Huayu: This director is pretty strong.

Chapter 110 The Last Hidden Arrow Piercing the Film

The alley was narrow, and the stone houses squeezed the sky, leaving only a sliver of moonlight.

Wu Gang moved close to the wall, his right hand on his back, and the heavy aluminum alloy box in his left hand.

The wind swirled a few newspapers, which rubbed against the moss-covered stone slabs.

Ahead, a "tap, tap, tap" sound came from ahead.

One beat heavy, one beat light, accompanied by the crisp sound of the metal cane hitting the ground.

A man in a black trench coat stood in the moonlight, half his face hidden in the shadow of his hat brim, his right foot turned out at an odd angle.

"Lu Haiming's men?"

Wu Gang stood still, his body slightly hunched.

The man didn't answer; his steel cane drew an arc on the ground with a jarring sound.

Leave the things behind.

His voice was like a rusty gear turning.

Wu Gang spat a mouthful of bloody foam on the ground: "Come and get it."

The man moved.

The crippled right leg slammed into the ground, causing the moss to burst open.

He slid along the ground at an inhuman speed, his cane transforming into a black streak that pierced straight into Wu Gang's chest.

Wu Gang did not back down, but instead lifted the aluminum alloy box and slammed it down.

"clang!"

A muffled thud.

The immense force traveled up his arm and into his shoulder, leaving Wu Gang's hand numb.

Using the momentum, the opponent swayed and hooked his left foot towards Wu Gang's ankle.

Wu Gang stepped back and spun around, using the box as a hammer to strike the other man's head.

The man tilted his head to dodge, and then swept his cane across.

"Bang!"

Wu Gang felt a sharp pain in his ribs and crashed into the wall, causing brick dust to fall in a shower.

In the midst of excruciating pain, he loosened his grip, and the box slipped from his hand, sliding into the depths of the alley.

The man braced himself with one hand on the ground and reached for the box.

Just then, the blinding high beams tore through the darkness of the entire alley.

A black Santana roared into the narrow space, its side mirrors shattering instantly upon hitting the stone wall.

The man paused, touched the ground with one foot, and flew backward, landing on the lid of the trash can.

Chen Yan slammed on the brakes, the tires carving scorched marks into the stone slabs.

He pushed open the door and got out of the car, picked up the aluminum box on the ground, glanced at Wu Gang who was panting and clutching his chest, and then looked up at the man.

The man stared at Chen Yan, his gaze lingering on the aluminum box for a second, before turning around and disappearing over the wall.

"Don't chase?"

Wu Gang asked, his breath carrying the scent of blood.

Chen Yan weighed the box in his hand, his expression unchanged.

"He can't take anything with him."

He placed the box on the hood and unlocked it.

Su Wan leaned closer and saw that there were no negatives inside, only dozens of thick French film review magazines.

"film……"

"It all lies with Qingqiu."

Chen Yan closed the lid. "This was just bait."

He opened the car door: "Get in, the press corps has arrived."

……

2:15 a.m., Cannes Beach.

Hundreds of backpackers and homeless people, clutching free beers, stirred restlessly in the sea breeze.

Su Wan stood on the makeshift platform and whispered into the walkie-talkie, "Director Chen, Fazio has brought more than 30 media outlets, including the deputy editors of Le Figaro and Screen."

Chen Yan sat in the shadows below the stage, watching Lin Qingqiu.

She wore the torn black dress, her gait was stiff, and the scar on her right leg looked grotesque under the light.

She walked up to Chen Yan.

Is it heavy?

Chen Yan asked.

"Not heavy."

Lin Qingqiu touched the hard object lining her skirt. "It's lighter than my life."

Fazio ran over, sweating profusely, and grabbed Chen Yan's shoulder: "Chen! Are you crazy! The police are over there; if the film goes on for more than ten minutes, they'll confiscate everything!"

Chen Yan stood up: "It won't take ten minutes."

He looked at the group of reporters who had set up their equipment.

"I just want them to see that what Cannes dares not broadcast can resound like thunder here."

Su Wan handed over an earpiece: "It's He Ping on the phone."

Chen Yan pressed the speakerphone button.

"Chen Yan, stop!"

He Ping's voice was laced with anger, "If you stop now, I guarantee your eligibility for the award."

Chen Yan looked at the curious eyes that had gathered around him.

"Teacher He, you still don't understand."

"Understand what?"

"I came to Cannes not for that trophy."

He hung up the phone and looked at Fazio: "Load the film, use those four laser machines, play the last five minutes."

Fazio's hands were shaking, but he gritted his teeth and rushed toward the projection position.

Lin Qingqiu walked towards the curtain.

