Chapter One Hundred and Six: The Opening Scene

The first scene between Lin Yu and Li Shiche concluded perfectly, earning Lin Yu high praise from Director Wu De.

“I hadn’t expected you to be so professional. The expressiveness in your eyes is exceptional—truly impressive,” the director remarked.

Even Li Shiche, who seldom offered compliments, praised Lin Yu, “We worked together with remarkable synergy. I’m surprised that after just a brief conversation, you already understood exactly what I was trying to convey.”

“With promising newcomers like you in the industry, there’s hope for the future.”

Bashfully scratching his head, Lin Yu responded humbly, exchanging a few modest words before the first shoot came to an end.

His unassuming attitude, along with his habit of helping out with various tasks on set whenever he was free, quickly endeared him to the crew. In no time, he became well-acquainted with everyone, leaving a favorable impression all around.

...

By late morning, most of Lin Yu’s scenes were done, and the crew began filming other actors’ parts. Having already mingled well with the team, Lin Yu exchanged casual remarks with everyone; his adeptness at social interactions had been honed in his previous life delivering packages and working in the service industry.

The ways of ordinary people turned out to be just as effective with this group of self-important actors.

During the lunch break, a handful of artists gathered to chat, exchanging the usual pleasantries. Lin Yu listened for a while but soon found it dull. He excused himself under the pretense of needing the restroom.

“Feeling bored too, Lin?” Lin Qianxu appeared at some point, leaning against the door with one hand in his pocket, striking a cool pose as he smiled at Lin Yu. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

Lin Qianxu revealed he was from Korea. While artists there faced strict screening at the outset, once they gained fame, the rules became lax; smoking, for instance, was a trivial matter.

When he offered Lin Yu a cigarette, Lin Yu waved it off. “In China, the regulations are strict; people think you’re setting a bad example for kids.”

Lin Qianxu nodded, half-understanding. In his view, it was just a minor thing—what man didn’t smoke? But he didn’t press Lin Yu further.

Following his gaze, Lin Yu too noticed Li Shiche surrounded by admirers.

“Teacher Li seems to be quite popular,” he observed.

“With his looks, wealth, and talent, if I weren’t a man myself, I’d be smitten too,” Lin Yu joked lightly, earning a squinting glance from Lin Qianxu.

“Don’t you like being the center of attention, Teacher Lin?” asked Lin Qianxu.

“I simply don’t care for crowds,” Lin Yu replied.

Lin Qianxu was silent for a moment, then said, “Young people really are different these days.” He paused, then inquired, “Where did you study acting, Teacher Lin?”

This time, Lin Yu found himself at a loss. He couldn’t very well admit he’d hardly attended any acting classes and was relying entirely on intuition—that would sound far too pretentious.

Sensing Lin Yu’s reluctance, Lin Qianxu didn’t pursue the matter. In this industry, honesty was a rare commodity; most conversations only skimmed the surface, and with them having just met, Lin Yu’s caution was only natural.

Lin Yu, however, began to worry—would it seem rude not to answer a senior’s question? He pondered what excuse might sound least pretentious.

After some thought, he settled on a suitable explanation. As his fame grew, he would have to face such situations more often and would need to learn how to handle them with finesse.

But he shouldn’t overplay it, or he’d risk being seen as a show-off.

“I took some professional courses before—joined an acting training program,” he replied.

His background must have been vetted when he joined the crew. After all, everyone involved in this production was a significant figure in the industry; nobody would casually let a stranger in.

Lin Qianxu was amused by Lin Yu’s nervousness. Such cautious innocence was a trait exclusive to true newcomers.

A newcomer... Yet, something about it didn’t add up. Lin Qianxu knew Lin Yu was a recent graduate, but his major had been singing, and he’d debuted as a singer. Yet his acting was this strong—even the director had praised him.

Were all newcomers nowadays this formidable? Was he some kind of prodigy? The kid was truly astonishing—displaying such powerful presence in his very first film. If he moved into the film industry, wouldn’t he be destined for stardom?

Lin Qianxu couldn’t help but feel a little concerned for him. With such talent, he hoped Lin Yu wouldn’t lose himself to arrogance in the future; otherwise, it would be a waste.

“Could I have your autograph?” he suddenly asked.

Lin Yu was baffled by the odd request. “Huh?”

Lin Qianxu laughed and explained, “Just in case you become famous someday—I’ll be sitting on a gold mine!”

They say it’s best to get signatures early, especially from artists who clearly have a promising future. Once someone is famous, an autograph isn’t always so easy to come by.

Playing along, Lin Yu scribbled his name and handed the notebook back to Lin Qianxu, only to notice it was already filled with autographs from many other artists.

He couldn’t help but wonder—someone as popular across both north and south as Lin Qianxu still needed to collect autographs for a living?

...

“You really are my good brother,” Lin Qianxu declared warmly. In just a few exchanges, he and Lin Yu were chatting like old friends, arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing and joking. This rapid development in their friendship left Su Xiaolin, who had come over to hand something to Lin Yu, utterly bewildered.

What? Could relationships between artists really develop this smoothly? They’d bonded so quickly—it just wasn’t the way things typically worked in the industry.

Lin Yu took a sip of the coffee Su Xiaolin had brought to perk him up. Seeing the high and mighty assistant to the CEO being so eager to curry favor, he didn’t bother mentioning the unpleasantness from earlier that morning.

In any company, even junior employees inevitably had conflicts—let alone those with a superior-subordinate dynamic. But between an agent and an artist, it wasn’t so much about hierarchies or power plays.

Besides, Su Xiaolin usually treated him well, so Lin Yu had no reason to be petty.

Seeing him accept the coffee and drink it without a second thought, Su Xiaolin was a little surprised. She’d thought someone his age would fuss over small things, but he was so composed he seemed more mature than most people his age.

“There are only a few short scenes this afternoon,” Su Xiaolin told him. “Once those are done, you can go back and rest.”

She had noticed his willingness to help around the set. As an artist under Ji Fei, there was no need for him to humble himself so much—even as a newcomer, he could have kept his distance and nobody would have blamed him.

That afternoon’s shoot featured a tender scene between the two leads. Lin Yu’s character, gravely wounded after his battle with Li Shiche, lay bedridden and frail. During a brief period of unconsciousness, the kindhearted heroine, unable to bear his suffering, came to care for him.