Forced to Act out a Strange Script with a Rival - Chapter 9

She was determined, even wishing to beg: ‘…’

Of course, everyone was shocked.

Because the original plot of the story never reached the university section!

The entire story of Copper Sparrow Intermission had an open ending.

But most “Copper Scholars” (fans of the work) held a pessimistic view of the story’s conclusion.

They generally believed that the two girls died in the final battle, as various preceding plot points had long foreshadowed the characters’ fates.

Director Yan loved to use small imagery to hint at the larger framework; the more immersed one became in the story, the more information one could glean about the characters.

The final shot of the story was fixed on a prayer bead rolling down a spiral staircase. The dim, gloomy picture—a stark contrast to the initial brightness—left behind an endlessly lingering sense of oppression.

No one knew if the boys’ struggle was successful, but they likely could not escape the cycle of destiny.

Consequently, many fans could not accept this ending.

It became a collective regret, which led to a surge of fan fiction and other derivative works, including pieces by literary masters.

In the fan fiction settings, the most commonly written “What If” (If-Line) background was a world where peace was restored, and the two young girls truly survived and went to college together.

Later, millions petitioned for the two original actresses to star in a subsequent “University Chapter,” but what awaited the fans was the two of them completely falling out and breaking up.

So, now the original source herself is writing fan fiction?!

Yes, the original actress herself wanted to write fan fiction.

She had originally thought it was just a memory, nothing worth caring about.

However, once she truly entered the character, the emotions accumulated over many years erupted in that instant, washing over her.

All other reasons became unimportant; she could only admit the truth.

She genuinely couldn’t forget.

Even the audience couldn’t forget, so how could the main creative team ever let it go?

She might not have felt much while filming back then, but it wasn’t until the shooting neared its end that she suddenly realized the play had been filmed for a full three years.

To pursue a sense of reality, Director Yan Yun filmed it in great detail, taking three years to polish the work. It could be said that this project documented the entire youth of the two young characters.

During this time, Li Ting truly became Xun Ye—genuinely attending school, genuinely meeting various companions.

To showcase the characters’ growth, Copper Sparrow Intermission was filmed in several phases.

They experienced brief partings, but soon, they would meet again, gather, and complete the story.

When the ending was finally filmed, Li Ting was not overly sad at first; she felt it was just another one of their partings. Countless partings had happened before that.

But on the day the entire crew wrapped up, Li Ting couldn’t hold back and went to ask her mentor—the one who introduced her to the industry and the director of Copper Sparrow Intermission, Yan Yun.

“Director Yan, will this story have a sequel or an extra episode filmed?”

Yan Yun smiled kindly but said something cruel: “Good child, their story has already ended.”

“It just ends like this?” Li Ting asked, like a miniature adult: “Even if the commercial success is very good, there won’t be any follow-up?”

Yan Yun shook her head firmly, her face full of ambition. Though she was entering her twilight years, she was still full of fresh, youthful spirit: “This work will definitely be successful, but it is enough.”

“But, but,” Li Ting looked at Si Xiaoxiao, who was happily playing with other friends, her smile bright, almost carefree, and a sense of resentment suddenly sprang up in her heart.

“I don’t want it to end.”

She was determined, even wishing to beg: “Wouldn’t it be good if we just kept filming?”

“It is time to end,” Yan Yun said: “This was just one three-year period. You will have many more three-year periods.”

“…” A flash of madness crossed Li Ting’s eyes, revealing a darkness unsuited to her age: “Teacher, are you going to abandon us?”

Yan Yun spoke earnestly to counsel her: “Good child, I don’t know if you will hate me in the future, but no matter what, I love you, and I love everyone in the story. I am sorry for dragging you into this world, all for my own selfish desire.”

“And now, I must let you go.”

Leave?

Large tears immediately fell from Li Ting’s eyes. She shook her head, shaking it desperately: “But, I don’t want to end it. I don’t want it to end just like this. I want to act in it for a lifetime.”

“But you are not Xun Ye, and she is not Cao Xueliao,” Yan Yun, who had seen thousands of sails, spoke wisely and profoundly: “You have your own lives. Leave. From this point, run towards the sun.”

The tears were still hard to stop. Li Ting looked at Yan Yun, then at Si Xiaoxiao, her gaze sweeping over the familiar faces of the others. She said: “But you all are my sun.”

“Child, you are too obsessive.” Director Yan Yun finally ended their conversation on the wrap-up night with this sentence.

Yan Yun would not mistake her child. Compared to the impulsive, passionate, single-minded, and even somewhat adorably foolish Si Xiaoxiao, Li Ting was the “bad child.”

She had always been the bad child who wouldn’t listen to the teacher and made the teacher worry.

Xun Ye, in the story of Copper Sparrow Intermission, offered herself as a sacrifice, but the hand she ultimately refused to let go of was her companion’s.

Li Ting was indeed too similar to her.

Just as Yan Yun said, Li Ting was indeed an obsessive person.

Whether towards matters or people.

She appeared gentle on the surface but was actually full of possessiveness, unable to tolerate even a grain of sand in her eye.

