The scene was set, the cameras and lights were in place, and a stylist was making final adjustments to his hair. Standing next to the camera, Chen Bai listened to the assistant director’s instructions, nodding slightly in acknowledgment.
Once everything was ready, he set down the script in his hand and stepped forward.
This scene was set after Ah Huai’s return from the hospital.
A thin figure sat at the desk by the window. The photographer quickly adjusted the camera settings before signaling to the assistant director, who gave a small nod.
The entire set fell into silence.
The person sitting by the window moved, leaning over the desk to pick up the pen placed beside him.
Ah Huai had always been in poor health, unable to attend school like other students. Despite this, he had maintained a habit of reading and studying, hoping it would be useful one day. However, after learning about his terminal illness, he gave up. Now, after returning from the hospital, he had picked up this habit once again.
The sun had been shining brightly for the past few days. Its warm golden light filtered through the layers of kapok leaves outside the window, casting dappled patterns across the pages of his book and the top of his head. The warm glow sharply contrasted with his pale skin.
The thin hand holding the pen moved, the nib scratching lightly against the paper, producing a faint rustling sound.
Outside the set, the staff closed the door at just the right moment, making the wooden panels creak.
This was the cue—someone had entered the room, signaling the transition to the next part of the scene and the beginning of the dialogue.
The person sitting by the window seemed to sense something. He tilted his head slightly, as if listening carefully, then smiled. “I’m reading The Mably Anthology. The second chapter is quite interesting.”
It was the same face, but the expression of this smile was completely different from his usual one. It wasn’t bright and dazzling, overflowing with tangible happiness. Instead, it was light and gentle, carrying a quiet warmth.
He set down the pen, closed the book, and continued, “I saw that the tree downstairs has started sprouting. It’s already late autumn, almost winter. But my room has a heater—if I move it inside, maybe it’ll survive.”
The young man’s voice was clear and crisp, his enunciation precise. In keeping with his frail condition, his speech was slightly slower, gentle and natural, soothing enough to make anyone unconsciously relax just by listening.
The first long dialogue was delivered effortlessly. When the assistant director finally called “Cut,” there was an unmistakable smile in his voice.
Scenes with long lines often resulted in multiple NGs (no-good takes). Longer sentences made it easy for actors to stumble over words or break character, slowing down production.
He had braced himself for the scene to take a long time, yet it was completed surprisingly quickly. This saved them a considerable amount of time.
For once, they might actually be able to eat lunch on time—maybe even earlier than scheduled.
More importantly, they wouldn’t have to hire a voice actor for dubbing, making post-production much easier.
The progress was smooth. Both the actors and crew were in excellent form throughout the morning. During the break, the assistant director reviewed the footage synced from the cameras, smiling as he squinted at the screen. The director, who had stepped away earlier, had returned and was also watching the playback.
Since so many people were crowded around the monitors, Chen Bai didn’t join them. He had barely stepped away from the camera when the makeup artist grabbed him for touch-ups. Afterward, he found a small stool in the corner, exhaled deeply, and fanned himself with his relatively thin script.
Filming might seem easy, but it was surprisingly exhausting.
He hadn’t been fanning himself for long when the director, having finished reviewing the footage, pulled up his own small stool and sat down beside him. His first question was about how Chen Bai was able to deliver his lines so smoothly.
It was a complicated story, so Chen Bai kept it simple: “I worked a few jobs before, and somehow it turned out like this.”
Before arriving in this world, he had dabbled in various roles—commercial host, game commentator, even assisting in a friend’s theater troupe. Slowly, he had developed this skill. Though it wasn’t exactly the same as acting, there were some overlapping similarities. He tried to adapt, and apparently, it worked.
This was something he had done, but the supporting character in this world had not. Since these work experiences wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny, he chose to be vague.
The director didn’t probe further. He simply nodded. “So that’s how it is.”
Then, as if reminded of something, he added, “The producer should really be paying you more.”
A film crew’s daily expenses—venue rentals, labor costs, equipment, materials—could easily reach tens of thousands. Every wasted minute meant burning real money. A faster filming process, fewer NGs, and no need for additional dubbing saved a lot more than what they were paying this actor.
With more scenes to check on, the director didn’t linger. He took his little stool and left.
Meanwhile, Chen Bai remained in the corner, quietly going over his script.
The morning had been filled with solo shots, but in the afternoon, he would be acting alongside other cast members.
No matter where he went, the social genius that was Chen Bai thrived. By the end of the afternoon, he had gained several new WeChat contacts. In the morning, he had been reading the script alone in a corner. By the afternoon break, he was surrounded by a small group, chatting away.
In just a few hours, not only had he caught up on all the old gossip from the crew, but he had also learned all the juicy rumors about the neighboring film crew.
