Translator: Ink Hub

Editor: Yoog

Even though Lin Ji had personally intervened, he still failed to make Qin Yi change his mind. Sunrise TV could only continue to expand its selection pool, running every male actor of the appropriate age past Lin Ji.

Unfortunately, they still found no one.

Sunrise TV was extremely confident in Lin Ji’s script; the first twenty episodes had already far exceeded the standards of a typical satellite TV drama. When Lin Ji handed over the final ten episodes, the producer could only utter two words: “A masterpiece.”

Regardless of who it was, anyone with even a slight understanding of the film and television industry would give the same evaluation.

When Lin Ji went to find Qin Yi, the final ten episodes hadn’t been finished yet; he had only shown the other person the first twenty. The producer couldn’t help but think: if Qin Yi had seen the final ten episodes, he would have realized that rejecting Lin Ji was a staggeringly foolish move.

Of course, this was because the final ten episodes were a continuous, high-stakes plot. The further one went, the more thrilling and heart-stopping it became. One simply couldn’t appreciate the full weight of it without seeing it through to the end.

The script was ready. Now, they were only short an actor.

Lin Ji’s idea was to finalize the actor for Lou Zhi first, and then look for other actors who complemented him. Without a lead, it was as if the drama lacked its soul, and the overall impression for the audience couldn’t be shaped.

“How about we hold an audition?” the producer suggested.

“That works too.”

Lin Ji opened his email and began looking through the resumes that had been submitted during this period.

An audition was indeed an option, but Lin Ji felt that auditions were better suited for picking young actors, hoping to find a few “uncut jades” that hadn’t been discovered yet. For actors in the thirty-plus age bracket, most who hadn’t made a name for themselves had already quit. Very, very few were still persisting.

Lin Ji knew many people had sent him resumes, but looking at the dense wall of emails in his inbox, he still felt a headache coming on.

Fortunately, despite the sheer number of emails, Lin Ji was able to sift through them quickly.

It had to be said that the quality of the actors submitting their own resumes was significantly lower than that of those recommended by management agencies. Major agencies, after all, served as the bridge between actors and crews. They knew what the industry needed and were better at picking people who suited the audience’s taste.

“Oh?” Lin Ji’s gaze stopped on one particular resume.

He rested his chin on his hand, staring silently for a moment.

“Yang-ge, come take a look at this one.”

The producer sauntered over to Lin Ji’s side, and the director followed. Several of them crowded around the screen, pointing and commenting, “His looks are quite suitable.”

“A bit young, though.”

They had set the target age for Lou Zhi’s actor at 34 or 35, but the actor in this resume was only 29.

“This resume is quite colorful.”

The person had participated in a boy group survival show, ranking outside the top 60. He had also played minor roles—the “dragon runner” parts—in various crews, appearing in every type of drama imaginable. Unfortunately, he still hadn’t made a name for himself.

But the photo on the resume was the closest match to Lin Ji’s ideal Lou Zhi.

The reason he wasn’t famous was actually logical: his features weren’t the sharp, angular type. He didn’t leave a deep impression at first glance. However, if one looked closely for a few more seconds, they would feel that this face had many stories to tell.

“I’ll go find some of his performances.”

Lin Ji typed the man’s name into the search bar, but he couldn’t find any actual acting roles. The first item on the list was a singing and dancing performance from the survival show a few years back. The entire group wore identical outfits and makeup; Lin Ji couldn’t tell who was who at all.

Fortunately, he managed to find a few snippets of actual acting. Lin Ji had prepared himself for the possibility that the man’s acting was as bad as his idol skills, but then…

Lin Ji enlarged the video clip so the producer and director could see clearly. “He acts pretty well, doesn’t he?”

It wasn’t that Lin Ji had intentionally lowered his expectations—the man truly acted well.

One could see that although he wasn’t “academy-trained,” he possessed a natural fluidity that those from the academies often lacked. Lin Ji had collaborated with many academy actors. Objectively speaking, their performances were always above average with a high floor. However, many of them overacted, possessing a deliberate “academic” feel that made them less sincere and moving than “wild style” actors.

“Should we bring him in for a try?” The producer looked at Lin Ji. “What do you think?”

Lin Ji nodded.

The director looked between the two of them, hesitating. “Hiring a dragon runner for the lead… isn’t that too risky?”

Being a background extra meant zero fame and zero drawing power. When the drama aired, no one might even care.

Even if Sunrise TV wasn’t favored by someone like Qin Yi, it was still a B-tier satellite station. The station valued Lin Ji’s new script quite highly. How could it work without a lead who had drawing power?

The producer patted his shoulder. “Let’s see if the actor is suitable first.”

He held a significant position at the station, so he knew very well: Sunrise TV wasn’t following the “traffic star” route. For one, they didn’t have the money. No matter how much they threw at traffic stars, they couldn’t out-buy the A-list stations. Everyone watched the yearly rosters of top-tier stations—who cared about what Sunrise TV was airing next?

The high-level executives had always wanted to take a high-quality route, winning through script quality. But to a certain extent, quality was also tied to money. A-list stations usually collaborated with top-tier writers and then invited actors who had both fame and a solid reputation.

The reason the executives and the producer respected Lin Ji’s opinion at every turn this time was that they planned to continue collaborating with him after this drama was finished.

The script was the foundation of a show. There were plenty of actors with skill; many had spent years circling in trashy films, only getting a chance to turn their careers around when they encountered a good script.

* * *

“Cheng Yuan, the phone has been ringing for a while. Remember to pick up.”

