As they were nearly at the company, Wen Tingli suddenly declared with full confidence, “I’m not worried at all, really, I’ve prepared for this so long, this role was always meant to be mine.”

But when she got out of the car, she forgot her bag entirely, rushing anxiously toward the other side of the road. Lu Shicheng caught up and grabbed her, stuffing the book bag into her hands.

Wen Tingli herself was stunned—she normally treasured her book bag more than her own eyeballs.

“I…”

Lu Shicheng touched her head understandingly, then pointed to his wristwatch.

【I’ll come find you later.】

“Mm.” Wen Tingli held her book bag close and crossed the road again. After walking quite a distance, she turned back and saw Lu Shicheng watching her with concern.

Seeing her look back, Lu Shicheng curved his lips and made an encouraging gesture at her.

He was watching over her, and this silent protection somehow felt warmer than a thousand words of encouragement.

She suddenly felt sweetness fill her heart, and lifted her chin, patting her own chest at him.

“Wait for my good news.”

Going in again, Wen Tingli looked back nearly every three steps, and only reluctantly withdrew her gaze once Lu Shicheng’s figure was no longer visible.

Quite a few colleagues had already arrived on the first floor of the office. Wen Tingli headed straight upstairs to look for Huang Yuanshan, when she suddenly heard laughter and chatter behind her. A large group of people surrounded a dazzlingly radiant young woman coming in.

Wen Tingli couldn’t help gasping—Yu Peiling was ten times more beautiful in person than on screen!

The few colleagues in the lobby also seemed to have collectively lost their souls, just staring blankly at Yu Peiling. Yu Peiling chatted with the people around her as if no one else were there: “So that’s Lu Shicheng? Hmph.”

That single “hmph” carried more suggestive implication than any direct praise could.

The manager beside her laughed and chimed in: “Unforgettable, isn’t he? The Lu family’s second and third young masters are already famous for their good looks, but this young Mr. Lu surpasses even his two uncles in appearance, especially with that elegance and composure—really, I don’t know what word could describe it, truly a figure like an immortal! Lucky he was born into the Lu family—if he’d been born into a poor household, heh heh, with looks like that, he’d surely have become a famous opera star of his time.”

Wen Tingli wasn’t fond of hearing people discuss Lu Shicheng in this tone. She glanced at the person, who looked like Yu Peiling’s manager.

Yu Peiling smiled lazily: “What’s he doing here so early in the morning?”

“I heard—”

The conversation cut off abruptly as several people spotted Wen Tingli on the staircase.

Yu Peiling’s eyes brightened, and she stopped to size up Wen Tingli.

Wen Tingli eagerly introduced herself: “Hello Miss Yu, I’m Wen Tingli, I’m—I’m a new actress recently signed by Golden Film Studio.”

Yu Peiling wasn’t at all condescending, nodding with a smile as a greeting, then generously said to the manager beside her, “Huang Yuanshan’s eye for newcomers keeps getting sharper.”

That dark, thin manager glanced warily at Wen Tingli, then gestured for Yu Peiling to look behind her.

Another group was coming in through the main entrance, at the center a petite woman in a lotus-colored long dress—it was Xiao Diejun. Accompanying Xiao Diejun in were Huang Yuanshan, several elders of Golden Film Studio, and three producers.

Xiao Diejun had a delicate, round-square face, almond eyes, willow brows, a dainty nose—even without speaking she carried a hint of a smile that made people instantly like her.

Seeing Yu Peiling ahead, the dimples at the corner of Xiao Diejun’s mouth twitched.

“You’re here too?”

“Can’t I be?”

“Then I’m leaving.” Xiao Diejun said, and turned to go, just like that.

Everyone burst out laughing, and several Golden Film Studio elders hurried forward to bring Xiao Diejun back.

“Don’t be like that! Don’t be like that! You two are famously good friends in the industry, this joke’s gone too far.”

Only then did Xiao Diejun take hold of the arm Yu Peiling extended toward her, and the two of them walked up arm in arm, smiling. Everyone crowded around them like stars around the moon. During all this, aside from Huang Yuanshan hurriedly shooting Wen Tingli a glance, no one else had time to pay her any attention.

Wen Tingli didn’t mind, only curious when Zhou Manru and Le Zhiwen would arrive. She stood downstairs for a while, then heard a “thump thump thump” on the stairs—Huang Yuanshan led another large group back downstairs, saying Zhou Manru’s and Le Zhiwen’s cars had already pulled up in front.

The moment Zhou Manru walked in, Wen Tingli involuntarily held her breath. Miss Zhou wasn’t much of a talker, carrying a somewhat languid air, her features rather plain, but her figure and grace far outshone the previous two stars—standing amid the crowd, she was like an elegant white swan, her every movement seeming to radiate a lustrous glow.

Wen Tingli couldn’t look away. She had watched every one of Zhou Manru’s films—whether crying scenes or comedic ones, every scene had left a deep impression on her. She’d always felt Zhou Manru was the most gifted actress of the younger generation.

Le Zhiwen was the youngest of the four and also the most simply dressed, wearing a men’s-style white Western shirt with camel-colored suspender trousers, carrying a cool, aloof air, yet quite courteous to others. The moment she spotted Wen Tingli, she immediately pushed through the crowd around her to walk over.

Wen Tingli happily went to meet her.

“Long time no see.”

“I heard you got into St. John’s Vocal Music Academy as you wanted, congratulations.”

“I remember you’re at Shanghai University of Commerce, medicine right?” During this long summer break, classmates from the same year always asked this sort of question when meeting—even Le Zhiwen was no exception, and asking this showed she’d been keeping tabs on Wen Tingli’s whereabouts ever since that competition ended.

“It’s Shanghai University of Commerce, but my scores weren’t high enough for medicine,” Wen Tingli said with a smile. “I ended up switching to the education department.”

Le Zhiwen was about to say more when a producer personally hurried over to greet her: “Miss Le, refreshments are all ready in the reception room, please come upstairs.”

Everyone whisked Le Zhiwen away without a word, and Wen Tingli had no choice but to follow upstairs too, looking up at Zhou Manru walking at the very front, regretting she hadn’t managed to strike up a conversation with Zhou Manru just now.

