Author: 颜凉雨 / Yan Liang Yu
Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/
Chapter 66
Wang Xi thought that after mentioning the opportunity for the film version of <Chronicles of Winter> Ran Lin would be ecstatic. However, after waiting for a while, there was no response from the other end of the phone.
Confused and worried he might have misunderstood, Wang Xi elaborated, “Although the original novel itself isn’t very popular, the main investors are very optimistic about this project. It’s definitely going to be a well-funded commercial blockbuster. Of course, I know these so-called Eastern fantasies might not be critically acclaimed, but according to current plans, the release is scheduled for New Year’s Day the year after next. With good promotion, the box office and popularity are guaranteed. Moreover, participating in such a big production is a testament to your status…”
“It’s not those things I’m worried about.” The artist interrupted her softly over the phone, his voice tinged with happiness but covered with a layer of concern. “Such a big-budget film offering me an audition is more than I can hope for, and I appreciate it. But… Han Ze is already filming the series version. If I play in the movie version, what happens when the two sides collide?”
Ran Lin’s question was indirect, but Wang Xi understood clearly.
They were both artists from the same company. If the series and the movie version clashed, or if their fans clashed, how would he and Han Ze cope?
And as their mutual agent, if both sides competed in reputation, acting, and popularity, what would she do?
When Wang Xi took over Ran Lin’s economic work, she thought he was intelligent, but after working together until now, she realized it was more about his heart.
Ran Lin wasn’t looking for an easy way out. Wang Xi could sense his determination; he wasn’t afraid. What he always cared about was the situation and feelings of those around him.
“Let’s talk about you first.” Wang Xi didn’t directly answer but instead asked, “If you’ve already taken this role, what would you do?”
“I’d do my utmost to perform well, and then…” Ran Lin paused before adding, “Let my performance do the talking.”
Wang Xi asked meaningfully, “Would you be content even if you lose?”
Ran Lin replied even more profoundly, “If I lose fair and square, I’ll accept it wholeheartedly.”
Wang Xi slightly raised her eyebrows. If she wasn’t mistaken, Ran Lin was formally challenging her, making her personal feelings very clear. No one should pretend to misunderstand.
Ran Lin was also a bit nervous on the other end of the phone. Normally, such unnecessary hints wouldn’t be necessary, as Wang Xi’s bias was clear, and pointing it out might only increase the tension. But today’s Wang Xi felt different to him, whether in her tone of voice or her overall demeanor, indicating it might be worth sharing some heartfelt thoughts. Moreover, Wang Xi calling to tell him about the audition opportunity for the film version of <Chronicles of Winter> showed her attitude as an agent, so Ran Lin, impulsively, spoke his true thoughts.
But along with his candid feelings, Ran Lin also felt genuine gratitude. “Xi Jie, I’m really happy for this audition opportunity. Thank you.”
In the brief silence, Wang Xi was rapidly organizing her thoughts, trying to find the right words to assure Ran Lin without explicitly mentioning her relationship with Han Ze that she was committed to being a fair and dedicated agent.
Before she could frame her thoughts gracefully, Ran Lin withdrew the implied accusation and extended an olive branch.
Wang Xi felt the entire atmosphere change. The brain that was buzzing with thoughts went silent, with only her steady heartbeat remaining.
Wang Xi heard herself saying, “There’s no need to worry about what others will do. Everyone should just do their part and let the audience and the market decide the rest.”
Ran Lin finally felt at ease, his voice relaxing into a smile. “Okay.”
After discussing a bit more about the audition opportunity, Wang Xi asked before hanging up, “Who did you learn this from?”
Ran Lin was taken aback. “Hm?”
Wang Xi, slightly annoyed but amused, said, “Pricking before offering candy.”
Ran Lin proudly replied, “Self-taught.”
After ending the call, Ran Lin, still holding his hoverboard, hurried back upstairs. He hadn’t even caught his breath when he eagerly sent a message to Lu Yiyao to share the good news—[I’m going to audition for the movie version of <Chronicles of Winter>! 🕺 💐 ❤️]
After sending it, Ran Lin realized that Lu Yiyao was due to fly to Xiamen the next day to start shooting a new film and was probably busy packing. He should have waited until he got the script to say anything.
