Chapter 104: The Heart of the Dao

After discussing with Director Li, Gu Cheng expedited the visa process and flight booking that very day, flying overnight from the capital to Hiroshima. From there, they took the Shinkansen to Fukuoka, transferred trains, and headed south along the Fukuma-Kuma highway. In the Aso mountain region, straddling the border between Fukuoka and Kumamoto, they finally found the Chrysanthemum Sea—the location their agency had scouted for them.

Lin Zhiling had put considerable effort into securing this filming spot: from Eslite Audio-Visual to S-M company, then from S-M to Ai Hui Records, only then did she learn of the place and lavishly rent the estate from its owner for filming.

Stretching over several hectares, the tall-stemmed Higo chrysanthemums thrived wildly on the fertile slopes shaped by the Aso volcano, painting the landscape in a sea of gold. The flower heads were modest in size, perched atop dense, proud stalks that swayed with the breeze.

Gu Cheng, Dong Jie, and Director Li were all deeply moved upon seeing this breathtaking scene.

Chrysanthemums that are not pinched at the heart never grow large flower heads and fetch poor prices. Yet some passionate horticulturists, willing to take losses, nurtured these "worthless" flowers purely out of love—much like Gong Zizhen’s reflection in “Record of the Sick Plum Pavilion”: Why prune the plum for crooked beauty? Why pick chrysanthemums for larger blooms?

The set and props crew busily arranged the scene in the flower field, while others who were temporarily free sat quietly on higher ground, admiring the blossoms for half an hour.

The serene atmosphere was finally broken by Dong Jie’s slightly melancholic sigh: “So many Chinese literati extol the chrysanthemum, yet here we are, filming in Fusang… Alas.”

Director Li also felt a pang of bittersweetness.

Gu Cheng stood, straightened his trench coat, and offered some consolation: “The people of Fusang cherish chrysanthemums too. Didn’t an American writer pen ‘The Chrysanthemum and the Sword’ on this very subject? We adopt their strengths to counter their influence—it’s a good thing.”

Dong Jie looked puzzled. “Why couldn’t we find resources back home? Is it the flower variety?”

Gu Cheng smiled wryly. “Farmers at home have it too hard; they grow flowers for profit, with no time for leisure or passion. Fusang people can be stubborn, but that stubbornness has its own charm—it allows for many ‘unprofitable’ possibilities.

“Throughout Chinese history, with dynasties rising and falling and the imperial examination system ascending and descending, countless social ladders emerged. This magnified people’s nature to seek profit and follow trends. Which is why Chinese have long excelled in fields with high social status, like the imperial exams during the Tang and Song dynasties, which produced thousands of poets, lyricists, and calligraphers en masse.

“Fusang, on the other hand, traditionally lacks such avenues for upward mobility; one’s social identity is predetermined at birth. While tragic, this also means the common people react slower to trends and can calmly cultivate pursuits like tea ceremonies, flower arranging, or swordsmanship. No matter how ‘unprofitable’ a practice may be, in Fusang, there are always those who nurture the ‘way’ purely for its own sake, without concern for money.”

Dong Jie and Director Li listened thoughtfully, profoundly admiring Gu Cheng’s insight.

Over a decade later, Prime Minister Li would term this Fusang characteristic the “craftsman spirit,” but Gu Cheng thought that translation lacked nuance.

“The essence of this spirit is simply ‘quietude.’ The original intention remains steadfast to the end. The temptation of ‘transforming to earn more’ is none of my business. Let others laugh at my slowness—what does it matter?”

Hearing Gu Cheng’s lofty declaration, Dong Jie’s heart fluttered as if about to leap from her chest. After calming herself, she asked with hopeful curiosity, “So will it always be this way back home? Surely more people will pursue ideals without regard for return in the future?”

Without hesitation, Gu Cheng replied, “Of course. Such people already exist in considerable numbers, though mostly concentrated in scientific research now, with little time for fields ‘useless to prosperity.’ In another decade or so, artistic perspectives at home will naturally diversify. You can’t blame people for chasing profit; they’ve just been poor too long and are afraid of it. Only when the granaries are full can one truly appreciate etiquette. Those who can’t even afford a home but still dream of poetry and distant lands are rare.”

No matter their number, Gu Cheng was certainly among them. Even as a trainee trapped in S-M company, he had been fiercely unyielding.

Time slipped by almost unnoticed. Two hours later, the crew had finished preparing the set: the selected flower field where Dong Jie and Gu Cheng would weave through had several furrows dug, ensuring the flower height could conceal the actress’s figure. In the center of the field, a circular patch about three meters in diameter was cleared and carpeted with brilliant golden Higo chrysanthemums.

At Director Li’s command, everyone moved out of the scenic beauty to begin filming the climax of the entire drama.

Gu Cheng and Dong Jie took their places, each astride an antique, rustic bicycle, slowly approaching from afar. They casually exchanged lines that enhanced the pastoral idyll.

Five minutes before shooting, Director Li abruptly changed plans, deciding to use a long take, slowly zooming in.

Such beauty deserved more than mere close-ups.

This approach allowed the actors to deliver more natural expressions and lines, as lip-sync was unnecessary.

Gu Cheng even hummed softly in the wide shot: “When petals leave the flower, faint fragrance lingers…”

Leaving their bicycles, the man and woman meandered along a winding path into the sea of flowers. Eventually, as Dong Jie searched “a thousand times through the crowd,” Gu Cheng’s voice called softly from a distance, like a whisper by her ear, drawing her into the golden circular flower bed.

