Chapter 182: Filial Piety
The moment Li Zhi’s stream went live, viewers flooded in. The audience count instantly hit a million, and the chat exploded with excitement:
[Litchi’s streaming again! Love this pace! More streams! Love it!]
[This episode’s theme is filming a movie! Right up our Zhi-jie’s alley!]
[Wow! Lu Caiwei! Haven’t seen her in ages—glad she’s still alive!]
[Caiwei fan reporting in! Our Weiwei’s been doing great! Her clearance skills are top-notch too! Please show some love for the radiant Lu Caiwei!]
[Big Bro’s name is on the popularity chart! Siblings sharing the screen again! Celebration time! Finally get to see Zhi and her brother team up!]
[Young Master Lu’s in the dungeon too, no wonder there are so many players this round. Just his bodyguards must number four or five. Let’s guess who they are this time.]
[Where’s Big Bro? Only seven people in the car?]
[Am I the only one worried Big Bro might punch Xiao Li if he sees him? But this time, our Zhi-Li won’t be online dating again, right?]
[This dungeon’s name gives me the creeps…]
The chat buzzed with speculation while the players in the car sized each other up.
Li Zhi and Lu Caiwei already knew each other’s identities.
Their team alone had seven members bound for this dungeon. Yet, apart from the two of them and their boss, Lu Ao, none of the other three members of Peacock were present. Sometimes film crews split into A and B units—were they being separated this time?
The car currently held seven players. If the other four were all from Tianwen, their situation could get dangerous fast.
As actors, they should have scripts on hand, but a quick search turned up nothing. Lu Caiwei deliberately panicked, “Where’s my script? I haven’t even memorized my lines yet!”
The girl in the passenger seat responded, “Which version? Doesn’t matter if the old one’s lost—the plot’s been tweaked anyway. The director will give you the revised script when we get to the set.”
“But we’ll have to start filming as soon as we arrive, right?” Lu Caiwei, a former actress, knew the drill. “How am I supposed to memorize lines in that time?!”
The girl glanced at her. “You barely have any lines to begin with. Relax, your scenes are at night. The female lead’s scenes go first—plenty of time to memorize.”
So they were just minor supporting roles with a handful of lines.
That was Li Zhi’s specialty.
“And here I thought I’d get to act properly,” Lu Caiwei grumbled to Li Zhi as she sat back down. “Turns out we’re just extras. Wonder who’s playing the female lead. So jealous.”
Li Zhi mused, “Probably an NPC.”
Lu Caiwei conceded the point and stopped fixating on the lead role. Instead, she wondered, “What kind of movie are we filming? Maybe a thriller? I’ve only done idol dramas before.”
From debut to stardom, she’d only acted in a handful of projects—a regret for any true performer.
Zhao Yangzhou turned around from the front row. “Could be a horror film.”
Lu Caiwei’s eyes widened. “That’s actually possible!”
The car sped down a remote road. Outside the windows, overgrown weeds and piles of white trash lined the deserted stretch—clearly far from the city. Even film studios weren’t usually built in such isolated locations.
As the car rounded a few bends, a tall chimney came into view against the gray sky. Thick black smoke billowed from it, the source of the burning smell seeping through the half-open windows.
The stench made everyone in the car grimace. Zhao Yangzhou couldn’t help asking, “What’s burning over there?”
The driver and the girl in the passenger seat both turned to look at him.
After a pause, the girl said flatly, “What else would a crematorium burn?”
The players’ faces paled.
Filming at a crematorium? Holy shit—was this really a horror movie?!
Ghosts were common in dungeons, but a crematorium cranked the danger and terror up several notches. Even the usually composed Young Master Lu couldn’t stay calm. “Why film at a real crematorium? Can’t you build a set? How morbid!”
“Don’t let the director hear you say that,” the girl warned, though her tone toward Lu Ao was noticeably kinder. “The director’s an artist. Our production values authenticity—that’s how you make a proper horror film.”
So it really was a horror movie!
Viewers who hadn’t seen this format before grew excited.
“Besides,” the NPC added, “building a set costs money. Renting a real crematorium is cheaper and more realistic—best bang for your buck.”
Li Zhi and Lu Caiwei had never heard of budgeting in filmmaking before.
This horror movie crew was clearly strapped for cash.
The never-short-on-funds Young Master Lu had no rebuttal.
The car drew closer to the smoking chimney, eventually stopping in a rundown parking lot. By the time the van parked, the chimney had stopped emitting smoke, but the burnt odor lingered thick in the air.
