Chapter 62: The New Script

Zhang Che hadn’t expected Lu Xu to be so unyielding.

“Who does he think he is?” Zhang Che, often lauded by fans as having “divine looks,” now had his features clouded with irritation. “He’s only been famous for a few days.”

Yet deep down, he knew all too well—if Lu Xu was determined to compete, the odds of Zhang Che winning were slim.

“Feiyang Entertainment won’t be easy to handle,” the manager added.

Feiyang Entertainment was an established talent agency. While its marketing capabilities were somewhat lackluster compared to the newer and flashier agencies, it had a reputation for nurturing talent.

Previously, Feiyang Entertainment had struggled to compete with other companies due to a lack of marketable stars.

But now, they had Lu Xu.

Undeniably, Lu Xu was a rising star who could hold his own in the industry. With no weak points in popularity, acting skills, or looks, Feiyang Entertainment was bound to pull every string to secure him the best opportunities.

While Ye Hai Entertainment couldn’t even get a foot in the door with directors like Ou Qingchun, Feiyang Entertainment had the connections. Many of the industry’s top talents who had left Feiyang years ago still maintained ties with the agency.

And then there was the issue of capability…

The manager was certain that ever since Lu Xu’s reputation skyrocketed in acting circles, the voices calling Zhang Che a “godly face” had noticeably dwindled.

It wasn’t entirely fair to blame the fans for switching loyalties so quickly—fans were, by nature, fickle. With characters like Yu Wei and Ji Xiuya, Lu Xu had breakout looks in both modern and historical costumes.

After Lu Xu’s rise to fame, he had shot commercials, walked red carpets, and appeared on variety shows, yet not a single unflattering photo had surfaced from the press.

When My Baby Prince first gained traction, some had remarked that Lu Xu was like an upgraded version of Zhang Che. Their features were indeed similar from certain angles.

At the time, Zhang Che’s fans had fiercely attacked anyone making such comparisons. Back then, Lu Xu was drowning in scandals and was a virtual nobody compared to Zhang Che, whose status was leagues above. To Zhang Che’s fans, even suggesting a comparison was an insult—if anything, Lu Xu was Zhang Che’s low, low, low-budget knockoff.

And yet, how much time had passed since then?

Now, Lu Xu actually had the qualifications to stand toe-to-toe with Zhang Che.

Zhang Che quickly realized that Lu Xu was not merely making empty threats; the other party was a classic example of someone who dared to think and act decisively.

Not long after Lu Xu went to audition for Ou Qingchun’s project, the tone of the crew’s communication with Zhang Che became noticeably colder. Sensitive by nature, Zhang Che immediately picked up on the shift.

“How about we reach out to the team of Spring in the Ancient City?” his manager suggested. “This script focuses on the preservation of historical architecture, which has been a popular theme in recent years. It’s also in line with the main narrative trends, and the Stellar Awards are bound to reserve a spot for it.”

Zhang Che had set his sights firmly on the Stellar Awards. Every project he chose was aimed at winning recognition, particularly by selecting themes and teams that the awards panel favored.

This approach was undeniably utilitarian, but for Zhang Che, it was the safest path.

Lu Xu, on the other hand, had managed to get nominated for the Stellar Awards with a casual performance in Son of Heaven. Such luck was beyond Zhang Che’s reach.

Although Zhang Che believed that Lu Xu’s nomination was undoubtedly due to the behind-the-scenes influence of Feiyang Entertainment, it didn’t make him feel any better.

This was the real reason for Zhang Che’s late-night emo—he felt that Lu Xu’s victory over him was for reasons unrelated to acting.

From the very beginning, their competition had never been fair.

Even Lu Xu’s simple “Good luck” carried an air of condescension in Zhang Che’s eyes.

What right did an actor who could only land supporting roles have to encourage him?

Just look at the leads Lu Xu had been a supporting actor for:

Yang Shu, a nobody hardly worth mentioning.

Zheng Xiao, a second-tier actor who had struggled for years to finally gain some recognition, someone who stood behind him at events.

Cheng Yun, who had acted for decades before landing his first notable leading role.

While Zhang Che admitted that Lu Xu’s performance in The Path of Bones was impressive, he could not forgive him for taking away his chance to be nominated for the Stellar Awards.

“Spring in the Ancient City?” Zhang Che looked at the excerpt of the script his manager handed him. After a moment of thought, he said, “Let’s consider it.”

