Chapter Sixty-Four: No Harvesting, the Puzzle Complete

On the way to the hotel, Lin Xing learned that the assistant director’s name was Bai Yan. Bai Yan had volunteered to pick him up in order to get acquainted in advance.

“Black Tide” was structured around three narrative threads: the first followed the main protagonist Yu Hai’s righteous path; the second, the antagonist Wang Fei’s journey; and the third, the story arc centering on Zhou Bo, the character Lin Xing would be portraying.

Although Zhou Bo didn’t have the most screen time, his role spanned the entire fifteen years depicted in Jinghai, and many of the most nefarious deeds in the later part of the story were his handiwork. Several scenes were designed specifically to highlight Zhou Bo’s cruelty.

To put it simply, Wang Fei played Shen Ming, a successful entrepreneur whose wickedness was hidden beneath the surface—rivalries with other business magnates, covert bribes of money and favors to those in power, and so forth. To an average viewer, the evil here was like undercurrents, not easily perceived. Outwardly, Shen Ming was a model citizen—polite, a beloved philanthropist in Jinghai, the founder of multiple charitable schools from kindergarten all the way to high school.

Even in the original novel “Jinghai Storm,” Shen Ming was depicted as profoundly calculating, always with a smile for everyone. If his secretary ever made a mistake, he’d reassure them it was fine—only for that secretary to “commit suicide” the next day.

In contrast, Zhou Bo’s villainy was on full display, almost brazen in its frankness. There was no such thing as “the worst”—only something worse. No limit to cruelty, only more cruelty. No bottom to beastliness, only ever more depravity.

Bai Yan’s main responsibility was overseeing the storyline of Shen Ming’s crimes, and he was leading an independent unit for this. Having heard Zu Ming’s high praise for Lin Xing during casting, Bai Yan felt it wise to build rapport with him. Unlike Zu Ming, a renowned director, Bai Yan had only recently managed to secure a position as a C-unit director, and he took it seriously.

Thus, compared to his initial indifference toward Lin Xing during casting, Bai Yan was now exceedingly polite from the moment they met at the airport. Along the way, he even shifted from addressing Lin Xing formally as “Mr. Lin” to calling him “A-Xing.”

“A-Xing, take today to rest. Tomorrow at 9 a.m., we’ll have the script read-through in the hotel conference room,” Bai Yan explained, outlining the schedule and making it clear he’d be shooting Lin Xing’s scenes.

“Three shooting units at once?” Lin Xing was surprised. “Bai, isn’t that a bit rushed?”

“It’s not about rushing. Director Zu always works this way. He oversees the whole project. You met Director Zou at the audition—he’s in charge of Unit B. Zu runs both Unit A and supervises all three units’ progress,” Bai Yan said with a genial smile. “Don’t worry, there’s no special treatment here. Director Zu is a stickler for detail. If I or Old Zou don’t get the scene right, he’ll make us reshoot it.”

He spoke the truth. Some TV dramas have wildly uneven scenes—excellent ones alongside complete duds. That’s usually the result of different directors working on different parts.

The director’s world was deep and complicated. Many people just held the title. Some directors were simply figureheads, others mere tools, and still others would shirk their duties, letting others pick up the slack. In a big enough circle, every kind of director existed.

But someone as meticulous as Zu Ming was rare.

Lin Xing and Bai Yan got along well, and the drive from the airport to the hotel—less than an hour—passed quickly.

Ten minutes later, Lin Xing checked in.

“A-Xing, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Bai Yan said with a smile. “I have to get back to set.”

“Thank you for today, Bai,” Lin Xing replied with a smile.

“No need to be so formal. If you need anything, just call me—we’ll stay in touch,” Bai Yan said, giving a few more reminders before making sure Xiao Nan also had the assistant director’s contact information. Only after everything was arranged did Bai Yan leave.

Lin Xing felt he was getting proper “star treatment.”

“Xiao Nan, if you want to go out and explore, try the local food—go ahead,” Lin Xing said after Bai Yan left. “Don’t worry about expenses, I’ll reimburse you.”

“Brother Xing, there’s no need—Sister Dao told me I have to keep you safe,” Xiao Nan protested.

“I’m not a child—I’m a grown man, what do I need protection for?” Lin Xing grinned. “Besides, the female cast isn’t even staying here. I’m just going to rest. Take the chance to go out and see the sights—it’d be a shame not to.”

Xiao Nan had only ever seen the famous Tan province food street on social media. This was her first time here, and she was eager to see it for herself.

“I’ll come back early then, Brother Xing,” she promised.

“No rush. If I need anything, I’ll let you know. Tan province has a lively nightlife—stay out as long as you like, just don’t be too late, and take care,” Lin Xing instructed, but Xiao Nan insisted on buying him lunch first before heading out.

After making sure he’d eaten, she finally left to explore.

Lin Xing woke at 3 p.m. He glanced at his phone and saw several messages from Sister Dao, so he called her back.

“Xingxing, how are you feeling? Recovered yet?” Sister Dao asked with concern. “Director Zu is infamous for his strictness—you need to be in top shape.”

“I’m fine, Sister Dao,” Lin Xing replied. “I saw your messages, I agree—we can coordinate with the ‘Modern Men’s Style’ promo, but there’s no need to push fans to buy in bulk.”

Only those who wanted to fleece fans would resort to that.

Lin Xing had no need.

Sister Dao laughed. “Relax, I’ve explained everything to the fans. We’ve left the fan circles behind—we won’t do that anymore. In fact…” She paused. “We’ve already disbanded the support club. Our stance is clear.”

In short, Sister Dao told Lin Xing to focus on filming “Black Tide” and leave everything else to her.

After hanging up, Lin Xing returned to his script. Whenever he had spare time these past few days, he had been poring over it—not just his own lines, but also those of his scene partners, the veteran actors Ren Yi and Wang Fei.

That was because in the script, Zhou Bo’s character was like a puzzle to be pieced together. A character could be a tool, but if you played him as such, it would be a waste.

That’s why character biographies were written—to make each role richer and deeper. Reading other characters’ lines, especially their opinions of Zhou Bo, helped make the character more three-dimensional.

Kong Tian once said that eighty percent of an actor’s homework was done offstage—only then could you move the audience onstage.

Lin Xing deeply agreed.

“With this, the puzzle of Zhou Bo is complete,” he thought, checking off the character biography he’d written.

Everything was ready. Now all that remained was tomorrow’s script read-through.