’t even look up, leisurely lathering his hands with soap. “Wait a moment. I’ll go with you.”

“Together? Bullshit! I don’t want to go with you!”

Do you think we’re besties? Do we have to hold hands even to go to the bathroom? Can’t you find your way back to the set yourself?

Tao Hui took a deep breath, trying to think of an excuse to slip away.

But Han Buji is such a moody guy. What if he suddenly gets angry again and starts scolding me?

I need to find a subtle way out.

What annoys people most during their break?

Of course, it’s when someone starts talking about work!

Tao Hui’s eyes lit up. “Teacher Han! What kind of person do you think Qing Wan is? Why can’t I ever capture that contradictory feeling?”

Haha! Annoying, right? Just wave me away already!

Han Buji pulled out a tissue and turned to her. “Qing Wan’s contradictions? You can’t portray them?”

“Uh…” This isn’t going quite as I imagined. Tao Hui forced a dry laugh. “Well, it’s… it’s a little hard.”

“Do you know why?” Han Buji slowly dried his hands with the tissue, stepping closer to Tao Hui.

“…” Tao Hui took a step back, leaning against the door. “No.”

I knew that if you took even a few more steps closer, my Waterloo would truly arrive.

Han Buji, having dried his hands, suddenly reached out to Tao Hui. “Because you don’t like me enough.”

Author’s Note: Do you two really have to chat in the bathroom? Tsk.