TriNovel Chapter 336: Jiang Ci Ascends the “High Tower” Alone
Chapter 336: Jiang Ci Ascends the “High Tower” Alone
Chapter 336: Jiang Ci Ascends the "High Tower" Alone
The moment those two words left Hou Hsiao-hsien's mouth, a majestic, grand, ancient melody of the utmost intensity burst forth from the venue's surround sound system!
It was "The Song of Gaixia."
The tragic song of the Hegemon's final stand, where blood stained the mountains and rivers!
At the very first note of the music, Qin Feng had already reacted.
There was not a trace of the disappointment of defeat on his face. Instead, there was a bone-deep sense of relief, as if a great burden had been lifted.
He abruptly stood up and, under the focus of countless camera lenses, fiercely pulled the young man who was still sitting quietly beside him into a tight embrace.
The force was so great it made Jiang Ci's slender frame sway slightly.
Qin Feng's palm heavily, repeatedly, patted Jiang Ci's back.
"Good lad! Well done!"
This embrace held no encouragement from a senior to a junior, nor was it a congratulation for a new king replacing an old emperor.
It was only the profound relief of having a thousand-pound weight lifted from one's shoulders.
Qin Feng stood up, and a silent command spread.
In the first row, Director Wei Song, Zhang Mouyi, veteran actors Huang Shengqiu and Liu Hanyu, and the female lead Zhao Yingfei all rose to their feet in unison.
Immediately after, the second row, then the third.
Those fellow nominated actors, renowned directors from the industry, producers holding the reins of capital.
No one took the lead.
No one issued a call.
From front to back, from left to right, people stood up one after another.
The entire hall rose to its feet.
After a moment of silence, applause erupted and continued for a long, long time.
This applause was not about courtesy, nor was it about congratulations.
It was the highest form of respect for a madman who had gambled his life to earn a role.
Wei Song stood behind Jiang Ci, looking at that still-thin back under the glare of camera flashes.
He finally couldn't hold back, took off his glasses, and roughly wiped the corner of his eye with his hand.
He wasn't happy for Jiang Ci.
He was happy for that young man who had driven a Film Emperor to the brink at the Hongmen Feast, who had demanded nineteen revisions to the prop sword by the Wu River.
How much blood and tears this trophy was stained with, only he knew best.
Jiang Ci stiffened for a moment in that scorching embrace before slowly raising his hand and gently patting Qin Feng's back in return.
He pushed Qin Feng away and straightened up.
He adjusted the lapel of that light-devouring black suit.
[My ribs... Does Teacher Qin want to deliver the final blow to Xiang Yu off-screen?]
Jiang Ci deadpanned in his heart, simultaneously exhaling the breath that had been squeezed out of him.
Then, he stepped onto the stairs leading to the stage.
There were seven steps in total.
He walked neither hurriedly nor slowly, his steps steady.
On the left side of his chest, at the heart position, the "Blood Medal" pigeon-blood ruby brooch flashed with a piercing light under the spotlight.
He walked onto the stage, towards the cinematic giant standing there in his Tang Suit, proud and unyielding.
Hou Hsiao-hsien held the heavy golden trophy in both hands, not immediately handing it over.
The young man before him, his face having regained some color yet still pale,
looked into his eyes.
He handed the trophy into Jiang Ci's hands.
This was the silent passing of the torch between two generations of filmmakers, at the pinnacle of the transition between old and new reigns.
Jiang Ci held the trophy, his palm feeling the temperature of the metal.
He nodded to Hou Hsiao-hsien.
Then, he turned and walked alone towards the microphone at the center of the stage.
The lights focused.
The background music of "The Song of Gaixia" gradually softened, fading into a mournful sound of wind.
The applause in the hall also gradually subsided.
Everyone held their breath, waiting for the acceptance speech of this newly crowned Film Emperor.
Waiting for his ecstasy, his excitement, or his tears.
However, Jiang Ci just stood there quietly.
Holding the trophy, his gaze lowered to the stage beneath his feet.
One second.
Two seconds.
Five seconds.
He did not speak.
A full ten seconds.
The venue fell into complete silence.
The bullet comments in the live stream stopped.
The media reporters in the front row held their cameras, fingers hovering over the shutter buttons, forgetting to press them.
Jiang Ci was not organizing his words.
He was listening.
Listening to the neighing of horses and howling of wind from the Wu River crossing two thousand years ago—sounds that did not exist at all within this hall.
Finally, he raised his head.
The microphone carried his cool, clear voice to every corner of the venue.
"This chair is too cold."
The entire hall was stunned.
What?
What did he say?
The throne of the Film Emperor, he said it was... cold?
Jiang Ci paid no mind to the astonishment below the stage.
He extended his other hand, his fingertip gently stroking the golden trophy.
The carved patterns on it pressed against his skin, transmitting a faint, stinging sensation.
"Many people say I acted well."
His voice held no inflection.
"Actually, I didn't act."
"I just lent this body, for those few months, to the man named Xiang Ji."
The audience below erupted into complete commotion.
What kind of acceptance speech was this?
Had he gone mad?
Jiang Ci remained calm.
He did not thank any platform, did not thank his company, did not thank the directors.
He did not even thank the organizing committee.
He began to list a series of unfamiliar names.
"Thank you to Old Zhang from the Props Team."
Below the stage, in a remote corner, an old man with graying hair and a face full of wrinkles jerked his head up.
Jiang Ci continued speaking.
"Your sword was very heavy."
The old man froze, remembering that night when he was forced to revise the prop sword nineteen times,
remembering the final words the young man had said: "Three grams lighter, and the weight of a hero going to his death is gone."
His eyes reddened.
"Thank you to that older brother in the Background Actors group, whose name I don't know."
Jiang Ci's gaze traversed the venue, landing on a certain spot.
"During the Battle of Julu, when you died in my arms that day, your body was truly trembling."
"Thank you for that tremor. It was the only human warmth Xiang Yu felt when he slaughtered the two hundred thousand surrendered soldiers."
The reporters in the media area forgot to press their shutter buttons.
They stared dumbfounded at the young man on the stage.
Never had a Film Emperor, at an awards ceremony, given thanks to a prop master,
to a background actor whose name he didn't even know,
to those specks of dust on the film set, the most insignificant, the most easily overlooked.
In the back row, Liu Wei lowered his head to look at his own well-maintained, clean, and slender hands.
These were the hands of a "performer."
And that young man on the stage, though dressed in the highest-grade custom-tailored suit,
Liu Wei could see through that layer of fabric a pair of hands stained with blood and dirt,
hands that existed solely to "live as" another person.
At that moment, Liu Wei felt an absurd chill.
He realized he hadn't lost. Rather, from the very beginning, they had not been running on the same track.
Jiang Ci held the trophy, his gaze passing over everyone in the audience, looking towards the darkness of the venue's exit,
as if looking at an old friend waiting there.
He thought of his own father, a narcotics hero whose name could not even be remembered.
He thought of those nameless ones, like his father, who burned themselves out in the darkness, unable to leave even a wisp of smoke behind.
They were the true actors, using their lives to play another role until the curtain fell.
And he was merely a lucky imitator, able to live in the sunlight.
He spoke into the microphone, uttering his final sentence.
"Lastly, I want to dedicate this award to those..."