Cheng Yuan had just come back from throwing out the trash. His roommate was in the living room eating instant noodles; the whole room smelled of it. He first opened the window to let some air in before heading into the bedroom to answer.

Cheng Yuan was a Southerner; airing out a room was a habit ingrained in his bones.

He had been drifting in the North for several years. After graduating from university, he came here. He had participated in survival shows and all sorts of messy competitions, but he still hadn’t managed to stand out. He could only manage a familiar face on various sets.

He currently shared a room with two other roommates. His daily work was playing “dragon runner” roles, drifting from one crew to another.

In the eyes of others, Cheng Yuan was an oddity because he was always reading books or scripts whenever he was free. Even if a scene only gave him two or three lines of dialogue, he was still willing to ponder over them.

The other extras who worked with him often teased him, saying he had the ambition to be famous.

Cheng Yuan was indeed quite famous among the extras because he had participated in a boy group survival show. He was just one step away from entering the industry, but his management company at the time had collapsed early on, leaving him unemployed in the idol business.

Cheng Yuan knew in his heart that being famous was impossible.

Among the contestants on that show, those like him—whose companies were gone and who had no one to sign them—were the most pitiful. But even those whose companies were still around weren’t much better off. Several people Cheng Yuan was close to had gone off to become choreographers, effectively half-retired from the circle.

Cheng Yuan hadn’t left the circle. He was interested in acting, so he ran to the film city to be an extra.

He had long since stopped daring to think about fame. Although the entertainment world saw news of an actor’s sudden comeback every few years, that had nothing to do with Cheng Yuan. He was just a serious person by nature, willing to spend time and energy on the things he loved.

But… those days should be coming to an end.

Renting a dilapidated apartment, being shouted at daily by crew members, sending out resumes that mostly vanished into the void, and being nearly 30 years old. There were indeed people like him who were still persisting, but they were far too few. Cheng Yuan didn’t know what meaning his persistence still held.

Cheng Yuan looked at the number on his phone, guessing it was another assistant director he knew looking for an actor. He had many numbers saved and was a diligent worker, so many crews liked to find him.

This time, the call was from an unknown number, and it was a long-distance one.

While Cheng Yuan was throwing out the trash, the other party had called twice. He picked up while guessing whether it was a scam.

The bedroom door was open. Through the steam of the instant noodles, the roommate vaguely saw that Cheng Yuan’s expression was very strange. It looked like he wanted to cry, yet he also seemed too excited to speak.

Cheng Yuan usually lived a simple life and was diligent; he was the type to work silently without saying much. Having shared a room for several years, the roommate had never seen him so emotionally agitated.

The roommate was about to ask when he saw Cheng Yuan run out with a flushed face. In such cold weather, the man didn’t even put on his down jacket. He just let out a howl from below the building before running back up.

“Is there some good news?” the roommate asked through the window.

“I have a role!”

“Don’t you have roles every day?” the roommate said. “I just saw you. In Blood-Stained Frost City, weren’t you that lackey behind the male lead’s senior brother?”

Cheng Yuan nodded. “This time is different.”

Although Sunrise TV didn’t guarantee him the role, Cheng Yuan had drifted on sets for years; he could still distinguish between the tone of a high-ranking producer and a minor assistant director.

Not to mention, this was a lead role.

The moment he heard the news, Cheng Yuan truly thought it was a scam. It wasn’t until he remembered that he had indeed sent a resume to Lin Ji. He was the type to “cast a wide net”: as long as he heard a crew was casting, he would send a resume to fight for a chance. It was just that most of these submissions vanished into the void, no crew ever contacting him.

Cheng Yuan searched online. Sunrise TV indeed had a producer named Yang. Moreover, he specifically asked if they could cover travel and accommodation, and the other party agreed.

Not long after, someone added Cheng Yuan on WeChat and sent him the money for the flight and hotel.

Cheng Yuan lived in a rented room near the film city. Going to Sunrise TV for an audition was too expensive for him: one trip would cost him half a month’s work on set. He was also worried that the other party would rescind the offer if he made such a request, but the account that sent the money was incredibly decisive, transferring five figures to him in one go.

“I don’t need that much. This is too much.” Cheng Yuan checked the prices of the hotel and flight. He was always an upright person and wouldn’t take advantage of others.

But the other party didn’t talk about money with him. Instead, they asked him to send over some snippets of his previous performances.

Cheng Yuan fell into contemplation as he looked at the WeChat name “Cloud-light and Wind-quiet.”

Giving money so decisively… do they not need to file an expense report?

Cheng Yuan had dealt with TV stations before. According to his experience, it wasn’t that they didn’t give money, but that they were exceptionally slow. They could make a person wait from mid-year until the end of the year. It was just one word: endurance.

Cheng Yuan sent a few videos over. The other party only replied with “Not enough.” Once Cheng Yuan had emptied his entire inventory, the other party directly sent a compressed file to him. “I’m sending you the materials for the character’s prototype. Look at the script and try to adapt to the role first.”

After receiving the file, the moment he saw the first document, Cheng Yuan suddenly realized… Could this “Cloud-light and Wind-quiet” chatting with him be Lin Ji?

NOTES

“Dragon runner” (龙套 – longtao): Industry slang for background extras or minor roles with very little screen time.

“Cloud-light and Wind-quiet” (云淡风轻 – Yun Dan Feng Qing): A poetic idiom meaning a calm and indifferent state of mind. It’s a very “old person” or “monk-like” username for someone as chaotic as Lin Ji.

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