Exchange of Movie Queens - Chapter 27

The sunlight was bright, and the two of them stood stiffly by the swing like wooden statues, the atmosphere momentarily turning awkward.

 

 

Ruan Yesheng lowered her head, then glanced sideways at Xi Mo, noticing how she subconsciously rubbed her hands together as if trying to dispel the sudden awkwardness. Xi Mo’s expression was indescribably complicated. Ruan turned her face away, the shimmer in her eyes catching the sunlight for a fleeting moment before she remained still, neither speaking nor moving, simply continuing to gaze at Xi Mo with eyes brimming with warmth.

 

 

Xi Mo felt unnerved under that stare, as if Ruan’s entire attention had abruptly latched onto her. Her hands inexplicably grew hot.

 

 

After a while, to break the strange tension, she finally murmured, “Are you okay?”

 

 

Her voice was so quiet it seemed forced out, just as Lin Qitang’s amplified shout came through the loudspeaker: “Are you two alright?!”

 

 

The booming sound naturally drowned out Xi Mo’s question.

 

 

“It’s fine, just a momentary slip,” Ruan Yesheng reassured Lin Qitang. “Director Lin, let’s continue.”

 

 

Two crew members came over to check, confirmed everything was in order, and left. Lin Qitang announced, “Cut that last bit. We’ll reshoot from Ding’e’s line and finish the scene. Everyone, get ready!”

 

 

Ruan adjusted her costume and gracefully sat back on the swing, while Xi Mo returned to her position behind her, resetting for the shot.

 

 

“I’m fine,” Ruan murmured softly, her back still turned.

 

 

Xi Mo stiffened slightly, realizing this was a belated reply to her earlier question, but she said nothing.

 

 

Lin Qitang called for action, and filming resumed.

 

 

Both women were seasoned performers. Xi Mo, constantly immersed in acting, could slip into character the moment the clapperboard snapped. Though Ruan hadn’t filmed anything substantial in years, it was clear she had never slacked off—she had maintained her training and studies, allowing her to immerse herself just as quickly. The earlier mishap was swiftly forgotten as filming smoothly returned to normal.

 

 

Feng Tangtang and the makeup artist sat side by side, while Gu Qisong stood rigidly nearby like a wooden post. The trio snacked as they watched. Midway, Feng checked her watch and excused herself—she was responsible for arranging Xi Mo’s dinner. Lu Qingming had instructed her to prepare special meals for “Sister Xi,” and she didn’t dare slack off, ensuring each meal was prepared well in advance.

 

 

The afternoon shoot proceeded smoothly, wrapping up on schedule thanks to the seamless coordination between Ruan Yesheng and Xi Mo. Their minimal retakes earned the crew’s silent gratitude. By 5:30 PM, they wrapped for a dinner break, everyone visibly exhausted.

 

 

The schedule included night scenes, set to run until 11 PM. Ruan sat on a rest chair with her script, preparing for the evening, though she barely turned any pages.

 

 

Her thoughts lingered on the dead chicken from earlier, her expression darkening as she zoned out.

 

 

Could it be… them?

 

 

 

Why choose this moment? There had been no movement from that side for so long, and suddenly this childish dead chicken intimidation tactic appeared—it didn’t quite match their usual style. But then again, that side was always shrouded in mystery and unpredictability, so perhaps they really would resort to any strange methods.

 

 

Now that she and Xi Mo had switched bodies, that side would undoubtedly target Xi Mo.

 

 

Ruan Yesheng suddenly felt a wave of irritation. She wasn’t one to easily show displeasure on her face, but now she couldn’t help but frown slightly. Her fingers absently creased the script pages as her gaze turned icy.

 

 

“Xi-jie, it’s time to eat.” Feng Tangtang approached softly, carrying stacked meal boxes.

 

 

Lost in thought, Ruan Yesheng glanced up casually. The moment Feng Tangtang met those frostbitten eyes, she nearly dropped the containers in fright.

 

 

Xi-jie had always been cold, but she was used to that—this unfamiliar expression was something entirely new.

 

 

“Oh, Tangtang.” Ruan Yesheng snapped out of it, feeling slightly guilty for startling Feng Tangtang, though she deliberately maintained an indifferent tone.

 

 

Feng Tangtang: “…”

 

 

Though Xi-jie had told her to use this nickname that morning, hearing it now still felt like being slowly flayed alive.

 

 

“Just leave it there.” Ruan Yesheng set the script aside. “Want to join me?”