With his insatiable curiosity, he naturally reached out to his good neighbor—who just so happened to be working in that very crew—to verify the information.
At that moment, his good neighbor had just finished filming and was taking a break, a towel draped around his neck as he wiped away sweat. When he glanced at his phone and saw the message, his eyes twitched.
[I heard that your screenwriter and director are together?]
“…”
In silence, Xu Sinian turned to look at his assistant in the lounge.
Chapter 9 (2/2) – W Big Order is Online Again
Noticing the gaze from the side, the assistant, who was sipping from a thermos, turned around.
——
The break ended just as they were halfway through chatting. After Chen Bai sent his message, he didn’t have time to wait for a reply before it was his turn to film again. He could only put his phone down, planning to check his messages during the next break.
When he finally got a chance to look, his good neighbor had replied with a simple: “Yes.”
He laughed.
Someone nearby heard him and turned around to ask, “What’s so funny?”
Chen Bai quickly typed out a response, waved his hand, and said, “Nothing.”
He was truly happy about getting confirmation on the gossip. But his mood took a downturn after work—because by then, it was already past dinnertime.
On his way home, he took on two lock-picking jobs. Every cent that was meant to be earned was earned, and at least one more person in the city went home happy.
His good neighbor had work that night and wouldn’t be back for dinner, so there was no one to eat with. Since the live stream was about to start soon, he opted for a simple meal of white rice and vegetables before rushing to begin.
As it turns out, super workers adapt quickly to anything. In just two days, Master Chen had completely adjusted to the crew’s workflow, found a balance between his daily tasks, and even made time for occasional meals and chats with his good neighbor.
The initial workload was heavy, but once he made up for the delayed shoots and caught up with the schedule, things became more manageable. Some days, he only needed to be on set for half a day, allowing him to continue his part-time job at the restaurant on weekends.
Even though he had only been to the restaurant twice, some customers still remembered him and greeted him when they saw him.
Tonight, he was on the night shift. The weather wasn’t great—the sky had turned completely dark, and unlike before, the buildings in the distance were barely visible. Looking out the window, all he could see were the endless city lights.
It would probably rain tonight.
While playing the piano, Chen Bai glanced at the sky outside and silently hoped the rain would stop by the time he headed home.
When he was getting ready to leave after his shift, his colleague kindly reminded him to bring an umbrella.
The problem was—Master Chen had rushed out in the morning and hadn’t brought an umbrella at all. Whether or not he made it home dry was now entirely up to fate.
The good news was that it wasn’t raining when he stepped outside.
The bad news?
The moment he walked out of the building, the sound of heavy rain hitting the pavement roared in his ears.
The rain was heavier than the day he inherited 400 million in debt.
“…”
He lost the bet.
Standing in the downpour, Chen Bai fell into deep thought.
A convenience store next to him sold umbrellas. He weighed his options—buy an umbrella or make a run for the subway station in the rain? Without hesitation, he chose not to spend a single penny.
He calculated his route, looking for the fastest way to get to the subway station.
After thinking about it, he realized—there was no shortcut.
So, without further delay, he stepped directly into the rain.
Since he was going to get wet anyway, it was better to leave sooner, get home earlier, and start the live stream on time.
The continuous downpour soaked his hair and shoulders, sending chills through his body. Around him, people hurried past under umbrellas, their steps quick and anxious. Chen Bai walked alongside them, maneuvering through the crowd, but the density of umbrellas made it hard to pick up his pace.
He moved closer to the roadside, trying to walk where there were fewer umbrellas in his way.
The subway station, usually just a short walk away, felt like an eternity.
On the roadside, vehicles kept passing, their headlights bright against the darkness, illuminating the falling raindrops.
A car slowed down and pulled up to the curb, its headlights flashing briefly.
——
Huo Chuan was passing through this street on his way to finish work.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed—”
Inside the quiet car, the automated voice message played repeatedly.
Outside, the rain poured down relentlessly, but the interior of the vehicle remained eerily silent, except for the steady hum of the automated message.
He couldn’t remember how many times he had called. He also couldn’t remember the last time he had dialed this number.
The only thing he could hear was the robotic female voice, repeating mechanically. Huo Chuan sat in the backseat, his eyes closed, pressing a hand against his chest near his heart.
The assistant glanced at the rearview mirror, then signaled the driver to pull over to the side of the road for a while.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, in a hoarse voice, the man in the back seat finally spoke.
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
The assistant was momentarily stunned. Then, realizing who he meant, he quickly responded, “You mean Mr. Chen? Let me check.”
He pulled out his phone, found the number, and dialed immediately.
Just as the call connected, the assistant turned his head—and through the rain-splattered window, he caught sight of a faint figure under the dim streetlights.
