Chapter 4: Wo Shida Chunlu

After the broadcast of Journey to the West’s second episode, viewers noticed that the animation now featured an ending theme for the first time. What was interesting was that the singer was not Yu Huaiyin, nor S-77, but a renowned tenor from Earth.

This ending theme, composed personally by Yu Huaiyin, was grand and heroic in style. Paired with the tenor’s voice, it carried a sense of a warrior departing, never to return.

What surprised the audience even more was that the ending theme’s visuals included a staff credits list. While credits for behind-the-scenes personnel were nothing new, what caught people’s attention was that the very first names to appear were those of the voice actors.

In this era, when AI could handle 98% of human work, real human voice acting had long since fallen out of use. After all, AI could dub quickly and well, with no need for a voice director’s guidance or concern for the actor’s physical condition—convenient, efficient, and effortless.

So when viewers saw that Youjian Entertainment had used only real human voice actors for this animation, they couldn’t help but admire the production team’s courage and resolve.

Realizing that the animation featured human voice acting, viewers went back to watch the second episode again. This time, they understood why the choice had been made.

Animation, by its nature, could never match the emotional expressiveness of a skilled live-action actor; subtle expressions, shifts in the eyes—these details were beyond the reach of animation.

The same was true for AI voice acting: the breathy nuances, the unintelligible syllables a character might utter—these were things AI could neither understand nor replicate, and only a voice actor could deliver.

So, during the weekly wait between episodes, the voice actors joined the ranks of those explaining Journey to the West.

Through live demonstrations, they showed viewers firsthand how talented voice actors breathed soul into animated characters.

·

Faced with the phenomenon that was Journey to the West, the Earth Entertainment Alliance Association convened another online meeting.

Still black screens, still only code names, still processed voices.

“Youjian Entertainment is simply going too far. How are we supposed to remake Journey to the West after this?!” Number 4 was as furious as ever.

“Old Four, what are you saying? Anyone can make Journey to the West. If you want, you can adapt all four great classics,” Number 2 replied indifferently.

“Provided your screenwriter is Master Zheng’s grandson and your art director is Master Chen,” Number 4 retorted sarcastically.

Number 2 immediately fell silent.

“All right, Old Four, don’t be so hot-tempered. We know you’re holding it in. But we can’t be so petty, can we? They’ve clearly stated they won’t touch live-action adaptations anymore. If we keep complaining, we’ll look unreasonable,” Number 1 tried to soothe him.

“That’s all true, but after what that little girl pulled, how are aliens supposed to recognize our version of Journey to the West?” Number 4’s words brought another round of silence.

Finally, Number 3 stepped in to mediate. “That’s not quite right. Like Number 2 said, there are still three classics left. We have excellent screenwriters, and we can try our hand at historical or mythological dramas. Worst case, we can co-produce some blockbusters with other regions.”

“Number 3 is right. We could even make some xianxia or palace intrigue dramas. With refined costumes and sets, a juicy plot, and a bit of added value, we can achieve just as much,” Number 6 said, winning widespread agreement.

“Solutions are made by people. There are so many of us—surely we’re not outdone by a single girl? Especially at a critical moment like this. Those who can keep their cool will be the ultimate winners,” Number 1 concluded. “Let’s join forces and launch a major historical drama first. Avoid the mythological track for now and focus on what we do best. I know a few historians who can serve as consultants—more than enough.”

Number 5 spoke up as well. “Coincidentally, I’m planning to prepare a historical drama about Wu Zetian. Anyone interested?”

“Wu Zetian is a perennial favorite. I’m in,” Number 1 responded first.

Several others quickly voiced their support.

“I believe this time, we’ll make a splash.”

·

A report requesting approval to film Wu Zetian was placed before Cen Lan.

“Deputy Minister, this is the document they sent over,” Xiao He said.

“Wu Zetian? That’s a fine subject.” Cen Lan picked up the file and flipped through a few pages. “The first season of Journey to the West is nearly finished. Master Chen’s students should have some time now—ask if any are willing to join the Wu Zetian production as consultants. And Yuhui—she should be interested in Wu Zetian’s history. Have her go as well, as an advisor.”

