FS-novel Chapter 341: “This Damn Movie Is Unwatchable!”
Chapter 341: “This Damn Movie Is Unwatchable!”
Chapter 341: "This Damn Movie Is Unwatchable!"
The light and shadow on the screen gradually faded.
A post-apocalyptic sense of relief spread through the screening room.
The final showdown scene was Director Zhang Mouyi's visual feast for domestic fantasy, made possible only after he burned through the Special Effects Team's entire budget.
Golden demonic power and surging black mist braided through the air.
Each collision made the theater seats tremble.
But at this moment, no one cared whether the effects were realistic.
Of the five hundred people in the theater, whether film critics or the head of the black fans, only one thought occupied their minds.
Win.
The ending had to be satisfying.
On the screen, the fully demonized Ye Chen delivered the final blow.
A tear in the heavens was rent open by golden light, completely shattering Chi Jie's last barrier.
That soul, twisted by jealousy, turned into a skyful of black feathers and scattered.
The next second.
The cloud that had shrouded the entire film split open.
The first ray of sunlight pierced the clouds and fell onto the top of the Divine Tree.
The camera cut to an extreme close-up.
Ye Chen stood motionless atop the tree, his raging Demonic Pattern slowly fading, his handsome youthful face restored.
He bathed in the warm sunlight, the blood-smeared parts of his face made nearly translucent by the glow.
He lifted his head, facing that beam of light.
They won.
In the theater, the string that had been pulled so tight it was about to snap finally loosened.
Long sighs of relief rose up everywhere.
Old Zhou leaned back, sinking into the soft seat.
He felt as if his back had been soaked in cold sweat long ago, and even felt a bit ridiculous about the tears he had just shed.
That old bastard Zhang Mouyi had finally done a human thing.
No matter how brutal the process, at least he gave a good ending.
Jiang Ci sat in the front row and clearly heard the release of tension behind him.
He kept a calm expression as he tightened the cap on his water bottle.
Click.
That crisp sound went unnoticed amid the audience's atmosphere of relief.
He lowered the curtain on a meticulously staged tragedy.
At the same time, he counted silently in his heart.
Three.
Two.
One.
Time.
On the big screen.
The Ye Chen who had been bathing in morning light, the Ye Chen who smiled as he enjoyed victory.
The boy who had carried every hope of the audience.
Without warning.
His body stiffened, then fell straight backward.
The camera pulled back.
The fall was abrupt and real.
Silence swallowed the entire screening room.
Everyone's mind stopped working over this moment that completely violated movie storytelling logic.
Their subconscious stubbornly insisted it was a joke, a harmless stumble.
Next moment, he would be caught by A Li.
It had to happen.
Old Zhou's face, which had just relaxed, froze.
He sat motionless, maintaining his slumped pose.
Until—
Bang.
A heavy thud of a body hitting the ground.
Ye Chen's body crashed heavily before A Li, who hadn't even had time to rush forward.
The hard scorched earth was struck, sending up a plume of dust.
In that instant, the sunlight was perfect.
But it was bone-chillingly cold.
Su Qingying, sitting beside Jiang Ci, shivered all over.
Even though she had acted out this scene herself and knew the script's direction better than anyone else,
as a member of the audience, watching this death unfold again before five hundred silent viewers,
a physiological quake shot from her spine to the top of her head.
Her fingertips felt icy.
On the big screen.
The camera was clinical to the point of cruelty.
A Li stood dazed, staring at the body so close it might as well be within reach, yet never moving again.
She did not cry.
Grief had not yet had time to wash over her.
This absolute silence suffocated more than any heart-wrenching sob.
The five hundred people in the theater, following the heroine, were stunned.
They felt as if Zhang Mouyi and Jiang Ci had teamed up to hold them under water.
Just when they had been plucked up and got a breath of the sweetest air,
they were kicked back down into the deeper ocean.
Old Zhou trembled uncontrollably.
He wanted to curse.
He wanted to tear his notebook to shreds and smash it into the back of the head of that young man in the front row who had been calm from beginning to end like he wasn't human.
On the screen.
The girl, who had been frozen for a long while, finally moved.
She collapsed stiffly to her knees beside the body.
She reached out a hand.
That same hand that had once drawn the Lingxi Bow and ripped his sleeve now shook into uselessness.
Trembling, it reached for Ye Chen's breath.
At last, the fingertip stained with blood and dust touched Ye Chen's cheek.
"Ye Chen…"
A whisper, barely audible.
Then the name changed tone sharply and shredded the silence in the theater.
"Ye Chen—!!!"
That roar needed no acting; Su Qingying was A Li.
On the screen, his eyelashes fluttered.
He forced his eyes open, vision blurring.
But he kept searching.
Searching for the girl who was holding him and crying.
He saw her.
The corner of his mouth lifted again, as if to tell her: Look, we won.
He raised his hand, trying to wipe A Li's tears.
The hand hovered midair.
It stopped less than three centimeters from A Li's eye.
"Don't cry…"
Ye Chen's voice was very soft.
"A Li, I'm just… a little tired."
When the words fell,
that suspended hand lost every ounce of strength.
Plop.
It fell heavily, striking into the soil.