But when it came to good news, his hands acted faster than his brain.
Ran Lin slapped his own hand, feeling that he indeed wasn’t someone to handle big tasks.
In the mix of excitement and self-reproach, with joy still taking up most of his emotions, Lu Yiyao’s reply came—[The movie version? The one that Yao Star invested in?]
The sudden mention of the company name made Ran Lin pause for a moment, remembering that during the Republic party, he had met Young Master Peng from the Youth Gang, whose family business was part of the investment.
At that time, Peng Jingyu had mentioned their company’s small investment in passing, but they hadn’t delved deep into the topic, and it had faded from his memory.
He didn’t expect Lu Yiyao to remember it so clearly.
[Yes, that’s the one.]
But Lu Yiyao’s reminder made Ran Lin ponder if Peng Jingyu might have helped in the background. He quickly added another message—[Xi Jie said when she contacted the producer through her connections, the response was perfunctory, and they barely talked. She thought it was a no-go, but today, suddenly, they invited me to audition with an enthusiastic attitude. Do you think Peng Jingyu could have helped?]
Lu Yiyao—[Hard to say. I’ll ask.]
Ran Lin—[No need. You’re not that close. It’s not worth troubling you to lose face over something like this. I’ll ask Xi Jie to check. If it’s true, I definitely need to thank him properly. Even if it’s not, since he’s one of the investors, it won’t hurt to establish a good relationship 🤭.]
Lu Yiyao—[No need to make it complicated. I’ll just ask directly. He’s sitting right across from me.]
Lu Yiyao—[Picture]
Ran Lin—[…Did he not mind you taking such an unflattering photo of him?]
Lu Yiyao—[He doesn’t know. I told him I was taking a selfie.]
Ran Lin—[Good job.]
Wait, that’s not the point!
Isn’t Lu Yiyao not that close to Peng Jingyu? Why are they meeting alone the night before he goes on set?!
Lu Yiyao—[Picture]
Lu Yiyao—[Lao Huo is also here. Look, here’s the proof. It’s a business gathering, all above board.]
Ran Lin—[Even if you didn’t send the photo, I would have believed you. 👉👈]
Lu Yiyao—[Then perhaps the jealousy I just sensed was my imagination. ❤️]
Ran Lin was left speechless, his emotions a complex mix.
Nowadays, Lu Yiyao had progressed beyond the initial stage of “only speaking sweet nothings” to a middle stage of “sweet nothings with teasing”. Ran Lin himself hadn’t kept up with his lover’s pace, so in their ten WeChat exchanges, he found himself outwitted nine times, and the remaining time, he’d end up playfully tackled to the ground… Err, he shouldn’t dwell too much on that; it could lead to distracting thoughts.
……
Today’s gathering was indeed something Lu Yiyao had specifically requested Huo Yuntao to arrange.
Since their last heart-to-heart about his future career direction, Lu Yiyao had been seriously considering feasible plans. Changing careers is different from merely wanting to change. For starters, he still had commitments to two movies, a TV series, and several endorsements—all officially contracted and not something he could just drop because he wanted to shift careers.
But fulfilling these commitments wouldn’t stop him from preparing for the future. The first step was, naturally, to expand his network and understand more about the industry’s rules and how to play the game.
Setting up a company is easy; you just need the capital for registration. But truly excelling in business involves a lot of knowledge.
Even though Lu Yiyao had spent years in the entertainment industry, the perspective of an artist and that of a businessman in the industry are fundamentally different. Lu Yiyao had to make the most of his free time to observe, ponder, and learn.
Of course, he couldn’t tell Peng Jingyu this. When Huo Yuntao made the arrangement, it was just a casual mention that he was back in town, so he wanted to catch up with friends.
Aside from Huo Yuntao, nobody else knew about Lu Yiyao’s plans to change careers. He hadn’t even told Yao Hong. Not that he intended to keep it a secret from her, but she had been dealing with some family issues recently and was quite stressed. Lu Yiyao didn’t want to add to her worries. Changing careers wasn’t an overnight decision anyway; it could wait another half a month or so.
Peng Jingyu was busy, Lu Yiyao was busy, but currently, Huo Yuntao had some free time. After some coordination, they finally fixed the gathering for the night before Lu Yiyao was to join the set.
