leonardwarren Chapter 148: Change the music to "Battle of Taiping"!
Chapter 148: Change the music to "Battle of Taiping"!
Chapter 149: Change the music to "Battle of Taiping"!
The French Concession, the National Hotel.
In the luxurious suite on the third floor, instead of the dazzling Western chandelier, there was only a kerosene lamp with a glass shade on the mahogany round table.
The dim, yellowish light divided the spacious room into two halves, one of light and the other of shadow.
The air was filled with the metallic smell of pig iron, the pungent odor of cheap paint, and the dusty smell unique to torn cotton cloth.
On the table, there was a piece of clothing spread out.
Shunzi and Lu Feng, two towering men, stood to the side, holding their breath and not daring to even breathe loudly.
Little Bean was squatting on the ground, still clutching a piece of unused cast iron in his hand, with several bloody marks on his fingers.
That "clothing" was extremely rough.
It was the cheapest white cotton cloth on the market, which could be stretched to two lengths for one silver dollar.
There were no hemmed edges, no frog buttons, and not even a decent cuff. It was just a few pieces of rags crudely pieced together. At the chest and back, two breast protectors were hand-wrapped from cast iron bars and tightly bound to the cloth with thick hemp rope.
What is most shocking is the vast expanse of red.
It was Lu Cheng who haphazardly splattered the paint, using his fingers dipped in cheap vermilion pigment. The scattered dots, which then coalesced into patches, resembled the blood spurting out of a person's veins after being stabbed in the artery on the battlefield.
"Master————"
Shunzi swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with difficulty. He looked at the so-called "battle robe," his heart pounding.
"Will this... will this work?"
"The grand performance is the day after tomorrow. Master Mei is wearing a fish-scale armor and a ruyi crown, embroidered by over a dozen Suzhou embroiderers over three years. Even the extras are dressed in elaborate gold and silver embroidery. And you—if you go on stage wearing just this piece of blood-stained cloth—wouldn't the audience tear the stage down?"
In the world of Peking Opera, "better to wear tattered clothes than to wear the wrong clothes" is an ironclad rule.
It emphasizes the concept of "beauty".
Even if the character is playing a beggar, the patches on his clothes must be "rich clothes" with a sense of order and harmonious color matching.
Wearing such a blood-stained outfit, as if you've just been pulled from a pile of corpses, on stage is a great disrespect to the patriarch and a deception of the audience!
Lu Cheng did not rush to answer.
He stood with his hands behind his back in front of the table, his moon-white robe spotless, forming a stark, even glaring, contrast with the gruesome "blood-stained robe" on the table.
"Thump, thump, thump."
At that very moment, a sudden throbbing sensation arose deep within Lu Cheng's heart.
That's not a rapid heartbeat.
That's the [Exquisite Heart] in operation.
With keen insight and a clear mind, she understands the ways of the world and human nature, seeing through illusions and delusion.
With the blessing of the [Exquisite Heart], Lu Cheng's mind flashed through the various chaotic scenes in Tianjin over the past few days, as if playing a movie.
Japanese ronin ran rampant in the streets, while White Russian mercenaries, armed with submachine guns, wantonly trampled on Chinese property.
Those bloated compradors and warlords drank red wine and cuddled dancers in the concessions, treating the dignity of the nation and its people as bargaining chips.
Meanwhile, the emaciated laborers and ordinary people could only shiver in the mud, not even daring to breathe loudly.
numbness.
despair.
It was like a stagnant pool, without a ripple.
"Shunzi" (a type of Chinese character)
Lu Cheng spoke slowly, his voice carrying a sense of desolation.
"What kind of play do you think Zhao Zilong's 'Changban Slope' is?"
Shunzi paused for a moment, scratched his head, and answered without hesitation.
"Needless to say? That's a martial arts drama about taking the imperial examination! It tells the story of General Zhao Yun, who single-handedly charged into Cao Cao's 830,000-strong army seven times to rescue the young lord. What a magnificent and awe-inspiring feat that was!"
