After Transmigrated as a Black-Hearted Entertainment Boss [Transmigration] - Chapter 34

Time flew by in the blink of an eye, and soon it was August.

The production of The Afterlife proceeded smoothly. Thanks to the cooperation and professionalism of the main cast, the crew raced ahead of schedule. They were expected to wrap up indoor filming by late August and head to Chongqing for location shots, and if all went well, they would wrap production in early September.

Wrapping up ahead of schedule meant closing the books earlier, which was undoubtedly massive news for the crew, saving them at least a few million yuan. Therefore, when Tao Zui mentioned visiting the set, Zhou Fanghong agreed without a second thought.

The ones coming to visit weren’t anyone else but the three younger boys left behind in North City.

Ever since they took on the jobs for the promotional track for The Afterlife and the ending theme for The Case Files of Dali Temple, the three had been in a state of constant excitement. They had even put their own music releases on hold, throwing themselves heart and soul into their film and television arrangement courses.

However, the three of them had forgotten; Tao Zui had not. The moment Chen Xing’s admission letter for the 11th High School came out, Tao Zui contacted Zhang Ling, putting her in charge of the boys’ music release and coordinating with music and short-video platforms to negotiate partnerships.

Things moved forward smoothly, but the results were far from satisfying. The three songs were like stones cast into the sea—they hit the bottom the moment they were released, and the short-video platforms didn’t stir up any ripples either.

Tao Zui had actually anticipated this result long ago.

The internet was highly developed now, and platforms had creator incentive sharing plans where anyone could upload music. Popular music platforms saw over seven thousand new songs uploaded in a single day. Merely relying on the quality of the work to stand out in a vast sea of music was far from enough; even if a song sounded heavenly, the audience actually had to be able to hear it!

Thus, Tao Zui didn’t feel disappointed. He simply had Zhang Ling contact several high-traffic beauty or dance influencers, paying them to use Infinite’s songs as background music for their videos. However, he clearly underestimated the appetites of these people—million-follower influencers dared to demand a million yuan, obviously treating them like suckers.

Tao Zui naturally wouldn’t indulge them. He immediately lowered his requirements, spent over a hundred thousand yuan to get a dozen or so micro-influencers to post videos, and had the three younger boys film three videos of their own as a launch. A week had passed since then, but there was still no visible effect.

In the original novel, the three boys were meant to shine two years later, after the talent show ban was lifted and they had established a fan base following a successful debut in the center position. Tao Zui had artificially accelerated this process, so he wasn’t anxious about needing immediate results—he always had the talent show as a fallback. His only worry was that such setbacks would cause the three boys to lose confidence and spiral into self-doubt.

Surprisingly, they didn’t care at all. It was as if they forgot about the song releases the moment they were out. They turned around and threw themselves into film and television scoring, even pestering Zhang Ling to take them to Hengdian to visit Su Jiqiu, claiming that it was easier to spark inspiration in such an environment.

Whether they were genuinely seeking inspiration or just using it as an excuse to go have fun, Tao Zui didn’t know, but the results were clearly impressive. The three younger boys spent three days in Hengdian and used their portable laptops to churn out a demo. After listening to it, Yao Qiang specifically gave Tao Zui a call, hinting broadly: If you strike it rich, don’t forget your old friends.

Tao Zui was left bewildered by Yao Qiang’s cryptic remarks. After listening to the demo a few times, he waved his hand and told the three of them to pack up and head to Qing City immediately to experience the atmosphere of The Afterlife firsthand and finish the promotional track.

Thus, on August 10, Diwu Zou, Zeng Yinuo, and Chen Xing landed in Qing City. Tao Zui picked them up personally, dropped their bags at the hotel, and headed straight for the Oriental Movie Metropolis.

Since their car was registered with the crew, the four of them passed through the gates without obstruction. Seeing the enormous soundstages, which looked like monsters one after another, the three younger boys kept their mouths wide open for the entire drive.

