He plays Feng Yuxiu, and his girlfriend is a fairy-like beauty.

After Uncle Long left.

On the set of "The Legend of the Condor Heroes".

Yuan Kui sat behind the monitor, flipping through Fu Guang's character design sketches.

The drawing on the paper depicts a man wearing a black Zhongshan suit, with his hair neatly combed and a scar on the corner of his mouth.

He looked up at Ye Mo and handed him the manuscript.

"Take a look. Fu Guang's appearance is based on the image of the God of Gamblers: a black Zhongshan suit, slicked-back hair, and a scar on his face."

Ye Mo took the manuscript and read it for a moment.

"Director Yuan, I want to change it."

Yuan Kui raised an eyebrow.

The stagehands and stuntmen next to them also turned around.

According to rumors, the entire Hong Kong entertainment circle now knows that Yip Mok loves to rewrite scripts.

Yuan Kui wasn't unhappy—his older brother had already warned him.

He twirled the pen in his hand and leaned back in his chair.

Tell me about it.

"The character Fu Guang is a gangster boss whose martial arts skills are so high that he can overwhelm the protagonist, but he has mysophobia, his fingers are prosthetics, and he is blind in one eye."

"This kind of person won't slick his hair back or wear a Zhongshan suit. He is incomplete, and his incompleteness makes him feel inferior. His inferiority makes him violent. What he wants is not the composure of a gambling god. What he wants is to hide his flaws—but he can't hide them. What's scary is what can't be hidden."

Yuan Kui stopped writing.

"Go on."

"A long black trench coat, extending past the knees, whose hem can be used as a weapon during combat—to obstruct vision, entangle opponents, and create blind spots."

Ye Mo didn't want to miss the opportunity to capture the look of the cassock and the demon-subduing technique.

"Wearing a white shirt underneath, with the top two buttons undone, the black and white contrast is clean but cold; sunglasses that are never taken off—to cover the fake eye; white gloves that are worn the whole time—to cover the prosthetic limb; a trench coat that is never wrinkled; gloves that are never fingerprint-free; people with obsessive-compulsive disorder use white as armor."

Yuan Kui was silent for a moment. He put down the now-cold cup of coffee in his hand and pointed in the direction of the dressing room.

"Go change."

Ye Mo entered the dressing room. The people outside began to whisper among themselves.

"More scenes added—wait, even their costumes need changing?"

"But he's quite right. The God of Gamblers' look is more suitable for a strategist like him. Fu Guang is lame—blind, disabled, and a clean freak, how could he possibly have a slicked-back hairstyle?"

"Let's see how he reacts. If he doesn't perform well, Brother Kui will definitely give him a piece of his mind."

The door to the dressing room opened.

Ye Mo walked out.

All eyes were fixed on the doorway at the same moment.

The long black trench coat reached down to the knees, the fabric was smooth, and the hem swayed slightly when walking.

Wearing a pure white shirt underneath, with the top two buttons undone, the black and white contrast cuts through the warehouse's dim lighting, creating a cold, razor-sharp effect.

Sunglasses covered his eyes, revealing only his high nose bridge and pursed lips.

The white gloves gleamed blindingly in the dim light.

No scars, no slicked-back hair, no Zhongshan suit.

But standing there was a gangster boss who had just washed his hands and didn't want to touch the doorknob, so he pushed the door open with his fingertips and walked out.

A stuntman dropped his cigarette.

Another person spilled their iced lemon tea on their pants, soaking them completely, but they didn't even look down at it.

The prop master stood next to the prop rack, holding a fake knife in his hand. The tip of the knife slid down half an inch from the ground, and the handle almost slipped out of his hand.

"Damn it—that's a real boss."

I don't know who said it first.

Then came the second, and the third.

It wasn't a compliment; it was an instinctive reaction.

They've worked on film sets for over a decade and have seen at least a hundred different villainous characters.

Zhongshan suit, long trench coat, scar, sunglasses.

But the person in front of you isn't a costume model; he is Fu Guang himself.

That chilling coldness, that obsessive cleanliness, that violence suppressed by the prosthetics and blindness—all of it was hidden between the hem of his clothes and his gloves.

Yuan Kui stood up from behind the monitor, his chair sliding backward and bouncing against the cable.

He walked up to Ye Mo and circled around him.

Then he pushed up his glasses.

"This is Fu Guang, not the God of Gamblers. The God of Gamblers is the King. Fu Guang is crazy. You try to hide your madness with your appearance, but you only become crazier." He stepped back behind the monitor and put his headset back on.

"Ready to start filming."

During rehearsals, the action director rehearsed the fight scenes three times.

The routine was a standard offensive and defensive transition—Zhang Jing's Gong Wei made the first move, Ye Mo's Fu Guang blocked, they exchanged punches and kicks, and finally Fu Guang was forced back by Gong Wei's counterattack, took the hit, and lost.

Simple and concise, a standard action scene.

"All departments, prepare—action!"

Zhang Jing threw a punch.

It was powerful and heavy, with the explosive force of a Wuying-level athlete.

Ye Mo turned to the side, and the wind lifted a corner of his trench coat, which just covered his right hand.

Zhang Jing's pupils contracted slightly—he couldn't see his opponent's right hand and could only block based on instinct.

Then a knee came out from under his clothes and slammed into his thigh.

