Chapter Twelve: Making Our Own Movie

"Hey, have you seen Kun?"

"Hey, did you see Kun come back to school?" …

The guys from 307 had already left the restaurant. Now, they were taking turns at a public phone booth, making calls, tapping into their web of contacts, relentlessly searching for any trace of Chen Kun.

After a few calls, Huang Hanbo said, "Kun seems to have come back to school, but no one knows exactly where he is. It’s getting late, and he still hasn’t shown up. This is…"

Huang Hanbo was worried he might jinx things, but Wu Xiang didn’t think it was that serious. After all, he was someone who had lived this life before—he knew how things would play out for Chen Kun.

"Let’s go back and look for him! Forget the meal for now, let’s just grab some burgers for the road..."

Before Wu Xiang finished speaking, everyone was already on their feet.

"This isn’t the time to think about food! Let’s go, we need to find him!" It was clear everyone felt the matter was urgent.

So what were they waiting for? Let’s go!

Wu Xiang hailed two taxis and returned to school with the group. The eight of them immediately began a frantic search.

"Have you seen Kun?"

"Have you seen a guy with mismatched eyebrows?"

"Is Kun with you guys?" … They asked everyone they came across, sometimes even barging into the girls’ dormitory—where one of them, perhaps out of confusion or mischief, received a good beating for his trouble.

It must be said, this method of searching for someone was old-fashioned, but in the end, it worked. Wu Xiang and the others really did find Chen Kun!

It was at a construction site. The Film Academy had been developing rapidly in recent years, so the school had built a new screening hall—essentially a small cinema, now nearly complete. There were few workers left, and Chen Kun was standing on the roof.

On the ground lay a nearly empty bottle of Erguotou. Thankfully, it was the small size, but seeing Chen Kun’s condition, the crew from 307 was still unsettled.

His clothes were a mess, the collar clearly torn open, and traces of dried tears lingered on his face, blown dry by the wind. He stood at the edge of the roof, swaying slightly, making everyone fear he might fall at any moment.

"Kun?" someone called out recklessly.

"Heh, you’re here? Oh, sorry, I forgot about dinner. That’s my bad. But I don’t want to go anymore, you guys eat without me." Chen Kun’s words were accompanied by a laugh, but there was a bitter note to it.

"Kun, come with us. Everything’s ready. Tonight’s just about eating, nothing else," Wu Xiang said, intent on coaxing Chen Kun down. As long as he could get him off that ledge, everything else could be sorted out. Even though he knew what Chen Kun’s future held, he couldn’t help but worry.

What if, because of his rebirth, he’d changed Kun’s fate?

This thought nagged at Wu Xiang’s mind.

"Hahaha…" But unexpectedly, Kun laughed. "What can’t be said? We’re brothers, I’ll tell you everything! Xiangzi! Your brother Kun failed! The role is gone! They didn’t choose me! Even though it was supposed to be settled, they didn’t pick me. Heh…"

By the end, it was impossible to tell if he was laughing or crying.

"Kun!" the 307 crew shouted, especially the acting students who felt his pain deeply. Tears welled up in Huang Hanbo’s eyes.

Being an actor isn’t easy, especially when you’re still unknown and powerless, forced to rely on the whims of others.

Most people only see the glamour of stardom, the flashing cameras, but before that, every star had to endure obscurity and hardship.

Today’s Chen Kun could easily be any of them tomorrow. The acting students could barely hold back their tears.

"Kun, there’s always tomorrow, more chances ahead," Huang Hanbo said, struggling to keep his composure.

"Heh, you think there are always chances? Do you know why they didn’t choose me? My photos were fine, but the moment they saw my height, they said I didn’t match the female lead. Get it?"

Everyone fell silent. Height wasn’t something you could change. In fact, Chen Kun wasn’t even short—he was taller than Xiao Ming, and still didn’t make the cut? How tall was the female lead supposed to be?

"Kun!" At that moment, Wu Xiang suddenly shouted, his voice echoing as if on stage.

He replied, melancholy as ever, "I’m fine, don’t worry."

"It pains me to see you like this!" Wu Xiang shouted in his thick Northeastern accent. "It’s just a role! What are we lacking? Kun! If Director Zhao doesn’t want you, I do!"

"Huh?" Wu Xiang’s words left everyone, including Chen Kun, stunned.

"You want me? What do you mean?"

"We’ll make our own movie! We’ll do it ourselves!" Wu Xiang dropped a bombshell.

In the 307 dorm, nine people sat together. Aside from Wu Xiang, the other eight were still dazed.

"Xiangzi, do you know how hard it is to make your own film?" Chen Kun voiced the question on everyone’s mind.

"I know," Wu Xiang replied firmly. He really did know.

In both film and TV, production costs were a key concern. Overseas, you might have ultra-low-budget hits like "The Blair Witch Project," but in their own country, such films were dead on arrival. They wouldn’t even get screened, especially in the late 1990s when the film market’s mechanisms were still rigid.

The domestic film market was struggling, and as a former writer of anti-Japanese drama series, Wu Xiang had heard plenty about those struggles.

The biggest problem was cost. Wu Xiang wanted to make a film—an independent one—but had no idea how much it would take. That was why he was always saving, not even willing to buy new underwear.

He’d been waiting—hoping to learn more, to figure out the ins and outs of the industry. He’d started, though: for example, he’d learned that the Film Academy actually supported student filmmaking. The academy even had its own youth film studio. The equipment was basic, but costs would be lower, and approvals easier.

Still, Wu Xiang was unsure of himself. It wasn’t a lack of confidence; it was just that his knowledge, skills, connections, information, production and distribution know-how—everything—wasn’t enough yet.

But now, for the sake of his friend, Wu Xiang was ready to risk it all.

"We’ll make this!" he declared.

With a bang, Wu Xiang pulled a book out from under his bed. Everyone leaned in to see.

It was a brand-new copy of "First Intimate Contact."

"I’ve read this book—it’s good. But don’t we have to buy the adaptation rights?" Huang Hanbo objected.

It was a fair point. Adaptation rights for a novel were expensive. Where would they get the money?

"No need to buy them. As long as I agree, it’s fine," Wu Xiang said, pointing to himself with his thumb.

Everyone burst out laughing.

"Xiangzi, you think it’s enough for you to agree? Who do you think you are?" Wang Hongzhi laughed so hard he was nearly in tears. If this weren’t about Kun, he would’ve roasted Wu Xiang even harder.

Who did he think he was?

"What’s so funny? If I agree, that’s enough! I wrote this book. Haven’t you seen the author’s name?" Wu Xiang replied, calm and unbothered. In truth, he was ecstatic inside.

"What?!" Everyone was dumbfounded. If Xiangzi wasn’t crazy, then that meant—

Sure enough, Wu Xiang had even borrowed the author’s pen name!