The second floor had a lighting room, a makeup room, a costume room, and an actors’ lounge, as well as a spacious photography studio. This time’s screen test was arranged in the photography studio.

After everyone sat down, the Golden Film Studio bosses were slow to begin. Yu Peiling couldn’t help yawning: “Boss Huang, shall we start a bit earlier? I still have to rush to Hangzhou this afternoon for a fan meetup being held for me at the West Lake Grand Theater.”

She had a naturally playful lilt to her speech that made it impossible to get annoyed at her.

“Right away, right away!” Huang Yuanshan immediately signaled for several assistants to go downstairs, clearly waiting on someone.

Xiao Diejun and the others exchanged glances—the director was here, the producers were here, all the relevant crew were here too, who else important could there be still to arrive?

Suddenly a staff member came in and gave Huang Yuanshan a look, and several people filed out at once. Before long, Huang Yuanshan and the others escorted a woman in.

Wen Tingli’s eyes widened abruptly—the woman had a round face and short hair, an amiable smile—it was the middle-aged lady she’d met once before at the amusement park.

“Yue Zhaoyun!” Someone was the first to exclaim.

Everyone present, even those who’d never met Yue Zhaoyun in person, had certainly heard her name. She was one of the most popular novelists today—her novel Splendor of the Mundane World alone had sold several hundred thousand copies. The year before last, Santong Company adapted the book into a film, and after release, its box office actually surpassed the most popular American comedy of the time. Since then, several other companies had successively adapted three more of her novels into films, all achieving impressive box office results.

Now there was a superstitious saying circulating in the industry that Yue Zhaoyun’s books were remarkably good for box office and had an uncanny ability to make stars of actors, which was why major companies were practically fighting each other to buy the rights.

The manager surnamed Chen beside Yu Peiling was the first to jump up. “When did Miss Yue arrive in Shanghai?! Where are you staying? The Peace Hotel? Oh, the rooms at the Peace Hotel are too small, why don’t we arrange different accommodations for you? This is Peiling, she’s been wanting to meet Miss Yue for ages.”

Not to be outdone, the assistant beside Xiao Diejun also pushed forward. “Miss Yue, please sit here.”

Yue Zhaoyun seemed unused to this kind of setting, her gaze uncertain where to land. Huang Yuanshan felt duty-bound to help smooth things over.

“Alright, alright, Miss Yue prefers quiet to bustle, she doesn’t usually go out socializing much either, we only managed to invite Miss Yue to Shanghai after repeated invitations. Everyone, don’t be too enthusiastic, or you’ll scare her off.”

Yue Zhaoyun playfully pointed to the sweat on her own forehead for everyone to see: “Don’t laugh at me, everyone, I sweat the moment I’m in a crowded setting, especially nervous in front of beauties—I don’t know when I’ll ever fix this bad habit.”

Her speech carried the particular candor and humor of a Beiping native, and everyone in the room couldn’t help laughing. Yue Zhaoyun was seated beside Boss Du of Feidi’er, but the moment she sat down, she leaned forward to greet Zhou Manru across the table. Zhou Manru also dropped her earlier nonchalant attitude, actively leaving her own seat to warmly clasp Yue Zhaoyun’s hand and chat.

Wen Tingli suddenly recalled that Zhou Manru’s very first film had been an adaptation of one of Yue Zhaoyun’s books, Chunshen Chronicles, and Zhou Manru had become hugely famous from it. It seemed the two had maintained a good relationship ever since.

Huang Yuanshan pulled Wen Tingli and Le Zhiwen forward to introduce them.

Yue Zhaoyun clearly knew Le Zhiwen too, immediately calling her “Little Wen.” But when she met Wen Tingli, a meaningful smile crossed her face.

Wen Tingli couldn’t help feeling uneasy. So far she’d crossed paths with Yue Zhaoyun twice—once at the Lu mansion, when Yue Zhaoyun had watched her and Lu Shicheng leave amid the crowd that night, and another time at the amusement park, again with her and Lu Shicheng together.

She had no idea what impression these two encounters had left on Yue Zhaoyun.

Fortunately, striking up conversation with people was the one thing she wasn’t afraid of. She immediately prepared a few lines in her mind, intending to make a good impression the moment she opened her mouth.

“Miss Yue, I—”

Just then, Golden Film Studio’s chief boss, Liu Menglin, walked over and cut off the conversation: “Miss Yue, the tea’s here, please, this way!”

Wen Tingli was once again left out in the cold. She herself didn’t mind much, but Huang Yuanshan felt it was a bit much, and hurriedly had someone find Wen Tingli a seat next to Le Zhiwen. It was only then she noticed the other four stars all had gilded nameplates on the table in front of them, while Wen Tingli didn’t even have a scrap of paper.

Anyone else would have felt aggrieved, but Wen Tingli was big-hearted and self-assured, and far from feeling her self-esteem wounded, she instead took great interest in observing the several big stars she’d normally only ever see on screen.

Huang Yuanshan spoke up from the head of the table with a smile: “My company’s Southern Beauty is about to begin filming. This film has an investment of up to one hundred twenty thousand silver dollars, prepared and produced strictly following Hollywood-scale standards, striving to create an influential, high-quality film. I myself am directing, the producers are several senior figures from Feidi’er Company, the screenwriter is renowned author Miss Yue Zhaoyun, and as for the cinematographer, everyone here surely knows him—(note) he graduated from the New York Institute of Cinematography in America, and is now the highly renowned Mr. Zheng Xiaozhang in the industry. Last year’s highest-grossing film Angry Tide was shot by him…”

Everyone maintained a placid expression on the surface, but Wen Tingli could clearly sense an undercurrent quietly stirring. Having spent these past few months at the studio, she’d gained a preliminary understanding of the industry’s workings, and she knew that given this film’s investment scale and production team, it was enough to win over any A-list actor.

