Chapter 42: A Brief Respite

"T-This is what he said to Serenity?" Qian Cangyi's mouth hung wide open.

From the speakers, Master Mind's voice continued to play.

"We have no wings, yet we invented airplanes; we have no gills, yet we invented submersibles... If we can overcome our fear of death and unite as one, perhaps one day, we will trample Hell's Cinema beneath our feet!"

The moment these words ended, stirring music swelled, making one's heart surge with emotion.

The imagery folded like origami into a small cube, rapidly drifting away into the distance.

A new scene appeared. Master Mind was cradling Qian Cangyi's head in both hands, running desperately toward the black sightseeing boat on the beach. Behind him, the relentless headless brute gave chase.

Upon reaching the shore, Master Mind halted and tossed Qian Cangyi's head toward the boat.

Finally, Master Mind stood on the beach, raising his right hand to wave at the sightseeing boat as it slowly pulled away from the dock.

The video came to an abrupt halt right there, and then slowly faded out.

Sitting before his computer desk in silence for a long time, Qian Cangyi let out a deep sigh, shut down the computer, and leaned back, resting his spine against the chair.

"Master Mind, none of this was fair to you, indeed. However, your noble actions do not necessarily guarantee a reward, for the world operates by its own laws. To save everyone, one must first survive. Therefore, if my teammates find themselves in mortal peril in the future, I will save them, but only while ensuring my own safety—unless saving them directly helps me complete the movie."

"That being said, both noble and selfish individuals have their own value. The former protects others, while the latter protects themselves. Both are strong in their own right. The only weak ones are the indecisive. As they constantly waver between conflicting viewpoints, they will sooner or later lose themselves. Such people cannot bear the consequences of their choices, and in the end, they fall into a vortex of contradiction and self-blame, losing their purpose, their direction, and consequently, everything."

"Furthermore, as repayment for saving my life, I will strive to find a way to escape Hell's Cinema. Perhaps one day, all actors of Hell's Cinema will be granted a chance to break free from this hell and regain control of their own lives. Until then, I will stay alive and push forward toward my goal. However, I will not save every actor I meet along the way, because some people are simply not worth saving. I will only save those whom I deem worthy."

At this, Qian Cangyi stood up, walked over to the full-length mirror, and gripped its edges with both hands.

"Before that, I must improve my capabilities, both physical and mental. I need to train; otherwise, next time I might not be so lucky as to encounter someone like Master Mind. If I want to survive, I must rely on myself."

The sight of the waving figure on Heifang Island remained etched into Qian Cangyi's mind like a brand.

His schedule for the rest period was thoroughly revised. Aside from daily physical training, mental training was also put on his agenda. Among the core components of mental training were memory, observation skills, and reaction speed.

To this end, he searched the internet for various courses and practice methods, judging their effectiveness based on his experiences in the two movies he had participated in.

Beyond that, Qian Cangyi had continuously searched for information regarding Hell's Cinema, but to no avail. He could type out these words and communicate with others, but whenever he spoke of his experiences inside the movies—whether to trusting friends or total strangers—they merely treated it as a tall tale. And if he showed anyone the emails, the recipients simply could not see them.

Although Hell's Cinema had never explicitly stated its stance, through experimentation, Qian Cangyi had already reached a conclusion: he had no way of disclosing the existence of Hell's Cinema to anyone else. At the very least, others would never care, and trying to force someone to believe him would only result in being treated as mentally ill.

A week passed.

Qian Cangyi sat before his computer, staring intently at the screen.

On the display, a software program was running, featuring various geometric blocks and circular objects of different colors, marked with two-digit black numbers in the center.

On the right side was a toolbar containing a timer and related utility functions.

This was a memory-training game. Once the game started, the interface on the left would display objects of various shapes with numbers inscribed inside them. After five seconds, the objects would disappear, and the player had to drag the corresponding objects and numbers from the right-hand toolbar back to their original positions.

Depending on the requirement, players could freely adjust the memorization time as well as the quantity of shapes and numbers.

Initially, Qian Cangyi set the time quite long and the number of objects quite small. As his scores improved, he gradually increased the quantity of objects while shortening the time allowed for memorization.

Through this training, Qian Cangyi felt that his memory had improved considerably, and his mind had become much sharper. Of course, one could not rule out the possibility that maintaining a regular schedule had merely restored the memory he had lost from staying up late.

"Acceptable."

Qian Cangyi let out a long breath. Without external intervention, neither physical nor mental training could yield massive improvements in just a day or two, or even a week or two.

Relatively speaking, physical training had clear standards and was easy to judge. Mental training lacked direct benchmarks and could only be assessed indirectly through single-skill tests. For instance, while he had no trouble remembering the shapes, colors, and numbers of the blocks in the memory game, if he were asked to memorize an article or accurately repeat a spoken paragraph, he might not necessarily succeed.

"I'll train like this for now. If I find a better method later, I can always switch."

"Come to think of it, I still retain the memories of the movie worlds. Does this mean the improvements I gain within the movies are also preserved? If so, perhaps even without specialized mental training, my experiences in the movie worlds alone are enough to grant me significant growth."

A sudden realization struck Qian Cangyi, filling his heart with a surge of anticipation.

Rather than worrying about the future, it was better to prepare properly. After all, no matter how poorly an actor performed, they would not lose the opportunity to star in the next movie. After all, participating in these films required neither personal connections nor bribery—just your life!

Qian Cangyi stood up and approached the full-length mirror. Gazing at his reflection, he slowly clenched his fists, the contours of muscles already beginning to show on his arms.

"In fact, looking at it from another angle, if Hell's Cinema provided far richer rewards, although actors would still resist, many would surely change their minds. There are plenty of people doing similar high-risk jobs in the real world, so it wouldn't be strange. Yet, Hell's Cinema doesn't do that."

"Perhaps Hell's Cinema has its own reasons and objectives? If I can figure them out, perhaps I can use that as leverage to truly begin interacting with Hell's Cinema on equal terms."

Qian Cangyi had always believed that an entity of such immense power must possess an intellect no lower than that of a human being. The fact that Hell's Cinema could transmit information in a manner familiar to humans indicated that communication was indeed possible.

Volume Three: The Bizarre Underground Chamber of the Century-Old School