Chapter 81: Who is Lu Xu?

Voice of the Dead had become widely recognized as another blockbuster drama of the year.

The most noticeable change was that whenever Lu Xu attended events, his seat was usually in the front row.

In the entertainment industry, seating arrangements were a direct reflection of one’s status.

Although Lu Xu rarely participated in events, no organizer dared to neglect him wherever he went.

Film offers and business invitations poured in like snowflakes.

Xu Wen became so overwhelmed with work that Feiyang Entertainment assigned two additional assistants to Lu Xu, one of whom was specifically tasked with alleviating Xu Wen’s workload.

Feiyang Entertainment suddenly realized that, unknowingly, Lu Xu had become the company’s most profitable artist!

Objectively speaking, after signing with Feiyang Entertainment, Lu Xu received fairly good resources. The company had not treated him unfairly despite him joining mid-career. However, the returns Lu Xu brought were even more astonishing.

Even though Lu Xu wasn’t enthusiastic about commercial ventures, his commercial value ranked first under Feiyang Entertainment.

In fact, with Lu Xu on board, the veteran talent agency Feiyang Entertainment had once again returned to the public spotlight.

Feiyang Entertainment was known for being dedicated to its artists, and since Lu Xu disliked the company interfering with his decisions, they refrained from doing so.

The facts proved that this mutual understanding was highly effective—

At present, Lu Xu ranked first on the actor potential list, popularity charts, and rising star rankings.

On the character CP chart, Jiang Lin and Su Yang held the top spot.

On the drama popularity chart, Voice of the Dead was far ahead of the competition.

As for endorsement and business invitations, it was no exaggeration to say that the total number of business deals secured by all Feiyang Entertainment artists combined was still less than what Lu Xu alone had garnered.

After the finale of Voice of the Dead, Lu Xu declined more than half of the business invitations he received, finally freeing up time to study new scripts.

He realized that this era differed from his previous life—actors now had significantly more exposure, with numerous variety shows and business collaborations.

In his past life, acting had been a relatively mysterious profession. Overexposure was avoided because it could shift the audience’s focus to the actor’s off-screen persona instead of the characters they portrayed.

In this lifetime, the group of actors with the least exposure were those in the film industry.

“Did someone send me a film script?”

Lu Xu was surprised to discover that nearly half of the scripts he was invited to consider were for films.

The divide between film and television actors was quite distinct. Among male actors of Lu Xu’s age, it was easy to tell who belonged to the film circle and who was rooted in television.

In earlier years, film directors preferred actors with what was referred to as a “movie face.” However, this trend had shifted in recent years, likely due to the worldwide decline in aesthetic standards.

To Lu Xu, the idea of a “movie face” might hold some truth, but it ultimately seemed like an excuse for a small, insular circle to amuse itself while keeping outsiders at bay.

The global film industry, in Lu Xu’s view, was a closed-off circle dominated by a small group of people.

He picked up one of the scripts to take a closer look.

It was a wuxia story about a reclusive hero who, after years in hiding, adopted a daughter and re-entered the martial arts world, sparking conflict.

The script was thin, but the sound it made when Lu Xu threw it onto the table was oddly heavy.

“This is the new work from Director Zhang Zhizhen,” Xu Wen added.

Lu Xu shot a look at Xu Wen, his expression clearly saying, “This is it?” His agent shrugged in resignation.

The second script, in contrast, told the story of a lost young man on a journey of self-discovery.

The pile of scripts also included stories about youthful angst, rebellious rock musicians, and other similar themes. Lu Xu frowned. “Their intentions are way too obvious, aren’t they?”

None of these scripts met his standards.

While the investors and production teams were undeniably well-known, Lu Xu felt that the directors themselves didn’t even understand what kind of films they wanted to make.

It was clear they were simply trying to cash in on his current popularity and draw him into their projects to milk his fanbase.

This was the inevitable path for a male actor who had skyrocketed to fame.

It was worth noting that the more renowned these directors were, the more likely they were to offer Lu Xu insignificant supporting roles, as if he should feel deeply honored to even be considered.

“Reject them all,” Lu Xu said, rubbing his forehead. “I do plan to act in films, but not this kind.”