“The lead character of this film, Nan Qi, is a woman of complex character, whose story spans the entire film from her appearance as a sixteen-year-old student to her death at thirty-one, presenting enormous challenges to the actor’s skill and range in both performance and appearance. After much discussion, the company unanimously agreed that casting for this role required the utmost caution, so we solicited opinions from multiple parties, and finally decided to select the female lead through a screen test. For fairness’s sake, the competition will use an open screen test with public scoring. Our company’s Miss Luo Shuhong was originally also one of the candidates, but due to a sudden development yesterday, she voluntarily withdrew from the competition this morning… In any case, it is truly an honor to have gathered Shanghai’s finest young actresses in the film industry to participate in this screen test. Attending today are Chairman Weng of the Shanghai Film Association, Manager Dai Luoen of the Carlton Cinema…”

Huang Yuanshan’s assistant Tan Guiwang distributed the scripts to the four actresses one by one. Wen Tingli already knew this script by heart, so she didn’t even look at it when it was handed to her, but Huang Yuanshan gave her a look from up front, and Wen Tingli, puzzled, opened it—only to be stunned.

It was three scenes she’d never seen before at all.

“Given that our company’s Miss Wen had already memorized the script during the preliminary selection period, for fairness’s sake, we will not be using the original script this time, but instead have asked the original author, Miss Yue Zhaoyun, to write three new scenes based on the female lead’s character. These are solo scenes, respectively depicting scenes from Nan Qi’s life at sixteen, twenty-four, and thirty-one years old, each scene eight minutes…”

The more Wen Tingli listened, the more her heart sank. Compared to the other stars, her one advantage had been her thorough knowledge of the script—now even that advantage was gone. What’s more, two of the three scenes required intense physical movement to convey emotion, but her arm—

Before Wen Tingli could think further, a colleague came over to take her to the makeup room to prepare. A script supervisor surnamed Zhao stormed in furiously: “There’s a bunch of newspaper reporters downstairs.”

The whole room erupted.

“Wasn’t this supposed to be confidential? Who exactly notified the press?”

Le Zhiwen shot a mocking glance at Xiao Diejun across the way. Yu Peiling rolled her eyes at Xiao Diejun, while Xiao Diejun, with a half-smile, stared fixedly at Zhou Manru on this side.

Only Zhou Manru remained calm and composed, legs crossed, reading her script.

Wen Tingli’s gaze also darted between the stars along with everyone else’s. At first she’d assumed these reporters had been called by Yu Peiling’s manager, then suspected Xiao Diejun had leaked the news, but now she was thoroughly confused.

All she could tell was that everyone wanted this role.

“We really can’t hold them back anymore! Boss Liu, Director Huang, Elder Gu, why don’t we let them come up?”

“Limit it to thirty reporters upstairs, one slot per newspaper. And their articles need to be reviewed by our public relations department before publication.” Huang Yuanshan pulled out her handkerchief to wipe her sweat.

As the four actresses headed to the makeup rooms, thirty reporters packed the corridor solid.

“Miss Zhou, you haven’t filmed in over half a year due to your injury—coming to Golden Film Studio for this screen test, is there anything you’d like to say to your fans?”

“Word is that Boss Ma of Da Dong Bank has been pursuing Miss Yu Peiling, is this true? Miss Yu, say a few words.”

“Xiao Diejun! Xiao Diejun, over here! You and Yu Peiling have always been rivals—are you confident you’ll beat Yu Peiling this time?”

“Miss Le Zhiwen, please stay a moment. You start school again mid-September—have you thought about how your university coursework might conflict with filming? How do you plan to resolve this conflict?”

Wen Tingli’s ears felt like they were about to explode from the noise. Fortunately, since there were fewer people on her side, she only got stuck in the corridor briefly before successfully slipping into the makeup room. The other actresses were each surrounded in some corner for interviews. In Wen Tingli’s view, the interviews were just a pretext—at least half these reporters were fans, and no matter the final outcome, the major newspapers were bound to advocate for their favorite stars, at which point a public opinion war would become inevitable.

After finally getting the reporters settled, friction broke out again over the order of the screen tests. All four stars claimed to have other engagements and wanted to go early, yet none of them wanted to go first either.

Choosing dressing rooms wasn’t peaceful either—before the stars themselves said anything, their managers were already scrambling to claim the two innermost private dressing rooms.

With all this back and forth, the screen test didn’t actually begin until past nine o’clock.

As expected, Wen Tingli was arranged to go first—needless to say, this too was by the three producers’ design. For a minor role like Wen Tingli’s, naturally the sooner she was done, the better.

To avoid anyone noticing she was injured, Wen Tingli specifically chose a long-sleeved qipao to change into, and after touching up her makeup one last time in the mirror, hurried onto set.

The moment she entered, she felt countless gazes fall upon her. Seated in order were Chairman Weng, Liu Menglin, Huang Yuanshan, and the three producers, each with independent scoring authority. Whoever got the highest score would win.

Miss Yue Zhaoyun sat to the side as an important guest to observe the competition.

Wen Tingli glanced at the panel, then at the reporters in the outer corridor—she was the least favored candidate, and the atmosphere around her made this clear. At least three important judges on the panel were openly yawning, and the reporters’ gazes carried an air of indifference and scrutiny, giving her the sense that whatever came next—whether she went through the motions or fought with everything she had—wouldn’t change the outcome.

It’s an illusion, she told herself at once—don’t give up until the very last moment.

“Miss Wen, let’s begin.” Huang Yuanshan tried to keep her tone businesslike.

The first scene was only one line.

【Sixteen-year-old Nan Qi comes home from school and unexpectedly discovers her mother is coughing up blood again.】

By Wen Tingli’s understanding, the key to this scene lay in the word “again.”

“Again”—this meant Nan Qi’s mother had already coughed up blood before, so simple panic wouldn’t be right here; Nan Qi needed to display a kind of experienced worry.

This was a very difficult balance to strike—overplay it and it seems fake, underplay it and it fails to move anyone. Wen Tingli could only recall in her mind the scene of her father in the hospital. No, not the first time her father had been badly injured by Qiu Dapeng, but the later times when his condition worsened.

What emotion had she felt back then?

Perhaps because that experience had left too deep a mark on Wen Tingli, it took her barely two seconds to fall into character.

Once this scene finished, the producers stopped yawning frequently. The room, inside and out, fell utterly silent.