Peng Jingyu gladly accepted the invitation.
Interestingly, Lu Yiyao hadn’t interacted much with him at the previous party, but he had a surprisingly good impression of Peng Jingyu. After some thought, it boiled down to the old saying—love me, love my dog. He had a pretty good impression of Ran Lin, so by association, Lu Yiyao, who seemed to have a good relationship with Ran Lin, benefited in his eyes.
Moreover, Lu Yiyao and Huo Yuntao were as close as brothers, and making a friend like him seemed advantageous.
The gathering was at a private restaurant Huo Yuntao chose, located in a prime commercial area yet secluded and peaceful. Without Huo Yuntao’s direction, Peng Jingyu would never have known such a place existed.
The decor was simple and elegant, creating a calm environment with few patrons—the perfect setting to unwind.
In this relaxed atmosphere, the three enjoyed good food, wine, and conversation. Naturally, their topics revolved around the entertainment industry. When Peng Jingyu offered insights, Lu Yiyao listened earnestly, engaging in the discussion and often shifting from the perspective of an artist to a broader, more strategic view of the industry.
Initially, Huo Yuntao was just a listener, but as the conversation unfolded, he too joined in, drawing from his experience beginning to handle corporate affairs. Although not in the entertainment sector, the cross-discipline discussion of capital operations was relevant, turning the three “businessmen” into an enthusiastic trio reminiscing about the youthful days of industry tycoons. It was during this spirited conversation that Ran Lin’s message arrived.
Peng Jingyu paused mid-conversation to watch Lu Yiyao pick up his phone and exchange messages with the person on the other end. Lu Yiyao’s expression was calm, that of someone casually texting, but a closer look revealed a smile in his eyes, not just of amusement but also of sweet indulgence.
Peng Jingyu watched silently, almost certain Lu Yiyao was engaged in a secret romance. But just as he took a sip of wine, Lu Yiyao looked up, his eyes filled with gratitude. “For the <Chronicles of Winter> matter, Ran Lin says thank you.”
The unexpected mention of an unexpected person and the mysterious thanks left Peng Jingyu momentarily stunned, forgetting his current action and maintaining the bewildered posture of a wine glass at his lips for a long while.
Fortunately, Huo Yuntao broke the silence, though not addressing Peng Jingyu directly—
“Message from Ran Lin?”
Lu Yiyao nodded naturally towards his friend.
He and Ran Lin were “friends”, something he didn’t need to hide in front of Peng Jingyu, and Huo Yuntao understood this well. Their seamless cooperation hinted at their deep understanding of each other.
However, Huo Yuntao was genuinely curious about the matter itself. “<Chronicles of Winter>… the TV series you mentioned Ran Lin lost? Hasn’t it started filming yet? Did he manage to get it back? What does that have to do with Jingyu?”
Young Master Huo’s rapid-fire questioning snapped Peng Jingyu back to reality.
Just regaining his composure, he heard Lu Yiyao methodically answer each question. “It’s not the series he lost, but the movie version of the same story. Yao Star is also investing. Ran Lin just got an audition opportunity. He was merely letting me know, but when he learned I was dining with Mr. Peng, he asked me to convey his thanks.”
With that, Lu Yiyao’s gaze shifted from his friend back to Peng Jingyu, his eyes still carrying traces of appreciation.
Now Peng Jingyu understood and, feeling a bit guilty for how he responded to the sincere thanks.
“There might be a bit of a misunderstanding here…” Peng Jingyu finally remembered to put his wine glass back on the table before speaking carefully. “First of all, of course, congratulations to Ran Lin for this audition opportunity. But as for <Chronicles of Winter> Yao Star’s investment is so negligible that we virtually have no say in the casting…”
Lu Yiyao understood.
Actually, when Peng Jingyu showed a bewildered face as if saying “what’s going on”, Lu Yiyao already had a hunch that Peng Jingyu wasn’t involved. But the more this was the case, the more important it was to express gratitude upfront. People who feel they’ve undeservedly received thanks often feel a sense of guilt…
Haa. Li Yiyao sighed in his heart. He was too cunning.
