“Yuexin.” Yan Boxuan put his arms around Guan Yuexin and hugged her tightly. It was a heartbreaking sight, one that moved everyone watching on the set to tears.
“I’m taking you with me. Don’t worry. I’ll save you. I won’t let you die.”
He lifted Guan Yuexin and carried her bridal-style as he left on his flying sword.
Peach blossoms fluttered to the ground as a familiar laugh began to ring out. The camera followed the petals as they fell, eventually landing on the gravely injured woman lying on the ground.
At that moment, her eyes were wide and unfocused. There was an empty void within her, and they ached terribly.
Her eyes remained wide open as tears streamed from her eyes. The cold wind seemed to pierce into her bones.
“Cut!” yelled the director. His felt his eyes sting, and had to keep from sniffling. The take had been absolutely perfect. In fact, it had blown all his expectations out of the water.
Qi Haolin and Liang Chen had turned in a spectacular performance, but there had been something different about Yan Huan’s performance. There was a quality to it that touched the souls of everyone watching; it lingered in the heart, like an echo that reverberated around an empty chamber.
Most newcomers would have quaked and lost their nerve before the incredible acting by veteran actors such as Liang Chen and Qi Haolin, but Yan Huan had stood her ground and put on a performance that was on par with Liang Chen’s.
Yan Huan sat up from the ground. She rubbed her shoulder—she had injured it during her fall just now.
It took her a moment before she was ready to get on her feet. Once she was up, she gingerly moved her shoulder to test how it felt.
“Are you okay?” Qi Haolin asked anxiously. He realized now that he had accidentally pushed her a little too hard.
“I’m fine.” Yan Huan rotated her arm to prove it. She smiled at Qi Haolin.
Qi Haolin tousled her hair. He thought of her as an adorable little sister. “That was a wonderful performance. You’ve improved.”
“Thank you.” Yan Huan looked shyly at the tips of her toes. It was true, her acting had improved. She was now an even better actress than she had been in her previous life, and she knew why: she was channeling her previous experiences into the character and show.
She was Qing Yao. Qing Yao was her.
Qing Yao had lost everything. The same thing had happened to Yan Huan in her previous life. Yan Huan felt a profound connection with Qing Yao because of that; in fact, the character was virtually an extension of herself.
They had reached the turning point for Qing Yao in the show. Yan Huan would have to change the way she portrayed Qing Yao from here on—the carefree girl would now turn to the dark side, driven by hatred.
The new Qing Yao would be consumed by thoughts of avenging her father and her sect, which had been wiped out. She would turn violent, ruthless, and cruel. She would transform into a heartless creature who no longer had any sympathy for anyone.
Before this turning point, she had lived a happy, carefree life. Now, she would turn her back on the path of righteousness and willingly dance with the devils for the rest of her days.
Her ultimate fate in the show was to lose to Yan Boxuan in a battle between good and evil. He would kill her with a single blow, and then her body would be ripped to shreds and devoured by a legion of demons. There would be nothing left of her in the end, not even her soul. It was a terrible fate, but one that Qing Yao deserved.
Yan Huan had to portray two different sides to Qing Yao in Journey to Fairyland, and take both characterizations to the extreme. She would be lovable and endearing when she was good, but once she turned evil, she would have to be despicable and universally reviled.
The director and Yan Huan spent a lot of time going over Qing Yao’s psychological changes after turning to the dark side.
Yan Huan knew that she needed some time to understand the new Qing Yao and bring her to life. It was easy enough to play a villain who later became good after a change of heart, but it was not so easy to do the reverse. She would have to flip the audience’s impressions of Qing Yao and make them feel like spitting in her face whenever they thought of her or saw her on-screen. It was going to be a challenge; anyone who could pull it off would earn their badge as a true actress.
Even after returning to her apartment, Yan Huan continued to review her lines in the script. In her mind’s eye, she tried to imagine a Qing Yao who subconsciously held on to a sliver of goodness deep within her, even as she lashed out viciously at the world.
