The theater had specially set up the lottery box at the center of the stage.

After the contestants took the stage, they needed to display the number tag they’d drawn to the judges and audience below, to demonstrate the fairness and objectivity of every stage of the competition.

After reading out the final round rules, Mr. Zhao led all the contestants to the side of the stage to await instructions, and taking advantage of this gap, Wen Tingli quietly peeked out through the crack in the thick crimson curtain.

Just as Manager Zhao had said, all thousand-plus seats in the venue were, without exception, full.

With just one glance, she felt an overwhelming, mountain-toppling pressure — the gazes shooting in from every direction almost seemed like they would drown a person right there on the stage. Her throat went a little dry, and she quietly clenched her fists.

The judges sat in the front row. Huang Yuanshan, as the initiator of the competition, was not serving as a judge, and at this moment was in high spirits greeting the two chairmen of the Film Association below the stage.

Looking further down, she also spotted Principal Michelle in the second row — she had come representing Wushi Middle School, so she was seated toward the front.

Beside Michelle sat principals from various middle schools, producers from various film companies, and heads of certain famous literary and art associations in Shanghai.

Suddenly a voice from the stage announced: “Let us invite tonight’s ten contestants to come up one by one to draw lots.”

The contestants’ breathing all grew heavier at once, without exception. But down below, thunderous applause broke out. Wen Tingli was the fifth to go up.

The moment she stepped up, a pillar of pure white light shot toward her. Looking out, the audience seats were like a vast, boundless ocean — every gaze cast up from below was like a wave, converging together to form a surging, mighty tide. In contrast, the actors on stage were like fish stranded on a beach — small, parched, with nowhere to hide.

Wen Tingli drew a number tag under the gaze of the entire audience.

The host was a comic-opera performer with a middle-parted hairstyle, who called out loudly to the audience: “Classmate Wen, please show everyone the number you’ve drawn.”

Wen Tingli turned serenely toward the audience.

“Number Ten.” The host took the number tag and held it up high, circling it for all to see, then said to the head of the association in the front row, “Please, Chairman Lin, read out the corresponding script for Number Ten.”

“The play is Orphan and Widowed Mother.”

It turned out each number tag corresponded to two sets of scripts, one for a male performer and one for a female performer. Wen Tingli was a female contestant, so according to the Number Ten (female performer) script, she would play a maidservant named A’Xiang.

In the script, A’Xiang’s husband had gone with a fellow villager to Nanyang two years ago to seek his fortune, leaving A’Xiang alone in Shanghai to care for their daughter. In the first year, her husband occasionally sent money home, but after that, all news of him ceased entirely.

This winter was especially cold, and the daughter fell ill with pneumonia. A’Xiang spent her entire savings trying to treat the child, and because caring for the sick girl made her miss work, her employer’s family dismissed her.

The daughter was still running a fever, and with nowhere to go, A’Xiang, carrying her daughter, suddenly spotted on the street a man who resembled her husband, Wang Jinsheng. The man was carrying a suitcase, as if he had just gotten off a train. A’Xiang at first didn’t dare acknowledge him, since the man was dressed so extravagantly, but the moment she called out, he turned in response. A’Xiang ran toward her husband, holding their daughter, only to discover as she drew near that a young woman was standing behind her husband…

After Chairman Lin finished reading the script aloud to the crowd: “The contestant is to design her own lines and body language.”

A considerable stir rose from the audience.

Just hearing it, this was clearly a difficult scene to perform — first great sorrow, then great joy, then hope dashed once more. Never mind a young girl, even a seasoned, experienced actress might not be able to master it.

Crucially, all ten scripts had been newly written by playwrights hired by Golden Film Company specifically to prevent the contestants from drawing on the performance experience of predecessors from films already released.

With no template to follow, everything depended on the contestants’ own improvisation.

Wen Tingli silently recited the script in her mind. Below the stage, Huang Yuanshan stood with arms crossed, watching Wen Tingli on stage, eyes full of anticipation — whether this new talent she had discovered could truly carry a leading role would soon be revealed.

“Next, let us invite Xu Wei’an, a student from Hujiang Middle School, to come up and draw lots.”

The whole venue erupted. Amid a wave of blazing enthusiasm, Xu Wei’an strode onto the stage full of confidence, first bowing to the audience below with a smile, then, under the eager gaze of the whole crowd, drew a “Seven.”

“Listen carefully, contestant — the title of Script Number Seven is The Poorest Rich Man.”

