The More Tragic I Act, the Stronger I Get — My Fans Beg Me to Stop Killing Off My Roles

The middle-aged man who led the way did not speak extra words.

He merely stepped aside and opened that heavy wooden door.

A world made entirely of film reels and old posters unfolded silently before Jiang Ci and Lin Wan.

Lin Wan was stunned by the sight.

This was nothing like the studio she had imagined.

The rumors had not lied.

This place felt more like a solemn “film graveyard.”

The assistant did not follow them in, and the door slowly closed behind them.

A peculiar scent lingered in the air.

The faintly sour smell of old paper and acetate film.

Tall shelves reached up to the ceiling, densely lined with countless iron film cans.

Each can had a yellowed handwritten label stuck to it.

They were categorized and archived with meticulous care.

Lin Wan’s expression unconsciously hardened a little.

From not far away came deliberately lowered voices.

Xiao Ran stood in front of a row of French film reels, talking with a thin middle-aged man in a gray cloth robe about something.

He quoted authorities, moving from Godard to Truffaut, his words full of deep insight into art cinema,

and the boundless reverence of a young actor for the elder masters.

That man was undoubtedly Hou Hsiao-hsien.

Unlike Xiao Ran, he showed no excitement or enthusiasm.

He listened quietly, nodding occasionally,

most of the time silently rubbing the cold film can with his fingertip.

Only when Jiang Ci and Lin Wan entered did he calmly lift his gaze.

At that moment, Xiao Ran’s words abruptly stopped.

Hou Hsiao-hsien’s look passed over Lin Wan and landed directly on Jiang Ci’s face.

For more than ten seconds.

It was an examination without emotion, pure observation.

Lin Wan’s heart instantly tightened in her throat.

Jiang Ci showed no reaction.

He did not even look at the legendary director right away.

His attention was completely absorbed by the stacked film cans around him.

Rows upon rows.

Cold, silent.

Like tombstones.

That thought surfaced clearly in his mind.

Hou Hsiao-hsien finally withdrew his gaze.

He seemed completely unconcerned by the slightly awkward standoff at the door.

He suddenly interrupted Xiao Ran, who was about to speak again, and pointed at an old, dust-covered projector beside him.

The machine was an ancient model, quietly lying in the corner.

He casually asked Xiao Ran, “You said you like Godard. Then what do you think film is?”

The question was abrupt, yet fitting.

Xiao Ran visibly froze.

Then he smiled with comprehension and confidence.

This was a test.

A question he had rehearsed countless times.

He straightened, composed, and cleared his throat.

“Film is the truth of 24 frames per second.”

He gave an almost perfect textbook answer, a quotation attributed to Godard himself.

“It is an art between reality and illusion, recording reality while transcending reality.”

“It captures life’s moments with light and shadow, then weaves those moments into eternal stories, letting us, in darkness, glimpse other possible lives.”

His response was impeccable.

Precise wording, clear logic, full of philosophical reflection on the art form.

Like a well-prepared honor student, able to provide the standard answer to any question.

As he spoke, his agent’s face showed undisguised pride.

Lin Wan’s breath caught slightly.

The answer was too perfect.

So flawless that she, a top screenwriter in the industry, could find no fault.

And that very perfection became an enormous pressure.

She instinctively looked at Jiang Ci.

He remained silent.

He watched confident Xiao Ran with neither jealousy nor nervousness.

Only a few plainly stated phrases ran through his mind.

Standard answer.

Page one of the textbook.

Correct, and dull.

Hou Hsiao-hsien listened to Xiao Ran’s reply without comment.

His face betrayed no expression.

Yet that silence carried more weight than any denial.

He turned his head and, in the same even tone, asked Jiang Ci the same question.

“And you?”

Suddenly, everyone’s attention focused on Jiang Ci.

Xiao Ran and his agent looked on as if waiting for drama.

Lin Wan’s palms were already damp with fine sweat.

Jiang Ci did not look at Hou Hsiao-hsien.

He glanced around slowly, scanning those film cans arranged like tombstones.

Scanning the stories that had been silent in the dark for who knew how many years.

He paused for a moment.

Then he said something that made several people, including Lin Wan, flinch inwardly.

“Film is a relic of time.”

Xiao Ran’s agent almost lost control and was about to laugh aloud.

A relic?

What kind of answer was that?

Unlucky, ominous, full of negative energy.

To call film a relic in front of a director who pursued art and eternity?

He must be crazy.

Lin Wan’s heart sank to the bottom.

She had known it!

Jiang Ci’s mind would always veer toward the most outlandish direction at the crucial moment!

However,

the predicted displeasure and rebuke did not come.

For the first time, a genuine ripple appeared in Hou Hsiao-hsien’s otherwise calm eyes.

He did not get angry; rather, with interest, he quietly repeated the word.

“Relic?”

Jiang Ci nodded calmly.

“A relic.”

He pointed to the rows of cold iron cans.

“They record time that has already passed, preserving feelings that are no longer fresh.”

“Actors inside live through births and deaths, exhausting their heart and strength, then they die.”

“Roles inside are watched again and again, and thus gain immortality.”

His words were devoid of emotion, stated like the most objective facts.

“Viewers, by watching them, mourn lives that are not their own, experience joys and sorrows that have long ended.”

“So, it is a relic.”

Jiang Ci paused, then added the final line.

“Also a tombstone.”

When he finished speaking,

the confidence drained from Xiao Ran’s face, replaced by utter bewilderment and a sense of absurdity.

His agent stood with mouth agape, unable to utter a word.

Lin Wan froze completely.

She looked at Jiang Ci’s excessively calm face and suddenly understood something.

This was Jiang Ci’s world.

A world constructed with Bad Ending Aesthetics.

In that world, even a dream-making art like film was, at its core, a grand mourning.

At this moment, Hou Hsiao-hsien stared steadily at Jiang Ci.

The slight ripple in those eyes, which seemed able to see through everything, was slowly growing.

He looked at the overly young actor as if looking at a long-lost kindred spirit.

Finally,

Xiao Ran tried to break the strange atmosphere.

He let out a light laugh, which sounded slightly forced in the silent space.

“Teacher Jiang’s perspective is truly unique.”

He regained control of the conversation, looking directly at Hou Hsiao-hsien.

“But personally, I believe the core of film is always creation, the act of creating something out of nothing.”

“It is giving life to characters, not mourning death.”