On March 27, 1995, in London, England, a flock of homing pigeons soared over the historic London Film Academy under a rare blue sky scattered with white clouds.
Inside a classroom, more than twenty students sat idly—some whispering to each other, others doodling on their papers. Just then, the stout Hebrew teacher entered, his large belly bouncing slightly as he stepped into the room, precisely as the class bell rang. A stack of test papers rested in his hands.
"I have some good news," he announced with a playful glint in his eyes. "The results for the 'Film Theory' exam are out!"
Before the students could react, he continued with a smirk. "And now for the bad news—your results are just as terrible as before!"
"Oh no, my God!" the students groaned, placing their hands on their foreheads. Their eyes widened in dismay as they stared at their papers, covered in countless red marks.
"But at least this proves that none of you cheated," Hebrew chuckled, ruffling the hair of a nearby student before making his way quickly to the podium. "You're all honest students!"
Curiosity spread across the room as students discreetly peeked at their classmates' papers, eager to see who had fared the worst.
"Did that Chinese guy take first place again? What about Smith—Zhang Dongcheng?" a voice called from the corner.
At the mention of his name, every gaze turned toward a lone figure sitting at the back of the classroom.
Zhang Dongcheng, also known as Smith, was a young Chinese student, about twenty years old. He had black eyes and black hair, a classic Oriental appearance, and wore old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses. His clothes were plain but neatly kept. However, when he heard his name spoken in a mocking tone, he instinctively shrank back, feeling uneasy.
"Hey, Chinese boy, show me your paper."
A tall British student with a hooked nose twisted in his seat and smirked before snatching Zhang Dongcheng's paper without waiting for permission.
He glanced at the result—and his face soured. A bright, unmistakable "A" gleamed at the top.
The British student scowled at his own "B-" and, with a dissatisfied snort, tossed Zhang Dongcheng's paper back toward him. But instead of reaching its owner's hands, the paper landed on the floor.
Zhang Dongcheng clenched his teeth. He wanted to say something, to stand up for himself. But after a long pause, he simply lowered his head in silence and picked up the paper.
Seeing his trick succeed, the hooked-nosed student whistled smugly, a triumphant grin stretching across his face.
The rest of the students now understood—Zhang Dongcheng had once again taken first place in the Film Theory exam.
"Hey, Hebrew, are you sure you didn't make a mistake?" one student protested. "This guy Smith barely manages a B in screenwriting, yet he always tops every other subject. Did you give him the test answers beforehand? Or is he some kind of thief? Everyone knows there has never been a famous Chinese director. There's no way he could have done better than us!"
"That's right! How does he always get an A?" another student chimed in angrily. "I work so hard and only got an A-. Being a director isn't like math or physics! It requires culture, creativity, and imagination—things that people like him just don't have!"
The room erupted in a heated debate, voices overlapping like a storm in a boiling pot.
At the center of the commotion, Zhang Dongcheng sat quietly. His face flushed, but he remained silent, as if the students' accusations were meant for someone else.
Yet, despite his silence, his dark eyes remained unwavering.
"Enough, students. Settle down!" Hebrew raised his voice. "Mr. Smith is a hardworking student with a unique perspective on film. And I swear on my wife's floral pants—I've never given him any special treatment!"
The class burst into laughter at the teacher's humorous remark, and a few of the more emotional students finally sat down.
"Alright, open your books," Hebrew continued. "This semester is nearly over, and soon, I won't be seeing you as often. So let's make the most of our time together. Let's begin today's lesson!"
The class chuckled again, and order returned.
Zhang Dongcheng looked down at his test paper. A large, dirty footprint—left by Ender, the hooked-nosed student—was imprinted on it. He silently folded the paper and placed it in his bag. Then, removing his glasses, he carefully wiped them with a cloth, inhaling deeply as he willed himself to remain calm. Finally, he turned his attention back to Hebrew's lecture, as if nothing had happened.
Class ended soon after, and the students rushed out, eager to escape.
Despite securing the highest score, Zhang Dongcheng felt no joy. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and stepped outside. Under the vast blue sky, he took a deep breath of fresh air, letting his footsteps slow as he walked.
Tomorrow was the weekend. At least for two days, he wouldn't have to see Ender's hateful face.
After an hour-long bus ride, Zhang Dongcheng arrived at his residence—a dilapidated old villa in a remote London suburb.
The house belonged to a distant cousin. Despite their barely-there family ties, Zhang Dongcheng had moved in to save money while attending school. Though he despised his cousin's arrogant attitude and constant nagging, he had no choice but to endure it.
His cousin was somewhat sympathetic toward his situation, but his aunt was another story entirely.
The moment he stepped inside, her shrill voice rang out.
"Zhang Dongcheng! Get upstairs and mop the floor! Do you know how filthy this place gets in just one day? It's like a pigsty! Hurry up!"
She stood in the hallway, dressed in oversized pajamas, her permed hair a wild mess. Dark circles shadowed her eyes from lack of sleep, and her hands clutched a dripping mop.
"Understood, Aunt," Zhang Dongcheng replied quietly. Without hesitation, he set down his backpack, grabbed the mop, and hurried upstairs.
"Oh, and here are your letters!" his cousin called out from below. "There must be hundreds of them! My mailbox is overflowing with your rejection letters from film studios! Not a single job offer! Zhang Dongcheng, why on earth did you choose to study directing? You should've done finance like your cousin. You'd have a stable job by now, maybe even a chance to stay in the UK! But look at you—your dreams have fried your brain!"
"Letters from film studios?" Zhang Dongcheng's heart skipped a beat.
Ignoring his cousin's harsh words, he sprinted downstairs and grabbed the pile of envelopes from the dining table. Holding them as if they were his most treasured possessions, he quickly rushed back to his room.
"Don't bother reading them! I already checked—every single one is a rejection," his aunt's sharp voice echoed behind him.
Sitting on the floor, Zhang Dongcheng stared at the open letters, feeling exhaustion wash over him.
Each rejection letter read the same:
"Dear Mr. Smith, we regret to inform you that your qualifications do not meet our current requirements..."
He sighed and opened another. The same response.
The envelopes had been torn open by his cousin, their jagged edges a silent testament to her complete lack of faith in him.
Zhang Dongcheng pressed his forehead against the cold wall, exhaling deeply. He closed his eyes, trying to push away the creeping doubt and frustration in his heart.
I love movies. I want to make movies. My name will appear in this world. Movies are my dream—my only dream!
Taking a deep breath, he picked up the mop and attacked the floor with renewed determination, as if scrubbing away his helplessness and disappointment.
As sweat dripped from his forehead, his cousin's voice echoed from downstairs.
"If you wanted a real career, you should've studied in the U.S.! Who comes to the U.K. to learn directing? You'd be better off playing football!"
Zhang Dongcheng clenched his fists.
I want to be a director. I don't want to play football!