“The next contestant to enter is Mu Heng.”
That slender figure slowly walked onto the stage.
After receiving the mentors’ critiques on his physique, akin to an art school audition, Mu Heng began his video presentation.
Under the cover of night, mist drifted over the lake, with only a full moon shimmering at its center.
The person before him seemed like shattered moonlight, bathed in a silver glow. Without uttering a word, only a pair of eyes brimming with tears, slightly lowered and broken, conveyed an indescribable emotion.
This segment had no dialogue, yet Mu Heng conveyed everything through his eyes alone—silence spoke louder than words.
After the video ended, Mu Heng bowed to the mentors.
The mentors in the room applauded, each expressing admiration, surprised to find such a gifted actor among the new generation.
Song Xun also praised him, acknowledging Mu Heng as a naturally talented performer.
Even he, who often relied on immersive acting, had to explore a character’s emotions and spend considerable time researching unfamiliar life experiences, sometimes without achieving the best results.
Yet Mu Heng could make people feel as if they were right there in the scene.
“I heard you didn’t receive formal acting training.”
Mu Heng nodded. “Yes, I studied education in university.”
Fang Huiying was slightly surprised and leaned over to whisper to Song Xun, “Wow, education major—almost as bad as my own useless degree.”
Song Xun had heard about it too and nodded emphatically in agreement.
“So why did you choose to become an actor?”
Every contestant faced this question. Mu Heng fell silent for a moment. Truthfully, he couldn’t explain why he had chosen this path, which he had never imagined before. But fearing the mentors might grow impatient, he blurted out, “Because I love it.”
The mentors all liked Mu Heng, finding him exceptionally gifted, so they didn’t press him further.
Yan Jiayu also showed appreciation, nodding slightly to Mu Heng, who responded with a smile.
The two had collaborated before, and Mu Heng’s acting had always been impeccable, leaving no room for criticism.
However, when it was Song Xun’s turn, the mentors’ expressions could have been turned into memes frame by frame.
Cringeworthy idol drama scenes, exaggerated facial expressions, awkward delivery of lines, and even mumbled dialogue.
Lin Chuan rubbed his head, unable to comprehend why someone like this had come to the show.
Song Xun forced himself to stay calm, believing that if he didn’t feel awkward, the awkwardness would shift elsewhere.
He stood before the mentors, flashing a bright smile.
If he hadn’t been the one to follow Mu Heng on stage… well, the outcome would have been just as disastrous.
“Hello, mentors. My name is Song Xun, and I graduated from the acting program at Jing City Film Academy.”
Yan Jiayu twitched his lips, reluctant to admit he had graduated from the same school as Song Xun—it was embarrassing.
The room fell silent for a moment. Seeing no one speak, Song Xun took the initiative. “Do the mentors have any questions for me?”
“I don’t understand what the point of your current acting skills is in participating in this program.”
Straight to the point.
Zhu Lisheng wore a serious expression, his brows furrowed tightly, hands clasped together.
Fang Huiying broke into a cold sweat for Song Xun. He had never seen Song Xun’s performances before and had only heard An Chu mention him a few days ago. Little did he expect… this guy’s acting was even worse than his own.
Mu Heng leaned back in his chair, though his expression remained tense. When Fang Huiying tried to whisper to him, he didn’t pay much attention, offering only a few perfunctory replies.
The atmosphere fell into an awkward silence. Just as other mentors were about to step in to lighten the mood, Song Xun spoke up, “It’s precisely because my acting skills have so much room for improvement that I came here to learn. Someone has to be at the bottom, so I’ll gladly take that spot.”
“Exactly, exactly. I think Song Xun has a really positive learning attitude. He’s sure to make progress through this show.”
The mentor nodded and casually wrote down his score.
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
After several days of recording, all the trainees had presented their materials.
Next came the group assignments, script selections, and evaluations by the mentors. The trainees with the highest scores would become outstanding graduates and receive better resources.
There were twelve trainees in total. Lin Chuan, Liao Yan, and Zhu Lisheng each mentored four, while Bai Ninglu and Yan Jiayu served as assistants—essentially mascots.
Song Xun, along with Mu Heng, An Chu, and another actress from the art film scene, were assigned to Zhu Lisheng’s group.
Before leaving, Fang Huiying patted Song Xun on the shoulder. “Good luck, buddy.”
Among all the mentors, Zhu Lisheng was the strictest. It wasn’t that the others had low standards, but Zhu Lisheng preferred actors with high comprehension, not those who needed to be taught step by step.
Song Xun swallowed nervously. In response to Fang Huiying’s well-wishes, he wrapped an arm around Mu Heng beside him. “Bro, you’ll help me out, right?”
The person beside him still wasn’t used to such close contact and shifted slightly away, nodding.
The show followed a format of recording one episode and airing it immediately. The first two recorded episodes were released as previews.
Xiao Deng, as an assistant, felt it was necessary to check out the public’s opinion of Song Xun’s performance on the show.
Scrolling through the barrage of comments, Song Xun’s discussion was off the charts. Aside from those watching for Yan Jiayu, most viewers were there for Song Xun.
“Bro, your popularity is insane.”
Xiao Deng gave a spicy review, even giving him a thumbs-up.
Song Xun was skeptical. “Really?”
