Him?

Cheng Youran froze for a few seconds before realizing “him” referred to Yan Junze. Honestly, she had just said it casually—after all, in today’s entertainment industry, Yan Junze was practically a legend.

When it came to Best Actor, the first name that came to mind was always Yan Junze. There was no second. Even Xu Chi wasn’t qualified to be compared to him.

EastSeaYanJunze must be a fan of his.

Cheng Youran thought for a moment, then typed a few words and sent them off.

[Xiao Youzi]: Of course! He’s handsome and talented. But all his past roles have been so serious—I’d actually love to see him try something different.

After she sent the message, [EastSeaYanJunze] didn’t reply again. Meanwhile, Professor Fu had already started class. Seeing her still fiddling with her phone, he let out a disapproving cough. She quickly turned it off.

“What do you think acting really is?”

Professor Fu had a refined air about him. Dressed in a traditional blue Zhongshan suit and wearing round-framed glasses, he began today’s lecture in a gentle voice.

“Acting is the expression of being human.”

Cheng Youran thought for a moment before replying, “If I fully understand the character, then I am the character.”

A method actor.

Professor Fu silently made a note. In mainstream acting, there are three primary schools: method acting, experiential acting, and presentational acting. There’s no strict hierarchy between them—not even clear boundaries, really.

Even the same actor might use different techniques depending on the character or the scene.

But it was obvious—Cheng Youran leaned toward experiential acting. She genuinely imagined herself as the character, and the character as herself. The phrase “you must lose yourself to become the role” described this approach perfectly.

“Let’s begin.”

Professor Fu started his first lesson, beginning with the very basics.

To his surprise, apart from being a bit shy in front of the camera, Cheng Youran had astonishing control over her body and movement.

She instinctively knew where to place her hands, how far to extend them, and how long to hold a pose.

That—was what they called talent.

Even though her understanding of the character wasn’t yet deep during the live performance, Cheng Youran’s portrayal was already well above the passing line.

In that moment, Professor Fu suddenly understood why Meng Lang had chosen her to be the lead in Glory. She was the kind of uncut gem directors dream of—just a bit of polishing, and she would shine brilliantly.

He had initially agreed to teach Cheng Youran out of obligation to Jiang Rong. But now, he was starting to think—perhaps she was destined to be his final student.

…

“That’s all for today’s class. Next week, come to Beijing for in-person lessons. Until then, practice according to the instructions I gave. If you don’t meet the standard, I see no reason to continue teaching you.”

On the screen, Professor Fu’s tone was stern and uncompromising.

“I will,” Cheng Youran replied.

Even though they were separated by a screen, she still stood up and gave him a respectful bow.

The truth was, many actors didn’t lack the desire to perform well—they just lacked the opportunity. Especially those without formal training. Except for a rare few with extraordinary talent, most entered the industry at one level… and stayed there until the day they faded out.

A director was not a teacher—there’s no obligation to teach you how to act.

It’s hard to spot flaws in your own performance, and even harder to fix them.

As soon as she finished speaking, the screen in front of her went black. Professor Fu clearly wasn’t the chatty type. Class was class—he had no interest in small talk with Cheng Youran.

She opened her schedule and slotted in the assignments he had given her: a few performance exercises. Playing a lonely, disabled old man. A middle-aged man grieving the death of his wife… All centered around sorrow.

Honestly, she felt a bit anxious—because she couldn’t cry. It was like she couldn’t quite access the character’s emotions.

With a sigh, she shut her laptop and finally had a moment to check her phone.

One message stood out.

[EastSeaYanJunze]: Got it.

She glanced at the time—the message had been sent an hour ago. Strange, but she didn’t dwell on it. Just then, Fang Liuyun knocked on the door and came in.

“I’ve contacted a few male actors. Take a look and see if any of them fit.” Fang Liuyun handed her a stack of profiles.

Cheng Youran was about to comment on how fast that was, but the moment she opened the folder, she was at a loss for words.

To be fair, the actors were fairly well-known, and their resumes looked solid. But their looks? More suited for spy dramas, rural sagas, or action flicks—definitely not for a romance. Or even a bromance, for that matter.

She could already picture the movie poster hanging outside the theater, audiences passing by with puzzled expressions and silently walking away.

Sure enough, she spotted Lu Zixiao’s handwriting—he had drawn a big X next to every single one.

“This is the short list,” Fang Liuyun said with the faintest sigh.

The competition among young male actors was already fierce. The moment Xu Chi made that comment on Weibo, even if the agents were willing to take the job, their fans certainly weren’t.

Left with no choice, they had to pick from the pool of seasoned, skilled actors. Acting wasn’t an issue—looks, however, were another story. Not something they could force.

Just from Fang Liuyun’s expression, Cheng Youran could tell—they were running out of options. She flipped through the profiles and finally stopped at the last one. Not exactly handsome, but pleasant enough to look at. Add solid acting skills on top of that… well, he had to be better than Xu Chi. Right?

As she picked up her pen and put a check mark next to his name, Fang Liuyun let out a small, relieved breath.

President Lu really had high standards.

She brought the folder over to him. He glanced at it casually and remarked, “Still not better looking than me.”

Then, with calm precision, he crossed out each name.

Fang Liuyun: “……”

“I’ll go make the call,” Fang Liuyun said, taking the folder and heading for the door.

Just then, her phone rang. She stepped away from Cheng Youran and answered near the window. “Yes, this is she…”

Cheng Youran stretched lazily and stood up to shake off the stiffness in her limbs.