At that instant, the ceiling lights in the screening room seemed to dim a few degrees.
"Wah—!"
The head of the black fans who had earlier snatched half a pack of tissues from Old Zhou completely broke down.
His young, defiant face became a mess of snot and tears as he screamed abuse at the screen.
"Zhang Mouyi, you're not a human!!"
"Jiang Ci, you damn well aren't a human either!!"
"Why did you have to make him die! He already won! Why make him die! Can you stop stabbing him, seriously!"
The cry was plaintive and wronged, voicing the feelings of all five hundred people present.
Old Zhou, sitting beside him, had tried to maintain the last shred of dignity as a "scathing film critic."
He clutched the now-sodden paper wad, teeth clenched, staring at the screen, attempting to critique this ending from a professional angle for its "sentimental manipulation."
But.
On screen, that feeling of "as long as you live, it's fine if I die"—that satisfaction and regret—
was unbearably pure.
Old Zhou's lips trembled.
He lowered his head, not wanting anyone to see him lose it.
But tears are unreasonable.
One drop, then another, blurring the four characters he'd just written: "visual spectacle."
"Damn…"
Old Zhou choked out a curse and gave up resisting.
He turned and looked at the black fan beside him who was sobbing so hard he was twitching, and, trembling, held out his hand.
"Brother… tissue… give me one."
The black fan, sniffling, turned to look at the old man who had been rolling his eyes at him before, and, overwhelmed, shoved the remaining half pack into Old Zhou's arms.
"Boohoo… take it! It's all yours! This damn movie is unwatchable!"
The two female reporters in the front row dared not look at the screen and buried their faces in their companions' shoulders to cry.
[Heartbreak Value +128!]
[Heartbreak Value +248!]
Jiang Ci leaned back in his seat while the system panel in the top-right of his vision frantically refreshed, almost to the point of garbling.
"Tsk."
Jiang Ci sighed with some helplessness.
This audience has no psychological endurance.
He turned his head slightly, glancing over the seatback to his right rear.
That burly media guy with a face full of rough flesh and a dragon tattoo running over his shoulder blades.
Right now that big brother had buried his huge head into his leather jacket collar, his broad shoulders shaking.
From within the jacket one could vaguely hear noises.
"How tragic… my Ye Chen… boohoo…"
Jiang Ci: "…"
He silently turned his head back.
He took out the bottle of mineral water he had only taken one sip from, opened it, and drank another mouthful.
Lubricating the throat; there would be more hard battles ahead.
At this moment.
The image on the big screen began to pull back.
The Divine Tree's canopy spread like an umbrella, darkening the sky.
Beneath the tree, that tiny red figure was frozen in place, lonely, guarding nothingness.
The camera pulled back and back.
Until the scene became a desolate ink painting.
The mournful, grand ending theme "Destiny" played.
The screen fell completely dark.
The white credits began to roll across the black background.
Normally, at this point, the audience would stand and leave, or discuss where to go for dinner.
But now.
In Screening Room 1, with its five hundred seats, not a single person moved.
No one reached for the bag or coat placed aside.
They were nailed to their seats.
Their souls still lingered beneath that Divine Tree; they couldn't snap back.
The atmosphere was utterly oppressive.
Until—
"Snap!"
A crisp sound.
All the lights in the theater turned on without warning.
The glaring white light instantly dispelled the darkness, revealing every corner of the room in brutal clarity.
"Oh my God!"
Someone squealed from being dazzled.
Then the scene became extremely awkward and miserable.
Under the bright lights, everyone was equal.
They glanced at each other, seeing the same disarray on each other's faces.
Is this what social death looks like?
Especially the burly guy—when he saw the lights, he quickly wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying to recover his "don't mess with me" aloof facade.
Just as everyone was awkward and wished they could disappear,
a set of footsteps came from the side of the stage.
Tap, tap, tap.
Quite rhythmic.
The crowd instinctively turned to look.
Zhang Mouyi had, at some point, already stepped to the side of the stage.
The old man wore a crisp Zhongshan suit today, still twirling those two glossy old walnuts in his hand.
He looked down at the "lamentation" before him with no guilt, instead wearing a sly, annoyingly smug smile.
He picked up the microphone and cleared his throat.
"Ahem."
"Everyone, having a good cry?"
A chorus of teeth-grinding sounds rose from below.
Old Zhou grabbed his notebook in anger, wanting to throw it up there.
Happy?
You call this happy?
We'll send you razor blades! A whole truck!
Zhang Mouyi loved that look.
He slowly raised his hand and pointed at the now-darkened big screen behind him.
"Don't be in such a hurry to leave, and don't be in such a hurry to curse either."
There was mystery in the old man's voice.
"Who told you the movie's over?"
The audience froze.
Not over yet?
Did he have to bully A Li to death again to finish?
Jiang Ci sat in the audience, watching Director Zhang's malicious grin, and couldn't help smiling.
A true master of heartbreak never only stabs with a knife.
A master will, when you are at the lowest point of despair, hand you a candy.
Then you'll find that candy hurts even more than the knife you just received.
"Lighting technician."
Zhang Mouyi snapped his fingers.
"Turn off the lights."