Huayu: A master director who debuted as a singer

Zheng Hui sat up abruptly, instinctively raising his hands to quickly search his body. His arms were still there, he could feel his legs, and there was no severe pain in his chest.

He didn't die.

That red car that rushed in from the sixteenth floor, that five-pointed star logo, seems like just a dream.

Once his breathing calmed down, Zheng Hui turned his neck and looked around.

The light was dim, coming from a wooden lattice window on the side. The window paper was yellowed and had several holes in it, and dust swirled in the beam of light.

The ceiling was high overhead, with no visible wooden beams and roof tiles. Several thick, round wooden pillars stood in the corners, their bases supported by drum-shaped stone blocks.

Beneath her was a four-poster bed with a mosquito net hanging above it, and a square wooden table beside the bed.

When you step on it, there's no cold, hard feel like floor tiles; it's just a soft, fluffy texture.

It is soil.

The compacted loess ground, because no one walks on it for years, is damp in some places and covered with moss.

This is not his three-bedroom, two-living-room apartment on the 16th floor.

The phrase "ancient houses in Fujian" suddenly popped into Zheng Hui's mind. The moment he started thinking, countless images flooded his brain.

It's 1998 now.

He is still Zheng Hui, but this body belongs to an eighteen-year-old boy who has just lost his parents.

The original owner of this body had parents who couldn't make a living in their hometown in their early years. In the early 1980s, shortly after their marriage, they were smuggled to Macau by smugglers under the arrangement of their clan.

At that time, Macau had not yet been returned to China, and the Portuguese government's management was lax. The couple worked illegally on construction sites in Hac Sa Wan, living in tin shacks, drinking untreated water, and living in constant fear of the police. The original owner of this body was born in that kind of environment.

It wasn't until 1989, when Macau granted amnesty due to Operation Dragon, that my parents queued up overnight to get that thin ID card, and only then could they finally settle down in this gambling city of the East.

Last week, my father went to the market and bought some seafood, saying he wanted to improve our meals. The shellfish looked big and cheap, and the vendor said they had just died and were fine.

The father couldn't bear to buy live animals, thinking that they could be cooked at high temperatures and eaten.

That evening, the parents started vomiting and having diarrhea. At first, they thought it was just ordinary gastroenteritis, and in order to save money, they refused to go to the hospital, only taking some painkillers and berberine.

In the latter half of the night, the father developed a high fever and fell into a coma, while the mother's hands and feet turned black.

When Zheng Hui carried them downstairs to hail a taxi, his father was already unable to speak.

The hospital's diagnosis was cold and hard: Vibrio vulnificus infection, leading to severe sepsis and multiple organ failure.

From the onset of illness to death, it took less than three days. Two lives were lost because of a bag of dead shellfish that cost only a few dozen yuan.

Before leaving, his parents, in a moment of lucidity, took his hand and said, "Your mother and I are going home, back to our home in Fujian."

These were the parents' last words.

Following his will, Zheng Hui, in this era, carried the two people's ashes and endured a bumpy journey back to this clan village located deep in the mountains of southern Fujian.

This house is the ancestral home my parents left behind before they left.

Although no one has lived here for almost twenty years, someone from the clan has been looking after it. The tiles haven't leaked, the beams haven't collapsed, and apart from the lingering musty smell and the dust covering the ground, the main structure is still quite sturdy.

However, this is an old house built decades ago, without paved walls, a toilet, or running water. It needs extensive repairs to remain habitable for an extended period.

Zheng Hui rubbed his temples, processing these memories. A wave of sadness surged in his chest, the lingering emotions of the original owner.

Just as he was about to stand up and get some water, that swollen feeling in his head returned.

This time, it's not a memory.

Deep within his consciousness, the omnipotent director system that he had just finished setting up on his computer had somehow traveled through time with him.

However, there was no cold, mechanical sound, nor any semi-transparent system panel.

It was more like a completely decompressed database, directly integrated into his instincts.

From black-and-white silent films of the film era to Hollywood special effects blockbusters; from European art-house long takes to Hong Kong martial arts editing.

It's not just about the movie scenes we've seen, but about everything behind those scenes.

How was the lighting done in Titanic? How did Cameron manage the camera in that huge water tank? What were the color parameters for each frame?

In "Farewell My Concubine," how did Chen Kaige direct the play for Leslie Cheung's turn? How did the Peking Opera instructor correct his posture? And how did the out-of-focus passersby in the background move around?

Script structure, storyboard, mise-en-scène, lighting design, art direction, costumes and props, sound recording and mixing, post-production editing, special effects compositing…

These professional skills, which would normally require decades of formal training and hard work on film sets to master, are now like innate instincts, deeply imprinted in his mind.

Not just movies.

TV dramas, music videos, documentaries, BL films, and even variety show formats and concert stage designs that haven't even happened yet.

Everything related to the word "director," whether it's the past or the future, is in this head.

He stood up and stretched his stiff neck.

Suddenly, a strange sense of control spread throughout his body; this body seemed different now.

Zheng Hui walked to the slightly mottled mirror in the room.

"Want to give it a try?"

He looked in the mirror and began to imagine a scenario: a boy who had lost both parents but did not want to show his vulnerability.

Sadness, forbearance, and despair are intertwined.

Immediately, the face in the mirror began to move.

His eyes drooped slightly, his brows furrowed, and his lips were tightly pursed.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she held them back, refusing to let them fall.

The unspeakable sense of loss of a beloved person instantly overflowed from the mirror.

"receive."

Zheng Hui snapped his fingers, his tears instantly dried, and his expression returned to normal.

He tried another action, and a dying man saw hope and cried for help.

Immediately, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and a vein in his neck throbbed precisely.

"Help...help me..."

His voice was hoarse and broken, with the sound of air being squeezed out from deep within his chest, sending chills down one's spine.

Zheng Hui touched his throat, feeling the subtle vibrations of his vocal cords with his fingers.

It's not just facial expressions.

He looked down at his arm.

Biceps brachii, congested with blood.

With a thought, the muscles on his upper arm instantly tightened, becoming as hard as a rock.

My left eyelid twitched three times.

My left eyelid twitched exactly three times, no more, no less.

He had absolute control over every muscle, every nerve, and even the flow rate of every tear in this body.

He remembered the document he hadn't had time to save.

[Skill Supplement: Acting skills maxed out.]

[Body Enhancement: Maxed-out physical fitness, unlimited stamina...]