Dong Jie’s impromptu performance was exquisite; she quietly lay down beside Gu Cheng, enraptured, and they shared a tender kiss. She sighed in tranquility, then philosophized with subtle sophistication on the fleeting nature of passion: “Fire cooking oil cannot last long.”

A camera mounted on a track rose gradually from a horizontal angle to hover above their heads, then angled straight down, pulling back until the endless expanse of flowers filled the frame.

“Cut! Perfect! That’s exactly the effect I wanted! Next scene!”

Director Li’s face flushed with excitement, thinking this trip to Fusang had been well worth it.

In his eyes, even if the series “Golden Powder Family” didn’t reach the heights of “Dream of the Red Chamber,” this very scene alone would become a benchmark for stylish romantic moments in cinema over the next decade.

…

Jin Guangxi and Leng Qingqiu’s scenes on Fragrant Hill totaled about half an hour after editing.

The group spent two days in the countryside of Kumamoto completing these scenes. At the end, Dong Jie still felt a lingering, profound resonance.

To celebrate the smooth progress, Director Li found a small farmhouse inn and treated everyone to a meal before preparing to return home. There were few people on this trip—just two actors—perfect for a small gathering.

Kumamoto, renowned for chrysanthemums, also produced chrysanthemum sake, which naturally flowed at the table.

As they sipped chrysanthemum sake and ate Chikuzen-ni, horse meat rolls, and lotus root fritters, Director Li expressed his gratitude and reviewed the shooting schedule ahead.

Before joining the crew, Gu Cheng had arranged two weeks of leave: once in early November and again at December’s end—his business was too busy. Ignoring it for over three months might mean losing everything without even knowing.

He had to personally oversee the teams developing anti-virus software with Lei Jun’s group at Wajinsan, the new version of Alipay unbinding physical addresses, and the literary website built after Sun Zhengyi’s second funding round.

Only then did Director Li realize that the following week’s schedule involved scenes without the male lead.

He slapped his forehead: “Time flies. Looks like Xiao Gu should be leaving the crew soon. Tonight’s drinks will serve as a send-off. Take care of your business; we’ll meet again mid-month.”

Raising his glass first, Director Li prompted the crew to toast Gu Cheng. Dong Jie, unaware of Gu Cheng’s leave plans, looked surprised but followed suit.

“Cheng, wishing you success in your business. I’ll drink first; you go ahead,” Dong Jie said, then grabbed a 350ml bottle of chrysanthemum sake and downed it straight from the bottle, eyes reddening—a bold gesture.

“Well, I’ll take your blessing,” Gu Cheng replied, juggling many obligations, so offered a small glass in return.

After the meal, they rode a rented SUV back to Fukuoka.

Kumamoto was the poorest prefecture in all of Fusang, its income almost entirely agricultural, and had no Shinkansen service (a decade later, it developed a bear mascot, boosted tourism, and finally got the bullet train). Transport relied on roads connecting to neighboring Fukuoka, where rail and flights were available.

On the ride, Dong Jie’s cheeks flushed from the sake, and she leaned drowsily against Gu Cheng’s shoulder.

As the car neared the edge of the Aso mountains, Gu Cheng’s phone rang, jolting Dong Jie fully awake. Embarrassed, she sat upright.

Gu Cheng answered; a young girl’s voice spoke in Fusang language: “Cheng-ge, I heard you’re filming in Fukuoka?”

It was Quan Baoya.

Gu Cheng was slightly taken aback but replied in Fusang tongue: “How do you have a phone now? A new number too. Has the company let you have one?”

“Since Director Jin left, management has relaxed. I’m allowed a phone but must change numbers regularly,” the girl explained, then sighed, “You only care about these things…”

Gu Cheng smiled. “Alright, tell me why you called—how did you know I was in Fusang?”

“The location scout from Ai Hui contacted the filming site. How could I not know?” Baoya said softly. “You saved me last time; I should have properly thanked you. But with the company infighting, I was in a bad mood and rude. Now I’ve come to terms with it. Since Jin left, the atmosphere has improved. Are you free? Tomorrow’s my birthday; I’ll treat you to dinner.”

Gu Cheng found it odd. “Weren’t you always busy?”

Baoya explained: “After releasing the new album, I finally have time—I’m in Fukuoka now. Going back to Tokyo the day after tomorrow to prepare for my first solo concert.”

“Alright, see you in Fukuoka,” Gu Cheng said, ending the call.

Dong Jie, hearing the soft, magnetic female voice, immediately sat up straight and moved away slightly. When Gu Cheng hung up, she smoothed her hair and asked with a smile, “Do you have female friends in Fusang?”

Gu Cheng candidly replied, “Yes, an old acquaintance of over three years.”

Dong Jie’s eyelashes fluttered; she whispered, “An entertainer?”

“Sort of—a singer. You who don’t listen to Fusang music probably wouldn’t know her.”

Dong Jie didn’t press further. Director Li and the others had already been eavesdropping when she asked.

Gu Cheng’s frankness didn’t suggest any hidden secrets.

Silence returned to the car, punctuated only by the occasional ping of Gu Cheng’s phone as he typed replies.

An hour later, the car stopped at Hakata Port Station in Fukuoka. The group prepared to board the Shinkansen, and Gu Cheng bid them farewell.

Dong Jie noticed a petite woman with long black hair parted in the middle standing by a van, looking up expectantly. After locking eyes with Gu Cheng, he calmly approached her.

“Is she more beautiful than me? I guess not,” Dong Jie asked herself subconsciously, then immediately scolded her own shallow thought. “Gu Cheng already said she’s an old friend.”