The order of auditions was determined by draw lots, with each person allotted three minutes. This time, Baili Xiao finally regained his usual luck and drew the last lot. As expected, as the second luckiest newcomer in the room, Sen Mu drew the second-to-last lot. The two new arrivals could enjoy the show together before their turns.

Sen Mu’s assessment was quite accurate, the three trainees were clearly trained in the same classroom, as their understanding of the script and approach to the lines were remarkably similar. There was hardly any difference in their interpretations of the roles. All of them had absorbed the background information and suggested measures to combat external threats, displaying immense confidence as they performed like young individuals finally given a chance to showcase their talents. One trainee should followed the script by taking ten steps and presenting a method to defeat foreign enemies with each step he took, showcasing quite an imaginative flair.

Baili Xiao found it dull after watching for a while, while Sen Mu was attentively observing. After the third person’s performance had gone on for over a minute, he quietly asked Baili Xiao, “What do you think of their suggestions?”

Baili Xiao merely smiled. “It’s not really a test of governance.”

Sen Mu was momentarily stunned by his response, as if he had been abruptly pulled from a vast whirlpool of thought, suddenly realizing he had completely missed the point. The alarming part was that the three trainees had also entirely misunderstood the topic and were blissfully unaware of it.

—The audition’s topic was “political discourse,” which was inherently vague, and the background materials provided numerous hints on how to repel outsiders, causing them to gradually forget that this was an assessment of actors, not a test for scriptwriters.

After observing Sen Mu’s expression for a moment, Baili Xiao added, “This young man has been marginalized and has already lost the opportunity to engage in political discourse, so…”

—So the so-called “political discourse” isn’t about what is discussed, but rather about the stance one takes while discussing it.

Sen Mu suddenly understood. He turned to look directly at Baili Xiao, only to catch him smiling lightly with his eyes lowered. The sunlight illuminated his dark eyes, which appeared cold and ethereal. That smile made Sen Mu momentarily think of a deity—contemptuous of humanity yet empathetic towards it.

The young man seemed cold to the core, choosing his words sparingly, yet when he spoke, his insights were profound.

Suddenly, Sen Mu had a belief, he felt that this young man, whose aura was completely different from his own despite being of similar age, would become very popular—not the kind of fame that comes quickly and fades just as fast, but a lasting prominence in the industry, growing inch by inch like a perennial vine, becoming a benchmark for everyone in this circle.

…

Perhaps it was Baili Xiao’s hint that had an effect. Sen Mu’s performance made the previously silent judge lift his head, even jotting down a couple of lines on the resume. Unlike the earlier contestants, Sen Mu didn’t overthink his strategy; instead, he almost completely mirrored the first person’s answers without putting any extra thought into it. However, he handled his emotions with remarkable subtlety. From his initial surprise at being called, to cautiously testing the waters when expressing his thoughts, to the increasing ease as he sensed the emperor’s approval, and finally to the confident demeanor he wore after receiving his seal of approval—his three-minute audition conveyed a series of psychological changes in the protagonist, and he did it all very naturally, without pretense.

To be fair, although Baili Xiao knew Sen Mu’s performance still hadn’t hit that hidden chord, he appreciated this thoughtful yet unpretentious demeanor. If survival in this world truly meant he couldn’t always rely solely on his own strength, he would gladly befriend someone like Sen Mu.

He also believed that the judge, belonging to the Ziwei constellation, would certainly appreciate such an artist. So, he deliberately paid attention to the judge’s reactions—indeed, Sen Mu’s performance prompted him to exchange a few brief words with the person next to him for the first time.

The judges were softly discussing amongst themselves, but the elderly man sitting at the edge remained as silent and smiling as before, leaving everyone guessing about his thoughts. After a moment, the woman hosting the audition signaled for silence, indicating that the final auditionee—Baili Xiao—could begin.

Baili Xiao stood up and walked forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the judge furrow his brows slightly. This subtle expression caught him off guard. He took two seconds to quickly recall that he hadn’t offended the man, nor had he made any inappropriate gestures just moments ago; he was puzzled about the source of this disdain.

Perhaps it was due to the fluctuations in the Ziwei constellation; in this world’s terms, the judge was having an off day, and it was quite normal for him to be emotionally unstable.

So, he quickly adjusted his own mood and signaled the host to start the timer.

As the timer was set, the young man, who had been facing away from everyone, slowly turned around. Unlike everyone else, his eyes held neither the exuberance of finally breaking free from days of suppression nor the timidity of meeting the emperor for the first time. His gaze seemed calm, yet clear, like a bowl of water glistening in the sunlight—it could reflect all impurities but seemed unbothered by them. He cast a subtle glance toward the three trainees, and without uttering a word, everyone in the room was drawn into the scene, as if those three trainees were the noble sons in the script who had marginalized the protagonist.

Sen Mu had expected Baili Xiao to display a hint of anger, or at least some sarcasm. However, there was nothing of the sort. His gaze was very flat, no different from when he first entered the room; he was completely himself.