According to the script, Xu Wei’an would play a fifty-year-old wealthy man surnamed Chen. Old Man Chen’s guiding principle in life was “better I wrong the world than let the world wrong me.” Despite being wealthy beyond measure, he had made many enemies. His greatest regret in life was that, in his early years while fleeing with his family from disaster, he had accidentally become separated from his son, and he had spent all these years since searching for the boy’s whereabouts. In the final scene, Old Man Chen mistakenly shoots his own biological son, believing him to be a spy sent by an enemy, and upon learning that the young man lying dead before him was in fact the very son he had searched so many years for, Old Man Chen collapses in shock beside the corpse.

Xu Wei’an thought for several seconds before leaving the stage.

When it was Le Zhiwen’s turn to draw lots, the theater instantly exploded. Applause surged like a tide, washing into every corner of the venue. Audience members rose from their seats to clap, and even in the private boxes upstairs, quite a few people leaned their upper bodies out excitedly, waving at Le Zhiwen on stage.

Seeing this, several staff members at the side of the stage murmured in low voices: “Sister Huang really did have foresight, deliberately separating the lot-drawing and performance segments — the competition hasn’t even officially started, and the atmosphere is already this heated.”

Le Zhiwen drew “Number Nine.” Chairman Lin announced: “The play you are to perform is Wolf Brothers, Tiger Siblings.”

In this script, Le Zhiwen would play a character named Lili, a washed-up actress.

Lili had originally been an orphan; as a child her foster parents had sent her to an opera troupe to learn the trade. During one performance, her singing voice and figure caught the eye of a certain famous director, and at his invitation, Lili starred as the female lead in one of his films, becoming instantly famous, her worth rising along with it.

Seizing this opportunity, the several sons born to her foster parents volunteered to serve as her bodyguards, while her foster parents, using the excuse that they feared Lili would spend money recklessly, tightly controlled all of her earnings in their own hands.

After that, every film Lili made became a hit, and she rapidly rose to become the most popular actress of the day. Her foster parents began to worry that, left unchecked, Lili would sooner or later break free of their control, so one of the sons came up with an idea: why not lure Lili into smoking opium? Once a person became addicted to opium, there would be no worry about controlling her (note).

After Lili became addicted, she frequently showed up late to filming and often forgot her lines. Gradually, film offers grew fewer and fewer. One day, she finally managed to secure an audition through a friend’s recommendation, only to be rejected. When she returned home, the terrible cravings found her once more, and she suffered greatly. It was at this very moment that her foster parents barged into her apartment with the sons to loot it while she was down. Consumed by intense hatred, Lili rushed forward…

After Chairman Lin finished reading Script Number Nine aloud, the entire venue fell into collective silence. Never mind the emotional intensity of the scene — the sheer difficulty of the performance technique alone made it the most demanding of the night.

But this was Le Zhiwen, after all — what others couldn’t manage, she could. After a brief silence, the theater erupted into excitement, the audience buzzing with animated whispers, a hum of noise that couldn’t be suppressed. The host asked expectantly: “Did you hear all that clearly, Classmate Le?”

Le Zhiwen nodded calmly.

“Alright, all ten scripts have now been announced. All the supporting actors are already waiting backstage.”

The moment Le Zhiwen stepped off the stage, an assistant and a makeup artist immediately swarmed around her, carrying an enormous costume trunk, to take her off to change.

Mr. Zhao ran over and said to the remaining contestants: “Quick, they’re about to set up the scenery on stage. Come with me to get your makeup done backstage first. Also, leave behind any costumes you brought yourselves — the organizers have already prepared costumes for all ten scripts.”

The costume prepared for Number Ten, Wen Tingli, was a gray coarse-cloth cotton robe, with a pair of worn cotton shoes underneath. Wen Tingli tried on the outfit — the robe was a bit too roomy, but the shoes fit just right.

Since time was limited, the makeup artist simply pinned Wen Tingli’s hair into a plain, bare round bun and called the look complete.

In Script Number Three, Zhao Qingluo was to play a wealthy young lady, but the makeup artist only used a curling iron to give her a simple Western-style hairstyle.

By contrast, Xu Wei’an and Le Zhiwen’s own personal makeup artists each showed off their skills. In a mere ten minutes or so, Xu Wei’an transformed from a graceful young man into an elderly man with a face full of deep wrinkles.

And once Le Zhiwen’s makeup was done, her full cheeks suddenly appeared sunken, and the two bags under her eyes seemed like even thick powder couldn’t cover them — one glance and anyone would know she was an “addict.”