Thus, she had been obsessive for seven years. Even though her teacher had said she was the most talented actress she had ever seen.

But she just couldn’t move past it, betraying her teacher’s trust.

Unlike the increasingly resilient and somewhat carefree Si Xiaoxiao, Li Ting was sensitive and held onto her beliefs rigidly. She was the one who fled; she always had been.

She thought by not touching the memories, she could bury them in her heart.

But some wounds, the more one endures and refuses to face them, the more they fester and burrow deep into the bone.

Li Ting must have genuinely disliked Si Xiaoxiao, right? Was it hatred born of love?

It was hard to say. Too many things stood between them.

Human emotions were indeed too complicated, truly making them difficult to fathom.

Speaking to Si Xiaoxiao after a long time, even if it was in that strange system space, the memories that were unlocked inevitably surged in her mind.

Even after all these years, she still truly couldn’t forget.

On this stage, in this very moment, she finally faced her inner self.

The person she couldn’t let go of the most, the person she loved the most, and the person she hated the most—it had always been her.

She just wanted to hypothesize a possibility.

If Xun Ye…

If Xun Ye and her companions could all go to college…

With the yearning for her former self, Li Ting took action and began her performance.

They would go grocery shopping together, read books in the library together, watch the sunrise at the beach together, and go hiking and camping together—playful and happy.

Li Ting, relying on instinct, acted out all her aspirations.

Although it was an impromptu stage performance with little prior preparation, every line came out without any need for thought.

Because, standing on the stage at this moment, she was genuinely Xun Ye.

She said: “Silly A’Liao, remember to make a wish when the shooting star comes. Why do you keep looking at me?”

She said: “I think I can stand up now. I might even make it to the first sports day.”

She said: “The peach blossoms are blooming in the next city over. Let’s pick some and make wine.”

Those were regrets, and they were also promises.

Director Yan certainly knew her child well. She said Li Ting was exceptionally talented, a fine acting material, but too easily immersed in the role—and the facts proved it.

Relying on a few movements and a few lines of dialogue, even though the stage was so simple, Li Ting genuinely painted that incomparably beautiful vision for the people watching her performance.

Countless audience members were transported to that world by her.

[Her acting is so warm, clearly a Happy Ending, but why do I feel like crying so much?]

[I feel the same way. Even with such a simple stage and props, she can be so infectious. No wonder Director Yan said A’Ting is the most talented student she has ever taught.]

[It’s a shame A’Liao isn’t here. I really want to see them act together. I wonder what A’Liao would say. I’m so sad, sob sob sob.]

[Maybe I’ve watched Copper Sparrow too many times; A’Liao’s responses are automatically filling in my head. It’s so nostalgic but also so devastating. I’m going to cry and watch Copper Sparrow again later.]

[Wait, something feels wrong! Why is she acting like a memoir for a deceased wife? Is the emotion here one of sorrow and loss?]

The stage lights suddenly dimmed again.

Only the sound of Xun Ye’s voice could be heard, slowly rising.

“A’Liao, I think I’ve seen you again.”

Pinpricks of light fell onto Xun Ye. She slowly stood up from the wheelchair, embraced the air, and then stumbled, falling heavily onto the stage.

The camera focused on her face, revealing her eyes unfocused, tears continuously streaming down.

This was followed by a pre-recorded narration.

A gentle, youthful voice rang out.

“The umbrella ribs we once held together have rusted into a crescent moon, but the rain under the eaves has never again heard the sound of two pairs of footsteps.”

“The kite string broke during the Awakening of Insects at sixteen; later, every spring brought a fine, persistent ache.”

“Pushing open the door, the garden of crabapples is as it was; the long journey home is ultimately unlike the journey of youth.”

[!! It’s a knife! A huge knife today! Is this implying that only Xun Ye survived??!!]

[I knew it! How could Copper Sparrow ever be sweet? Hehehehe! (This person has gone mad)]

[I’m so sad, so sad!! Sob sob sob. Come and ship ‘Xiao Ting’ (Xiaoxiao and Ting)! It’s guaranteed to be a good ship.]

Facing Li Ting’s performance, the mentors were also shocked.

As the saying goes, professionals do professional work. Most of the mentors invited to the program were renowned directors or actors.

Unlike the singing variety show mentors, some of whom might have only heard the songs and never watched Copper Sparrow Intermission, the mentors here were all fans of Copper Sparrow Intermission.

As a timeless classic and the final work of a super master director, Copper Sparrow Intermission had been incorporated into acting textbooks for actors and directors to study.

Sitting in the mentor seats, they were different from regular fans; they had studied Copper Sparrow frame by frame.

One could say that every person present was a “Copper Scholar.”

Li Ting’s performance transported them to that summer, to those memories. The sheer emotional draw of nostalgia alone was enough for them to slam the light buttons until they broke.

And even disregarding the emotional context, the sheer power of her performance’s infectiousness demanded the light be pressed.

[Is this the destructive power of a white moonlight (a cherished, unattainable love)? All the lights exploded.]

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