But there was one distinction—his eyes sparkled even more brightly than usual, shining as if they could see straight into one’s heart.

Sen Mu’s heart sank. He suddenly realized that while his own performance had surpassed those of the previous trainees, he had ultimately overlooked the four words in the background material: “talent is hard to conceal.”

Even with his talent being undeniable, he was gradually noticed despite being sidelined—not because he was arrogantly pushing for recognition, but because his talent simply couldn’t be hidden.

Those seemingly inconspicuous four words actually already explain the protagonist’s cold and indifferent personality. The subject of this audition was “discussing politics.” Earlier, Baili Xiao had given him a hint, so he realized that the subject might be “in what manner should one discuss politics,” but still, he had only scratched the surface. This audition appeared to test the actors’ flexibility, but it was actually more of an essay question. The background material had completely hinted at the core characteristic of the role. If the actor could grasp the script and understand this deeply, portraying a character indifferent to the world would actually be quite simple.

Sen Mu couldn’t help but think, in this room full of auditioners, aside from Baili Xiao, no one had managed to see the true point of this test—not acting skills, but the actors’ comprehension and mastery of the script.

Sen Mu’s thoughts swirled for a moment, just as Baili Xiao casually took a few steps forward, standing in front of the judge he’d already singled out in his mind.

The cold and distant face, like an immortal in the clouds, suddenly lit up with a smile, like a gentle beam of moonlight—wise and compassionate. Baili Xiao softly said to the judge, “Though I am untalented, I believe the monarch should allocate the funds to relieve the disaster. There are three paths to being a ruler: to manage your subjects, use a balance of grace and power; to face enemies, combine strength and flexibility; and to govern the people, lead by virtue. We have fought foreign enemies to expand our territory. But tell me, Your Majesty, after defeating them, are the lands suffering from disaster considered part of our territory today?”

Silence.

The entire room was so quiet that the sound of everyone’s breaths, deep or shallow, could be heard.

The man in the black silk shirt stood in the center of the room. Despite his modern attire and short hair, in that moment, he resembled an ancient strategist—young and inexperienced, yet his brilliance couldn’t be concealed. Every gesture and movement exuded sheer genius.

The judge stared fixedly into Baili Xiao’s dark eyes. Baili Xiao, completely at ease, calmly met his gaze. Even Sen Mu, standing by his side, was mesmerized—at one moment thinking this was the character from the play, a top scholar indifferent to imperial rewards, and the next moment feeling that this was Baili Xiao, unfazed by the results of the audition.

The scene from the play and the emotions outside the play blurred together. There were no sets, no one to act alongside, yet it was impossible to tell whether the person standing there with that faint smile was the young man auditioning or the young top scholar who cared little for worldly fame.

What was most striking was that Baili Xiao did nothing—there was no emotional overacting, no excessive dialogue buildup. Yet, he managed to etch the character’s image and emotions clearly into the audience’s mind.

A powerful sense of insight combined with an overwhelming charisma. This outsider to the film industry was simply born to be an actor.

…

The room remained silent, each person lost in their own thoughts. The one who finally broke the silence was the old man who had been smiling throughout the entire scene without saying a word. The old man reached out and pulled the stack of resumes from the judge’s hands, flipping through them. He pulled out a single-page resume that still had plenty of blank space.

“Li Xiao,” he murmured, as though calling someone, or perhaps just talking to himself. He thought for a moment and then suddenly smiled, nodding toward Baili Xiao. “Young people these days… impressive. You’re quite good.”

The judge, who had been silent all along, finally spoke. His gaze remained locked on Baili Xiao’s face as he casually said, “He’s good, but still needs some refinement.”

—The audition was over.

…

Everyone was ushered out of the dance studio, and after waiting for less than five minutes in the hallway, the woman running the audition came out and handed each person a room number, telling them where to wait. The three trainees went to the same room, while Baili Xiao and Sen Mu were each sent to separate rooms. Following the signs, Baili Xiao found room “1409,” which was a small but bright meeting room at the end of the hallway.

The meeting room was well-lit, and since he was the only one there, he casually sat in a chair near the floor-to-ceiling window, closed his eyes, and quietly began to relax.

A moment later, the door behind him was silently pushed open, and someone entered. Though the carpet muffled the sound of footsteps, Baili Xiao still knew that the person who came in was the judge.

Just one encounter was enough for him to remember a person’s aura based on their fortune.

However, he didn’t turn around immediately. Instead, he gazed out through the window to the northern sky. Though it was broad daylight and no stars were visible to the naked eye, for him, day and night posed no such barriers—every movement of the stars was as clear in his mind as though he could see them. At that moment, he felt a refreshing clarity, and with just a quick sense, he could tell that his fortune was clear and grand.

For some reason, after the audition, he suddenly had a clear view of his own destiny once again.

—Purple mist swirled around him, his fortune was at its peak.