“This is completely different from the feeling of the Hengdian film base…” Zeng Yinuo whispered in a murmur.

“Hey, Papa Tao, what’s it look like inside?” Diwu Zou leaned toward the driver’s seat and asked curiously.

“Some have ancient architecture, some have hospitals, police stations, loess plateaus, and the Champs-Élysées. In short, there’s every kind of set. Every crew has different requirements, so the sets they build are all different.”

“So is the set for The Afterlife like a sci-fi blockbuster?” Zeng Yinuo’s eyes lit up, and he squeezed closer. Beside him, Chen Xing’s eyes also began to twinkle with little stars.

“Hehe, guess?” Tao Zui smiled mysteriously, spun the steering wheel, and parked beside Soundstage 22. The four of them got out. The three younger boys looked up at the soundstage ahead of them, their jaws nearly hitting the floor.

“So tall… so huge…”

Facing the massive soundstage, which stood twenty meters high and spanned over ten thousand square meters, even the usually noisy Diwu Zou was so stunned his tongue tied in knots. When they followed Tao Zui into the studio and faced the bizarre architectural complex, they couldn’t utter a single word, instead communicating through wild, suggestive eye contact:

What on earth is this? Is ‘The Afterlife’ this style? This is just too damn cool!

Even though the three younger ones hadn’t uttered a sound from start to finish, Tao Zui could still tell what they wanted to say from their faces. He couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth curl upward uncontrollably. “Shocking, isn’t it? Remember this feeling, grasp the core elements, and strive for a stunning debut!”

The three younger boys nodded frantically. The gloom they had felt earlier due to the poor performance of their music releases instantly ignited into excitement.

After all, they were three teenagers under eighteen still in their rebellious phase. To claim that they truly saw fame and fortune as dirt would be giving them too much credit. It wasn’t that they didn’t care; it was that they were channeling all their pent-up frustration into their work with the unstoppable momentum of a newborn calf. It proved they had high stress-resistance and resilience, not that they were genuinely indifferent to fame and fortune.

Now that Tao Zui had provided them with a stage to showcase their talents, all they needed to do was put in the work and charge forward. How could this not make them ecstatic?

“It’s a good thing we didn’t listen to me earlier. If we had written it as electronic music, wouldn’t that have ruined it?” Diwu Zou murmured.

“It has some ancient elements, but it can’t be too traditional… Aaaaaah! I feel like my brain is full of inspiration, but I can’t untangle the threads!” Zeng Yinuo slumped over on the golf cart, hugging his head and shouting.

“Ancient mixed with sci-fi… that definitely can’t be written like The Case Files of Dali Temple, right…” Chen Xing’s eyes were wide as saucers, his head sweeping back and forth over the surrounding architecture, while untuned melodies floated through his brain.

Soon, crew members began appearing around the golf cart one after another, their growing numbers serving as a beacon guiding them to the filming site.

They were on the ground floor of a building. It was a purely wooden construction. For the convenience of filming, the wall facing the passage had not been sealed at all; only wooden pillars stood tall to support the upper levels, thereby exposing the corridor inside.

If the three younger ones had seen the scene filmed by Gu Nan and Wang Minda, they would have recognized that this place looked strikingly similar, only one wall was filled with sci-fi elements while the other was incredibly archaic.

When Tao Zui and his party arrived, the crew had just finished setting the stage. Zhou Fanghong held up his megaphone and shouted: “All departments in position, keep quiet, prepare for a real take. Lights out, prop department, light the smoke cake!”

As Zhou Fanghong’s voice fell, the lighting in the entire venue extinguished, with only the small green lights inside the corridor glowing. Several crew members crouched on tracks running parallel to the corridor, lit the smoke cakes, and then used fans to blow the emerging smoke into the corridor.

Zhou Fanghong kept his eyes fixed on the monitor. When the smoke saturated the corridor and began to dissipate, he nodded toward the continuity supervisor beside him.

