Seeing the new promo video getting such a good reaction left Taylor with mixed feelings—happy and sad all at once.
There's a saying: strangers only care how high you fly; the people who really care will ask whether you're exhausted from flying so high.
On one hand, Taylor was glad for Luke. His career was gaining steady ground, and another big leap seemed close. But on the other hand, this was the first time she'd seen the price he paid for that success.
She'd first become a fan because of that sword dance in the Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon trailer—Luke in flowing white, like someone from another world. It was an ethereal image that felt pure and beautiful.
But that kind of beauty is built on illusion; it's lofty and not grounded in reality.
The next two films, however, showed his truest self: the white-clad youth of quiet days wasn't the whole picture. The real Luke was the man risking his life on set, bearing pain and injury for his craft.
If you want glory in public, you inevitably suffer in private.
Who ever succeeds casually?
Every time Taylor watched the clips of Luke falling hard and getting back up with bloodshot eyes, her nose would sting and she'd have to hold back tears. She wouldn't theatrically tell him not to do it—that was his choice, and she chose to support him quietly.
What she could do was work harder in her own practice every day so that when she debuted, she could help him in return.
Taylor looked up at the moon and wondered, What is Luke doing right now?
… (This is a divider.)
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Luke was staring out at the bustling New York nightscape.
At midnight tomorrow would be the premieres of The Fast and the Furious and Jurassic Park III.
Thanks to the joint marketing plan, those two films had secured initial screen shares of 15% and 25%, respectively.
That's low compared to The Mummy Returns's 40% initial share, but given their relatively small marketing budgets, Luke was satisfied. Those numbers weren't top-tier, but they weren't negligible either.
And they were only starting screen counts—those could rise as word of mouth and attendance improved.
Luke had contingency plans for everything and was confident both the box office and screen counts would climb. He believed that once these two films succeeded, his path in show business would open wider—his real shot at superstardom.
Since being reborn, Luke had thought long and hard about what kind of life he wanted to lead.
Being given a second life was a gift. To waste it by drifting through day-to-day existence would be the greatest disrespect to that gift.
Figuring out what you really want isn't easy.
So what do you want most?
For many people the first answer is: money.
Then, almost reflexively, a smug line pops into their heads:
"I'm not interested in money."
That sounds like a humblebrag and comes off as fake.
To people struggling to make ends meet, hearing that is infuriating: If you're not interested in money, I am—so why don't you give me some? You're taking all the cash and then trying to sound noble? Saying that in public will only earn sneers.
But from another angle it isn't entirely a lie: if someone is already the richest person around, maybe there are things more important than money to them.
Clearly there are.
When you don't have money, it's your first pursuit. After you have it in abundance, most people develop higher-level goals.
Standing at the forefront of an era as someone reborn, things like money, fame, women—those things that ordinary people yearn for—become within reach. With so many options, confusion and aimlessness can set in.
It's not that money or beauty lose their appeal, but if you get lost chasing them, you may only realize your mistake when age and regret arrive—and that would be a tragic waste of a second life.
Luke had read a lot of rebirth novels, and the typical money-making paths those protagonists took didn't suit him.
Some go buy Bitcoin after they're reborn, hold it for a few years, and rake in billions. Is it really that easy? The world isn't that simple. Bitcoin's rise wasn't only due to its use as an alternative payment system—it was pushed up by countless players working together.
They pumped the price because everyone stood to benefit.
If you hold only a small stake, those gains don't matter. If you take the big slice, will those market movers keep pumping? They'll just start a new game—Litecoin, Ethereum, whatever. Do you have the capacity to run that game yourself? Even if you did, is that the best use of a reborn person's foresight and effort?
Others dive into real estate to ride the era's wave. Luke didn't choose that either. Beyond the morally questionable rent-seeking that tends to come with property booms, he hated the constant schmoozing—lobbying for government favors, rubbing elbows with greasy middle-aged execs, exchanging fake smiles for dirty deals. He rejected that whole lifestyle.
Start an internet company? Join the high-tech world?
If you want to control a company and get the biggest piece of the pie, you have to do it yourself. Relying on an early-stage investment and waiting for a windfall isn't realistic. Which founder became an emperor's successor without blood, sweat, and taking charge?
Without enough backbone, you get sidelined, diluted out of your own company, and shown the door.
And for Luke, even if he was willing to grind building a business, there were ceilings to worry about. His Asian heritage sometimes let him play both sides between two great powers and enjoy certain advantages—but if you try to get into sectors tied to a country's economic lifelines or control means of production, things get awkward fast.
Neither side will ever fully accept you. You're Asian—what business do you have holding the keys to the kingdom? That's the uncomfortable reality.
What options are left?
A political career? This is America—what are the chances for a Asian-born actor to climb to the top?
Fortunately, Luke hadn't been blinded by desire.
He knew what he wanted. More than money or power, he wanted legacy.
He wanted his name to be a legend a century from now, still being spoken of by those who came after him. He wanted his achievements to become an immortal monument admired by countless people.
That was the life he craved.
Achieving that wouldn't just mean being excellent—it would mean redefining excellence, exceeding limits in ways ordinary people couldn't imagine.
Luckily, his system gave him an edge; that made the road to becoming a super-action star feasible.
He would surpass Chen Long, surpass Bruce Lee, surpass any star in history and become a singular, incomparable megastar.
Maslow's hierarchy of needs places self-actualization at the top—and Luke wholeheartedly agreed.