However, this didn’t stop him from continuing to be courteous. “I see. There might have been a misunderstanding, but still, thank you for the thought. If there’s any chance you might influence things in the future for Ran Lin, please keep an eye out for him.”
“Of course.” Peng Jingyu finally found a moment to feel vindicated, almost obligingly. “Even without your and Yuntao’s relationship, I consider myself friends with Ran Lin. If I can help, I certainly will!”
Huo Yuntao coughed lightly, his voice laced with irony. “You just finished saying how little you invested and how pitifully small your say is…”
Peng Jingyu turned sharply, glaring at him.
Huo Yuntao met his gaze with a brilliant smile, clinking his glass against the one on the table and self-punishingly downed his drink.
Peng Jingyu, frustrated but out of options since the other party had already self-penalized, couldn’t help but feel a shadow cast over his circle of friends knowing Huo Yuntao would be rooted in the domestic scene forever.
“Speaking of which.” Lu Yiyao returned to the main topic as the two stopped their bickering. “If it’s not from your side, whose idea might it be? It’s quite a challenging opportunity for Ran Lin given his current standing.”
Peng Jingyu thought for a while but couldn’t figure it out, so he decided to take action. “Let me check for you.”
That was what Lu Yiyao was waiting for—his eyes gleaming with “gratitude.”
Peng Jingyu felt a surge of mission-driven energy and began scrolling through his phone contacts, determined to find answers for Lu Yiyao.
Huo Yuntao watched, filled with complex emotions. Even Lu Yiyao, with his straightforward demeanor, had learned to play the game. It’s not actors winning Oscars that one should fear, but actors doing business—their astute minds and extraordinary acting skills make them formidable forces in the business world!
As Peng Jingyu stepped aside to make a call, Lu Yiyao took the opportunity to reply to Ran Lin’s message—[It seems Peng Jingyu isn’t involved, but he’s asking around to see what’s happening.]
Ran Lin’s phone was clearly close at hand, as he replied quickly—[Big productions seeking me for auditions, popular actors helping me uncover mysteries, and even the son of a film company CEO is making inquiries on my behalf. I feel like I can cover the sky with one hand now. So powerful! 😎]
Lu Yiyao couldn’t help but laugh and longed to hug and ruffle him.
He wanted to tell Ran Lin that this wasn’t real power. True power means you get to pick and choose scripts and roles freely. No one cuts you off, and just your involvement guarantees success. That’s real power.
But before he could finish typing, he deleted the text.
Throughout their relationship, Ran Lin had shared every aspect of his life but never once asked for help in the real sense, like introducing roles or negotiating opportunities. Even with limited influence and connections, Lu Yiyao had Yao Hong and Huo Yuntao.
From the day he and Ran Lin got together, their resources could have been shared. This is how many couples and partners in the industry operate, sharing resources and interests, often resulting in greater combined effect.
Naturally, he and Ran Lin couldn’t publicly operate like this, but privately, it seemed natural to support each other as much as possible. But Ran Lin had never asked.
Lu Yiyao believed Ran Lin never even considered these things. Ran Lin’s affection for him was pure and had nothing to do with his status, fame, family, friends, or anything else.
Yet the more this was the case, the more Lu Yiyao wanted to give him better things, and the more he realized he wasn’t doing enough.
Peng Jingyu returned to his seat after the call, with Lu Yiyao and Huo Yuntao eagerly awaiting the answer, not catching the “seeking praise” signals.
The room fell into an awkward silence.
Peng Jingyu, feeling hopeless, cleared his throat and relayed the news he just got. “The major investor for this film is Shengshi Media. Apparently, one of their executives just finished watching <Sword of Fallen Flowers> and specifically requested Ran Lin.”
“So if they specifically requested him, is the audition just a formality?” Huo Yuntao eagerly asked, curious about the outcome.
“Not exactly. Given the large investment, they can’t just make decisions impulsively. So they’ll probably send a producer to supervise the audition. As long as Ran Lin performs OK, it should be his for the taking.” Peng Jingyu added, as if remembering something, “After <Sword of Fallen Flowers>, Ran Lin’s popularity and reputation have been quite good. It’s rare to find someone with both looks and talent, so the investor might also be considering that. After all, you know how it is with fantasy epics—they’re prone to criticism. If the actors can hold their own, it can somewhat redeem the film’s reputation.”