After getting out, Li Zhi surveyed the area. The filming location was still some distance from the chimney. A hundred-meter stretch of greenery separated the two buildings. Following the NPC, they realized they’d actually be filming at a funeral home.
Though both were final stops for the deceased, funeral homes and crematoriums differed. The former hosted memorial services, while the latter handled cremations. Li Zhi remembered when her father passed—they’d held the funeral at a funeral home before transporting his body to the crematorium.
But in this dungeon, the funeral home and crematorium were adjacent, amplifying the horror factor.
Renting a funeral home for filming meant avoiding busy areas. With daily funerals, most funeral homes had no time to spare for rentals.
This one was eerily quiet. Wherever the director had found such a remote location, he’d somehow secured it.
A handful of crew members carried props in and out, setting up the scene. Li Zhi scanned the area but saw no other players.
Outside the funeral home, a makeshift canopy sheltered a long table piled with equipment. A bespectacled middle-aged man sat before a monitor, discussing something with his assistant—likely the film’s director.
Spotting their arrival, the director waved them over. As they approached, he greeted them warmly, “You’re here?”
Li Zhi and Lu Caiwei had rarely encountered such amiable directors in their acting careers.
The shabby, low-budget set felt nostalgically familiar. Lu Caiwei’s eyes softened with reminiscence, her tone friendlier. “Director, when do we start filming?”
“No rush, no rush.” The director waved a hand, sipping from his thermos. “It’s still daylight. Your scenes are all at night.”
He gestured to his assistant, who rummaged through the cluttered table before producing a few thin, stapled scripts.
Handing them out, the director said, “Revised scripts. Get familiar with them. We start at nightfall.”
Li Zhi skimmed hers. The script was incomplete, covering only the funeral home scenes. The plot involved the female lead’s father’s death and the ensuing funeral.
Her lines were highlighted in red—fewer than ten in total.
Lu Caiwei had even fewer—just five.
From the dialogue, they seemed to be playing the female lead’s friends, there to offer condolences.
These snippets revealed nothing about the overall story.
Lu Caiwei flipped through and asked, “Director, is this all? Where’s the rest of the script?”
The director replied, “Still being revised. You’ll get the next part tomorrow after we wrap today’s scenes.”
Holy shit—they were filming as they rewrote?!
Li Zhi could practically hear Lu Caiwei’s internal scream, but the director wasn’t having it. “Alright, everyone scatter. Oh, Lu Ao, stay. Your scenes tonight are crucial—they’re where the leads’ romance begins. I need to walk you through it.”
Li Zhi peeked at Lu Ao’s script, densely marked with red highlights. His lines far outnumbered theirs.
No wonder the assistant had been nicer to him—he was the male lead!
Lu Caiwei shot him a jealous glare.
Clutching her script, she sidled up to the director with a sweet smile. “Director, could I stay and listen too? For research?”
As a once-overnight sensation, Lu Caiwei’s beauty was undeniable. Her smile could melt hearts—even the jaded Young Master Lu stared dumbfounded. Yet the director remained unmoved. “I’m discussing the male lead’s scenes. What’s there for you to learn?”
Truly a director devoted to his craft!
Lu Caiwei flipped to her second page, pointing at a line. “Here, I say pitifully to the male lead, ‘You’re really going with her?’ Clearly, I have feelings for him. I must play a pivotal role in the leads’ relationship. Understanding his perspective will help me deliver my performance.”
Professional actors had their ways. The director actually bought it. “Fine, you can stay.”
The chat erupted with 666s.
Lu Caiwei eagerly sat down, batting her lashes. “Maybe you could even add a few more lines for me?”
The director frowned. “No. You’re already upstaging the female lead. Any more lines, and who’d remember who’s the lead?”
Lu Caiwei: “?”
Rejected… but was that a compliment?
“Alright, the rest of you, go scout the location.” The director shooed them away. “Lu Ao, come here.”
The others exchanged glances before dispersing, leaving only Lu Caiwei and Lu Ao behind.
Li Zhi understood Lu Caiwei’s plan.
The missing three Peacock members were likely tied up by their roles. With four other players of unknown affiliation on set, Tianwen could strike at any moment.
As the boss, Lu Ao couldn’t be left unprotected. If Tianwen took him out, Peacock’s reputation would be ruined.
Lu Caiwei had to stay close without blowing her cover.
Tucking her script away, Li Zhi surveyed the desolate surroundings. Film crews had diverse roles—the absent players must have other duties. This dispersal was bad for Peacock. Tianwen could attack anytime.
She needed to regroup with Li Feng—fast.