When Fang Liuyun hung up, she walked over quickly, the excitement practically radiating from her face. Her voice was almost breathless as she said, “The male lead has been confirmed!”

“Oh, really?”

Cheng Youran rubbed her sore neck. “Zhang Heran, right? That was his name?”

“Nope,” Fang Liuyun replied, barely able to contain her excitement.

“…Don’t tell me it’s… Xu Chi?”

In that instant, everything clicked in Cheng Youran’s mind like a lightning strike. So that’s why Xu Chi randomly brought her up on Weibo—now it all made sense.

“I get it now,” Cheng Youran said with a solemn nod.

Fang Liuyun placed the documents back on the bookshelf, then turned around with a puzzled look. “What exactly do you get?”

“No one else wanted to take the role, so of course he had to step in and save the day.”

She let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “I never would’ve thought Xu Chi was that kind of person. I always thought he was just a sweet, clueless golden boy. The entertainment industry… it’s too complicated.”

Fang Liuyun: “……”

Seeing that Fang Liuyun wasn’t responding, Cheng Youran walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder, speaking with heartfelt sincerity, “It’s okay. If you don’t understand right now… just take your time to process it.”

Fang Liuyun calmly moved her hand away and took a deep breath. “It’s not Xu Chi. It’s Yan Junze.”

“Yan who?”

For a moment, Cheng Youran thought she must’ve misheard.

“Yan Junze,” Fang Liuyun repeated.

Fang Liuyun completely understood how Cheng Youran felt—she’d had the exact same reaction when Yan Junze’s agent called her.

She had never even considered reaching out to Yan Junze.

In recent years, he had become increasingly selective with his projects. Every film he took on had only the best scripts and top-tier directors. Meanwhile, they didn’t even have a finished script yet.

When Yan Junze personally reached out to express interest in Lu’s new project, she genuinely wondered if she was hallucinating from working too late the night before.

“Wait… which Junze?” Cheng Youran was still in shock.

Fang Liuyun: ……… Okay, maybe I handled it a little better than she is.

It took Cheng Youran a full minute to wrap her head around the fact that Yan Junze actually wanted to act in a film with her.

Then suddenly, she asked, “Do you have Xu Chi’s number?”

“I do,” Fang Liuyun replied.

Fang Liuyun quickly pulled up Xu Chi’s number from her contacts, then marched off with purpose to handle the contract with Yan Junze.

….

“Xu Chi, your phone’s ringing.”

His manager tossed the phone to him. Xu Chi, curled up on the couch watching Doraemon, lazily caught it. “Hello? Who’s this?”

“Cheng Youran,” she said coolly.

The moment he heard the name, Xu Chi felt a twinge of guilt. Trying to sound tough, he barked, “What do you want? I’m not doing that movie with you!”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Cheng Youran replied casually.

A maid brought over a plate of freshly cut mango. She switched the phone to her left hand as she picked one up. “We already found someone else.”

“Who?” he asked instinctively.

Xu Chi couldn’t help but ask. His manager had just scolded him for saying no one wanted to act with Cheng Youran, and he couldn’t imagine who would stoop so low to please Lu’s company like that.

“Yan Junze,” Cheng Youran said, trying her best to keep her tone from sounding too excited. Nothing more obnoxious than pretending to be nonchalant while actually feeling smug.

“No way!”

Xu Chi jumped up from the couch in disbelief.

“You’ll find out soon enough whether it’s possible or not,” Cheng Youran replied, ending the call.

Xu Chi was completely thrown off. Yan Junze was practically the idol of every rising male actor. When he first debuted, his looks alone had catapulted him to the top of the celebrity ranks.

At that time, rising stars were divided into only two categories: Yan Junze and everyone else.

Many people bitterly claimed that he had nothing but his looks, yet in his debut year, Yan Junze won the Best Newcomer Award. The following year, he took home the Golden Horse Award for Best Actor… until he eventually became the film emperor he was today.

There was no way he would take part in a film with such an uncertain future. Cheng Youran must have been lying to him. Realizing this, he curled up on the sofa, contentedly watching Doraemon.

But unexpectedly, his phone screen lit up with a Weibo notification.

— Film Emperor Yan confirmed to star in a Lu Films production.

Xu Chi was so shocked that he was momentarily speechless. Before he could even process the news, his manager picked up the remote and switched off the TV.

“The new board director wants to see you.”

“The new board director?”

A sudden sense of unease crept into Xu Chi’s heart. Tianyin Entertainment was a small company with a historically stable ownership structure. How had a new board director suddenly appeared?

“I heard they came from Deepsea Media.”

His manager reassured him, “It’s probably just a change in the company’s representative.”

Deepsea Media, the parent company of Tianyin Entertainment, held a 67.8% stake. The staff who handled company affairs were all familiar faces.

Hearing this, Xu Chi finally relaxed. As Tianyin Entertainment’s biggest moneymaker, Deepsea Media had always been generous with him—to the point where he could ask for practically anything and get it.

After his manager left, he turned the TV back on, finished watching Doraemon, and deliberately took his time before heading to the boardroom.

Leaning lazily against the doorframe, he pushed the door open and drawled, “What do you need me for? I still have a recording session to get back to.”

“You’re Xu Chi?”

A deep voice resonated through the room.

Xu Chi instinctively looked up.

The moment he saw the man, only one thought flashed through his mind—I’m screwed…

=^_^=