The Night is Called Gentle - Chapter 49

The new round of script discussions convened on Tuesday afternoon.

After several previous rounds of deliberation, the creative team had polished two relatively mature script proposals.

Only after everyone had spoken did Lin Zhixia slowly begin, proposing a completely different creative approach.

“The original novel is divided into nine volumes. The first five focus on laying the groundwork, the sixth volume brings all factions together in the capital for a game of strategy, pushing the story to its climax, while the final two volumes serve as the resolution internal and external forces colluding, leading to the fall of the nation and the destruction of the city.”

She paused, her gaze sweeping over each person in the room.

“My suggestion is: abandon the first five volumes, downplay the last two, and focus solely on the middle two volumes.”

No one interrupted her, so she continued.

“To be specific,” her voice was clear and resolute, “the opening could be a concise and powerful transitional scene, using refined lyrics and stage direction to clearly convey the story’s background within three to five minutes.”

She stood up and walked to the whiteboard, quickly sketching a stage diagram.

“Then, as the curtain rises, all the core characters make their debut at Yiming Tower. Through highly charged dialogue and arias, each character reveals their life trajectory, choices of stance, and inner ambitions to the audience.”

The whiteboard marker traced a dynamic arc.

“When the threads of all the characters’ destinies intertwine into a web, the final curtain rises, and the protagonist makes their appearance.”

After a few more strokes on the whiteboard, she added, “All the games and struggles unfold within this confined space. They support each other while testing one another, leveraging each other’s strengths while secretly competing. Each person strives to break free from their fate in this chaotic era.”

Her voice gradually softened.

“In the final act, the dynasty collapses, and the flames of the burning city consume everything. Each person meets their own end in the fire, returning to dust and ashes.”

Everyone followed her words, some nodding thoughtfully, others jotting down notes. Only Yan Huaiqing remained silent, watching her intently, pondering her.

Lin Zhixia then provided meticulous explanations on stage design, prop usage, costume features, as well as the order of each character’s appearance, the content of their arias, and stage direction.

The whiteboard was filled with sketches and notes, erased and rewritten again and again.

Her proposal was refined and comprehensive, covering nearly all creative elements except for the lyrics and musical composition, which still needed refinement.

Moreover, she had completely broken away from the traditional narrative framework, condensing the dramatic conflicts to a high degree and refining each character with greater depth and richness than the original.

Her clear logic and precise wording fully engaged everyone’s emotions, sparking a lively discussion.

“The foreshadowing and twists in the first five volumes of the original are brilliant. Wouldn’t it be a shame to discard them? And wouldn’t such drastic cuts affect the overall story?”

“But the previous versions tried to cover too much, with repeated cast changes and scene shifts, which diluted the core story and fragmented the plot, not to mention the issue of runtime,” the director pointed out sharply. “This proposal actually addresses the problems we’ve been struggling with.”

“The greatest advantage of opera is its ability to provide an ‘omniscient perspective’ through lyrics,” the assistant director added. “If we can cleverly convey the background through the lyrics when the characters make their debut, it would indeed balance narrative and emotion. However, this places extremely high demands on the lyricist.”

“The lyrics can be polished slowly no rush, it’s not a big issue,” the lyric teacher waved dismissively. “But this kind of presentation weakens the story and the protagonist. I’m not sure if the opera fans will accept it.”

“Although the story is weakened, it highlights every character within it,” the screenwriter explained, holding a pen. “Each role on stage is vivid and radiant, with their own complete, extended solos. From another perspective, it might even attract a more diverse audience.”

“The biggest challenge lies in the stage presentation it sounds too labor-intensive,” the set designer frowned at the sketches. “Moreover, it demands too much from the theater’s hardware, and the scene changes would be very difficult to manage.”

“True,” the screenwriter glanced at the script and added, “But the entire play unfolds within Yiming Tower, so there are actually very few scene changes. The only real difficulty is the final scene, transitioning from inside the tower to the burning city. As long as we solve that, the other scenes can be layered using screens or curtains.”

“We could incorporate a rotating or sinking stage. The burning city scene could be presented with a combination of curtains and lighting effects. However, this would require a theater with a highly advanced stage, and for a national tour, the cost of constructing the sets each time would be quite high.”

The meeting continued until evening, and even dinner was eaten together in small groups, discussing the feasibility of the proposal.

Only Yan Huaiqing remained silent, eating quietly without a word.

Lin Zhixia felt uncertain and kept secretly observing her.

After dinner, everyone reviewed and discussed all the issues once more, each offering their opinions.

“I still support this proposal,” the director spoke first. “Although it weakens the linear narrative, it intensifies the dramatic conflict to the extreme. We can continue refining it.”

“I agree as well,” the screenwriter added. “Telling a story is essentially about telling the people in the story. This version strengthens the character development, giving each role a complete space for artistic expression. Personally, I find this adaptation very compelling.”

Yan Huaiqing still did not voice her opinion.

