It was hard to communicate over the phone. He Xing brought materials directly to the set to check on Lu Xianqing and report the progress of Qin Sizheng’s contract termination to the studio.
She still couldn’t understand why Lu Xianqing insisted on only one million. For someone like him, money was truly just a number.
If cities could be auctioned, Ye Xu could probably buy Jiangcheng outright. His pay was at the top of the industry. Haggling over this with Shengyu? Ridiculous.
By his nature, the contract should have been signed long ago.
Stepping out of the car, she casually asked a passerby if Lu Xianqing was filming. He pointed frantically. Her stomach dropped.
Half his body was covered in blood. At first, she thought it was part of the shoot, but seeing An Ning pale and crying, she realized he was genuinely hurt.
She dropped everything, legs trembling.
Lu Xianqing’s face was ghostly, fingers still dripping blood.
That morning, the scene required wire work. Due to a miscalculation in angle, he smashed into the rig. A sharp iron beam tore through his suit sleeve, slicing the flesh and soaking the suit in blood.
Sweat covered his forehead, but he didn’t stop. He completed the “serious injury” scene, impressing even Zhou Changjiang, who used it as a teaching moment for newcomers.
The wires had just lowered him, and he could barely stand—legs weak, arm still bleeding.
The prop master rushed over, heart in his throat, shouting at Zhou Changjiang.
Zhou, still watching the playback, applauded repeatedly, only halting when the assistant yelled, “Fourth Brother is hurt!” He then finally saw him drenched in blood.
“Old Lu, how are you?! Call a doctor!!” Zhou Changjiang panicked, sweat running down his forehead. The crowd around them was getting thicker and suffocatingly tight, so he shouted for them to step back.
Lu Xianqing frowned, took a shallow breath, and said, “Stop yelling, it’s giving me a headache. Also, don’t call an ambulance—just have the crew doctor patch me up. I know how bad it is.”
He tentatively moved his right arm. The piercing pain made cold sweat break out over him again. He reached out with his other hand. “Help me up.”
An Ning quickly steadied him, her eyes red with worry.
Lu Xianqing staggered a few steps, leaning on An Ning’s arm. “If you call an ambulance, it’ll attract attention. Who knows what the media will write. I just want to get patched up in the dressing room.”
Zhou Changjiang hurriedly said, “Someone give him a hand! Find a stretcher!”
“No need. I can walk myself,” Lu Xianqing insisted.
He wasn’t avoiding the media—he just didn’t want Qin Sizheng, who was thousands of miles away, to worry. So he endured it quietly.
He stood there for a moment, and He Xing felt a pang of emotion. Lu Xianqing finally showed a trace of normal human care, quietly shielding his pain.
The crew doctor had arrived at the door before him. An Ning reached for the door, but He Xing took the keys. “I’ll open it. Help him inside.”
The doctor opened the medical kit. Lu Xianqing’s suit was soaked in blood, giving off a strong metallic stench.
He panted heavily, trying to remove his clothing, and the doctor quickly said, “If you try to take it off yourself, it’ll hurt more. I’ll cut it off carefully.”
Using scissors, the doctor delicately cut the sleeves off the suit without aggravating the wound, then carefully cut the shirt open to stop the bleeding and bandage him.
Lu Xianqing’s brow twitched slightly as he breathed in broken gasps. “Don’t tell him.”
He Xing understood exactly who “him” was. “Got it. Take care of yourself first.”
In the past, Lu Xianqing had tendencies toward self-harm. Wounds meant little to him, but now the pain was almost unbearable.
After bandaging, An Ning wiped the blood from his arm with a wet towel and helped him into a clean shirt.
He leaned back, placing his left hand on his forehead, closing his eyes in exhaustion.
Since seeing that photo, Qin Sizheng had been restless and anxious, wishing he could fly there instantly.
His flight was four hours away. At the airport, he was a bundle of nerves, palms sweaty, rubbing them repeatedly to calm his anxiety.
Even with a hat and mask, some people recognized him and came over for photos or autographs. Qin Sizheng didn’t have the heart to deal with them, smiled faintly, and found a hidden spot to sit. Shen Changfeng, understanding the situation, instructed security to keep people outside the lounge.
“Don’t worry. Fourth Brother’s injury shouldn’t be serious. If it were, they’d have taken him to the hospital and news would’ve come out. Since there’s nothing yet, it can’t be too bad,” Shen Changfeng comforted him, handing him a cup of hot cocoa.
“Boarding in half an hour. Don’t scare yourself.”
Qin Sizheng gripped the cup tightly, mind racing through the image of Lu Xianqing injured—was it a bruise or a cut? His arm looked blue and purple like rotten meat; his face was pale, lips tinged with blue. Qin Sizheng buried his face, heart aching, eyes red and swollen like a rabbit’s.
“Attention passengers, Yujian Airlines flight 6L7864 is now open for boarding…” The announcement barely finished before Qin Sizheng set down the cup and ran.
Shen Changfeng hurried after him, guiding him onto the plane. Other passengers recognized him and tried to get autographs, but Shen Changfeng blocked them.