The second scene came quickly.

【Twenty-four-year-old Nan Qi looks at the rushing river beneath the bridge, having thought countless times of throwing herself in, but in the end, the will to survive makes her step back off the bridge.】

As for how to perform this scene, Wen Tingli had spent a long time alone in the makeup room mulling it over beforehand. By twenty-four, Nan Qi was no longer the naive girl she’d been—whatever hardships life had thrown at her, she’d endured them all with strength. What kind of blow this time could have utterly destroyed Nan Qi’s will to live? She believed it must not just be the ordinary pains of daily life, but perhaps also betrayal and deception from someone close to her.

As Wen Tingli imagined the psychological journey Nan Qi had walked to reach this point, tears unconsciously welled up in her eyes.

Everyone in the room tried their best to watch Wen Tingli’s performance with a critical eye, but her face genuinely showed a true grief and despair—so real it couldn’t have been more real.

Under everyone’s watchful gaze, “Nan Qi” swayed as she walked to the head of the bridge, her expression vacant as she looked down below, as if a wind blew past, stinging her eyes moist. She stood there with a wooden expression, unconsciously wrapping her arms around herself, and just then, her shoulder suddenly trembled violently.

Soon, large beads of cold sweat broke out on her forehead, her face turning deathly pale, and at the same time, an intense, complex emotion finally surfaced on her face—she began to break down sobbing, her lips and chin trembling uncontrollably.

With just these few actions, everyone understood at once.

This “Nan Qi” had just suffered a savage beating—she was covered in injuries all over, which was why her movements were so labored, and her pain carried within it a strong sense of fear and hatred.

Strangely, even knowing it was a performance, one couldn’t help but suspect this actress had truly been injured—it was that convincing. Every furrow of her brow, every tremble, made viewers’ hearts clench in sympathy.

Among those present, only Huang Yuanshan knew what was really going on. Part of her cheered inwardly for Wen Tingli, while another part secretly cursed her for being so reckless with her own body just for a performance. Several times she’d nearly jumped up from her seat in worry, but forced herself back down, afraid of disrupting Wen Tingli’s state.

Once this scene ended, the room, inside and out, was no longer calm as before, but abuzz like a disturbed hive.

As people in the entertainment industry, everyone knew that skilled actors could often portray emotions like grief with remarkable vividness, but not everyone could portray physical “pain” so convincingly.

That scene just now had left everyone unconsciously gritting their teeth. They began to view this previously unknown actress with an entirely new perspective.

By the third scene, the gazes turned toward her carried, faintly, a hint of anticipation.

Huang Yuanshan, however, grew anxious instead—if this final scene didn’t outperform the previous two, it would only create a letdown; it would have been better to go “not great at first, better later” than the reverse.

On top of that, actors can sense the audience’s expectations, and when the pressure mounts, mistakes become more likely.

She nervously clenched her fist and coughed against her mouth.

She’d guessed correctly—Wen Tingli truly was worrying over how to perform this scene.

【Thirty-one-year-old Nan Qi sits alone in her room at dusk, smoking. After finishing a cigarette, she takes a pistol from the drawer and pulls the trigger against her own temple.】

No lead-up, no explanation of any background, no one knew why Nan Qi did this.

Screenwriter Yue Zhaoyun hadn’t even spent ink describing Nan Qi’s expression or emotional state in this moment.

This scene gave the actor the greatest possible room for interpretation, yet also left one at a loss for where to even begin.

She’d made it through at twenty-four—why would she go so resolutely at thirty-one?

Sitting alone by the window smoking, what exactly was going through “Nan Qi’s” mind?

Right up until the very last moment, Wen Tingli still hadn’t made up her mind how to portray it.

“Miss Wen, time’s up.”

Wen Tingli steeled herself and took the props handed to her by staff. There was a table and chair set up for “by the window”; she walked over thoughtfully and sat down, and the moment camera two turned to her, her state instantly shifted.

Same face, same clothes, but her eyes and posture had aged a full decade. Her way of smoking was practiced, even carrying a hint of slickness, her sitting posture somewhat “improper”—one arm crossed over her chest, the other lazily holding the cigarette.

Everyone watched, barely daring to breathe—no one could connect this “Nan Qi” in front of them with the “Nan Qi” from the previous two scenes.

“Nan Qi” quietly blew smoke rings out the window, her face showing no intense emotion—on the contrary, she seemed remarkably open and calm.

She lowered her head to tap off some ash, humming a tune under her breath—the tune was “Fishing Song,” popular a decade ago, its melody somewhat melancholy, yet she hummed it lightly, effortlessly.

Halfway through humming, seemingly recalling something, Nan Qi gave a soft “heh” laugh, and afterward, stopped smoking, stopped humming too, just holding the cigarette holder there, lost in thought.

For a long stretch of time, she didn’t look like a real person at all, more like a wooden statue—her face held no hatred, no sorrow, only a blank emptiness, so still even her hair hung motionless.

Watching this, some people unconsciously loosened their collars—it was too oppressive, an indescribable heaviness pressing on their hearts. This woman’s demeanor was exactly like someone sinking into an invisible abyss, the swamp of life, and now Nan Qi was slowly sinking with the mud, no one able to reach out a hand to pull her back.

Many people were stirred to some deep-seated fear within themselves by this scene—life’s road was never smooth, one’s own swamp could only be climbed out of by one’s own strength, but this woman was clearly already exhausted, because only the deepest despair could produce this kind of numbing loss of strength in the body.

Only when the cigarette burned her finger did Nan Qi show any reaction, but she didn’t immediately drop the cigarette, instead mechanically turning her head to stare at it, which made her look even more like an empty shell of a person.

As she stared, tears began streaming from her eyes without any warning, yet the corner of her mouth curved into a faint, world-weary smile. She casually tossed the cigarette aside, leaned over to the drawer, and pulled out a pistol, her movements calm, her expression casual, just as if she were rummaging in the drawer for powder as usual.

Then, playfully, as if joking around, she pointed the gun at her own temple.

There was a small mirror on the table; she adjusted her aim this way and that against it, as if searching for the most satisfying position.