 

 

“N-no, I already have dinner arranged!” Feng Tangtang stammered, both flustered and flattered as she efficiently laid out the meal containers. “I kept tonight’s dishes light. Oh, and I asked the kitchen to stew a free-range chicken—completely organic, no feed at all. Very nourishing.”

 

 

At the word “chicken,” Ruan Yesheng’s stomach turned, reminded of that grotesque carcass. When Feng Tangtang lifted the soup lid, revealing pale stewed meat floating in clear broth, nausea rose in her throat.

 

 

Noticing her expression, Feng Tangtang hesitated. “Xi-jie… do you not want chicken?”

 

 

“No.” Not wanting to reject the kindness, especially seeing the effort put into the soup, Ruan Yesheng rubbed her temples. “Just tired. Thanks for this.”

 

 

Playing Empress Deng Sui all day was exhausting enough—now she had to spend her off-hours maintaining Xi Mo’s icy persona too. The mental whiplash was wearing her down.

 

 

“N-not at all!” Feng Tangtang tripped over her words. “There’s night filming later—you’ll need energy. Please have some soup!”

 

 

“Alright. Go eat yours.”

 

 

With a promise to return for cleanup, Feng Tangtang scurried away.

 

 

Alone, Ruan Yesheng pushed the soup aside, picking at other dishes instead.

 

 

Dinner break evaporated quickly as night filming approached. Back on the Deng residence set, technicians adjusted flickering lights amid chaotic shadows. Touched up and reciting lines, Ruan Yesheng leaned against a pillar, the script forgotten in her lap.

 

 

 

Even though her daytime filming went smoothly and she appeared calm on the surface, Ruan Yesheng still felt somewhat nervous deep down—especially during scenes with Xi Mo. She had to stay completely focused, reviewing her script whenever she had a spare moment.

 

 

Noticing someone approach and cast a shadow over her, Ruan Yesheng looked up from the script.

 

 

The light flickered across her face and over Xi Mo’s long hair as the two gazed at each other in the shifting illumination.

 

 

“Looking for me?” Ruan Yesheng smiled.

 

 

Around others, she had to wear a mask of aloofness, but with Xi Mo—who knew her inside out—she didn’t need to hide. She could laugh freely, and that liberty filled her with ease.

 

 

“Did you send Feng Tangtang to give me that braised chicken?” Xi Mo’s tone was flat, giving no hint of her true feelings, though she didn’t sound angry.

 

 

Ruan Yesheng pressed her lips together in a faint smile but said nothing.

 

 

Tangtang really did dote on her—not only making soup for “Sister Xi” but also sneaking a portion for her.

 

 

Too bad Xi Mo had to receive the gesture in her stead, and she didn’t seem pleased about it.

 

 

Xi Mo continued, “She said she made chicken for you and shared some with me. Did you send her? After seeing that dead chicken earlier, do you really think I’d have any appetite for more chicken tonight?”

 

 

Too proud to admit the sight of the soup had nearly made her gag, she kept her composure.

 

 

“You seemed perfectly calm holding that dead chicken earlier. Don’t tell me it traumatized you?” Ruan Yesheng lowered her head, returning to her script.

 

 

“So it was you who sent her?”

 

 

“What’s your problem?” Ruan Yesheng took a step back, her eyes flickering with feigned hurt. “You think I did it on purpose to ruin your appetite? Came here to accuse me? In your eyes, am I really that much of a villain?”

 

 

Her voice carried a teasing lilt, sweet and coquettish—enough to melt anyone less resolute.

 

 

Xi Mo’s expression remained unreadable.

 

 

She wanted nothing more than to shove a chicken leg into that smug mouth right now.

 

 

“You’re overthinking it,” Xi Mo said coolly.

 

 

Then, with the same detached calm, she added, “If you did send Feng Tangtang, then I appreciate the thought. But after seeing that dead chicken today, I couldn’t stomach it. I didn’t have a single bite—gave it all to Yan Tinghuan instead.”

 

 

Ruan Yesheng blinked, pausing before replying, “You came all this way just to tell me that?”

 

 

“I came to confirm. If it was you, then yes, I wanted you to know.” Xi Mo spoke with utmost seriousness. “You went out of your way to send me something, and I didn’t eat it—I gave it to someone else. But that doesn’t mean I rejected your kindness. I accepted the sentiment, but today was… an exception.”