Wen Tingli and Zhao Qingluo watched, secretly marveling. Since they had no personal makeup artists, they had to help each other finish their looks. Wen Tingli drew bold, striking eyeliner on Zhao Qingluo, while Zhao Qingluo carefully used a brownish foundation to cover Wen Tingli’s red lips, then messed up Wen Tingli’s too-tightly-pinned bun a little. After fussing with it a bit, she tilted her head back and looked her over from both sides: “Mm, now this looks like a mother at the end of her rope.”

The two of them split up to find the actors they’d be performing opposite and rehearse their lines. After rehearsing for about ten minutes, a staff member came to hurry them along: “Zhao Qingluo, Zhao Qingluo! You’re up!”

Zhao Qingluo hastily said to Wen Tingli: “Don’t go out and watch my performance — use this time to rehearse properly with the senior actor paired with you.”

The staff member also held up a bundle in their hands: “Where’s the contestant for Script Number Ten? This is your prop.”

Wen Tingli hurried forward to take the bundled infant, and when she turned back, Zhao Qingluo had already gone up on stage.

Outside, it would go silent as a grave one moment, then erupt into thunderous applause the next. By comparison, the dressing room felt like an isolated cabin cut off from the world — the contestants were all so nervous they hardly dared breathe. Before long, Mr. Zhao personally came to summon Xu Wei’an: “Mr. Xu, you’re up.”

Wen Tingli silently rehearsed in front of the mirror for a long while, and still Zhao Qingluo hadn’t returned backstage, so she went out to look for her.

On stage, Xu Wei’an’s performance had reached its most climactic moment.

He knelt alone in a corner of the stage, a “corpse” before him, his hand trembling as he raised it, then lowered it, raised it again, then withdrew it, and finally, unable to believe it, he touched the corpse’s face, then bowed his head and began to weep. The sound of his crying was so sorrowful that the audience below couldn’t help but sob along with him.

The entire performance consisted of only a few short lines, yet it conveyed with total clarity the shock, remorse, and despair of an ambitious man.

When the performance ended, Huang Yuanshan led the crowd in rising to cheer, and the directors in the second row also gave continuous praise. Of the ten judges, seven awarded perfect scores.

The host strained his voice with effort. “Congratulations to Xu Wei’an for achieving the highest score of the evening so far.”

The next contestant up was one from Xiude School, who had drawn a comedy script.

The young girl had considerable comedic talent, and bursts of laughter erupted from the theater throughout her performance. Her only shortcoming was unclear diction — normally not a major flaw, but because she performed right after Xu Wei’an, who was known for his lines, this flaw was magnified. Though the audience’s reaction was quite good, her final score wasn’t high.

The moment the eighth contestant left the stage, the host’s voice could no longer conceal his excitement: “Next — let us invite Contestant Number Nine, Le Zhiwen.”

Wen Tingli watched the stage intently. Just then, below, a stagehand hurried in, bent over, taking small quick steps, and said something to Huang Yuanshan in the front row. Huang Yuanshan started, then hurried toward the upstairs private boxes.

Wen Tingli curiously looked in that direction, and saw a figure sitting down far off to the east side. The two adjoining private boxes on either side were both empty — that spot seemed reserved for him alone.

He sat entirely in shadow, but his face seemed to be turned directly toward the center of the stage.

Seeing that Lu Shicheng had arrived, Michelle and the others rose from their seats and headed upstairs.

Just as Wen Tingli was about to look more closely, the lights in the theater suddenly dimmed, and the curtain on stage silently drew open. A girl slowly emerged from the shadows.

The stage floor was clearly perfectly flat, yet the girl walked as if she were treading through mud, each step heavy and lifeless. After pushing open a door and entering a room, she leaned her back against the door, staring blankly at some point in empty space, in a daze.

Though her expression showed nothing extra, the audience immediately sensed the despair radiating from the figure on stage. That despair was so gripping it tugged at everyone’s heartstrings.

In the vast theater, for a moment, one could have heard a pin drop.

In the half-darkness, the girl, still as a wooden carving, suddenly gave a start and lowered her head, rummaging frantically through her handbag — the urgency of her movements carried a strange, unsettling edge.

Soon, “Lili” pulled out a cigarette and a box of matches, lighting it with trembling hands, but she was shaking so violently it took several tries before it caught.

She took several deep drags, but her agitation showed no sign of easing. Lili clutched at her own arm, stumbling over to sit down on the sofa, but it was no use — even with the cigarette held between her lips, her body kept trembling uncontrollably, and finally, unable to control herself, she collapsed onto the floor.

There was a loud “thud” — clearly a hard fall.

Fans in the audience couldn’t help but cry out: “Miss Le!”