Suddenly, she resolutely pulled the trigger.

“Bang—” With that sound, “Nan Qi” collapsed onto the table like a shattered statue.

A deathly stillness like a surging tide swept through the room. In an instant the room fell utterly silent, everyone as if choked by this invisible cold water, chests tight with unspoken emotion.

No one knew how long had passed before Huang Yuanshan abruptly stood up—too reckless! Absolutely didn’t care about her own life!

Given Wen Tingli’s injury, it should have been impossible for her to perform such a fluid sequence of movements without hesitation, yet she’d done it.

The resolve with which she raised her hand and pulled the trigger was as decisive as could be. Correspondingly, the pain in her wound must have been just as intense—yet not a trace of it showed on her face.

This performance had pulled everyone’s heartstrings tighter and tighter, then cruelly snapped them all at once. In just a few minutes, Huang Yuanshan felt as if she herself had died alongside Nan Qi—her whole body felt off now, wanting nothing but to gasp for air.

No one knew who was first to shout out “Bravo!”—applause erupted all at once.

Before the scores came out, Wen Tingli hurried out of the room.

She’d been running purely on willpower just now, and couldn’t hold on a moment longer. Her injured shoulder throbbed with pain, cold sweat pouring down.

A crowd of reporters swarmed toward her.

“Miss Wen, I recognize you, you’re the champion from that youth drama competition, no wonder Boss Huang says you’re a genius, that scene just now was absolutely brilliant.”

The more urgently Wen Tingli tried to get away, the less she could move, and to make matters worse Huang Yuanshan had to stay and host the competition, unable to come rescue her. She could only endure the pain and smile. “I’m terribly sorry, I need to get to the restroom quickly, could I do interviews with everyone a bit later?”

The reporters, eager to rush back and catch the second contestant, Yu Peiling, weren’t willing to let Wen Tingli go.

“Just a couple words! Miss Wen, is this your first time filming? Have you done any bit parts in other films before?”

Just then Yu Peiling came out with her entourage—she’d been resting in the dressing room per the rules earlier, and now, coming out, was rather puzzled to see the reporters so enthusiastic about Wen Tingli. That manager surnamed Chen eyed Wen Tingli warily and forced a smile. “Excuse us, excuse us, it’s Miss Yu’s turn for the screen test.”

However, the reporters, intent on getting some interview material from Wen Tingli, simply wouldn’t budge.

Suddenly someone forcibly pushed through the crowd.

“Miss Wen, Boss Huang told me earlier you’d sprained your ankle and asked me to come treat you—how is it, can you still walk? Come with me over there for an examination.”

Wen Tingli exclaimed in delighted surprise: “Dr. Louis.”

Louis, without another word, supported Wen Tingli and walked her out. He was a renowned physician in Shanghai; the reporters had all heard of him and, not daring to stop him, watched helplessly as the two of them successfully broke through the crowd. Suddenly someone said, “Isn’t that Young Master Lu?”

The reporters all turned to look at once. Wen Tingli’s heart lurched, and she looked back too. Sure enough, that tall figure was standing on the other side of the corridor.

Beside Lu Shicheng were Kuang Zhilin and Golden Film Studio’s Deputy Manager Shen, in charge of business affairs, and behind them, Sands of Time director Luo Guangming.

Deputy Manager Shen and Luo Guangming were talking animatedly to Lu Shicheng, but Lu Shicheng’s gaze was fixed on this side.

He glanced at Wen Tingli, then immediately gave Dr. Louis a look. Louis quickly said to Wen Tingli, “Miss Wen, let’s go.”

Wen Tingli didn’t dare let her smile show too plainly on her face, and obediently turned to follow Louis.

Yu Peiling had already stepped that way—she seemed quite interested in Lu Shicheng, staring at his face the whole way over. When she reached him, she stopped and stood there, waiting for him to greet her first.

She didn’t believe Lu Shicheng hadn’t heard of her—she was a little curious how a reserved, refined young gentleman like him would approach striking up conversation with her.

But Lu Shicheng’s attention remained elsewhere the whole time, and shortly after, he turned and walked away.

Yu Peiling felt suddenly deflated, pouted, and lifted her chin as she strode into the photography studio.

“Young Master Lu must have come specially to watch Miss Yu’s screen test.” Someone spoke up in a booming voice, loud enough that everyone paused.

Lu Shicheng frowned in surprise, and Kuang Zhilin was taken aback too, but he swallowed the denial he was about to give.

Luo Guangming, however, hurried to say with a smile: “No, that’s not it. Mr. Lu is here to discuss the investment in Sands of Time.”

He forgot that the more one explains this kind of thing, the more it invites speculation, and his response only got the reporters more excited.

“Such a coincidence? Why would you come to discuss business at this company on exactly the day of Miss Yu Peiling’s screen test? By the way, we’ve never heard of the Lu family being interested in the film industry before—why is Young Master Lu suddenly investing in film this time? Is it because Miss Yu is going to star in Golden Film Studio’s movie, so you’ve come specially in this way to give her cover?”

“Mr. Lu, when did you and Miss Yu Peiling first meet?”

Lu Shicheng ignored them entirely and went straight upstairs.

The reporters, left with no choice, turned to surround Yu Peiling’s manager instead.

That manager surnamed Chen only said ambiguously: “Well now… no comment, no comment.”

Wen Tingli nearly burst with anger—she’d seen it all just now, it was precisely that line thrown out by Manager Chen, “Young Master Lu must have come specially to watch Miss Yu’s screen test,” that had stirred up the commotion.

She really wanted to grab this man’s pointy face and ask him if he had any shame.

And Yu Peiling too, honestly—how could she hire someone like this as her manager.

By the time she got to the lounge to have her wound redressed, Wen Tingli still hadn’t fully cooled down, when she suddenly heard someone next door say: “This Chen Maoqing is really something else—casually drops one line and gets Yu Peiling a fresh piece of news, and with the Lu family no less. No wonder Yu Peiling is as famous as she is—if you ask me, even all of Xiao Diejun’s and Zhou Manru’s people combined can’t match one Mr. Chen when it comes to stirring things up. Just watch, even if Miss Yu’s screen test doesn’t go well today, she’ll still dominate tomorrow’s papers with this fresh news.”