The continuity supervisor walked in front of the lens holding the clapperboard: “Scene 858, Shot 23, Take 1 of The Afterlife, Action!”

The clapperboard fell, emitting a crisp “snap.” The moment the sound died down, a figure emerged from the darkness at the end of the corridor.

He wore an earth-yellow, straight-hemmed shenyi robe and an earth-blue beizi jacket, holding an oil-paper umbrella with ribs glowing an eerie green. His black boots hit the ground with the clack-clack sound of wood striking wood; the sound wasn’t loud but somewhat muffled, rapping against one’s heart one beat after another, unhurried and steady, as if some ominous omen.

In the entire filming area, only the ribs of the umbrella in his hand and the eerie green beginning to flicker inside the corridor allowed one to catch a glimpse of the original appearance.

In truth, if an outsider observed a movie being filmed on set, it would be difficult to feel anything. For one, people were everywhere, electrical wires and tracks were all over the floor, and a massive camera moved along with the actor, making it strikingly clear that this was nothing but a performance.

This was exactly why directors constantly emphasized that actors must possess a sense of conviction. Without that stuff, it was far too easy to crack up mid-scene. The more intense and “cool” a scene was, the easier it was for the immersion to break. It was impossible to film without conviction; if you didn’t believe in the scene you were filming yourself, how could you make the audience believe it, let alone become immersed in it?

This was also different from the feeling on The Case Files of Dali Temple set. That was a film and television city with a genuine ancient architectural complex. Aside from the crew members and filming equipment, ancient-style architecture was everywhere you turned, with upturned eaves and bracket sets under a blue sky and white clouds. The atmosphere was completely built up; it would be hard not to feel immersed.

But The Afterlife was a studio shoot. Looking up, you saw a ceiling built of steel and iron; the buildings were constructed out of carpenter’s boards, and the indoor sets designed specifically for filming were only half-built. Immersion was out of the question—if they didn’t burst out laughing and ruin the shoot, that would be considered lucky.

Even though the scene in front of them looked dry and devoid of plot—just a man walking down a corridor—the three younger boys were completely dumbfounded. Their eyes remained glued to the figure walking toward them, their pupils nearly popping out.

They didn’t know who the person entering the frame was, nor did they know that this character’s reveal was a highlight of the film. All they knew was: this person is incredibly important!

They didn’t reach this conclusion because of the atmosphere created by the crew, nor because of his bizarre costume, but because of the sensation radiating from this faceless man—

It was a feeling of solemnity and majesty, of relentless persistence, yet at the same time, devoid of sorrow or joy, transcending life and death.

Zeng Yinuo stared at that person, grabbing Diwu Zou’s arm. Diwu Zou didn’t react, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the man walking ever closer. Beside them, Chen Xing’s hands were clenched into tight fists, his teeth clenched hard.

The torn umbrella canopy obstructed most of the man’s face. One could only see the black hair swaying lightly with his footsteps. It wasn’t until he reached the end of the corridor that he lifted the umbrella canopy, revealing bloodless lips and cheeks, as well as a pair of dead, hollow eyes.

Zeng Yinuo gasped, pulled a tablet from his bag, and began composing music. Chen Xing’s movements were almost synchronized with his. Diwu Zou, meanwhile, muttered to himself: “I think… this should be accompanied by a nursery rhyme… or perhaps a ritual chant…”

Zeng Yinuo paused his hand for a moment and gave him a thumbs-up.

Chen Xing whispered: “Use ancient Chinese pronunciation. I remember Bilibili has ancient-style songs sung in ancient Chinese pronunciation.”

“Write the melody first; we’ll have to consult an expert for the ancient Chinese pronunciation…” Zeng Yinuo said, looking toward Tao Zui. Chen Xing and Diwu Zou followed his gaze.

Tao Zui: “……What are you talking about?”

“The BGM for Brother Nan’s entrance right now!” the three younger boys chimed in unison.

Tao Zui: “???”

The gig we took was for a promotional track, right?