481: Chapter 481 The Oil Lamp That Is About to Go Out

The meeting room was silent for two seconds.

Zhou Ming, the head screenwriter, sat to the left of Director Guo Changhe.

He stared at the line "Zhao Li pushes the door" in the script, his fingertips lightly brushing the paper, his Adam's apple bobbing involuntarily.

With a bit of the industry's conventional stereotypical thinking, he tentatively opened his mouth.

"Zhao Li is a ghost, his hands... should be cold, right?"

As his voice trailed off, he nodded to himself, effectively concluding his own judgment.

In his mind, ghosts being cold and the living being warm was industry common sense that didn't need questioning.

The other side of the screen was dead silent.

Lin Que remained silent, not picking up the conversation.

In the back row, Chen Chengrui twirled his sunglasses with his fingertips, a faint, almost imperceptible sneer pressing at the corners of his lips.

He had idly read a few drafts of the script and likewise assumed this setting.

A ferryman who had lived for thousands of years would naturally be cold all over; there was no need for any fancy, flashy gimmicks.

He leaned back against the chair, his posture lax, waiting for this boring discussion to end.

After a beat, the deep voice from the speakers suddenly dropped, skipping over the speaking Zhou Ming, and pointed precisely to the other side.

"Yu Yi."

"What do you think?"

Yu Yi's knuckles, gripping the script, tightened suddenly.

He didn't follow the public's solidified labels for ghosts; instead, he calmed his heart and tightly grasped the essence of Zhao Li's identity as the ferryman.

"It is warm."

The answer came out immediately, crisp and certain.

After a brief pause, he added the most core character logic, without a single redundant theory.

"He is the one who sends ghosts to the afterlife. The last journey of a departed soul is to leave the human world completely.

If even the person guiding him is cold, the departed soul's last bit of attachment to the human world will be completely severed."

"The human touch, warmth, and connections of this entire play would then be empty."

Yu Yi lifted his eyes, his tone firm:

"His hands must be warm. In the entire Yin-Yang Boundary, he is the only one who is still alive and capable of carrying the warmth of the human world."

On the other side of the screen, Lin Que tapped his fingertips lightly on the desk.

The crisp sound transmitted through the speakers, neither too light nor too heavy, nailing the decision.

"Correct."

With that single word landing, Yu Yi's tense spine instantly relaxed.

"Remember this temperature."

Lin Que's voice was steady, full of practical instructions, without a single word of empty talk.

"Pushing the door, holding the cup, flipping the ledger, talking to the departed souls—all actions must be anchored to this lingering warmth of the human world."

"This is the root of the character. Once the root is set, the person stands firm."

Yu Yi immediately lowered his head and wrote the words "Warm" heavily on the title page, circling it firmly and forcefully.

Zhou Ming opened his mouth, but eventually fell silent; his own stereotypical judgment suddenly seemed thin and shallow.

At the head of the table, Director Guo Changhe's heart eased slightly, the stone hanging in his chest dropping halfway.

Only Chen Chengrui in the back row saw his smile fade slightly.

He did not agree with this interpretation.

Pretending to be warm, forcing warmth upon it—it was typical self-indulgence of a writer.

In his view, a being of the underworld should be cold and deep; deliberately adding warmth would only make the character seem pretentious and floating.

He continued to lean back against his chair, secretly competing in his heart, waiting for this deliberate innovation by Lin Que to crash and burn once it hit the ground.

The read-through continued.

The first episode, scene three: the long monologue where Zhao Li guides a soul and explains the Yin-Yang rules was finished.

"Stop here."

The voice from the speakers suddenly called a halt.

"Screenwriter Zhou."

Zhou Ming immediately sat up straight:

"Dream Weaver."

"Did you add this two-hundred-word monologue?"

"Yes."

Zhou Ming answered frankly, with plenty of confidence.

"Audiences won't understand obscure settings; the script must be direct.

Explaining the ferryman rules and the afterlife time limits clearly is the only way for novice viewers to keep up with the plot. This is the safest screenwriting method."

This time, he did not remain silent or back down, but waited directly for Lin Que's response, his attitude certain.

This was the industry's standard writing method; no one could find fault with it.

The people in the meeting room focused their eyes on the screen, the atmosphere slightly tightening.

In the back row, Chen Chengrui regained some interest, his eyes filled with playful scrutiny.