"Yes, majestic and imposing."
A faint self-deprecating smile appeared on Lu Cheng's lips.
"Thousands of troops and horses avoid the white-robed warrior."
"But that was ultimately just—the courage of a common man, the power of a single individual."
Lu Cheng turned around and looked out the window at the bizarrely bright night sky of the French Concession, illuminated by neon lights.
"In times of peace and prosperity, after everyone has eaten their fill, they sit in the theater drinking large bowls of tea and eating melon seeds. Watching Zhao Zilong wield his spear on stage and single-handedly slaughter the enemy is exhilarating, entertaining, and brings cheers from the audience."
"But what about now?"
Lu Cheng turned around abruptly, his sharp eyes piercing the hearts of his disciples.
"We are now on the verge of national collapse and family ruin."
"The Japanese bayonets are already at our throats. The people of Tianjin have lost their minds and their blood has turned cold. They watch their compatriots being bullied and only dare to lower their heads and walk around them. They watch their ancestors' possessions being stolen and only dare to sigh in their beds."
"At this moment, even if I, Lu Cheng, sing 'Changbanpo' on stage with unparalleled skill, even if I wield that white wax spear with absolute power—"
"What can we do?"
"The audience below the stage will only see me as a highly skilled immortal, or as an eccentric figure from the martial arts world who has nothing to do with them."
"They will cheer and throw money at the theater, but after the show, once they leave, they are still the same group of numb sheep."
Lu Cheng reached out and gently stroked the rough white blood-stained clothes on the table.
What I felt at my fingertips was the coldness of pig iron and the dryness of paint.
"Zhao Zilong is invincible; he has never lost."
"But our country now, our compatriots now—are constantly losing."
"Trying to wake up a bunch of people pretending to be asleep, wanting to yell at those who are blind to reality—it's no use relying on personal power alone."
"They need to see the pain, the blood, the bone broken, the flesh cut away, yet still gritting their teeth, refusing to bend over even in the face of death—it's a horrific sight!"
The room was deathly silent.
Shunzi, Lu Feng, Xiaodouzi, and Zhou Daikui, who had just entered, all stood there dumbfounded.
They had never seen their master speak in such a tone.
In that voice, there was no aloofness of a Grandmaster of Internal Energy, only a deep sorrow for the shattered land and the nation. "This blood-stained robe, Zhao Zilong cannot wear."
Lu Cheng flicked his wrist, and with a "whoosh," he unfolded the Xiangfei bamboo folding fan.
"Zhao Zilong's white robe is the hallmark of an ever-victorious general; it must not be stained."
"So, this play, 'The Battle of Changban,' is..."
A resolute glint flashed in Lu Cheng's eyes. "We're not singing anymore."
"ah?!"
Zhou Daikui was really anxious now; his legs went weak and he almost fell to the ground.
"Chengzi, my little darling, the time is of the essence! The show starts the day after tomorrow, and you're saying you're not going to sing now?"
"The sign outside has already been put up."
"All the dignitaries, foreigners, and reporters in Tianjin are eagerly waiting to see your performance at Changban Slope. If you were to change the script at the last minute, it would be a major taboo that would ruin your reputation!"
"The signboard is erected by people, and the rules are also set by people."
Lu Cheng remained calm.
He looked at Zhou Daikui and said, "Master, change the play. Take 'Changbanpo' off the stage."
"Change—change what?" Zhou Daikui asked, trembling.
Lu Cheng's finger lightly touched the blood-stained white cloth.
"Only one person deserves to wear this blood-stained garment."
"I want to sing—"
Lu Cheng took a deep breath and uttered three words.
"The Battle of Taiping!"
boom!
These three words were like a muffled thunderclap, exploding directly on Zhou Daikui's forehead.
His old face instantly lost all color, and he took two steps back, staring at Lu Cheng in disbelief.
"Battle of Taiping"!
Anyone who makes a living in the Peking Opera industry knows the significance of this play.