 

 

Ruan Yesheng was taken aback. This woman could be so rigidly earnest at times, like an unyielding plank—and somehow, it was oddly endearing. Her emotions shifted, her expression changing along with them, until she finally burst into laughter.

 

 

Xi Mo: “…”

 

 

Laughing. Always laughing.

 

 

How is your face not cramping from all that?

 

 

Wait—that’s my face!

 

 

It took Ruan Yesheng a while to compose herself. Meeting Xi Mo’s gaze, she said softly, “I really did overthink it.”

 

 

She lightly tapped the script against Xi Mo’s shoulder, a fleeting touch like a dragonfly skimming water.

 

 

“And so did you.”

 

 

 

The lights swept across the area again. Over there, Lin Qitang kept talking to the crew, his voice rising and falling intermittently. Squinting in the clamor, Xi Mo moved Ruan Yesheng’s script aside.

 

 

“We’re starting work,” Ruan Yesheng said with a smile.

 

 

Xi Mo glanced at her before turning to leave.

 

 

The cameras were ready. Among the night scenes being filmed, Xi Mo’s were the most exhausting because they involved fight sequences.

 

 

One particular scene depicted Ding E’s brother, disguised as an assassin, launching a night raid on the Deng residence. He was captured by Deng Sui’s father, Deng Xun, who grew suspicious and ordered Ding E to execute the assassin herself as a test of loyalty. With her brother’s silent consent, Ding E ultimately took his life. This was the same scene Xi Mo had performed during her audition, so she was already familiar with it. The actor playing Deng Xun was a seasoned veteran who had agreed to make a cameo appearance as a favor to Lin Qitang—his acting, of course, was impeccable. The take was quickly approved.

 

 

The upcoming fight scene was crucial—a turning point in the early narrative—so Lin Qitang had specifically scheduled these night sequences for concentrated filming.

 

 

The assassins attacked again, this time in greater numbers, throwing the Deng residence into chaos. As a mole planted in the household since childhood, Ding E was entrusted with the most critical task. Deng Xun was lured to the outer courtyard by the assassin leader, and after dispatching several attackers, Ding E followed him there to join the battle.

 

 

The lighting was deliberately dim and eerie, casting ghostly blue-white hues that made the swaying trees in the courtyard seem like specters.

 

 

Sword in hand, Xi Mo sprinted forward, cameras tracking her movements—one even zoomed in for a close-up of her footsteps.

 

 

At first, her steps were steady and deliberate, as if Ding E’s mind was entirely focused on her mission. But gradually, they grew erratic as she caught sight of Deng Xun and was reminded of Deng Sui. The final cut wouldn’t rely solely on Xi Mo’s facial expressions—her body language, particularly the shift in her footsteps, would convey her character’s inner turmoil.

 

 

The scene was heavy with tension, and Ding E had almost no lines. Xi Mo had to portray the character’s complexity entirely through expressions and physicality.

 

 

The actor playing Deng Xun, wounded in the chest by the assassin leader, staggered aside and shouted, “Ding E!”

 

 

As the cameras adjusted positions, Xi Mo leaped out from the shadows, her face expressionless as she clashed with the male lead.

 

 

“Cut!” Less than a minute in, Lin Qitang interrupted.

 

 

Given the scene’s importance, he was being meticulous. “Ruan Yesheng, you came out too fast just now. Slow it down a bit! Let’s go again!”

 

 

Xi Mo nodded. “Got it. Sorry, Director Lin.”

 

 

The cameras reset, the lights flickered, and Xi Mo sprang forward once more, her sword flashing coldly.

 

 

This time, her timing was perfect. Lin Qitang didn’t stop her, allowing the shoot to continue. Xi Mo swung her blade as the masked assassin in black lunged at her.

 

 

The fight choreographer stepped in to guide them. Though the movements would be sped up in post-production, the execution had to be precise—every strike sharp, every expression convincing. At times, Xi Mo was even hoisted by wires to perform certain moves. She was no stranger to wirework, having endured entire days of it during past film shoots, but the constant back-and-forth still left her dizzy and exhausted.

 

 

 

Ruan Yesheng stood in the distance, silently watching Xi Mo perform her wirework scenes. Since Deng Sui’s character didn’t know martial arts and relied entirely on Ding E’s protection, Ruan Yesheng was spared the ordeal of wirework throughout the entire production—Xi Mo bore it all instead.

 

 

The assassin was subdued by Ding E. Xi Mo raised her sword, its tip pointed directly at the male supporting character’s throat.

