Chapter 30: “Safe Travels” Part 1

The night before heading to the Northern Border, there were still more than half a month until the Lunar New Year, and Shanghai remained as cold as ever.

The hot water in her rented apartment came out even later than usual, while biting winds battered the glass windows with relentless thuds. The heavy, dragging footsteps in the hallway never let up.

Fu Tingli lay there with her eyes wide open, unable to sleep.

Her phone, left uncapped and tossed on the bed beside her, buzzed incessantly with new messages from the WeChat group, casting faint, flickering lights across the dimly lit ceiling.

At around one-thirty in the morning, probably because they had never seen the snow in the Northern Border before, a few young folks from the set’s art department couldn’t sleep. They pulled together a small group chat, their excitement contagious as they shared gossip.

Perhaps figuring Fu Tingli was from Xinjiang, they dragged her right into it. Once they learned her mother was truly from there, they bombarded her with questions: how long had it been since she’d gone back? Was the snow in Kanas really that thick? Did the place really have that lingering pull that made it impossible to forget?

Returning to the “mother’s homeland” she’d visited as a child always brought fuzzy memories—and a touch of restless tossing and turning.

Fu Tingli exhaled a puff of chilly winter breath, recalling her impressions of Kanas.

She remembered wearing a thick felt hat at six years old, riding a little brown pony while Qiao Lipan led the reins, guiding her slowly through the deep snow. “If you like it, we’ll buy this little brown pony for you,” Qiao Lipan had said.

She’d felt so majestic astride that pony, the whole world seeming tiny beneath her. Bursting with excitement, she’d declared how much she liked it, insisting she wanted that little brown pony. But Qiao Lipan replied, “You have to learn to ride it first, or it won’t obey you.”

Then, out of nowhere, a sharp slap on the pony’s rump.

The little brown pony bolted forward lightly, and Fu Tingli clung to the swaying reins, tears welling up in terror. “I don’t want to learn! I don’t want it! I don’t like it anymore!”

Back then, she’d thought the pony ran so fast and far, that riding on its back was utterly terrifying.

But looking back, Qiao Lipan’s swat hadn’t been that hard. The pony probably only went about ten meters before slowing down.

Otherwise, amid the howling wind and her pounding heart, she wouldn’t have heard Qiao Lipan’s laughter echoing from behind her.

In the end, she really did learn to ride that winter. And true to her word, Qiao Lipan bought the little brown pony for her, planning to bring it back to Shanghai.

But she’d refused.

At six, she didn’t grasp grand philosophies. She just felt that a little pony belonged on the vast grasslands, galloping across the boundless Northern Border to grow into a mighty steed.

If it came back to Shanghai with her, it would be cooped up, unable to race freely amid the towering buildings, crosswalks, and crowded streets—to become that majestic horse she’d dreamed of.

Those memories were still vivid, playing out like a film, frame by frame on the ceiling.

Fu Tingli thought for a moment before replying in the group:

【It’s pretty unforgettable. I still remember learning to ride a horse there when I was six.】

Someone picked up on her words: 【Then I gotta give it a proper ride this time. Riding at a horse ranch here is nothing like in the Northern Border. I’ll have plenty to brag about when I get back.】

Another chimed in: 【You really think we’re just tourists? We’re there to work, big bro.】

【Opening shots aren’t for another week, right? We already scouted and locked in locations last time. We’re heading up a week early to check the scenery and set up. We’ve got some downtime before the actors arrive and things get hectic.】

【Speaking of which, why’s Teacher Kong coming with us early? Does her schedule allow it?】

