Chapter Fifty-Six: The Mark, 307

Filming was finally done—every last shot completed. Wu Xiang, refusing to leave the set despite his injuries, finished the final scene with blood still in his mouth. Watching Huang Yi and Huang Hanbo embrace tightly, with shining tears glistening on Huang Yi’s face, Wu Xiang was filled with satisfaction.

“At last, you didn’t manage to sneak in any extra scenes! Oh yeah!”

But as Wu Xiang calmed down, he realized something was amiss. He found himself unusually, almost irrationally, concerned about matters involving Huang Yi.

“She can kiss whoever she wants, what’s it to me… But damn, why do I feel like I’m the one losing out?” Wu Xiang kept telling himself not to be jealous, but the more he thought about it, the more acidic his heart felt, as if his mouth’s pH had dropped below 7.

It was over.

Wu Xiang knew he was done for. It seemed he really was helpless before this woman. If all those classic love stories hadn’t lied, then Wu Xiang had contracted some kind of love syndrome—and the most terrifying part was that there was no cure.

“Think about it: I’m a man who’s been given a second chance at life, upstanding and patriotic, making films to entertain the masses. Soon, I’ll be a celebrity in the entertainment industry, able to call the shots, living out all those wild plots from time-travel novels. China is full of beautiful women, plenty even more stunning than Huang Yi—so how did I end up ensnared by her?”

Wu Xiang admitted that, as a man reborn and now navigating the entertainment world, he’d certainly harbored some less than noble intentions at the start. He had to confess, it’s very hard to rise above base desires. But now, whenever Wu Xiang saw Huang Yi’s face—even with her tomboyish expressions—he couldn’t help but smile.

There was no hope; he might as well give up seeking a cure. But fortunately, Wu Xiang could set thoughts of Huang Yi aside for now; he had important work to do—post-production.

“These are what you asked for. I got some friends from the art department to do them. Take a look.” Hao Yi handed Wu Xiang a stack of images.

“Great, really good,” Wu Xiang said, flipping through them one by one. They were just what he wanted.

The film, “First Intimate Contact,” included several transition scenes. Wu Xiang’s idea was to add animated elements. Simply put, the live-action shots would gradually morph into drawings—sketch-like, slowly changing frame by frame.

It wasn’t a novel concept, but at this time, doing it domestically was no easy feat. Computers were too expensive, and equipment for making such animation was almost nonexistent. So what could they do? Improvise!

They’d use their own hands—draw it themselves! They might not have the best resources, but they had their own way around it.

Wu Xiang knew, if the older generation could create classic animations like “Havoc in Heaven” by hand, why couldn’t today’s youth do the same?

Of course, the main reason was that there weren’t too many drawings needed—just a few transition scenes. Plus, Wu Xiang had put up a generous sum: one hundred yuan per drawing!

These days, an art student could only ask for about two hundred yuan for an architectural sketch—and that was already a good price. Wu Xiang’s offer was more than fair.

He had a principle: never shortchange his technical crew.

If those future stars he’d taken advantage of ever learned his true philosophy, they’d probably weep with gratitude…

“There’s one more thing,” Wu Xiang said, satisfied with the work but with another idea in mind.

“Go ahead, no need to stand on ceremony with me,” Hao Yi replied. His underlying message: even if you were polite, I’d still do it.

Wu Xiang grinned. “We need to design a logo—one that’s all our own.”

“A logo? For us?” Hao Yi was puzzled.

Branding was already a growing concept, but in film and TV, it was still rare—most works were produced under the banner of major studios or TV centers, using their logos. Like the bronze statues at Beijing Film Studio, or the big red star at Bayi Studio.

But Wu Xiang wanted something different—a brand of their own.

“Yes! Our own logo. I was thinking, why not use our dorm number? 307. What do you think?”

“307?” Hao Yi couldn’t imagine how such a simple number could become a logo. But then again, wasn’t there already ‘No. 43 Baojia Street?’

“Exactly—307. I’d like it to be animated too, just ten seconds or so. Here’s my idea: a person carrying a big bundle walks into a room, dumps the bundle on the bed, slams the door shut, and the impact knocks the room number plaque down—307. What do you think?” Wu Xiang had just transformed his own experience of entering the dorm for the first time into this artistic image.

“Alright!” Hao Yi got it—no need to overthink, just draw it. Though inwardly, he was a bit skeptical about how ordinary the idea was.

Why go to all this trouble? Wu Xiang wanted to start his own company with his friends.

This idea would be simple enough in the future—given Wu Xiang’s rising fame, it would be odd not to think of it. But in this era, things were different. For one thing, Wu Xiang had already checked: to start a company, you had to be unemployed or between jobs. A student couldn’t be the legal representative.

That was the policy—things weren’t as flexible yet. It was like how private business licenses used to have parenthetical notes—there had been progress, but not enough.

But necessity is the mother of invention. Wu Xiang quickly found a workaround: he’d ask his mother, who was currently unemployed, to register on his behalf.

The company was a must, and Wu Xiang already had a name in mind: 307 Film Studio.

The animation Wu Xiang wanted fell under editing, and since everything had to be put together anyway, he took charge himself, with Teacher Zhou assisting.

Other tasks were simpler. For voice work, on-site recording was now the trend—just like “The Great Flood” had used. The recording would then be synced in post-production. The advantage was authenticity, but if any part didn’t work, it would have to be patched in later. Wu Xiang knew it was best to avoid this, as dubs never quite matched the original. So he paid special attention while filming.

That’s also why professionally trained actors were in demand—they had solid skills and better delivery.

As for the music, Wang Feng was the obvious choice. He was eager, hoping Wu Xiang would write him a song.

Unfortunately, Wang Feng was disappointed—Wu Xiang didn’t write a song this time, just discussed the score. As for a theme song, frankly, Wu Xiang felt this film didn’t suit Wang Feng’s rock style, but he couldn’t find a better option either. So he decided to forgo a theme song altogether.

No theme song—it was a bold move, but the reality was there wasn’t a suitable one. The original movie’s theme didn’t impress Wu Xiang either. Sticking to the principle of quality over quantity, he simply let Wang Feng play the violin—the instrument’s tone perfectly matched the film’s mood.

From the start of “First Intimate Contact” to the completion of post-production, there were a few small hiccups, but the timeline was quick. Even so, an entire semester plus summer vacation had slipped by.

When Wu Xiang sent the finished film for review, the new semester was about to begin.