Lu Yiyao got the gist of it.
No wonder Ran Lin said the producer’s attitude changed drastically; before, Ran Lin might not have even been considered. After the higher-ups expressed interest, they hastily contacted Wang Xi, making the interaction seem abrupt from her perspective.
Even though he didn’t help much, knowing that Ran Lin secured the opportunity himself, Lu Yiyao felt proud, almost wanting to parade him around the world and let everyone know how brilliant Ran Lin is when he acts.
Despite not getting the expected praise, Peng Jingyu endured it.
But the two at the table, one as enthusiastic as Ran Lin’s agent and the other seemingly content for no clear reason, perplexed him.
If he didn’t know they were friends, Peng Jingyu would definitely mistake them for die-hard fans of Ran Lin!
……
[Chosen for me?!!]
[Yes, your performance in <Sword of Fallen Flowers> wasn’t just noticeable; it was stunning. The executive immediately told the producer after watching it that <Chronicles of Winter> must have you.]
Ran Lin looked at the message he just received, pondering for a long time before asking—[Is this what Peng Jingyu said, or is it your own imagination?]
Lu Yiyao—[The latter.]
Ran Lin—[Then there’s no need to make it sound so convincing!]
Lu Yiyao—[But that must be the actual scenario because I can’t imagine any other possibility.]
Ran Lin—[That’s because you like me!]
Lu Yiyao—[Yes.]
A critical hit.
And completely unexpected.
Ran Lin curled up on the couch, rolling around like a Chihuahua, accidentally tumbling to the floor, dazed for a moment before grinning again.
Ran Lin—[I’ll do my best in the audition.]
Lu Yiyao—[I’ll celebrate with you once you sign the contract.]
Ran Lin—[How will we celebrate? 🤩]
Lu Yiyao—[With my body. ❤️]
Ran Lin was speechless.
Who’s celebrating for whom?
……
Wang Xi said the script would arrive in three days, but in reality, it was handed to Ran Lin in just two.
When Wang Xi brought the script over, Ran Lin was following a recipe from a food blogger to make tomato and beef stew. The blogger described it as very simple, practically a beginner’s dish, but Ran Lin spent the entire morning cooking it. When Wang Xi arrived, he had just turned off the stove.
As she entered, Wang Xi was immediately greeted with the aroma of the dish, surprised and inquiring, “You cooked?”
Ran Lin sheepishly explained, “I was idle anyway, and I can’t always order takeout…”
Wang Xi didn’t say anything further, simply switching to slippers, inwardly lamenting that “idle anyway” seemed to undermine her confidence as an agent.
Unfortunately, Ran Lin’s statement was also a fact.
“Tomato beef stew?” Wang Xi identified the dish as soon as she entered the living room, even before sitting down.
Ran Lin was surprised that his agent’s “acute sense of smell” wasn’t limited to work.
Knowing she guessed right, though a bit of a mood killer, Wang Xi reminded, “Occasional indulgence is fine, but you can’t eat like this regularly. A slightly rounder face is very noticeable on camera.”
Ran Lin couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t worry, even if you want me to eat it all the time, I wouldn’t agree. It’s too much trouble to make. The blogger even said it was simple, deceiving my feelings.”
Wang Xi sighed, sharing kitchen woes with her artist for once. “Remember, any dish with meat as the main ingredient is a ‘hard dish’, and it’s bound to be troublesome.”
Ran Lin seemed to sense the “kitchen novice” vibes from her and teasingly asked, “Can you cook, Xi Jie?”
Caught off guard, Wang Xi hesitated, cautiously admitting, “I can… a little.”
Ran Lin: “Such as?”
Wang Xi: “Fried eggs.”
Ran Lin chuckled. “Well, that’s also a meat dish.”
Seizing the opportune moment, Ran Lin invited Wang Xi to stay for lunch. Wang Xi, not in a rush, agreed.
They devoured the tomato beef stew, and at one point, Ran Lin suspected Wang Xi’s earlier “round face” caution was just a strategy to make him hesitate so she could grab more for herself.
“What a lucky girl she will be, whoever ends up with you,” Wang Xi remarked after a satisfying meal.