Zhang Che instructed his manager to initiate discussions, but less than half a day later, his manager returned with a grim expression. “…Lu Xu is also interested in the role.”

Zhang Che’s face darkened to an almost unrecognizable extent.

The manager hesitated before adding, “Wen Li and Xie Linshen both tipped Lu Xu off. Now everyone knows he’s competing for your role.”

Wen Li and Xie Linshen were long-time rivals of Zhang Che. They had risen to fame around the same time as him, and competition among male actors during their upward trajectory was inevitable. Their fans frequently argued online, adding fuel to the fire, so it was no surprise that bad blood had formed between them early on.

These two had stayed out of The Empress and The Path of Bones disputes, partly because they bore no grudges against Lu Xu and partly because, in their view, having one rival in Lu Xu was far better than suddenly facing four.

To them, Zhang Che’s attempts to undermine The Path of Bones had been utterly foolish.

Still, Wen Li and Xie Linshen saw no downside in Lu Xu and Zhang Che tearing into each other.

Initially, no one realized that Lu Xu was deliberately targeting Zhang Che. But with Zhang Che auditioning for a role only to have Lu Xu follow suit so openly and brazenly, it started to look comical—like a puppy chasing someone.

Wen Li and Xie Linshen only regretted that the conflict between the two hadn’t escalated further. So, whenever they noticed Zhang Che pursuing a role, they would subtly leak the information to Lu Xu.

Zhang Che gritted his teeth. “Are they insane?”

And Lu Xu? He wasn’t just insane—he was downright deranged.

To make matters worse, when Zhang Che opened Weibo, all he saw were gossip accounts praising Lu Xu as the “hottest commodity” in the industry, wildly sought after by every production crew. If it wasn’t that, it was a flood of diehard fans mindlessly gushing over how “adorable” Lu Xu was.

Adorable? Where, exactly?

Zhang Che was deeply frustrated. Although he knew perfectly well that Lu Xu couldn’t possibly act in so many roles, it was clear the other man’s intent was purely to disgust him—and it was working.

Now that Spring in the Ancient City had also been tainted by Lu Xu’s meddling, Zhang Che didn’t dare to approach the production team lightly. He had no idea who Lu Xu had bribed, but it felt as if the entire entertainment industry was full of Lu Xu’s spies. The moment Zhang Che showed the slightest interest in a script, Lu Xu would swoop in like a dog, snatching it up right before his eyes.

Ironically, Lu Xu’s fans loved to compare him to a dog in a cute and endearing way. But to Zhang Che, Lu Xu really was a dog—plain and simple.

Meanwhile, Lu Xu did audition for the role in Ou Qingchun’s project. The director was impressed with his performance but felt that his appearance didn’t quite match the character.

Ou Qingchun was looking for an actor with a more natural, down-to-earth look.

While Lu Xu could portray the simplicity of someone born in a remote mountain village, his face didn’t align with the character’s vibe.

“You’re too good-looking,” Ou Qingchun remarked bluntly.

Lu Xu didn’t mind altering his appearance for a role, but Ou Qingchun discouraged it. The director’s films revolved around the ordinary, everyday lives of people, steeped in authenticity. If an actor deliberately tried to appear unattractive, it would come across as contrived.

The director, who was acquainted with Xu Wen, gave Lu Xu a candid explanation. “I don’t want to see a trending topic about ‘so-and-so playing an ugly character’ tied to my project. That’s not the kind of buzz I want for this film.”

Lu Xu himself might not stir up such hype, but once the show aired, discussions about his transformation would inevitably arise.

Lu Xu accepted the reasoning.

Every director had their own style, and since he wasn’t a fit for Ou Qingchun’s vision, he didn’t feel the need to push for it.

That said, it was clear how far Zhang Che was willing to go to win awards. The scripts he chose weren’t always to Lu Xu’s taste, but they were undeniably the kinds of projects that Stellar Award judges favored.

“I actually think there’s no need to chase awards. Just focus on performing your roles steadily and well,” Xu Wen said. “If you’re always preoccupied with winning awards, you’ll only end up overacting.”

Of the scripts Zhang Che had his eye on, Lu Xu was only genuinely interested in the one Ou Qingchun was directing. The others were either too artsy or too contrived.

Take Spring in the Ancient City, for instance. While the subject matter was promising, Lu Xu had watched documentaries about the city before his audition and felt the script exaggerated the contributions of a few individuals. It spotlighted the actors while ignoring the real people who had played crucial roles.