Wen Tingli listened, dumbfounded.

Louis paid no attention to any of this, focused only on examining Wen Tingli’s injury.

“Could Miss Wen perhaps spare a thought for her own physical condition before throwing herself into things like that?”

Wen Tingli looked sheepish: “When did you all arrive?”

“We arrived while you were performing the second scene.”

“Then Young Master Lu, he—”

“Was there too.”

So Lu Shicheng had watched her screen test! Wen Tingli’s eyes brightened. “What did he say?”

Louis smiled bitterly: “What could he say—Young Master Lu was worried out of his mind, of course. Miss Wen, we all know you’re eager to win this opportunity, but you must remember health comes first. Without health, all effort amounts to nothing.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Wen Tingli sighed guiltily. “By the way, I don’t want too much bandaging—it’s best if it doesn’t show under my clothes.”

“Young Master Lu already instructed me on all this. Don’t worry, I have a way.”

After finishing with her arm, Wen Tingli put her jacket back on over her qipao, accidentally catching the wound, and let out a hiss of pain.

“Feeling the pain now, are we? Take these two pills first.”

As Wen Tingli took the medicine, her ears strained to catch what was happening outside—ever since Yu Peiling had gone in, the applause in the corridor hadn’t stopped, which made her heart flutter up and down anxiously. Though she’d given her all in the screen test, she had absolutely no confidence about whether she’d win.

She considered going out to watch the other actresses’ performances—after all, her own test was already done, no need to worry about breaking any rules. But she hadn’t anticipated that the pills Louis had given her had a mild sedative effect, and before she could think of a proper excuse, she’d fallen asleep leaning against the sofa.

Suddenly she heard someone calling her name.

“Miss Wen! Miss Wen!”

Wen Tingli opened her eyes with a start. Besides Louis, a whole crowd of people stood before her.

At the head was a director surnamed Bao—today’s screen test competition was under his charge for reception duties. Seeing Wen Tingli awake, he smiled and said, “Miss Wen, everyone’s waiting for you over there.”

Wen Tingli didn’t quite register this. “What?”

“All the actresses’ screen tests are finished. Chairman Weng is about to announce the results.”

By the time Wen Tingli reached the conference room, it was already in an uproar.

“How dare you give out these scores? That completely unknown Wen Tingli got eighty-seven points, while Miss Yu Peiling only got eighty? Search your conscience—do you actually believe these scores? If you dare publish such an absurd result, aren’t you afraid the public will drown Golden Film Studio in spit?”

Huang Yuanshan tried to calm everyone: “Please, everyone, don’t be upset—these scores were given on the spot by several judges. Besides Chairman Weng and the producers, reporters from every newspaper were present too. If you don’t believe us, you should at least trust their opinion—why not just ask them whether this result is objective or not?”

The reporters, unwilling to offend either side, could only mumble vaguely with a smile: “Each of the actresses’ performances had their own merits, honestly hard to say who was best.”

Chen Maoqing and the others weren’t about to let it go. While Huang Yuanshan wasn’t looking, he snatched the scoring sheet and, upon seeing it, let out a strange cry. “Look at this, everyone! In the second scene, Miss Wen got ninety-four points, while the other four stars averaged only in the eighties! For a scene about jumping into a river, why such a huge gap?! You Huangs! If you’d already decided on your pick from the start, just say so—why use Miss Yu’s fame to hype up your new film?”

A certain producer coughed awkwardly.

Chen Maoqing immediately dropped that line of questioning and turned to press elsewhere.

“Boss Du, what do you say?”

Everyone knew that the Feidi’er investors had set their hearts on having Yu Peiling or Xiao Diejun star, and for that purpose had personally visited several actresses with scripts in hand. Boss Du was the largest investor among the producers, and had always been the most opposed to Wen Tingli’s casting. Everyone was hoping Boss Du would speak a word of fairness.

Boss Du’s smile looked somewhat strained: “Actually, the scoring for the second scene was the least controversial of all.”

The moment he said this, even the actresses themselves couldn’t stay composed. Xiao Diejun looked shocked: “That still doesn’t justify a ten-point gap. Please, Boss Du, tell us specifically—where exactly did my performance fall short?”

Someone else added: “Applause rang out nonstop outside during our Miss Zhou’s screen test—I refuse to believe that with Miss Zhou’s acting skills, she’d lose to a newcomer. If this isn’t explained clearly today, no one’s going to accept it!”

Boss Du thought for a moment and said: “Everyone’s performances certainly lived up to their usual standard, but Miss Wen didn’t perform this scene using the traditional approach—her suffering wasn’t limited to emotion, it manifested physically as well. Her performance was so realistic it convinced everyone present that she was truly ‘injured.’ Given this, the numbness and despair the female lead shows at the start of the scene, and her subsequent resolute decision to abandon the thought of dying because it wasn’t worth it… this whole emotional arc became entirely coherent and believable. In all my years in this industry, this is the first time I’ve seen such layered, spontaneous performance in the moment. To be honest, watching Miss Wen perform just now, I myself couldn’t help breaking into a cold sweat. That’s why I gave her a high score—there was absolutely no favoritism involved.”

Huang Yuanshan seized the moment: “In that case, to ensure the fairness and transparency of the competition, my company has already prepared copies in advance—today’s screen test footage will be made into copies and mailed to all five candidates to keep as mementos. If you don’t believe what we’re saying, you’re welcome to compare the footage yourselves, and you’ll see exactly what happened.”

With things put this way, the atmosphere gradually calmed down, but then Zhou Manru’s assistant said angrily: “By the time the copies are made, you’ll already be filming! Even if we feel it’s unfair, who could we even go to for justice?! You’ve already used this screen test to generate buzz for your new film ahead of time. Boss Liu, Director Huang, this delay tactic of yours is well planned!”

“Exactly, don’t try that with us!” The room erupted again. A Golden Film Studio insider, seizing a moment when no one was watching, quietly slipped a crumpled note into Chen Maoqing’s hand.

Chen Maoqing opened it suspiciously, and upon reading it, sneered coldly.