“Lili” continued writhing in pain on the floor, at times arching like a bow, at times hunched like a shrimp. In just a few movements, her clothes and face were already covered in dust. Finally, unable to resist the temptation any longer, she crawled toward a cabinet, fumbling upward with trembling hands, and pulled out a lump of black opium paste and a pipe from a drawer.

She took a deep pull of the opium, and “Lili’s” face broke into an expression of blissful relief, but immediately afterward, she clutched her head in agony and began to cry.

Even the most numb of audience members could hear the hatred in that crying. The girl hated the opium, hated her own fate — and pitifully, no one could help her.

Suddenly, a group of people appeared at the side of the stage. The one in front kicked open the door.

Entering the room and seeing Lili on the floor, the tallest, most burly man among them said to an old man, “Father, look, Lili’s having another opium craving. If this keeps up, she’ll waste away every bit of property she has left before long — why don’t we just move everything in this room back home.”

The old man let out a hypocritical sigh: “Move it, then, move it.”

The group barged straight in, not one of them caring whether Lili lived or died.

The man pried open a drawer and pulled out a stack of banknotes. Lili summoned all her strength to lunge forward and grab his leg: “You bunch of thieves! If it weren’t for you, would I have ended up looking like this? Don’t touch my money!”

The man kicked Lili to the ground: “What do you mean, your money — if it weren’t for our family taking you in, would you even have what you have today?”

Lili raised her head, glaring at the so-called “family” before her, her eyes gradually shifting from fury to anguish to venomous hatred. She swiftly turned and pulled a small pocket pistol from the drawer that held the opium paste, aimed it at the “family” before her, and without hesitation pulled the trigger.

The people before her wore looks of utter shock as they collapsed one after another. Lili, however, began laughing hysterically under her breath, a laugh that reverberated in everyone’s eardrums, making scalps prickle.

The whole venue fell utterly silent — the scene was chilling to the bone, yet carried an infinite sorrow. No one knew how long had passed before applause sounded from the back of the stage — it turned out Xu Wei’an had not left after his own performance, but had watched Le Zhiwen’s performance in its entirety.

He led the applause, wholeheartedly convinced.

The whole venue erupted in applause like a sudden downpour.

Wen Tingli had clapped her palms red — no wonder, this was Le Zhiwen. Her technique, her lines, her body language, all impeccable.

As Le Zhiwen came out to take her bow, the theater’s atmosphere reached its peak. The host raised his hand for quiet, cracked jokes, and put in great effort before finally managing to calm the theater down.

“Please settle your excitement for a moment, everyone — don’t forget the competition isn’t over yet. Next — let us invite Contestant Number Ten.”

Unexpectedly, a stir arose below, and quite a few audience members rose from their seats.

Most people had come specifically for Le Zhiwen and Xu Wei’an. With both stars’ performances finished, the outcome of the competition held no more suspense, and the audience had no interest whatsoever in the remaining act.

Even more unexpectedly, some of Xu Wei’an’s fans in the audience, unhappy that the judges had scored Le Zhiwen higher, staged a collective walkout in protest.

In the blink of an eye, a full third of the audience had left their seats. Even worse, infected by this mood, the remaining audience members were also hesitating over whether to leave early.

Wen Tingli, full of confidence, was preparing to go on stage, but seeing this scene, she was momentarily stunned. Fortunately, a theater staff member quickly came out to calm the audience: “Ladies and gentlemen, given the hot weather, we at Golden Theater have prepared sweet mung bean and lotus seed soup for every audience member — please enjoy this dessert while watching the performance to follow.”

This gesture only kept a small portion of the audience in place; the rest continued putting on their hats and coats, preparing to leave.

Seeing things were going badly, Huang Yuanshan anxiously waved down at the crowd below. Mr. Zhao strode quickly to the center of the stage and said with a hearty laugh: “Ladies and gentlemen, I have good news to share — after the competition concludes, there will be a grand awards ceremony, and tonight’s champion, first, and second runners-up will all come up on stage to receive their awards. At that time, two lucky audience members will be drawn to take a photo with the top three.”

This had a remarkable effect — most people stopped in their tracks.

Huang Yuanshan gestured to the host again, and the host seized the moment to say: “Next, let us invite Contestant Number Ten to the stage.”

The lights in the venue went dark again, but the audience remained as noisy as before — some busy eating their dessert, others busy arguing over whose performance had been more brilliant, Xu Wei’an’s or Le Zhiwen’s. In short, no one had any attention to spare for the stage.

Suddenly, a woman appeared on stage.