On this point, he agreed with Zhou Ming: straightforward, grounded plot points were king, and fancy, flashy metaphors would only drive the audience away.

He had already assumed that Lin Que's nitpicking this time was purely to build a persona and intentionally seek attention.

Finally, Lin Que's voice came through, calm yet sharp.

"It's not stable; it's lazy."

"Delete it."

Zhou Ming's expression stiffened, and he immediately retorted, no longer blindly compliant:

"Dream Weaver, forgive me, but I cannot agree.

This script's subject matter is novel and the setting is complex. Without direct exposition through dialogue, the audience simply won't be able to grasp the plot logic!"

"If the audience can't understand it or stay engaged, this show... is ruined."

This was the first direct confrontation of the meeting, and the tension instantly skyrocketed.

Chen Chengrui leaned forward slightly, intending to watch how things played out; he had already sided with Zhou Ming in his heart, waiting for Lin Que to be unable to justify himself.

Lin Que paused.

He recalled that the entertainment industry in this world was still in a primitive stage of pursuing direct gratification, where creators were accustomed to spoon-feeding the audience.

Zhou Ming's creative approach was the industry's current standard solution; there were no major flaws in his ability, just limitations imposed by the inherent thinking of the environment.

The fact that the other party dared to refute him directly showed that he was genuinely considering the work, which made him much more reliable than those sycophantic, slacker screenwriters.

Far from being angry, he actually thought more highly of Zhou Ming.

"The audience isn't here to attend a lecture; they are here to watch a show."

His speaking pace was steady, without a single word of empty preaching:

"A two-hundred-word instruction manual is not as effective as a flickering oil lamp that is about to go out."

When these words came out, several people in the meeting room looked puzzled.

Zhou Ming frowned, and Director Guo Changhe was also confused, not knowing how an oil lamp could replace a two-hundred-word exposition of the setting.

Chen Chengrui in the back row also raised an eyebrow, waiting to see how he would justify it.

Lin Que didn't play coy and continued.

"The camera locks onto the flame, watching the light sink and dim bit by bit.

The ghost asks in a panic, but Zhao Li doesn't answer, only reaching out to push the lamp half an inch toward him."

"The lamp going out means the deadline has arrived. Dawn, afterlife, urging—three layers of meaning, all covered by a single action."

The meeting room went instantly silent.

In everyone's minds, that quiet, oppressive, and atmospheric scene appeared instantly.

By comparison, that straightforward and long-winded monologue seemed clumsy and redundant.

Zhou Ming froze in his seat, the certainty on his face shattering bit by bit, and the confidence from just moments ago completely dissipated.

He lowered his head to look at the lines he had deliberated over word by word, and for the first time, felt the entire page was empty, clumsy, and superfluous.

After a long while, he picked up his pen and slowly crossed out the entire monologue.

The one truly shaken was Chen Chengrui.

He had anticipated countless arguments, theories, and rationales for revisions, but he hadn't expected that Lin Que wouldn't even debate the theory with him, but instead use a crushing, dimension-reducing strike with cinematic aesthetics.

The "safe writing method" he had firmly agreed with moments ago now seemed exceptionally mediocre.

The mindset of waiting for a crash and burn in his heart loosened and collapsed for the first time.

He silently put down his crossed legs, put away all his contempt, and his expression became completely serious.

The read-through advanced to the seventh scene.

The assistant screenwriter cautiously proposed a revision idea, wanting to add a scene reviewing relics, using old watches and photos to lay the groundwork for the departed soul's backstory, and fleshing out the plot and characters.

This time, Lin Que didn't have any back-and-forth, no redundant negative setup, and answered with extreme simplicity, completely jumping out of the template of the previous two scenes.

"No need."

Two words rejected all redundant setup, and then he immediately provided an alternative plan of extreme minimalism and high-level execution.

"This scene doesn't need to lay out anyone's past."

"A cup of cold coffee, downed in one gulp, expressionless. Raise your hand and flip the door sign, four characters: 'Closed for Business.' Done."

Throughout the entire process, there wasn't a single word of screenwriting theory, no complex deconstruction, only three minimalist actions.

Yu Yi instantly understood, sighing in a low voice:

"One job finished, a body full of exhaustion, a day-after-day cycle of loneliness. No dialogue needed, it's all emotion."