Seeing his disbelief, Xiao Deng turned the phone screen toward him. Sure enough, it was true—though most of the comments were insults, with fans unable to control the narrative.
“…”
He should’ve known.
“But, Song Ge, didn’t Sister Zhang say you turned down Director Jian Mo’s script because you thought the supernatural stuff was too scary?”
Jian Mo was a young director who had made several horror films. His use of eerie lighting and surreal visuals was masterful, creating a truly haunting atmosphere.
The original host had declined, claiming he looked down on Jian Mo’s horror films for their lack of popularity and low pay. But Song Xun, having read the original novel, knew that Jian Mo’s low-budget horror film would later receive high praise and even launch several new actors into the spotlight.
“People’s thoughts change. Right now, I really want to experience what it’s like to be scared.”
“Hello, Director Jian. I’m Song Xun.”
“Hello, hello.”
Jian Mo was only in his early thirties, wearing a pair of black-framed glasses. He didn’t look much like a director—more like someone in IT.
“Have you read the script? We’ll do a test scene in a bit.”
“Sure, sure. I’ve already read it.”
The set wasn’t large, located in a neighboring city—a quaint, old-fashioned town.
This horror film tells the story of a girl who ventures into a feudalistic ancient town with her friends, where many strange and bizarre events occur. Since real ghosts and deities can’t appear in movies nowadays, the script mostly relies on scenes and music to create a terrifying atmosphere.
Song Xun plays a wealthy second-generation heir who pursues the female lead. Despite knowing that the female lead and male lead are in love, he insists on interfering, often using his wealth to belittle the male lead and even sowing discord between the couple. In the end, he meets a bizarre and untimely death.
Although the original actor’s acting skills weren’t great, Director Jian Mo was drawn to Song Xun precisely because of his strikingly handsome face.
This role seemed tailor-made for him—a cocky, not-too-bright wealthy heir, both foolish and malicious. After the audition, Director Jian clapped enthusiastically and exclaimed, “That was fantastic! You were born for this role!”
Well, that wasn’t exactly a compliment.
“Haha, I’m glad you’re satisfied, Director.”
Xiao Deng watched intently from the side. As soon as Song Xun finished his audition, he hurriedly handed him a bottle of water. “Wow, Brother Song, you were amazing!”
That sarcastic smirk was simply natural.
Song Xun waved his hand modestly. “Keep it low-key, keep it low-key.”
Director Jian introduced Song Xun to the rest of the crew. Both the male and female leads were recent graduates from acting schools. Their acting was still raw but natural, and they fit their roles perfectly.
The group got along quite harmoniously.
Back at the hotel, Song Xun was about to take a shower. He wanted to turn on the TV, as the silence felt a bit boring.
After searching for a while, he couldn’t find the remote control. Just as he was about to call the hotel front desk to ask, his WeChat suddenly vibrated, showing several friend requests.
“Huh?”
It was Fang Huiying and An Chu.
Only then did Song Xun remember that after recording two episodes, he still hadn’t added Fang Huiying on WeChat. As for An Chu, since they were in the same group, it was normal to add each other.
He casually accepted the friend requests and suddenly realized he didn’t have Mu Heng’s contact either. So, he tapped Fang Huiying and asked if he had Mu Heng’s WeChat.
A reply came after a while.
[Fang Huiying: Yes, yes, I just added him yesterday.]
As soon as the contact was forwarded, Song Xun immediately sent a friend request.
Staring at the starry avatar, Song Xun rested his chin on his hand. The other person might still be busy, as the request wasn’t approved immediately. Well, he’d just have to wait a bit longer.
Holding his phone, Song Xun felt unusually relaxed. His oversized pajamas slipped down, revealing a pale shoulder, and his slender neck was slightly flushed from the heat.
After playing a few rounds of a single-player mini-game, he started to feel bored and drowsy, ready to turn off the lights and sleep. But just as he reached out to switch off the light, his phone vibrated again. Thinking it might be Mu Heng approving his friend request, he felt a little excited. However, when he picked it up, it turned out to be a message from Sister Zhang.
Well, that was disappointing.
[Sister Zhang: Are you familiar with Mr. Jin?]
Song Xun was puzzled. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, tousling it into a messy nest. Mr. Jin? Who was that?
[Song Xun: I don’t know, never heard of him.]
Soon, another reply came.
[Sister Zhang: He’s the investor for your drama.]
[Song Xun: Oh, I remember now. What’s up?]
【Sister Zhang: This Mr. Jin suddenly contacted me saying he wants to invite you to dinner and introduce you to some directors or something. I think it’s a bit suspicious. Maybe you should ask Yan Jiayu for details—he seems to have worked with him a few times.】
Song Xun replied with an “OK,” then casually opened his WeChat to find Yan Jiayu’s chat window. The contact note still read “Brother Jiayu.” Song Xun paused for a moment before changing it to his full name.
Just as he was about to send a message to ask, he worried that the male lead might think he was stirring up trouble or deliberately making conversation. Hmm, maybe it’s better not to ask.
After much deliberation, he still felt it was better to ask. He kept editing and re-editing the text, afraid it wouldn’t convey his meaning clearly. After a long time of preparation, he finally hit send.
And then, bam—a red exclamation mark appeared.
“…”
Well, all that mental struggle for nothing.