In front of all the Cannes reporters, she lowered her head and clutched her expensive silk dress.

"Sizzle—"

The fabric is torn.

Inside were neatly arranged rolls of 35mm film, gleaming a deep brown light under the lamp.

The sound of shutters clicking filled the air in an instant, and the flashes of light tore the night into day.

Lin Qingzhu tore off the film reels and patted them into the projectionist's hands, one roll at a time.

Her eyes were cold, and the scar that ruined her career was laid bare before the camera.

"That's called art."

Chen Yan stood behind her, his voice not loud.

……

Martinez Hotel, top floor.

He Ping gripped the balcony railing, his knuckles turning blue.

He whirled around and growled at his secretary, "Go find Chairman Claude! Tell him Chen Yan is illegally screening films! He's staging a political protest!"

The secretary, holding her phone, trembled: "Mr. He, it's too late. Half a minute ago, AFP released a news flash with the headline—'Torn Dress: Chinese Director Finds Film Reel on Beach.'"

On the screen, the scene of Lin Qingqiu tearing open her long dress carries a primal sense of ritual.

"The police...the police will take action..." He Ping's words were cut short.

Outside the window, a real clap of thunder rolled in from the depths of the Mediterranean.

Raindrops fell.

Four laser projectors were turned on simultaneously, and the beams were not projected onto the screen, but rather into the sky.

The image is distorted and magnified in the falling rain and thick clouds, and a translucent giant howls on the sea.

That was the ending of "Thunder," where the female protagonist broke her toe in the pouring rain.

"Hello! Is this the police station?"

He Ping roared into the phone, "This is He Ping! I want to report..."

"Mr. He," the voice on the other end of the phone was cold, "we have been notified that this is a non-profit art exhibition, and we have no right to interfere. In addition, several professors from the French Academy are coming to your room with the media to inquire about the details of a money laundering investigation letter."

The phone slipped from He Ping's fingers.

On the beach, Chen Yan stood in the rain and took out a disassembled cassette tape from his pocket.

He let go in front of countless cameras.

The thin, black magnetic tape strands scattered in the sea breeze, drifting into the darkness.

The doorbell rang urgently and heavily.

He Ping slumped into the sofa, looking at his pale face reflected in the glass window.

It’s over.

On the beach, the movie ended.

After three seconds of deathly silence, cheers drowned out the thunder.

Chen Yan walked over to Lin Qingqiu, who was soaked to the bone.

"Did we win?"

She asked.

"not yet."

Chen Yan looked at the group of European film distributors rushing towards him, then at the dark sea. "Back home, there are even bigger debts to collect."

In the distance, a car with a blue license plate stopped.

Claude, the president of the Cannes Film Festival, walked in with a gloomy face.

He walked up to Chen Yan and stared at the overheated projector: "You broke the rules."

Chen Yan stood in the rain, meeting his gaze: "Mr. Chairman, I'm here to save the rules."

Claude pulled a document from his pocket, unfolded it, and the sound carried far in the rain:

"Director Chen Yan, in light of your actions... we will cancel the remaining screenings of 'Thunder' at the Lumière Theatre."

He paused.

"However, as compensation, the jury unanimously decided to upgrade 'Thunder' to a special nominee for the Grand Prize and invite you to the closing ceremony red carpet."

Claude slammed the official document on Chen Yan's chest: "You win, you madman. But you have to give the organizing committee a way out."

Chen Yan took the official document and looked at the shocked audience.

"There will be even bigger developments in Cannes tomorrow."

……

Four o'clock in the morning, Beijing.

Lu Haiming answered the phone, his voice hoarse: "Did you succeed?"

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, along with the sound of newspapers turning.

"Boss, it's a failure. In France... He Ping has been taken away for questioning. And..." The secretary's voice trembled, "Chen Yan destroyed that tape in front of all the European media."

Lu Haiming didn't even feel the cigarette butt burning his fingertips.

He gave a bitter laugh and slumped into the chair.

"That's not destruction."

"That's him lighting the fire."

"Burn my ass off!"

……

Cannes, apartment.

Lin Qingqiu sat by the window and tore off the band-aid on her leg.

Chen Yan pushed open the door and handed her a bottle of warm coffee.

"Just now, while I was in the clouds, I felt like I wasn't lame anymore."

Lin Qingqiu stood up straight, "After I return to China, I will drag down those who have harmed me, one by one, from the clouds."

Chen Yan looked at her as if she were a knife that had been tempered and quenched.

"That day will come."

He took out the bloodstained note he had found in Tianjin and struck a match.

The flames engulfed the writing on it.

"Lu Haiming, you're next."

(End of this chapter)