Compared to Le Zhiwen before her, this actress’s makeup was rather crude, and even standing far off on the stage, one could tell she was a young girl — but her every movement carried none of a young girl’s vitality. On the contrary, her entire being seemed weighed down with weariness.

The woman had a bundle on her shoulder and a bundled infant in her arms; as she walked, she glanced about anxiously, in visible distress.

As she walked, the bundle on the woman’s shoulder accidentally slipped and fell, its contents scattering across the floor with a clatter — scissors, clothing, shoe soles… presumably the entirety of the woman and child’s possessions.

The woman crouched down, quickly gathering up her things, while impatiently patting the infant in her arms: “Quiet down, Mama’s about to work herself to death!”

The scolding was so lifelike, utterly convincing as a woman crushed breathless by life’s burdens.

The theater gradually grew quiet, because everyone could sense from this woman a deep exhaustion and anxiety — so realistic it was hard to believe the contestant on stage was at most eighteen or nineteen years old.

After finishing her scolding, A’Xiang softened with worry: “There, there, good girl, Mama knows you’re uncomfortable, we’re almost at the clinic, the doctor will give you a shot and you’ll be fine.” Suddenly, in shock, she pressed her lips to the child’s forehead and said in a panic, “Why is she burning up even more?! Rickshaw… rickshaw… my child is dying!”

Her panic and unease were so convincing that the hearts of the entire audience hung in suspense along with her.

At this moment, a man carrying a suitcase appeared at the side of the stage. A’Xiang, carrying the child, had already lost all composure, and upon suddenly spotting the man, she stumbled involuntarily.

The man raised his head, looking around as if searching for someone in the crowd.

A’Xiang trembled all over, hurrying to circle halfway around the man.

The man turned his head, and A’Xiang followed close behind, circling to the other side.

Once she got a clear look at the man’s face, the woman’s expression suddenly burst into wild joy: “Jinsheng!”

The man turned in response.

“It really is you!” She rushed toward the man with the child, overjoyed. “Wake up, sweetheart, that’s your father!”

But before A’Xiang could reach him, a young woman came running up laughing, throwing herself into the man’s arms: “How long have you been waiting for me here?”

A’Xiang stopped in shock. The young woman, following the man’s gaze, also spotted A’Xiang.

The two women spoke in unison: “Who is she?!”

The young woman suddenly flung her hand away: “Well, well, Wang Jinsheng, you deceived me! You already have a wife and child, and you still have the nerve to court me? I’ll tell my father you deceived me!”

Wang Jinsheng hurried to stop the young woman: “Who told you she’s my wife?! She’s only some relative of mine from the countryside.”

A’Xiang trembled all over. The young woman broke free from Wang Jinsheng and ran off; Wang Jinsheng started to chase after her, but A’Xiang caught up and grabbed his arm: “Wang Jinsheng! Explain yourself clearly! What am I to you?”

The moment she asked, her throat seemed choked with tears and heat, and the sound made even the audience’s hearts ache.

Audience members prone to being easily moved had already pulled out their handkerchiefs, wiping their tears while cursing under their breath: “How despicable!”

The man, humiliated into fury, shoved her to the ground: “Get away from me!”

A’Xiang fell to the ground, staring in horror at the man’s retreating back, stunned for a long moment before crawling up in fury to chase after him: “Wang Jinsheng! Do you have any conscience at all? These past two years with no word from you, do you have any idea how A’Yuan and I have survived?”

At this moment, the bundled infant in her arms seemed to convulse, and her expression changed. She looked down at the bundle, and her hands and feet immediately became frantic: “A’Yuan, A’Yuan, Wang Jinsheng, your child is dying!”

The man finally stopped in his tracks. A’Xiang rushed forward and gripped his arm tightly: “Quick, take the child to the hospital! I beg you!”

The man’s attention was still partly captured by the young woman in the distance. Steeling himself, he pulled several banknotes from his suit pocket: “Fine, fine, you take the child to the hospital first, I’ll come find you both later!”

The banknotes scattered on the ground at A’Xiang’s feet. She gasped where she stood, but she no longer had time to chase after her husband — swallowing her humiliation, she picked up the banknotes and ran off toward the other side, carrying the child.

The lights on stage slowly dimmed, and when they came up again, A’Xiang was seen sitting alone with the child in her arms, numb, on a bench beside the clinic.

Her expression was so vacant, like a lifeless statue.

Before long, the man emerged from the shadows, looking around, and spotted A’Xiang in the shadows.

“How is it?” He sounded a little impatient. “Is the child better?”

A’Xiang said nothing.

The man leaned in to look at the bundle and was so startled he nearly collapsed to the ground.