To Lu Xu, it felt like the production was capitalizing on the buzz around cultural heritage preservation without truly respecting the cause.

Of course, Lu Xu’s apparent interest in Zhang Che’s scripts was nothing more than a smokescreen—his way of getting under Zhang Che’s skin.

An eye for an eye, as far as Lu Xu was concerned. This principle was one of his defining traits, and he intended to uphold it.

In the meantime, Lu Xu and Xu Wen continued sorting through scripts.

The success of The Path of Bones had made a significant impact—whenever a role required coldness, cruelty, dramatic character shifts, or revenge-themed narratives, Lu Xu was usually the first among his peers to receive the script.

However, Lu Xu wanted to avoid repeating himself. Scripts of lower quality were immediately passed over, while those of higher quality were added to his list of considerations.

The quality of the script was paramount.

Now that he had the privilege of choice, he no longer had to accept roles he wasn’t fully satisfied with. In the past, when he had no such luxury, he would perform any role with the same level of respect and dedication, whether it was good or bad.

“There’s no shortage of scripts, but finding the right one is no easy task,” Xu Wen remarked.

He had noticed that while Lu Xu was easygoing in most areas, when it came to scripts, he was more meticulous and serious than anyone else.

When Xu Wen first started working with Lu Xu, he had noticed that Lu Xu possessed an uncanny sharpness when it came to evaluating scripts—like someone who had been acting for years. The more time he spent with him, the stronger this impression became.

Xu Wen’s ability to assess scripts was something he had cultivated over his years as a manager. Having managed numerous actors, he had naturally developed a knack for identifying potential in scripts.

Beyond this, Xu Wen had a few screenwriter friends in the industry whom he occasionally consulted for advice.

His approach to career planning was fairly traditional, likely influenced by his long tenure at Feiyang Entertainment. Xu Wen felt that he connected better with actors like Lu Xu.

Actors who focused heavily on marketing and commercial ventures often rose to fame quickly, but their careers tended to decline just as swiftly. A few years down the line, such actors might find themselves struggling to secure roles.

In Xu Wen’s vision, Lu Xu wasn’t destined to follow that kind of path.

Of course, Lu Xu’s personality wasn’t suited to it either.

The two discussed their ideas for a long time. Lu Xu mentioned that he wouldn’t mind trying a series like The Empress since he hadn’t tackled that kind of project before. However, the thought of The Empress’s script being rewritten beyond recognition made him hesitate. The risk seemed too high.

“What about this one?” Xu Wen pulled out a script from their shortlist. “It’s heavy, but your role isn’t.”

“It’s not bad,” Lu Xu nodded. “A typical commercial drama.”

“Then… want to give it a shot?” Xu Wen suggested. “You haven’t done this type before.”

The script Xu Wen proposed was titled Voice of the Dead. It revolved around a man with the ability to hear the voices of the deceased when in contact with their bodies.

The protagonist, Jiang Lin, gained this ability after an accident. From then on, strange events began happening around him. However, his gift also enabled him to solve a series of baffling cases and uncover the truths behind the deaths, bringing justice to the victims.

It was a dual male-lead drama.

Jiang Lin, endowed with his special ability, was a fragile character—physically weak, unable to carry heavy loads, and frequently finding himself in danger. Thus, he required a strong, capable partner to protect him.

“This role interests me, but I’ll decide after seeing which actor the production team casts as the partner,” Lu Xu said.

His reasoning was straightforward: he didn’t want to end up working with actors as chaotic as those from The Empress. He preferred a production where everything could be filmed quietly and broadcast just as quietly.

Though Lu Xu knew that, in a way, he had a natural tendency to stir up storms wherever he went, he at least hoped to avoid any internal drama within the production team.

“Got it,” Xu Wen agreed.

The efficiency of the team was impressive—or more accurately, once Lu Xu expressed interest in playing Jiang Lin, the casting process for Voice of the Dead, which had previously been sluggish, suddenly sped up.

Initially, neither of the lead roles—Jiang Lin or Su Yang—had been cast.

However, as soon as Lu Xu showed interest in Jiang Lin, the role of Su Yang became hotly contested.

It felt as though the entire Voice of the Dead crew had been hit by a lucky break.

The production team even wanted to ask Lu Xu if he had any actors in mind for the role of Su Yang.

After all, whoever Lu Xu wanted to work with, they were willing to approach and try to secure.

Unfortunately, Lu Xu had no particular preferences in this regard.

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