"Correct."

Lin Que responded lightly, stopping at the point, and said no more.

The more minimalist, the more sophisticated.

Chen Chengrui's fingertips pinched the leg of his sunglasses, his knuckles applying slight pressure.

He truly hadn't expected this web novel author's sensitivity to the camera to far exceed that of a conventional screenwriter; those two changes just now were indeed more brilliant than the original version.

However, this acknowledgment of skill only remained at a professional level; the arrogance in his bones hadn't faded in the slightest.

He sneered, his voice lowered so only he could hear:

"The ideas are not bad, but whether they can actually be filmed and whether the audience will buy it is another matter; it's too early to praise him now."

He continued to lean back against the chair, but his lax posture had mostly tightened, his eyes locked tightly on the screen, wanting to see what else this person could produce.

The read-through pace was fast; everyone turned the page, and Director Guo Changhe settled on the core scene of Zhao Li and Xia Dongqing's first meeting.

This was the first intersection of the two core protagonists of the entire show, and also the scene where the emotion was most difficult to handle.

Director Guo Changhe spoke with deliberation:

"Dream Weaver, we have never been able to grasp the emotional scale of Zhao Li's first meeting with Xia Dongqing; we don't dare to set the tone."

Lin Que's interpretation was still crisp, adhering to the core of the original work's thousand-year destiny, completely discarding the shallow logic of a first meeting between strangers.

"This scene, the most taboo thing is to act out the curiosity and freshness of strangers meeting for the first time."

"Zhao Li and Xia Dongqing have been entangled for thousands of years, through reincarnation and repetition, bound by destiny.

He guards all the memories, watching the other person lose their memory year after year, restarting time and time again."

"At first glance, he recognizes him."

"The emotion has two layers. The first layer is a forcibly restrained detachment; pretending to be strangers, handling it like official business, hiding all the entanglements of a thousand years.

The second layer is the heavy burden buried deep in his eyes, the helplessness of guarding the past alone and bearing the debt alone."

"The warmth and bond between the two must be slowly warmed up episode by episode.

If you pour out your heart and soul in the first episode, the following dozens of episodes will have no tension."

There was no long-winded preaching; every sentence landed on the character's emotions and the long-term plot line.

Yu Yi felt enlightened and nodded heavily.

Director Guo Changhe scribbled down notes rapidly, taking every word seriously.

In the back row, Chen Chengrui's back was already sitting straight, and the leg of his sunglasses had been bent out of shape.

He had to admit that this person's understanding of the character had dug right to the bone; his own previous method of acting in idol dramas really couldn't support the depth of Zhao Li, and being kicked out initially was not unjust at all.

But his arrogance was still stuck in his throat; he stared at the words "Dream Weaver" on the screen, several thoughts turning in his mind:

Since he couldn't act in it, perhaps entering in a different way would allow him to get a piece of the pie.

That bit of resentment hadn't faded; instead, it had turned into an even more intense interest.

The more than twenty scenes of the first episode were all finished.

People in the meeting room breathed a sigh of relief, and someone reached out to grab their water cup to relieve the tension.

The cold voice from the speakers suddenly pressed down, the rhythm not loosening in the slightest.

"No break."

The extended hand froze in mid-air.

"Turn to the second episode."

Lin Que's tone was steady, precisely controlling the actors' states.

"Yu Yi's emotions are most in sync with the character right now; let's strike while the iron is hot and go through the heavy scene of sending the child away.

If the emotions cool down and we have to find them again, it will be time-consuming and laborious."

Yu Yi wiped his face, shedding all distracting thoughts, his eyes certain:

"Okay, let's do it."

The sound of pages turning in unison filled the room.

The scene of sending the child away was the first emotional turning point for Zhao Li's character, the first time he broke the rules out of softness, and the key arc of the character transitioning from a cold tool to a warm-hearted ferryman.

Everyone in the room knew the weight of this scene.

On the other side of the screen, Lin Que tracked every subtle emotion on Yu Yi's face through the brain-computer interface.

"Yu Yi."

"For this scene, don't read the lines first."

Yu Yi looked up, his eyes full of focus.

"I'll give you three seconds."

Lin Que's voice was deep and steady, his instructions clear.

"Use only your eyes and actions to let me see how Zhao Li breaks the rules he has adhered to for half his life and feels a sense of compassion."