Glancing at the file, contestant number 34 was a veteran actor. He was a familiar face from many past shows, often playing sinister and ruthless villains, though most viewers probably didn’t know his name. Now, he rarely appeared on screen. Though in his forties, he looked to be in his thirties, carrying a unique and resilient aura shaped by the passage of time.
The two of them didn’t continue chatting, nor did they interrupt number 34’s performance.
He chose a scene from the end of the script, where Jiang Zhuo kneels on a rain-soaked street, holding An Ke’s corpse. After carrying the body to the car, he drives off calmly to kill.
Number 34 kneeled on the ground, miming holding someone. He bent his body slightly, a spotlight illuminating him, and his hunched back subtly trembled.
In the script, this scene was described in just one line—no emotional cues, no actions, not even a suggestion of whether to cry. There was no dialogue, only the note that the rain was heavy, washing over his face and clothes, while dark red blood flowed with the rain into the gutter.
This was a difficult scene, requiring deep emotional analysis of the character.
He expressed intense grief, visible but silent—there were no loud cries. It was a quiet portrayal. Perhaps having seen Li Mu’s performance, Zhuang Qin found it hard to watch and only refrained from interrupting out of politeness.
“Something’s missing, but it was still pretty good,” Guo Baozhen said quietly.
“Director, I’ve finished,” number 34 said.
Guo Baozhen nodded politely. “Thank you, it was well done. If you have other things to attend to, you can leave now. We’ll contact you later by phone.”
The actor left.
“Number 35,” Guo Baozhen called.
Zhuang Qin glanced at the file: Qiu Ming.
Hmm?
Zhuang Qin had some impression of this name. In his previous life, this Qiu Ming was the boss of a major media group, known in the industry for his extravagance and protective nature.
The file listed his name, age, education, and acting experience.
His education showed that he had a bachelor’s degree from the London Business School and later attended the New York Film Academy for graduate studies. He had no prior acting experience.
Zhuang Qin looked up and saw number 35, Qiu Ming, stepping onto the stage.
He was a tall, strikingly handsome man, brimming with energy. Dressed in a high-end custom suit and handcrafted leather shoes, he looked more like he was here for a fashion show than a casting call.
“Hello, teachers. My name is Qiu Ming, I’m 26 years old, 185 centimeters tall, with 18-centimeter feet.” He stared straight at the junior director.
Guo Baozhen: “…”
Zhuang Qin: “…”
Guo Baozhen’s mouth twitched. “Uh… what scene have you prepared?”
Qiu Ming responded, “Oh, right, I’m ready. I’ll start now.”
Zhuang Qin was now pretty certain this Qiu Ming was indeed the media tycoon. He was also somewhat curious. But then he suddenly noticed someone standing near the edge of the stage’s curtain.
Because the spotlight was focused on Qiu Ming, the figure was hidden in darkness, only the outline of a tall person visible. The face couldn’t be seen, but a faint, powerful presence seemed to seep from the figure.
Zhuang Qin stared at the person for a few seconds. It seemed like the person noticed, locking eyes with him even though they couldn’t actually see each other.
He had a strong premonition and quietly asked, “Director Guo, is that person here for the audition?”
“Which one?” Guo Baozhen was waiting for Qiu Ming to get into character and turned his head upon hearing the question.
“That one,” Zhuang Qin pointed, “the tall guy standing by the curtain. Can you see him?”
“Oh, him. No, he’s not here for the audition,” Guo Baozhen said in a low voice. “He came with the guy on stage. They seem really close. It’s a shame he’s not an actor because his looks are even better than the guy on stage. I would’ve signed him in a heartbeat.”
Zhuang Qin pondered, suspecting it might be Li Mu, though he wasn’t entirely sure.
Meanwhile, on stage, Qiu Ming began his performance.
It was the same scene that number 34 had performed. But Guo Baozhen hadn’t expected anyone could perform it so terribly.
Qiu Ming, in his high-end coat, collapsed to the ground dramatically, shouting, “Ah!”
He showed a sorrowful expression, clutching his chest in an exaggerated manner.
Guo Baozhen winced, barely able to watch. After three seconds, he interrupted, “You can stop now.”
Qiu Ming immediately stood up, showing no sign of disappointment, and flashed a big smile. “Director, don’t forget to give me a call!”