“Boss Du, Boss Liu, Chairman Weng, allow me to confirm once more: Miss Wen’s performance of pain in the second scene was what moved you enough to give her high marks?!”

“You could put it that way.”

Chen Maoqing gave a cold snort, strode quickly over to Wen Tingli, and pointed at her shoulder. “Then why didn’t you mention she’s actually injured?! Miss Wen was admitted to the hospital yesterday for a dislocated arm! Today she performed pain while actually injured—isn’t that hitting the jackpot by accident?! I was wondering why, when it’s not even cold today, Miss Wen dressed so heavily—wearing a long robe for the performance, then adding a jacket afterward—turns out she was afraid we’d notice her dislocated arm! Chairman Weng, you’re the head of the Shanghai Theatrical Association, give us a fair judgment: doesn’t this count as cheating?”

Boss Du and the others all showed stunned expressions. “What is going on here? Yuanshan, did you know about her injury?”

Huang Yuanshan had gone mute.

“Disqualify her score!” Chen Maoqing led the protest. “This kind of situation absolutely requires immediate disqualification!”

Seeing the situation spiraling out of control, Wen Tingli could no longer remain composed. She stood up and said calmly: “I truly am injured! But this has no causal relationship with today’s competition results. First, I had no idea what scenes would be performed today—being injured is nothing but harmful to a performance, severely hindering certain physical movements. If I’d had a choice, I would rather not have been injured. Second, apart from the second scene, the other two scenes have nothing to do with my injury.”

“That’s right, don’t forget Miss Wen also gave outstanding performances in the first and third scenes. Calling it cheating over and over is really going too far.”

“But the fact remains she pulled ahead in scores through the second scene! You all heard it just now—Boss Du himself said he gave Miss Wen high marks because her performance of ‘pain’ was so convincing, and that alone opened up a gap of over ten points. But in reality, that performance was entirely based on Miss Wen’s genuine physical pain being so effective—fundamentally, this is a kind of opportunistic trick! What if she hadn’t been injured? Would this segment have still scored so high? Not necessarily! Manager Huang, don’t dodge—if you don’t give us an explanation today, just wait for tomorrow’s papers.”

Several star managers argued more and more fiercely, and the reporters joined in the uproar too, some holding up cameras and snapping away at Wen Tingli non-stop.

Wen Tingli’s heart burned with resentment, but could only use her uninjured hand to shield her head and face as best she could, though this couldn’t stop the reporters from pushing their lenses right into her face.

“Miss Wen, if you have nothing to hide, why dodge the cameras? Answer a few of our questions directly.”

Some even pushed their lenses right up to her shoulder. “Miss Wen, is your injury here? Why don’t you let us take a look? Please take off your jacket! What, afraid of being exposed like Manager Chen said? Don’t hide!”

Suddenly a figure walked over and pushed the cameras away, shouting: “Don’t go too far!”

Wen Tingli jolted—it was Le Zhiwen. Le Zhiwen, her face full of disdain, pushed the reporters’ cameras aside.

The reporters immediately surrounded Le Zhiwen instead: “Miss Le, regarding today’s screen test results, do you also feel it’s unfair? You must agree Miss Wen’s score should be revoked too.”

Le Zhiwen turned and headed for the corridor, and the reporters hurriedly chased after her.

Wen Tingli watched her retreating figure, a wave of indescribable gratitude rising in her heart.

“Quiet!” Chairman Weng spoke from up front. “The committee held an emergency discussion and unanimously agreed that Miss Wen’s injury was purely accidental. As evidence, today’s three scenes were written by Miss Yue just last night—this Weng and my colleagues at the Theatrical Association can all attest to that. Miss Wen competing while injured only proves she cherished this opportunity greatly, and cannot prove any intent to cheat. However, considering her injury did enhance her performance in the second scene, for fairness’s sake, we’ve decided to disqualify all contestants’ scores for the second scene, and re-determine the results using only the combined scores from the first and third scenes.”

Wen Tingli felt as if a basin of cold water had been poured over her head. Chen Maoqing and the others still weren’t satisfied.

“That’s it? Deliberately concealing her injury isn’t malicious rule-breaking? Just disqualify all her scores entirely, otherwise what kind of fairness is this.”

Huang Yuanshan said, holding back her anger: “We notified Miss Wen about the screen test last week already—was she supposed to skip it just because she got injured? Besides, if Miss Wen had told us right away today that her arm was dislocated, wouldn’t you all say she was fishing for sympathy points instead?!

“Everyone saw the screen test footage with their own eyes—aside from the second scene, who could tell Miss Wen was injured in the first and third scenes? Who?! She was practically performing with her life on the line. Now that the second scene has been excluded, comparing only the first and third scenes, honestly speaking, this is actually unfair to Miss Wen, who competed while injured. She hasn’t said a word of complaint—what more do the rest of you have to be dissatisfied about?”

Then she turned the question back on Chen Maoqing alone: “Manager Chen, if you’re not satisfied, why don’t you publish this whole argument in tomorrow’s papers and let the public judge for themselves, how about that?”

This left Chen Maoqing with nothing more to say. Chairman Weng and the producers announced the recalculated scores from the two remaining scenes: “Contestant one, Miss Wen Tingli, scored eighty-nine in the first scene, eighty-one in the third; contestant two, Miss Yu Peiling, scored eighty-three in the first scene, eighty in the third… Miss Zhou Manru scored ninety in the first scene, eighty in the third.”

The final tally showed Wen Tingli and Zhou Manru tied for first, Le Zhiwen and Xiao Diejun tied for second, and Yu Peiling in fourth.

This set off another uproar.

“Two first-place winners? Are we supposed to have another round?”

Zhou Manru was the first to object.

“Sorry, I have to head to Zhengxin Company’s studio this afternoon to film a commercial.”

Someone else proposed: “Why don’t we do this—your company has invited quite a few figures from the arts world to watch today. Why not invite the most prestigious one present to serve as a temporary judge, and let that person cast the deciding vote? That way we won’t need a re-match, and no one will have any objections.”