 

 

The actor playing Deng Xun commanded, “Ding E, kill him! Kill him now!”

 

 

Xi Mo’s gaze slid sideways, glancing at the one giving the order, before she suddenly struck out with her palm, slamming it against Deng Xun’s chest.

 

 

This was meant to be a fatal, heart-crushing blow in the scene. Caught off guard, Deng Xun was supposed to immediately cough up bl00d—and Lin Qitang had specifically requested that the bl00d spray be visually striking.

 

 

The moment the strike landed, the veteran actor playing Deng Xun widened his eyes in shock, his expression twisting in agony. He was supposed to bite into the bl00d capsule and spew bl00d as scripted.

 

 

Xi Mo had already prepared herself, fully immersed in the scene. When the bl00d sprayed, she had to maintain an intense stare—there would be a close-up of her expression.

 

 

Yet, after contorting his face in exaggerated pain for what felt like ages, the veteran actor somehow failed to bite the capsule properly. The bl00d stubbornly refused to come out.

 

 

The two of them froze on set.

 

 

The veteran actor: “…”

 

 

Xi Mo: “…”

 

 

“Cut!” Lin Qitang shouted. “What’s the problem now? Props, go check!”

 

 

The set buzzed back to life as crew members rushed over to inspect, eventually replacing the faulty bl00d capsule.

 

 

The veteran actor, accustomed to being revered for his seniority, looked slightly embarrassed. He turned to Xi Mo and said, “Miss Ruan, my apologies.” Having acted for decades, he knew how difficult it was to maintain emotional immersion—once broken, it was troublesome to rebuild.

 

 

Xi Mo smiled faintly. “It’s not your fault, Teacher Li. Props mishaps happen. Let’s continue.”

 

 

When they resumed filming, the veteran actor was surprised to see how quickly the younger actress slipped back into character.

 

 

It was as if she were two different people—one off-screen, one on—with no overlap between them.

 

 

This time, the bl00d capsule worked. The spray hit Xi Mo’s face as intended, coating it in crimson. The camera zoomed in for an extreme close-up.

 

 

Though the sticky prop bl00d covering her face was deeply unpleasant, Xi Mo’s performance remained unaffected. Standing in the shifting, shadowy light, with the wind machine billowing her hair and robes, her bl00d-streaked face betrayed no emotion—not even a flicker of her lashes. She looked cold, numb, hollow—like a sword that had died long ago.

 

 

Ding E had once told the young Deng Sui that swords had souls. To protect Deng Sui, she would become her sword.

 

 

But now, having killed Deng Sui’s father, the sword’s soul had perished.

 

 

And so had Ding E’s.

 

 

Ruan Yesheng was about to enter the scene. Having witnessed Xi Mo’s every move, she was utterly awestruck by her acting.

 

 

She had always known Xi Mo was talented—since their university days, she’d known.

 

 

She had collected every one of Xi Mo’s works, studying the essence of each character she portrayed, admiring and learning in silence. But it had been years since she’d seen Xi Mo perform live, up close like this.

 

 

Lin Qitang signaled for Ruan Yesheng to rush into frame. Gathering her skirts, she stumbled forward, her steps unsteady as she entered what could only be described as a slaughterhouse.

 

 

“Father!” she cried, her voice trembling with tears.

 

 

 

The veteran actor lay on the ground, professionally playing the corpse with the male supporting assassin’s sword still embedded in his chest.

 

 

Ruan Yesheng threw herself over the “corpse,” hugging it tightly. Xi Mo, her face streaked with bl00d, stood at the center of the frame. She began to move, and the tracking camera followed her as she walked toward Ruan Yesheng, looking down at her from above.

 

 

Ruan Yesheng lifted her head, her eyes red-rimmed, tears threatening to fall as she gazed up at Xi Mo from below.

 

 

Their eyes met. Seeing Ruan Yesheng’s tearful, delicate expression—knowing it was fake—Xi Mo’s heart clenched. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what this woman would look like if she were truly crying.

 

 

Ruan Yesheng was skilled in acting; her fake and real tears might look the same, perhaps indistinguishable.

 

 

This unexpected distraction unsettled Xi Mo. Slowly, she knelt, offering the longsword with one knee pressed to the ground. “I failed to protect the family head,” she said. “Young mistress, please kill me.”

 

 

At this moment, Ding E was lying to Deng Sui—she couldn’t bear to face her directly. So Xi Mo lowered her lashes, her gaze fixed only on the corpse before her.