He had only come for fun, curious to see just how poor this low-budget production really was. Li Mu, who was always interested in scripts, had accompanied him but chose not to audition.
The stage lights brightened, dimming the spotlight’s effect. Qiu Ming walked toward Li Mu at the edge of the brightly lit stage.
Zhuang Qin watched them.
Li Mu seemed to glance in his direction as well, but the two men headed off backstage without further interaction.
“Director Guo…” Zhuang Qin couldn’t help but call out.
“Hmm?” Guo Baozhen drew a large X on Qiu Ming’s file with a red pen.
“That guy who came with Qiu Ming, why didn’t he audition?”
“Ah?” Guo Baozhen replied, “He’s not an actor!”
“He is,” Zhuang Qin was more anxious than the director now. “Have you ever read the novel Yongheng Tianti?”
“Of course, I have! I’m a big sci-fi fan. I’ve even seen a short film adaptation of it…” As he spoke, Guo Baozhen seemed to realize something and gasped, “Wasn’t he in that film?!”
“Yes, he was,” Zhuang Qin was already restless, afraid they’d lose him. “Do you have his number? Can your assistant stop him? I think he’s perfect for the role of Jiang Zhuo.”
“I don’t have an assistant, and I only have his friend’s number…” Now, even Guo Baozhen was tempted.
The short film Yongheng Tianti was essentially a one-man show. Although it was only 30 minutes long, it was incredibly well-crafted with stunning special effects. The film told the story of an astronaut who wakes up during a space journey to find the ship malfunctioning. The spacecraft drifts in space, staring at a distant red star. After repeated failed repair attempts, the astronaut floats in his spacesuit, silently gazing at the seemingly reachable star.
There was very little dialogue in the film, just some monologues and conversations with the ship’s AI, but it was undeniably a masterpiece. Both the actor’s performance and the director’s skills were top-notch, as was the faithful adaptation of the novel.
There was one more actor left to audition, but Zhuang Qin barely paid attention to the file. Once number 36 finished, today’s casting session would be over. The rest of the auditions were for extras, which didn’t require much attention.
“Director Guo, why don’t you go personally ask him for his contact info? This could be our chance,” Zhuang Qin suggested.
“Good idea,” said Guo Baozhen, now caring little about losing face. He stood up. “Teacher Zhuang, wait here for a bit.”
Director Guo went outside, catching up to Qiu Ming and Li Mu as they were about to leave. “Wait a moment, please.”
Qiu Ming turned around. “Director Guo, is the casting decision out already? Did I get the part?”
“No, no, it’s not out yet.” If Qiu Ming hadn’t been so handsome, Director Guo wouldn’t have bothered to speak to him. He turned to Li Mu with a big smile. “Hello, Mr. Li, I almost didn’t recognize you. I’ve seen your short film Yongheng Tianti, and I really admire your work…”
Standing in the early spring sunlight, Li Mu’s striking bone structure became even more apparent—perfectly defined nose and brow bones, deep-set eyes with a touch of mixed-race allure.
His appearance was flawless!
Despite having interviewed many industry heavyweights, Director Guo was not intimidated in the slightest. “Would you be interested in playing the lead role in Cang Xin? Would it be convenient to leave your contact details?”
Li Mu glanced toward the theater’s lobby door, where a young boy wearing a cap and mask stood.
He asked, “Director, are you asking for my number, or is someone else asking for it?”
“Huh?” Director Guo was confused. Who else could be asking?
“Since it’s my project, of course, I’m the one asking,” Director Guo replied.
Zhuang Qin watched the situation unfold from a distance.
Since he was too far away, he couldn’t hear what Director Guo and Li Mu were saying, but it seemed like Li Mu glanced in his direction.
After about half a minute, the two men left. Qiu Ming waved goodbye, saying, “Goodbye, Director.”
Guo Baozhen returned, looking dejected, and shrugged helplessly at Zhuang Qin, who was waiting by the door.
“So, did you get his contact info?” Zhuang Qin asked.
“…No,” Guo Baozhen sighed. “I didn’t even get his name. When I asked for his contact info, he asked me if I was asking for it, or if someone else was. I said it was me, and he apologized.”
Zhuang Qin was stunned for a moment, confused.
Guo Baozhen scratched his head. “What’s going on? I said I was asking, and he refused. Does he look down on me or something?”
It was baffling. What was this about? Who was this ‘someone else’ referring to anyway?