Ran Lin poured two glasses of water, one for himself and one for Wang Xi, who was already sitting on the couch, and then sat beside her with a long sigh. “Indeed, how fortunate.”
Wang Xi found his reaction amusing and asked, “What are you secretly pleased about?”
Ran Lin looked at her with wide eyes, feigning innocence. “Am I?”
“You are.” Wang Xi pointed at his eyes. “Full of pride. It’s all here.”
No longer arguing, Ran Lin adopted a mischievous demeanor that said he loved being praised.
Wang Xi then got down to business, picking up the script from the coffee table. “Let’s take a look.”
Ran Lin was eager to dive in but had to honor the culinary traditions first. Food always comes first.
It took Ran Lin an hour to skim through the script. Wang Xi waited silently, playing with her phone.
This quietness wasn’t tedious, thanks to the numerous plants in Ran Lin’s living room that filled the air with a faint aroma of grass, creating a pleasant stillness.
The movie script wasn’t lengthy, but in an hour, Ran Lin managed only a basic read-through, focusing on character designs, the overall style of the film, and the main plot outline.
However, the more he read, the more surprised he was—the movie and the TV series seemed to adopt entirely different styles.
The original novel of <Chronicles of Winter> wasn’t particularly remarkable, belonging to the more common genre of fantasy romance, with some elements reminiscent of martial arts novels. Mixed together, it became a commercial novel that touched a bit of everything but mastered none, failing to create anything substantially new.
It offered a pleasurable read, but once done, it was done, so its fame largely relied on the publisher’s marketing efforts.
However, even with such efforts, the novel’s inherent mediocrity set a limit to its reach, eventually forming a certain fan base without really breaking through.
The TV series script followed the main storyline without significant changes, deleting some non-essential plot points from the novel and adding some original scenes believed to be exciting and appealing to the audience. The overall alteration wasn’t drastic; it adhered to the novel’s storyline. Hence, when Ran Lin finished reading the script and revisited the original novel, he found the transition smooth, as the story was almost entirely spoiled, albeit with a different flavor.
However, having read both the original novel and the TV script, Ran Lin felt a sense of surprise upon encountering the film script.
This surprise wasn’t due to an exceptionally dazzling story but rather because the movie script was more concise compared to the slightly chaotic TV version. It didn’t try to cram the entire book into a 120-minute slot, which would only lead to a superficial glimpse of each segment.
Instead, the film script focused on the first third of the original novel but thoughtfully reworked it. The plot and emotional logic were clear, with deeper development and more nuanced emotional layers. Parts of the original that were vague or glossed over received substantial supplementation and originality in the script, rendering the final story cohesive and rich, with well-rounded characters.
In domestic fantasy blockbusters, where special effects often take precedence, clearly narrating a complete story is already half the battle.
Yes, fantasy.
Both the original novel and the TV script leaned towards a romantic fantasy genre, but the film script introduced a darker, more authentic magical fantasy style while maintaining the protagonist as a graceful youth. This contrast made the rebellious young hero seem like a refreshing current.
<Chronicles of Winter> is so named because the story begins in a village that only knows summer, where the male lead is born and becomes awakened. But at the one-third mark of the story, he brings a bout of snow and a few days of harsh winter to the village that has known only scorching summers for centuries. He leaves the village, embarking on a broader and more perilous journey with his childhood sweetheart—all of which has virtually nothing to do with “winter”.
When Ran Lin read the original novel, he didn’t find this part particularly thrilling. The story was just beginning, backgrounds needed to be laid out, the worldview established, and both protagonists were still naive. The real trials and tribulations hadn’t even started; it was merely a simple account of the male lead ascending to the heavens due to a fortunate encounter and humbly requesting the “Emperor of the North” to bestow snow upon his village, awakening his powers in the process. And that was it.
This was barely the prelude of the entire story, not even enough to be considered a significant turning point.
However, the film script precisely chose this segment.
Ran Lin wasn’t sure if the filmmakers intended to produce sequels or if both the screenwriter and the financiers felt this part had the most room for adaptation. Regardless, what was inconspicuous in the original became vivid and full of life here, with moments of exhilaration and tearful tenderness, solid background, and humorous details, climaxing in entertaining and impressive revelations.
