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Chapter 16: Something’s Strange… I Get This Secret Guilty Feeling…

Zhong Yang’s audition number was mid-to-late in the order. From what she observed, aside from a few highly experienced, award-winning actors who still looked composed afterward, almost everyone else seemed visibly flustered.

One actor exited, immediately darted to a corner to call their agent, and ranted in a hushed tone:

“Damn, I can’t believe this! No rehearsal with the script beforehand—once inside, it’s random draw and just two minutes to prepare!”

“I drew something about herding cattle and sheep! Jesus, I’ve only eaten grass-fed cows and sheep, never seen them before—how the hell do I act that?”

Zhong Yang, standing a little distance away, could only catch the expression, not the words—but it sounded like their performance had been awful.

Everyone here had prepared beforehand. If it were a scripted scene, none of them would be so thrown off.

Zhong Yang guessed the casting team had included an improvisation segment or asked tricky questions.

A slightly hoarse voice called out: “Number 48, Zhong Yang, your audition.”

The number didn’t feel particularly lucky.

Zhong Yang took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The room was a former large office, converted into a makeshift studio. Curtains were tightly drawn, blocking every ray of sunlight. Lights surrounded the space, all focused on a stool in the center.

In front of it was a row of chairs, two cameras, and monitors.

A handsome, young Chinese man sat front and center—Zhong Yang instinctively sensed it was Jasper (Pei Yunzhe).

At his sides sat a blond, blue-eyed foreigner and a slightly older man with long hair—likely the casting director and artistic director.

Zhong Yang gave a polite bow to the three and introduced herself: “Hello, teachers. I’m Zhong Yang—170 cm, 48 kg.”

Pei Shize turned slightly, studying Zhong Yang’s makeup‑free face on the close‑up monitor, and couldn’t help being impressed.

There were many beautiful actresses, but looks on camera were another matter. In ultra‑HD, her skin remained smooth and luminous; her features were perfectly balanced—screen‑worthy indeed. She looked almost too slender and exotic, but her beauty and depth were captivating.

Shize wrote “80” under appearance on the scoring sheet.

An assistant handed her a small box filled with scripts. “Pick your performance script. Two minutes to prepare.”

Even though she had guessed it might be random, Zhong Yang still felt her heart skip a beat—just two minutes!

Her hand paused at the box’s edge, then she let fate decide and pulled one out.

Opening it, she found a single line: “Quickly hide the letter from Jibu Chu and Yi Chengxin, then turn and go herd cattle and sheep.”

No lines—just a simple scene description.

It tested not only acting but her ability to understand and interpret a character on the spot.

She sat on the stool, closed her eyes…

Beep—two minutes were up.

Shize tapped on the desk. “Begin.”

Zhong Yang opened her eyes. Gone was her nervousness; what remained was bashfulness, joy, and that thrilling flutter of emotion.

She held the paper as if it were an actual letter. Her fingers trembled slightly. Sensing something, she stiffened, her heart racing like a startled deer. She pursed her lips and glanced toward the door, then quickly hid the letter against her chest.

She stood, fumbled with her skirt, and looked at the door. “Okay, Dad. I understand.” She mimed being summoned by a father to go herd the livestock.

Shize and the casting director exchanged rapid glances—her instinctive, detailed reaction told them she had something special.

Acting lightly, she picked up a water bottle and exited, without forgetting to “lead her pony” and casually smooth its mane.

On an imagined field, she went on tiptoes to see cattle and sheep grazing, as if everything was proceeding well. She sat cross-legged on grass, gently unfolded the crumpled letter, smoothed it with tender care, and read it.

She folded it back precisely, looked into the distance. Her expression shifted: first excitement, then wistful doubt, and finally a hint of fear.

“Cut.” Shize’s brother, Pei Yunzhe, announced seriously.

Zhong Yang returned to center stage, wiped sweat from her palms.

For half a minute, the panel discussed quietly—no one spoke with her, leaving her to overthink: Did she mess up? Should she prompt them?

Just as she prepared to ask, she caught Jasper’s gaze. She froze.

Unbeknownst to Zhong Yang, Shize was now far more impressed—far more than by her looks alone. He sensed her imagination, the unseen talent of truly inhabiting a role.

Though some auditioners looked good and acted well, none displayed her gift: reading absent details—the father’s call, gently leading a pony. That was talent.

Her final eye‑acting, from excitement to melancholy to fear, was pitch‑perfect. She grasped the essence of “Jibu Chu.”

Shize noted that she clearly did her homework—understood nomadic life, grazing routines; unlike others who messily fed livestock with random props.

He gave her a perfect “100” in acting.

Zhong Yang was dazed and overjoyed. “Thank you, director…”

The longer-haired man then asked: “Your résumé shows no lead roles or films?”

She nodded honestly: “Yes, only supporting roles in TV.”

He shook his head regretfully: “Ah, I see…”

Shize cast a sidelong look of disagreement. “Even without past leads, you could in future. Results will be out in three days—please wait.”

“Okay, thank you.” Zhong Yang exhaled, eager to leave the pressurized space.

As she turned, a figure in shadow stood at the door: Pei Yunzhen?

She hurried over and softly asked, “Mr. Pei, when did you come?”

“While you were tip-toeing to look at the field,” he replied matter‑of‑factly.

He pushed the door, looking back to see if she’d follow.

Actors were still waiting outside. To avoid awkward impressions, she whispered, “Should I leave first? Or will you? I’ll find you on 18 when I have more questions.”

“…Mm.” He understood her concern—though why she felt embarrassed, she couldn’t explain.

He nodded slightly and departed. After a moment, she went the other way and soon knocked on the chairman’s office.

“Come in.”

It was her first time in Pei’s office. It was very different from the golden opulence outside—spare, almost empty. Very much his personal style.

“Sit. What do you want to ask?”

She asked how he happened to watch her audition today.

“Just inspecting. Not specifically you,” he said.

“Oh! What did you think of my performance? Do I have a chance?”

“Not bad. But I don’t know.”

That response—and the director’s praise—boosted her confidence. “Why didn’t you stay to watch more?”

“Busy.” He picked up paperwork.

Something felt off. Busy, yet he went to the 8th floor to observe, saw her performance?

She asked about her contract with Qiguang Company.

He flipped through documents, eyelashes hiding his expression. “Didn’t you say you wanted to work at Pei’s?”

She paused. “I might have said that?”

She admired their perks—but said it?

He gently reminded, “Back at Nanan.”

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