“Ms. Yuhui too?” Xiao He hesitated.

Cen Lan waved the document in her hand. “They’ve made such a sincere gesture; we ought to reciprocate.”

Xiao He nodded. “Looks like giving up the live-action drama track last time really threw them off.”

Cen Lan smiled faintly. “How could that be called misleading? We simply handed off what we didn’t need to those who needed it more.”

Xiao He grinned. “Ms. Feng truly has foresight.”

Cen Lan smiled wryly. “Foresight? She just prefers paper people, that’s all. But it works out—at least it ensures Jingyu’s resources, and the others won’t suddenly try to trip you up.”

“We all win,” Xiao He said, the double meaning clear.

Cen Lan said nothing, but smiled.

·

Noble Star System, Shida Chunlu Family Mansion.

Wo Shida Chunlu sat on his bed, staring vacantly at the virtual screen before him.

The content on the screen refreshed with every blink, each clip lasting no more than five seconds before changing.

He had been in this state for quite some time. Ever since the incident during the last livestream, Wo Shida Chunlu had locked himself in his room, refusing to come out.

In the heat of the moment, he’d never considered the consequences of his actions. Only after fully sobering up did he realize what he’d done.

But he couldn’t blame anyone. The Interstellar Federation had imposed no real punishment; his family hadn’t reproached him for his recklessness, because everyone knew in their hearts that Wo Shida Chunlu had merely been the one to wield the knife.

Likewise, Earth had made no demands, and Autumn Whisper had even shut down the livestream, leaving no record of his attack.

If it had come out that a long-lived species had attacked a short-lived one unable to use mental power, Wo Shida Chunlu would have been doomed.

Even S-77 had only alluded to it, never mentioning it directly.

Everyone had left him a way out, and the bitterness in Wo Shida Chunlu’s heart could only fester within, with nowhere to go.

“Let’s see what magic you little gods have! Don’t run—take a blow from Old Sun!”

What was that?

Wo Shida Chunlu was inexplicably drawn to the fleeting image that had just flashed by. The virtual screen obligingly replayed the clip.

It was a fan-made edit, compiling all the highlights of Sun Wukong’s havoc in Heaven—the most painstakingly crafted segment of the Journey to the West animation.

From the arrival of the Nine Star Lords, to the battle against a hundred thousand heavenly soldiers, to his eventual capture and seventy-seven days in Laozi’s alchemical furnace, emerging with fiery golden eyes and turning the heavens upside down—the whole process was thrilling and dramatic.

After watching, Wo Shida Chunlu was unsatisfied, wanting to see the full version. He searched and found it was produced by Youjian Entertainment. With a blank expression, he sat for a long while, then finally opened Youjian Entertainment’s official homepage, found the entry for the first episode, and started watching.

He watched straight through to the final episode of the first season, and when he saw Sun Wukong trapped beneath the Five Elements Mountain, Wo Shida Chunlu burst out laughing.

“Great Sage Equal to Heaven… so this is all you amount to. No matter how much trouble you cause, you’ll still be suppressed in the end…”

As the ending theme played, the screen did not fade to black—there was an Easter egg at the end of the last episode.

Wo Shida Chunlu sat up, eyes fixed on the screen.

He saw Sun Wukong struggling to lift himself, actually raising the Five Elements Mountain a little—the entire mountain began to tremble.

Wo Shida Chunlu clenched his fists, breathing quickening. “…Come on, come on… you’re almost there, just a little more!”

But then the Buddha ordered a talisman pressed atop the mountain, and the Five Elements Mountain crashed down, pinning Sun Wukong completely, leaving only his head and one hand exposed.

Wo Shida Chunlu was instantly devastated, his face ashen.

The animation froze on Sun Wukong’s face. In those eyes, there was no despair, no pain—only endless defiance.

The mountain could crush his body, but not his will.

Wo Shida Chunlu stared for a long time. Tears began to fall silently, and the room filled with sobs—part pain, part release.