In the script, the village’s perpetual summer is taken for granted by generations of villagers. To them, the world doesn’t have four seasons but just one: summer. The constant high temperatures result in short lifespans, with the oldest living only to fifty. As if cursed, nothing grows in the land except for a medicinal herb—sweet dandelion. This herb is harvested twice a year, and every April and October, the villagers offer all the harvested herbs to the “Great Sage Temple”. For three days, no one is allowed near the temple, and after three days, all the herbs disappear, leaving behind five bags of seeds, four of which are sweet dandelion seeds, and one is grain.
According to the village elders, the herbs are taken by the “Great Sage”, while the bag of grain seeds is his reward. The remaining four bags of sweet dandelion seeds are the villagers’ “task” for the latter half of the year.
Aside from sweet dandelion, only the grain seeds left by the Great Sage yield crops, serving as the villagers’ sole lifeline. For centuries, they’ve been caught in a cycle of cultivation, harvest, offering, and re-cultivation, living and dying in this perpetual motion.
Some villagers have thought of fleeing, but they’re surrounded by steep mountains and treacherous rivers. Those who attempt to leave either disappear without a trace or are found dead in the wilderness. Perhaps some have succeeded, but no one has returned to tell the tale.
Until one day, two teenagers playing by a cliff rescued a scholar who had accidentally fallen. The scholar told them it was strange for their village to only have summer when other places experienced all four seasons.
The villagers accused the scholar of spreading false teachings and bound him to offer to the Great Sage Temple, hoping the deity wouldn’t curse the whole village. The scholar was tied up in the temple for three days, with no one daring to approach. Only the teenagers secretly brought him food and water. After three days, the Great Sage never appeared, but the scholar was still lively, so the villagers released him, deeming that perhaps the Great Sage didn’t find him worthy of death.
The scholar stayed in the village, attempting to find a way out while telling the teenagers about the outside world. Gradually, the boy grew increasingly skeptical about village life. Finally, on the day of the harvest offering in October, he hid in the temple, determined to see the Great Sage, who came to collect the herbs.
Instead of the Great Sage, two heavenly soldiers arrived to collect the herbs. Perhaps in the heavens, they were the lowest of the low, but here, they mocked and looked down upon the villagers with disdain.
During their conversation, the boy learned that sweet dandelions were the favorite ingredient for brewing wine by the “Emperor of the North” in the heavens, and the grass could only grow in the mortal realm. Hence, the Emperor of the North chose this place centuries ago as a dedicated cultivation area for the grass. To easily control the villagers to cultivate the grass generation after generation, he erected mountains and rivers around the village, effectively isolating it from the outside world.
The villagers, willing to cultivate the grass and offer it to the Great Sage life after life, were seen as foolish and as insignificant as ants.
Enraged, the boy made a noise, alerting the soldiers, who then tried to kill him. At the critical moment, the boy’s power awakened, driving the soldiers back to the heavens, leaving him unconscious for three days and nights.
Upon awakening, the boy was both puzzled about his newfound powers and determined to seek justice for the village. Eventually, he and friends he met in the mountains ascended to the heavens, destroyed the “Northern Divine Spring” used to brew sweet dandelion wine after a fierce battle, and cleverly coerced the Emperor of the North into leveling the mountains and opening the paths, bringing back the lost spring, autumn, and winter to the village. He also unraveled the mystery of his powers and lineage.
At the end of the script, the village experiences its first severe winter in centuries. Despite the howling winds and heavy snow sealing off the village, every household is filled with smoke and laughter, looking forward to the melting of the auspicious snow next year, the revival of the land, and the commencement of their own days.
“How is it?” Seeing Ran Lin close the script, Wang Xi put down her phone and asked curiously.
She had read the script before delivering it to Ran Lin, but she still wanted to hear his thoughts.
Ran Lin looked up at his agent, still feeling the thrill of vowing to confront the Emperor of the North, and said, “When I read the <Chronicles of Winter> script last time, I thought I was a knight-errant. But now, I realize that what I’m going to play is actually…”
Wang Xi: “A hero?”
Ran Lin shook his head with a smile, but his gaze grew more determined. “A fighter.”
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