Down below, the audience’s breath caught.

A’Xiang, her hair disheveled, began to laugh in a low, choked way.

“Dead… she’s dead…”

The man, fearful, reached out to take the bundle from A’Xiang’s arms, but A’Xiang, her face darkening, shoved him away forcefully, advancing on him step by step.

“You did this… give me back my A’Yuan!”

“You…” Wang Jinsheng, at a loss, stepped back one pace at a time. “This isn’t my fault — the child was already dying when we got here!”

Seeing himself backed into a corner, he suddenly glared and shouted back: “How were you looking after the child in the first place?!”

With a crack, A’Xiang swung her hand and slapped the man across the face, sending him staggering.

“Crack—” a second slap followed, and as she was about to deliver a third, Wang Jinsheng seized her wrist and shoved her aside.

“You’re insane.” He fled in a panic.

A’Xiang was shoved into the bench beside her, and the “child” in her arms fell to the ground with her. Seeing the child’s face, A’Xiang shuddered all over, sitting dazed on the ground, her gaze and expression gradually seeming to film over with ash. Suddenly, she began groping around on the ground like a blind woman, and while doing so, called out gently after Wang Jinsheng’s retreating back: “Jinsheng, you dropped something.”

Wang Jinsheng turned his head impatiently to look — but at that moment, A’Xiang closed the distance to him in a few swift strides and, without warning, plunged a pair of scissors into his chest.

The whole venue gasped, some people even standing up in shock, as the man collapsed to the ground. A’Xiang, still gripping the scissors, backed away in bewilderment.

Her gaze was scattered, darting a step to the left, then two hurried steps to the right, utterly lost and disoriented.

Her hand loosened, and the scissors clattered to the ground.

A crowd of people seemed to have gathered around her. A’Xiang, pale-faced, looked around, and suddenly, as if remembering something, knelt back down and hugged the child tightly to her chest, pressing her cheek affectionately against it.

Gradually, she broke into a sweet smile, lifting the bundled infant and speaking softly into the surrounding emptiness: “Our A’Yuan is such a good baby. Whenever I go out to work, my A’Yuan never fusses or cries, always waits for Mama to come home. She even helps Mama wring out towels, helps Mama with the wash water, never cries at all… People say a child this well-behaved has come to repay a debt of gratitude. Aren’t I so fortunate?”

Someone in the audience couldn’t help but break down sobbing.

On stage, A’Xiang stood, utterly lost, in a daze for a long moment, then slowly turned around and, like a ghost, stepped over the corpse of the man on the ground, as though stepping over a puddle on the ground. Suddenly, she quickened her pace and, with no hesitation, rushed toward the road.

There was the sound of a shrill screech of brakes, and A’Xiang fell heavily to the ground. In her final moments of dying, she still clutched the child tightly.

The curtain slowly drew closed over the scene on stage. The theater fell into an extraordinary silence — some people quietly sobbing, some dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs, some cursing in bitter frustration, everyone’s chest tight with an emotion caught somewhere between bitterness and sourness, indescribable — until the first sound of applause rang out from below, and the whole venue erupted into fierce cheering.

The applause went on and on. Who would have thought such a compelling scene and lines had all been improvised on the spot by the contestant?

When it came time for scoring, the judges got into a dispute. Some insisted Le Zhiwen’s performance had been more accomplished, while others believed Contestant Number Ten’s portrayal had been more moving. Her crying, her laughing — it seemed to reach straight into people’s hearts, making them unconsciously feel sorrow with her, joy with her.

This was a kind of gift.

Because the judges argued so fiercely, over ten minutes passed without reaching any consensus. The audience buzzed with murmured discussion now and then, everyone waiting anxiously.

Someone’s eyes lit up: “They’re scoring, they’re scoring.”

Contestant Number Ten, Wen Tingli, won by a narrow margin of one point.

An uproar swept through the theater.

Chairman Lin spoke on behalf of the ten judges: “Both contestants demonstrated a deep understanding of their characters. In the Number Nine play, Le Zhiwen’s performance was extremely moving — whether it was the protagonist’s state during her opium cravings, or the subtle shifts in her eyes when her emotions were struck, she portrayed it all to perfection.

“As for Contestant Number Ten, she presented us with a complete, delicate, and deeply moving performance. In our view, the two are nearly equal in skill, both deserving of tonight’s championship. But considering that Contestant Number Ten is a newcomer without professional training, the judges have chosen to award this newcomer a small measure of extra encouragement in scoring.”

The moment these words left his mouth, the disputes in the audience quieted considerably.

