Filming day arrives.

  Crew already in position, final checks underway on set.

  At the edge of the set, the director flips through the storyboard, brow still tense.

  “We’re finishing the filming for and today.”

  “Since this is a dual-perspective script, we’ll handle the crew cameo scenes in the morning, then film the guest actors’ segments in the afternoon.”

  The manager adds from the side:

  “The collaborating actors have already finalized the arrangements.

  They’re expected to arrive around noon to familiarize themselves with the set.”

  The director nods.

  “Good. Remember—before we submit this to the challenge—

  don’t mention this in front of the boss.”

  “Let’s begin.”

  Extras playing the Ignorant crowd take their positions within the courtyard set.

  Lighting, sound, and camera finish calibration.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Quietly calling the shot number, the slate operator steps aside.

  The director raises a hand and waves.

  “Action.”

  On screen, Solas, expressionless, swings the cleaver in his hand.

  The prop rabbit lies on the ground.

  With each strike of the blade, stage blood seeps out under pressure, staining the cracked earth and the crevices between stones.

  At the tenth strike, distant commotion can be heard.

  The Ignorant Crowd jostle and shout in confusion.

  Liu Xiyu stumbles out of the crowd, hair disheveled, face pale as paper.

  In that instant, the entire scene seems to freeze.

  Only her breathing hangs alone in the air.

  This is the first emotional break.

  Emotion lies exposed, as if laid beneath the scorching sun, with nowhere to hide.

  Filming continues.

  At last, the shoot enters its final stretch.

  Liu Xiyu kneels beside the prop rabbit, both hands soaked in stage blood, gripping the glass phial.

  Her eyes burn crimson.

  Only after several seconds does she slowly close her eyes.

  The camera cuts.

  Solas raises the cleaver and brings it down without hesitation.

  Stage blood splashes outward from the momentum of the blow, scattering across tree trunks, grass, and stone pedestals nearby.

  Spots of blood bloom across the ground—

  like red plum blossoms opening in the wilderness.

  “Cut!”

  The director calls out, and the scene halts abruptly.

  Yun Cangyue hurries forward and pulls Liu Xiyu into an embrace.

  Liu Xiyu is still kneeling, eyes closed, tears falling.

  Slowly, Yun Cangyue pats her back.

  Solas stands where he is, lowering his gaze to the cleaver in his hand, still dripping with blood.

  Brow tightly furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

  Extras begin leaving one by one, the set gradually returning to silence.

  “…This is simply a tragedy of the times.”

  The art lead watches the scene beyond the lens, eyes reddening.

  “How can a life be erased so easily?”

  Leaning against the fake wall at the side of the set, the screenwriter stands with the script hanging from one hand, gaze vacant as if trapped in some endless loop.

  “They fear what they do not understand… That’s simply human nature.”

  After checking on the actors, the manager returns to the set.

  “Are we really having it easier just because it’s a short piece…?

  I feel like the actors are even more tired…”

  And so the morning shoot quietly wraps up.

  What remains is not fatigue, but each person silently processing it in their own way.