Zhang Jing grunted and took half a step back, a thought flashing through his mind: This is not a rehearsal move.

The choreographer stood on the sidelines, the choreography board slipping from his fingertips and bouncing twice on the ground.

His eyes widened, his lips moved slightly, but he didn't utter a single word.

Ye Mo did not stop.

His white gloves, set against his black trench coat, moved so fast they looked like two streaks of white light.

With a flick of his trench coat to the left, Zhang Jing instinctively dodged to the right—but Ye Mo's foot was right there, and Zhang Jing tripped and fell heavily to the ground.

The hem of the coat wrapped around his wrist, tightening and pulling—Zhang Jing's right arm was stretched straight, his elbow unable to move under the restraint of the coat.

Then a knee strike came up from under the trench coat, heading straight for the ribs.

Zhang managed to block it at the last moment.

It wasn't a move from a script; it was an instinctive reaction honed through years of training.

He rolled half a circle backward and bounced up, regaining his footing. His eyes changed from surprise to focus—the kind of focus that only a martial artist would develop when encountering a true master.

He realized that Ye Mo had turned his trench coat into a weapon. Every hem of the coat concealed a hidden danger, and every swing created blind spots. His fists came out from under the sleeves, striking into the opponent's blind spots, making them impossible to defend against.

Behind the monitor, Yuan Kui's eyes nearly popped out.

This is not an action scene he directed.

This is not an action scene directed by any martial arts choreographer.

This is a rewritten chapter in the textbook of martial arts choreography.

"Damn it! Damn it!" The action choreographer had forgotten they were still recording; goosebumps rose on his arms. "Using a shirt hem as a weapon—how could I not have thought of that—damn, how could I not have thought of that!"

It wasn't an angry outburst.

It's the kind of insane criticism that only comes after art has been subverted.

Zhang Jing charged forward again, a faint hint of excitement on his lips, the kind only a martial artist could read.

He wasn't acting; he was countering the moves.

He wanted to see just how much this guy who wanted to add money could actually produce.

Then Ye Mo's trench coat swung over from the right, and Zhang Jing reflexively dodged to the left—wait, there was nothing under the trench coat.

A feint.

The real punch came from the left, striking Zhang Jing's shoulder through the fabric of his trench coat.

He staggered a couple of steps, then regained his balance.

Then he did something that no one expected—he threw the prop knife in his hand on the ground.

They came out of line.

Use real skills.

The two men were exchanging blows in the center of the set, their trench coats billowing as they exchanged punches and kicks. The rhythm of the fight was no longer controlled by the director and action choreographer, but was instead led by two people who truly understood kung fu.

Ye Mo flung off his trench coat—Zhang Jing shrunk and rolled over, crawling under the coat's hem and punching Ye Mo in the stomach.

Ye Mo sidestepped and raised his hand to deliver an elbow strike straight at the back of Zhang Jing's head.

Zhang Jing ducked to avoid it, grabbing the edge of his trench coat with his other hand. Their movements had gone beyond the scope of the rehearsal, but no one called "cut."

Yuan Kui stared intently at the monitor, his fingers gripping the earpiece cable so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

The action director was standing on the sidelines, already seated.

I'm not tired, I'm just stunned.

He had his hands on his knees, his mouth open and he forgot to close it. He didn't even notice that the drainage board he was weaving had fallen to the ground and he had stepped on it.

He has been in the film industry for over twenty years and has designed at least eight hundred or a thousand action scenes, but he has never seen anyone use a trench coat as a weapon like this.

"This is the real Fu Guang," a photographer nearby muttered to himself.

Yuan Kui did not respond; his eyes remained fixed on the monitor.

In the scene, Ye Mo's trench coat hem covered Zhang Jing's entire upper body, and the collar was wrapped around Zhang Jing's neck.

Zhang Jing struggled for a moment, then knelt on one knee.

He loosened his trench coat, revealing white gloves that emerged from under the hem. His fingertips held two prop bullet casings, which landed with two clinking sounds on the floor in front of Zhang Jing, bouncing twice on the ground.

The white gloves were so clean that not a speck of dust was on them.

Then Ye Mo looked down at him, his sunglasses concealing all his expressions.

"You only make a few hundred yuan a month—why are you risking your life?"

The sound wasn't loud.

There was no mockery, no pity, no anger.

It's a genuine sense of confusion.

He tilted his head slightly, his white glove rubbing against the collar of his trench coat—that neurotic, obsessive-compulsive little gesture.

"Click!"

After Yuan Kui finished shouting, he found himself standing up.

I don't remember when he stood up.

He stared at the still frame on the monitor—Ye Mo tilted his head, his white gloves rubbing against his collar, his trench coat hanging to the ground.

He turned to the photographer beside him.

"We've nailed this one, right?" The photographer nodded.

He turned to the action choreographer: "The fight scene at the end of this scene wasn't rehearsed, right?"

Wu shook his head, picked up the layout board from the ground, and wiped the dust off with his sleeve.

"There was none from beginning to end, but he played even better than in rehearsals. Every move he made was logical, and every piece of his shirt hem wasn't just flailing around randomly."

Yuan Kui walked back behind the monitor, sat down, and watched the playback again.

From beginning to end, frame by frame.

After watching, he took off his headset and put it on the table.

Then he said something, not loudly, but everyone in the room heard it.

"From now on, Fu Guang—follow Ye Mo's instructions."

......