The words were phrased so gracefully that even Le Zhiwen’s fans had nothing to say.

Wen Tingli waited anxiously in the dark at the side of the stage for the news. Upon hearing the result, before a brilliant smile could even bloom on her face, Zhao Qingluo came rushing over in wild joy and threw her arms around her neck: “Did you hear that? Wen Tingli! You’re first place! You’re first place!”

Wen Tingli wept with joy, and the two of them hugged each other, dancing about like children.

The other contestants came over one after another to offer congratulations: “Wen Tingli, congratulations.”

Faced with row after row of sincere faces, Wen Tingli’s heart filled with joy, and she said again and again, “Thank you.”

Suddenly, the crowd parted, and Le Zhiwen walked over. Le Zhiwen was normally always composed, rarely smiling, and even now her expression remained subdued, as if all the explosive intensity and emotion within her were reserved only for the stage.

She came close and studied Wen Tingli carefully, then said with genuine sincerity: “You were wonderful.”

Just those three words brought an inexplicable heat to Wen Tingli’s eyes: “Thank you!”

Xu Wei’an came over and shook Wen Tingli’s hand with easy generosity: “Congratulations.”

Though proud, he was also sincere. Turning his head, he saw Le Zhiwen had already walked off, and he thrust his hands in his pockets and hurried after her: “You’re not upset about losing, are you? Hey, let me treat you to a midnight snack at Ciro’s.”

Le Zhiwen turned and walked off in another direction entirely. The staff nearby couldn’t help but laugh and shake their heads.

At the awards ceremony, Wen Tingli, glowing with pride, accepted the prize presented by Chairman Lin — besides a gleaming golden trophy, there was also a brand-new German Baonahua camera.

Down below, “pop, pop, pop” — a strange, repeated sound rang out, as a group of newspaper reporters aimed their Western-style cameras at her, snapping photos.

Wen Tingli stood in the play of light, holding her trophy high, her smile sweet as honey.

Next came the group photo of all the contestants. Zhao Qingluo had won fifth place, and she herself was thoroughly pleased, waving frantically down at the Zhao family members during the photo. Mr. and Mrs. Zhao were beaming with joy, directing their two younger children below to wave a flag for their elder sister.

Afterward, the host invited two lucky audience members up on stage to take photos with the champion and the two runners-up. It was a full ten minutes or so of continued excitement before the curtain finally fell, and the audience left satisfied.

Huang Yuanshan said with a beaming smile to her colleagues from the Film Association: “I hope none of you elders still blame me for going to such great lengths over a stage-play competition. Look — we’ve not only attracted a group of young people interested in theater, but we’ve also discovered a performing genius through this competition!”

The moment Wen Tingli and Zhao Qingluo came off stage, Director Zheng rushed over and wrapped her arms around both of them: “While you were competing just now, I could hardly breathe. Then when it came time for scoring, I was so nervous I nearly fainted.”

She also pointed toward the back: “Principal Michelle is here too — come, let’s go say hello.”

Michelle had just come down from the second-floor private box, but she only stood there at a distance, giving a cool, aloof nod, before following the other principals toward the exit.

Wen Tingli instinctively looked up toward the second-floor box, only to find that Lu Shicheng was no longer there. Mr. Zhao ran over and said quietly to Huang Yuanshan in the crowd: “A board director is coming to discuss something with young Master Lu. Young Master Lu plans to rest for a bit in the VIP room in the back — he’ll probably wait until things have completely cleared out here before leaving.”

Huang Yuanshan’s expression turned solemn: “Quick, brew some tea, I’ll be there shortly.”

Meanwhile, Zhao Qingluo continued happily suggesting: “Since Yan Zhenzhen and the others are waiting for us at the exit, why don’t we go get some ice cream at Ciro’s across the street before heading home? Wen Tingli and I will treat everyone — call it a celebration.”

As they spoke, newspaper reporters came over to interview Wen Tingli. Director Zheng automatically took on the role of guardian: “Thank you all for your kind attention, but Classmate Wen is a student at our Wushi Girls’ Middle School. You’re welcome to interview her, but you’ll need to notify our Arts Department in advance — please forgive the inconvenience, she is still a student after all, thank you, thank you… Tomorrow is the weekend… please contact the Wushi Arts Department again on Monday.”

Staff members escorted Wen Tingli and Zhao Qingluo back to remove their stage makeup. Once done, they exited the theater through the side door. A cool night breeze blew past, and Wen Tingli, lowering her head, exclaimed in alarm: “Oh no, I left my book bag backstage! Wait for me, I’ll go back and get it.”

She ran back the way they’d come.

