In January at Hengdian, when dawn was just breaking, thick bluish-gray clouds covered the sky.

A little after five in the morning, Xi Tang wrapped her coat tightly around herself, shivering as she walked along the red walls of the Qing Palace Mingyuan. The sky was still dark, with only faint glimmers of light showing between distant buildings.

That was where film crews were still working through the night.

Walking to the anti-Japanese war base at Guangzhou Street and Hong Kong Street, amidst scorched ruins, figures were already moving about.

The cinematographer directed lighting assistants as they set up ladders.

She walked into a building where a row of National Revolutionary Army soldiers in yellow uniforms stood, each looking gaunt and sickly, appearing almost like ghostly shadows at first glance. Near a canvas folding chair stood a makeup artist, a young girl wearing a blue mask with messy hair from lack of sleep, quickly applying gunpowder residue and fake blood to faces, finishing one person per minute, then expressionlessly calling out: “Next.”

Xi Tang went in to change into her costume.

This morning they were filming an explosion scene where they blow up an enemy power plant before dawn. Xi Tang was one of the extras charging into battle. With an earth-shattering boom, everyone in the trench fell down, convulsed, went still, and the director shouted “Cut” through the megaphone.

Once more.

They continued shooting until daylight brightened, and the director was finally satisfied, wrapping up to move to the next location.

The vehicles transported them from the rural outskirts back to the film district. Xi Tang changed clothes and came out, just running into Lao Diao, the extras coordinator, who flashed her a yellow-stained, tobacco-stained grin: “Well, look at our big star, up early, eh?”

Xi Tang greeted him with a smile: “Good morning, Brother Diao.”

She handed him a breakfast package from the film crew: “You haven’t eaten, right? Soy milk and steamed buns.”

Brother Diao took it without ceremony, while his other hand reached out to touch her face. Xi Tang nimbly dodged, still maintaining her smile.

Brother Diao chuckled: “You little slippery one.”

Xi Tang quickly clasped her hands and bowed, smiling as she ran off: “Remember to call me for roles!”

Brother Diao, cigarette between his teeth, casually marked a check next to her name.

Extras in Hengdian earned sixty yuan for eight hours, and even at this rate, it was only half as much four or five years ago. For scenes before six in the morning, they got an extra ten yuan. For scenes where you got beaten up or died, also an extra ten yuan minimum.

During Hengdian’s busiest times, there were supposedly thousands of extras, bodies rolling in the mud, yet even the lunch box vendors were looking up at the stars with ambition.

Leaving the site, Xi Tang checked the time and headed toward her film crew.

Her management company was shooting a period palace drama in Hengdian. They had filmed late into the night and would start work again after ten this morning.

Xi Tang walked along the bluestone path, silently smiling to herself. She was now someone with a management company, no wonder she got teased whenever she came to work as a special extra. The current production her company was filming, “Palace Love of a Stunning City,” claimed a total investment of tens of millions, but most of it went into the pockets of the director and lead actors. Costumes and props were rented as cheaply as possible, not to mention the extremely clichéd scriptwriting and plot—since Xi Tang started working in Hengdian these few years ago, all kinds of film and TV production companies had sprung up like weeds, all the same, churning out one terrible show after another, all broadcast on television. What did it matter? After post-production editing, the scenes showed magnificent palaces with red willows and treasures, handsome men and beautiful women entangled in passionate love affairs. With aggressive distribution, promotion, hyped-up gossip, and fans, the broadcasting rights still sold well, producers still made fortunes, TV stations still aired the shows enthusiastically, and audiences still watched with relish.

In the drama, she played a maid to a disfavored imperial concubine, with scenes spanning about ten episodes. Three days ago during filming, she was unfortunately poisoned to death by a consort from a neighboring palace and “received her lunch box” (exited the show).

Having lived in Hengdian for almost two years and coming from this industry background, she had done all kinds of jobs and was skilled at all of them. This time, the company didn’t even need to hire production assistants, as she and another colleague handled everything.

As soon as Xi Tang entered the set, it was bustling with actors in costumes coming and going. Some already had their headdresses and makeup done, and at a glance, palace maids filled the spring palace like flowers, a colorful scene that created a sense of time displacement.

But the next second, she heard the production manager roaring through the window: “Wake him up! This set costs twenty thousand yuan per scene! The entire crew is waiting while he eats for free!”

Xi Tang knew they were talking about the male lead, Jiang Chao, a Hong Kong singing and dancing star from long ago who had somewhat faded from popularity. But he had accumulated long-term fame, was relatively skilled at acting, and commanded a moderate fee. The company hired him to act opposite Wu Zhenzhen, despite their age difference of over ten years—one playing a mature and steady prince, the other a pure and likable female martial artist from the jianghu (martial arts world), creating a fresh pairing.

But rumor had it that he had recently divorced and, since joining the crew, had become a night party animal. If his assistant wasn’t careful, he wouldn’t be able to wake up.

It was no wonder he enjoyed going out at night for entertainment. Being trapped in this rundown small town for months, working day and night to meet deadlines, anyone would go crazy.

Her colleague A Kai saw her under the eaves and quickly waved her over: “Xi Tang, come here.”

A girl stood beside him, wiping tears and sobbing as she spoke.

It was Xiao Ning, the assistant assigned by the company to the female lead Wu Zhenzhen.

As soon as Xiao Ning saw her, she said angrily: “Sister Xi Tang, I don’t want to work with Zhenzhen anymore.”

Wu Zhenzhen was the company’s most popular female star in recent years, considered a first-tier actress in period dramas throughout the television industry. She was beautiful, and yes, had a bit of a temper, but all big names had some temperament, though not enough to fall out with an assistant.

Xi Tang asked: “What happened?”

Xiao Ning said: “Today’s script had changed. When I took it in for her to look at, she scolded me and kicked me out.”

Xi Tang looked at her, with a gleam in her eye, and asked: “Who’s in her makeup room?”

A Kai pulled her aside and lowered his voice: “New boyfriend, first time visiting the set. He’s keeping a tight grip. Supposedly he’s investing in the next project, a big production starring Zhenzhen. The boss is treating him like a god of wealth.”

Xi Tang understood clearly now.

She had vaguely heard some rumors. Filming in Hengdian was extremely boring, so much fresh, spicy gossip spread quickly. Wu Zhenzhen had become famous early and was still young, but had already earned a considerable amount of money, making her proud and arrogant. It was said that her price for attending a dinner party was in the six figures, available only if you had the market but not the price. But in the entertainment circle, there was a tradition among wealthy businessmen—the more expensive and arrogant the female star they brought out, the more face they gained.

It was rare for a wealthy patron to catch Wu Zhenzhen’s eye; he must be quite a remarkable character.

She had already noticed that Xiao Ning was wearing a white down jacket today, under which was a layer of black sheer fabric, with her curves prominently displayed.

Xi Tang secretly admired her insight.