Manager Qian, beside Zhou Manru, jumped at this suggestion: “That’s not a bad idea. Why don’t we nominate Miss Yue Zhaoyun to cast the vote? She’s the screenwriter of Southern Beauty, and understands the character she wrote better than anyone. Compared to everyone else here, she’s the most ideal candidate. What does everyone think?”

The moment she heard this, Wen Tingli’s heart sank halfway to her feet. Zhou Manru had become famous starring in Yue Zhaoyun’s Chunshen Chronicles—given their friendship, there was no way Yue Zhaoyun would pick anyone else to play Nan Qi.

After all her efforts, it seemed in the end there still wouldn’t be a place for her. She bit her lip and looked to Huang Yuanshan for help, but Huang Yuanshan seemed at a loss too, hurriedly saying from up front, “I think this still needs proper discussion—”

But Boss Du took the lead and settled it: “That works. Miss Yue has been in Beiping this whole time and hasn’t been involved in this film’s production or investment at all—having her score it would be the most convincing to everyone. Miss Yue, what’s your own opinion on this?”

No matter how chaotic the room had been, Yue Zhaoyun had simply sat there leisurely sipping her tea. Now, no longer able to play the detached bystander, she set down her teacup and looked around carefully. “Since things have come to this point, I too hope for the most reasonable outcome. But let me say one thing first—as the screenwriter of Southern Beauty, I’ll be casting my vote purely based on my own feelings. I don’t want any of the press here to speculate, slander, or insinuate anything about my choice in any way. Once I cast my vote today, this matter ends here! If everyone agrees, I’ll shamelessly take on this role of temporary judge; if anyone doubts my ability to vote impartially, better to raise objections now, and Boss Du can find someone else in good time.”

The reporters all hurried to pat their chests in agreement. “Miss Yue, go ahead and vote, we all trust your judgment.”

Chairman Weng smiled and said: “Miss Yue, it’s rare for the press to be this cooperative, go ahead and cast your vote.”

Yue Zhaoyun clasped her hands together beneath her chin, looking first at Zhou Manru, then at Wen Tingli.

Wen Tingli’s heart felt like it was being clawed at—never before had she felt so completely at the mercy of someone else’s decision, like a fish unfortunate enough to have washed ashore, unable to flop its way back into the sea no matter how hard it struggled.

She tried hard to recall every detail of her interactions with Yue Zhaoyun, but couldn’t find any sign that would give her reason to believe Yue Zhaoyun would choose her.

She was so nervous she broke out in a full sweat, waiting hopelessly for the final verdict.

Suddenly she heard Yue Zhaoyun say: “I choose—”

Wen Tingli’s heart nearly leapt into her throat. She watched as Yue Zhaoyun gave Zhou Manru an apologetic smile. “I choose Miss Wen. Her approach to the performance is closer to what I had in mind for ‘Nan Qi.'”

The room erupted into an uproar. Wen Tingli stood there dazed, not sure if she was simply too overjoyed—her mind felt washed clean, utterly blank. She couldn’t make out what people around her were saying, couldn’t distinguish the faces before her. She only vaguely saw the encouragement in Yue Zhaoyun’s eyes, saw Huang Yuanshan up on stage saying something happily, and of course, also some gazes filled with malice… She had no time to process any of it. After a dazed moment, a surge of wild joy flooded her heart.

She’d won!

Someone came over and extended a hand to her: “Congratulations.”

The tone was gentle and friendly. Wen Tingli hurriedly clasped the hand in return: “Thank you, Miss Zhou.”

In that clasped moment, Wen Tingli almost wanted to cry—Zhou Manru’s palm was soft and warm, and she found herself reluctant to let go.

Le Zhiwen came over too, holding up two fingers in front of Wen Tingli’s face: “Twice. But don’t celebrate too soon—next time I’ll definitely win it back.”

This time Wen Tingli didn’t let her walk away, stepping forward to hug Le Zhiwen tightly.

Downstairs, reporters had already packed the lobby solid. Most papers had put their money on Yu Peiling and the others, and no one had expected such a huge upset in the end. As word spread, more and more reporters rushed over to block the entrance to Golden Film Studio, everyone hoping to pry a few fresh, juicy words from those involved.

“Miss Wen, do you think winning over veterans like Xiao Diejun this time came down to skill or luck?”

Louis tried to get Wen Tingli through the crowd, but he alone couldn’t hold back this many reporters.

Huang Yuanshan shouted from behind: “Make way, make way, Miss Wen is injured, if you have any questions you can ask me directly. Hey, stop pushing. Little Tan, where did our security guards go!” Even her booming voice wasn’t enough this time.

Amid the chaos, someone suddenly said over there: “What? The male lead of Sands of Time got replaced? Isn’t this film already half-shot?”

“Deng Tianxing was fired for repeatedly violating crew discipline. The company decided to bring in Film Emperor Zhu Xiaozhou to replace him. The investor is Young Master Lu—if you have questions you can ask him and Mr. Kuang directly.”

Deng Tianxing fired? Zhu Xiaozhou taking over? This chain of news was a bombshell for reporters following the film industry. Most surprising of all, Lu Shicheng was obediently standing on the steps without leaving right away—this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, since the Lu family never gave interviews.

“Mr. Lu! Please stay a moment!” The reporters rushed toward Lu Shicheng at once.

With this, the “wall of bodies” in front of Wen Tingli was quietly dismantled for the most part. Delighted, she hurried to follow Louis outside, and at the same time, two people who looked like attendants quietly came to clear the way for them, and before long they’d helped them squeeze out.

Louis took Wen Tingli into a somewhat old black rickshaw car, and they drove toward Huiqun Hospital.

Director Liu had been waiting at the surgical clinic for a while. Fortunately, Wen Tingli’s condition wasn’t especially serious—after redressing and applying medicine, Director Liu couldn’t help lecturing her a bit. Wen Tingli didn’t dare say a word back, obediently returning to bed to rest. Seeing that Wen Tingli was being reasonably well-behaved, the nurse relaxed and went out with a water bottle to fetch water.

Though Wen Tingli’s body lay in bed, her thoughts galloped like a wild horse. Suddenly hearing someone approaching outside, she hurriedly got out of bed and went to the door, saying excitedly, “I won!”