Compared to the earlier bustle, the theater was much quieter now. Her heart was still immersed in the joy of victory as she dashed, wind-like, back to the dressing room, but couldn’t find her book bag. She hurried out to ask around, and happened to run into a young script supervisor passing by. Seeing Wen Tingli, he dropped his previous perfunctory manner and greeted her warmly: “Miss Wen.”

Wen Tingli hurriedly asked if he’d seen her book bag.

“Oh, several contestants left things here earlier, and Mr. Zhao had someone collect them all together. Why don’t you go ask Mr. Zhao — he’s upstairs reconciling accounts, the room at the end of the hallway with the door open.”

Wen Tingli thanked him and went to search on the second floor. The second-floor hallway was laid with thick crimson carpet, and stepping onto it made no sound at all.

There were roughly a dozen or so rooms on either side, but not a single one had its door open. Just as she was about to call out “Mr. Zhao,” Wen Tingli spotted a sliver of bright light leaking from the door on the right-hand side.

Assuming Mr. Zhao must be inside, she turned and pushed the door open.

At the sight of the scene inside the room, Wen Tingli froze in the doorway.

It was an extremely spacious room. On the left side stood an apricot-colored leather sofa, and on the sofa sat a figure.

Hanging from this man’s suit breast pocket was a pocket watch. Wen Tingli had visited quite a few department stores in her time and recognized it as an extremely expensive Swiss brand, but this particular watch seemed exceptionally luxurious — its cover was inlaid with lush, deep green jade, clearly custom-made.

Her gaze traveled further up, and she froze — Lu Shicheng!

But the Lu Shicheng before her now seemed entirely different from the one she’d seen before. In the instant she pushed open the door, his whole being was quietly radiating a chilling air, and his usually calm eyes were now filled with cold mockery.

But then, once he registered that it was her who had entered, he clearly froze for a moment.

In a flash, Wen Tingli had already made out what Lu Shicheng was holding up in his hand — it was a pistol, its dark muzzle aimed directly at her chest.

Wen Tingli’s mind went blank, and she hurried to back out into the hallway, but Lu Shicheng rose and strode toward her. Wen Tingli, pale-faced, waved her hands frantically: “You… I…”

Before she could finish, Lu Shicheng lunged forward, pulling her into his arms, and holding her close, rolled quickly to one side.

There was a “bang” from behind, and something grazed Wen Tingli’s left arm before striking the chair beside them.

Lu Shicheng pressed Wen Tingli’s head against his chest and, with his other hand, fired several shots back toward the doorway.

Wen Tingli heard nothing but the “bang, bang” ringing in her ears, her heart nearly leaping out of her throat.

Just then, the sound of scrambling footsteps came from the corridor.

“What’s going on? Was that gunfire?”

“Sounded like it! Someone ran off!”

“Don’t chase, watch out for gunfire, quick, go report it to the police station first!”

However chaotic Wen Tingli’s mind was, she now understood what had just happened. From where she was, she could clearly see a bullet hole smoking on a nearby chair.

Seeing this, cold sweat poured down her back — if Lu Shicheng hadn’t pulled her down and away just now, that bullet fired from behind would surely have pierced straight through her chest.

She tried to move, only to realize she was still pinned beneath Lu Shicheng.

Someone burst in: “Mr. Lu, what happened just now?”

Lu Shicheng pulled Wen Tingli up, his gaze sweeping quickly over her to confirm the girl was uninjured, then, with a touch of apology, nodded to her before turning to chase out the door, gun in hand.

Wen Tingli was about to speak when she suddenly noticed her left arm burning with pain, and thinking of the bullet just now, assumed she’d been shot. Terrified, tears streamed down her face, and she clutched at the spot, saying tearfully: “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts so much.”

Lu Shicheng turned back.

Under the light, Wen Tingli’s face was pale as paper. He frowned slightly and crouched down to check her injury.

But Wen Tingli, too frightened to think straight, stubbornly kept clutching at the wound.

Lu Shicheng finally managed to pry her hand away, and looking at it, found her palm stained with blood.

Wen Tingli’s face grew even more ashen — could that shot really have hit her after all? Would she become disabled because of this? She grew utterly disheartened, letting her arm droop as she allowed Lu Shicheng to examine her.

Lu Shicheng, focused, used the barrel of his gun to gently lift up the torn sleeve on Wen Tingli’s arm, revealing a stretch of pale, rounded skin.

There was blood, but only a very shallow amount.

Looking closer, it was merely a superficial scratch.

She looked up again, and found Wen Tingli already crying into a proper mess of tears.