“It’s getting late. Let’s end the discussion here for today. Everyone, go back and refine your respective parts. We’ll meet again on Thursday to finalize,” she said calmly, her expression composed and unreadable.

Lin Zhixia grew a bit anxious.

After the meeting adjourned, she quietly helped Yan Huaiqing gather her things, holding them along with her own notebook carefully in her arms as she walked cautiously.

“Teacher Yan.” Her voice was softer than the wind.

“Hmm?” Yan Huaiqing’s ear twitched slightly, and she noticeably slowed her pace.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Lin Zhixia tilted her head, studying Yan Huaiqing’s expression.

A faint smile touched Yan Huaiqing’s lips. “I’m learning from you.”

“Learning from me.” Lin Zhixia paused mid-step.

Yan Huaiqing glanced back at her, one hand supporting her arm, speaking deliberately. “Weren’t you the one who never spoke up in meetings before?”

So it was revenge.

This person really was quite mischievous.

Lin Zhixia let out a quiet “hmph” in her heart but couldn’t resist asking, “Then, Teacher Yan, what do you think of my proposal?”

“Guess,” came the reply, her tone teasing and deliberately elusive.

Lin Zhixia sighed softly, hugging her notebook as she muttered under her breath, “I can’t guess.”

“Wasn’t your proposal tailored specifically to my feedback?”

Yan Huaiqing suddenly halted her steps. The night breeze lifted the corner of her coat, and as she turned, it carried a faint scent of grass and trees.

Then she asked, “How could you not have guessed?”

“Professor Yan, are you a narcissist?” Lin Zhixia retorted softly, her ears flushed bright red.

Yan Huaiqing chuckled, taking half a step back to take in the person before her fully, and said gracefully

“I said the character’s entrance wasn’t striking enough, so you designed two layers of curtains, unveiling them one by one, building the atmosphere to its peak.”

“I said the connections between the characters weren’t strong enough, the plot too fragmented, so you strung them together like pearls.”

“I said the scene transitions were too frequent, hindering immersion and making it hard for the audience to engage, so you made bold cuts and created a stable, independent space.”

“I also said the characters were overshadowed by the story, the arias too fragmented to leave a lasting impression, so you tried to orchestrate everyone, giving each of them a representative piece.”

Yan Huaiqing took another step closer, her angle just right for the moonlight to trace her delicate jawline. Her warm breath wove an invisible net around the other’s ear.

“You only attended two script discussions, yet you incorporated every single one of my suggestions.”

“You’ve practically become my reference answer. How dare you say it wasn’t tailored for me?”

She stood bathed in moonlight, her gaze dissecting Lin Zhixia, the slanting shadow beneath her carrying an oppressive weight.

Lin Zhixia felt like a bolt of silk being measured inch by inch, awaiting the cut of the scissors.

“Professor Yan, you’re a devil,” she suddenly looked up, pouting at her.

“Devils understand hearts best,” Yan Huaiqing tilted her head slightly, still staring directly at her. “It seems I’ve seen right through you.”

“Devils also devour people. Are you going to devour me, Professor Yan?” Her voice was light, but her breathing grew heavy. Lin Zhixia, like a cornered animal, bared her fangs in an instinctive counterattack.

The night breeze felt scorching, muddling one’s senses.

Yan Huaiqing’s gaze fell on her earlobe. She wanted to pinch it, but her shoulder ached, and she couldn’t lift her hand, so she gave up.

“Xiaxia,” she suddenly called her softly, as if commanding a little creature.

“Hmm?” Lin Zhixia unconsciously licked her lips, responding like a wagging tail.

“How long has it been since you went home?” Yan Huaiqing frowned as if troubled, but a sly glint hid in her eyes.

“Three days” Lin Zhixia suddenly choked up, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the edge of her notebook.

Was she implying she should go home?

Yan Huaiqing suddenly laughed, the curve at the corner of her eyes making the moonlight seem to tremble. She changed the subject and asked, “Lin Xiaoman, have you abandoned your mother?”

Oh, heavens!

So that’s the “home” she meant.

Thinking carefully, it had been almost a month since she last went back. She’d only called a few times and hadn’t replied to the messages in the family group chat.

Damn it.

What was worse, this woman’s implication seemed to be Lin Xiaoman had abandoned her mother because of her.

Lin Zhixia’s ears burned fiercely. The night breeze suddenly turned cold, as if trying to wake her up to her unfilial behavior.

“I, I should go back,” she stammered, fiddling with her notebook, feeling deeply embarrassed.

Yan Huaiqing chuckled softly, her gaze enveloping her as gently as moonlight. She hummed in agreement, then suddenly reached out and took back her notebook. “Have you figured out how to explain yourself?”

“Um…” Lin Zhixia stared at the silver button swaying on her sleeve, her voice growing softer. “Just say I’ve been entangled by a mind-reading devil and can’t get away.”

Yan Huaiqing’s light laughter scattered in the wind.

“Then you’d better send that devil home first, lest you truly become ensnared.”