Fu Tingli hadn’t really joined the small group’s chatter. Her chilblains were itching, reminding her to apply some ointment.

~~~ After several days of hustling at her convenience store gig, they’d flared up again.~~~

She stretched a hand out from under the covers, bunching the blanket around her as she fumbled for the light. Under the harsh glow of the thirty-watt bulb, she slowly applied the chilblain ointment.

Her phone sat on the table, messages popping up one after another. The group’s gossip had shifted from the Northern Border to Kong Liyuan.

【Her schedule should be fine. I bet Teacher Kong’s going early to refine Ayang’s hometown scenes. A few days immersed there will help her blend into the environment better.】

【Makes sense. I’ve got her work style figured out—she grinds until it’s perfect. No wonder in four years since debuting, she’s only starred in four films. She skips TV dramas, web series, and barely does variety shows or reality TV.】

【But every role she takes digs deep into the heart. The real key is how solid the quality is across the board. Great reviews, broad appeal, scripts with real depth—no shallow romances or flashy commercial gimmicks.】

【Who’s flashy? Name names if you’ve got the guts.】

【Me, me, me!/hands clasped in prayer, me being flashy.】

【It’s a shame, though. Last time, Teacher Kong was so close to snagging Film Queen at the nominations. If it were me, I’d be fired up to try again.】

【Oh yeah, last time with Memory Beginning, Teacher Kong was up for Best Actress at the Hundred Flowers Awards. Wasn’t that the year Wen Shijia took Film Queen?】

Mention of Wen Shijia, who was embroiled in a storm of scandals dominating the hot searches lately, silenced the group. After a long pause, someone finally piped up:

【That drama’s blowing up big time. No clue if it’s real or fake, though.】

Some dove headfirst into the gossip frenzy over the past few days’ bombshell; others, ever cautious of the line, quickly warned:

【Alright, alright, drop it/shh. Don’t leak any of this chat.】

By the time that last message appeared, Fu Tingli had nearly finished applying the ointment, her hands feeling cool and slick.

The barrage of notifications had filled the tiny apartment with a constant buzz, but she hadn’t made a sound.

She just struggled to splay her fingers, waiting for the sticky ointment to absorb, watching as every single WeChat message got deleted one by one.

In an instant, the group fell deathly silent.

The phone screen dimmed once more, going black.

Fu Tingli stared blankly at the dark display, thinking of how they’d said Kong Liyuan had come so close to Best Actress last time, how she was heading to the Northern Border early with them to polish her role.

Filming the script’s latter half in the Northern Border had been in the works for a while, only finalized last week.

In the script, after Ayang falls from the white horse, she lies on the damp roadside for ages, icy rain mingling with blood on her face. Struggling to rise, broken and repressed, she stumbles to a rented truck, intent on suicide—but fate intervenes, leading her back to her childhood hometown.

Snow blankets the homeland. Amid the frozen wilderness, she encounters locals in an old village. This desperate journey sparks clashes—wild, whimsical, tender, reckless—pushing her emotions forward once more.

That snow scene was a centerpiece, but Shanghai’s flurries were too meager. The director tested artificial snow several times, yet it never hit the aesthetic peak he envisioned.

So he’d decided early on. While the main crew shot the road scenes, an advance team had already scouted the snow, settling on a village in Kanas.

Fu Tingli had always assumed Kong Liyuan made acting look effortless. Only recently, as the plot hit key emotional clashes, did she realize the truth. Even as a pro who nailed the switch in and out of character, capturing that absurd repression in a heartbeat—

It didn’t mean it came easy. She wasn’t just standing there, magically becoming Ayang.

She had to grind, refining until the director was satisfied and she believed in it herself.

That’s why she went early with the crew to the Northern Border. Why these past days, she’d been on this very road, honing the conflict scenes with Xia Yue, then filming scattered details of Ayang’s life here—wandering the streets, soaking in her mindset. Real immersion, laying groundwork for what came next.

All day, she’d wear Ayang’s shabby green plaid shirt over a tight tank top, faded jeans, hair loosely piled and trailing dejectedly down her neck.

Living the movie.

These past few days, Fu Tingli had been working a gig on a nearby street. Each evening returning, she’d spot Kong Liyuan from afar in that outfit, pacing slowly along the road.

Off-camera, she’d squint at things or crouch, studying shop signs along the way.

Sometimes, Fu Tingli would pass the intersection swarmed by cameras, media, and fans who’d tracked them down, carrying a packed bento from the convenience store.

Or on sleepless nights, she’d fling open the window to the biting cold, bundle up in her quilt to soak a bowl of instant noodles. After eating, with a skim of congealed oil floating on the soup, she’d linger by the window, breathing warmth onto her hands. Peering toward the alley mouth, she could just make out the crew grinding night shots under greenish-yellow lights.

~~~To heighten the oppressive, somber mood, most of this arc’s footage was shot at night.~~~

In fleeting moments, Fu Tingli couldn’t help wondering if Kong Liyuan, back when she was just starting out, had been any greener on set than she was now.

But she couldn’t imagine what Kong Liyuan had looked like in her awkward youth—that woman who had lived so fiercely and unapologetically in California, boldly being herself without a mask. Would it have been hard for her to learn to play someone else?

That woman who had kicked the blond thug in the ass in California and then grabbed her hand to sprint down the street—what would she have felt in an environment where enemies surrounded her on all sides, ready to devour her whole? When facing aggressive reporters, would she have felt a surge of irritation in her heart, fantasizing about burning it all to the ground?

Yet most of the time, Fu Tingli simply watched her. She watched as Kong Liyuan, in Ayang’s guise, walked every familiar street that Fu Tingli herself had tread, immersing herself in the life Fu Tingli was living right now.

Perhaps she was far better at it than Ayang ever could have been.

Fu Tingli stared at her own ten perfectly intact fingers. Not only were they all still there, but they were slathered thickly with chilblain ointment.

The chilblain ointment had come from Rong Wu.

The crew had lingered on this street for as long as Rong Wu had stood at the mouth of Fu Tingli’s alley, handing out ginger tea.