This is no ordinary martial arts performance.
This is an extremely rare and demanding type of opera in the world of traditional Chinese opera—the "Wenwu Laosheng" (civil and military old male role) opera.
It tells the story of General Hua Yun, who was ordered to defend Taiping City to the death in the early Ming Dynasty.
Facing Chen Youliang's 100,000-strong rebel army, Hua Yun fought alone, but was captured when the city fell.
The bandits forced him to kneel and surrender, but Hua Yun refused to yield and was tied to a tall wooden pillar in the execution ground.
A hail of arrows pierced his heart!
Hua Yun was riddled with dozens of arrows and covered in blood, yet her eyes remained wide open in anger. Before she died, she cursed the rebels, and even as she breathed her last, her body remained upright.
This play is too tragic, too miserable, and too heroic.
"Chengzi—you—you're insane!"
Zhou Daikui's voice was trembling, whether from excitement or fear, it was hard to tell.
"This 'Battle of Taiping' is the signature piece of the Tan school of Peking Opera, emphasizing the mastery of singing, acting, recitation, and martial arts."
"You must wear the beard of an old male character, and heavy armor, and perform somersaults and throw corpses on stage." You must also sing Hua Yun's dying curses in that extremely high-pitched, indignant tone.
"This production was incredibly demanding."
"Back then, many famous actors who had already made a name for themselves couldn't muster the right amount of grief and indignation when they sang this play. They even vomited blood on stage and ruined their voices."
"You—though your martial arts are divine, your singing style, that mournful tone of a scholar-warrior," and that tragic lament, you—
Can you do it?
Zhou Daikui's concerns are not unfounded.
Lu Cheng is a martial arts actor, and no one dares to refute his reputation as the best in martial arts. But for him to play Hua Yun, it's not just about fighting; it's about risking his life to "sing" and "roar".
That requires a profound cultural background and a deep-seated empathy for tragic figures.
"It has to work, even if it doesn't work."
Lu Cheng closed his folding fan, his gaze resolute.
"My 'Transformation of Strength' training is not just about cultivating the skin, flesh, and bones, but also about cultivating the righteous spirit within my heart."
"The Japanese want to see us make a fool of ourselves and want to break our backbone with their guns and cannons."
"I'm going to stand on this busiest stage in Tianjin, dressed in this coarse, blood-stained cloth, and sing them a song of unwavering resolve, 'Fighting Taiping,' a song of defiance!"
"I want these three thousand spectators, and the millions of people in Tianjin, to see this—"
"What are the bones of our Chinese nation?"
Lu Cheng suddenly turned around and looked at Shunzi and Lu Feng.
"From this moment forward, the Qingyun Troupe will close its doors to all visitors. We will not see anyone who comes."
"Master, go and inform the theater that the Qingyun Troupe has changed their play at the last minute; it will be 'Battle of Taiping'!"
Looking into Lu Cheng's eyes, which showed no room for compromise, Zhou Daikui knew he couldn't persuade him anymore.
He gritted his teeth and stomped his foot.
"Fine, damn it, so what if I die? This old man will go to the theater right now to negotiate. Even if it costs me my life, I'll take responsibility for this!"
Zhou Daikui turned and rushed out.
Inside the room, Lu Cheng stared at the blood-stained clothes on the table, his gaze gradually deepening.
"The Battle of Taiping" —
"My skills are sufficient, and my energy and blood are also abundant."
"but----"
Lu Cheng frowned slightly.
【Linglongxin】 told him that the play was still missing something.
It's missing a certain "flavor".
That kind of vicissitude and tragedy of truly experiencing the destruction of one's country and the loss of one's home, being driven to the brink of despair, yet still laughing heartily at the sky.
This kind of "flavor" cannot be given through systematic instruction.
It's difficult to completely simulate his past life as a modern person.
It's a kind of aged, mellow aroma that only comes from years of hardship and simmering.
"We need to find someone knowledgeable to help us get this 'resolve'."
Lu Cheng thought to himself.