If he were to choose, Lu Xu would rather work on commercial films—those criticized by certain directors as “shallow” or “lacking depth.” At least such films could entertain audiences with thrills and laughter. In contrast, these so-called profound and philosophical films could be summed up in a single word, in Lu Xu’s opinion: trash.

It seemed the film industry remained the same across every era.

Some directors, locked in outdated mindsets and unable to keep up with the times, were particularly fixated on themes of violation and lust. Yet even within those themes, their execution and core ideas were far less innovative than others’.

“Let’s focus on dramas for now,” Lu Xu concluded.

As he skimmed through several scripts, a familiar name caught his attention in one project’s lineup. “Director Mu is finally taking on a project again?”

In Lu Xu’s memory, Mu Qian seemed to have offended Grape Film, Lin Ge Entertainment, and possibly Feiwo Entertainment, where You Zichen worked.

Lu Xu happened to have Mu Qian’s WeChat, but despite the script being sent to Feiyang Entertainment, Mu Qian hadn’t reached out to him directly about collaborating.

Lu Xu was already surprised to see Mu Qian as the director, but as he flipped further through the script, another familiar name caught his eye.

The scriptwriter was none other than Jin Mu, the mind behind Rising Sun.

After the flop of Rising Sun, Lu Xu hadn’t heard much about Jin Mu for a long time.

Back then, Lu Xu had fallen in love with Rising Sun’s script at first sight, but unfortunately, he didn’t get the chance to collaborate on it. However, Lu Xu had always believed in Jin Mu’s talent.

Unable to resist, he opened the script and started reading it carefully.

It was worth noting that during the audition for Rising Sun, Lu Xu had only been given a portion of Wu Shen’s scenes to review. But now, the script handed to him was the full version—an exclusive privilege reserved for big names in the industry.

Jin Mu’s new script told a story about perseverance and personal growth. Its themes were somewhat similar to those of Rising Sun, except this time, the narrative was set in modern times.

When Lu Xu finished reading the script from start to finish, he looked up at Xu Wen. Xu Wen already knew his answer. “You’re taking it?”

“Taking it!”

The new script was titled When I Was 18, spanning a timeline from the protagonist’s age of 18 to 40.

It was a story about going back in time to change one’s life.

The premise was simple: a downtrodden middle-aged man returned to his 18-year-old self, gained clarity about his life, learned to live in the moment, and mended his regrets. Everyone has been 18; everyone has regrets in life and longs for a chance to start over. Only the protagonist got that opportunity.

Back at 18, he didn’t magically become smarter, know lottery numbers, or dream of extraordinary schemes. Instead, he focused on living each day sincerely and to its fullest.

Such a life could not be called unhappy.

After all, the most important thing in life is to live without regrets.

It was a simple, heartwarming script—calm, yet touching.

Jin Mu was not the kind of scriptwriter who crafted grand, dramatic narratives. The characters he created might not lead spectacular lives, but they always possessed a strong sense of conviction. As an actor, Lu Xu found himself deeply moved every time he finished reading one of Jin Mu’s scripts.

Though he missed out on performing in Rising Sun, this new script held plenty of promise.

Voice of the Dead was a tremendous hit, and Lu Xu’s name became widely recognized throughout the industry.

Directors and screenwriters often found themselves asked about Lu Xu in various settings. Reporters were curious whether they had plans to collaborate with him, and even fellow actors were intrigued.

Occasionally, directors or screenwriters would casually mention Lu Xu in interviews. Anytime they did, entertainment news outlets would immediately churn out speculative articles with titles like “XX Director Plans to Collaborate with Lu Xu,” even if Lu Xu himself had no knowledge of such plans.

Director Zhang Zhizhen was one such figure.

He had risen to fame as early as the 1980s and 1990s, with several representative works under his belt, making him a senior figure in the directorial circle today.

However, despite his status as an industry veteran, his influence had waned in recent years. The modern film industry relied heavily on audience votes. While veteran directors often viewed the new generation of filmmakers with disdain, as long as audiences were willing to buy tickets, investors were more than happy to back the newcomers.

In comparison, the position of older directors had become somewhat awkward.

They held a respectable standing in the industry, had a few awards to their names, and had even made some inroads in the European and American markets in their early days. Though they hadn’t achieved major success overseas, they left behind a few fondly remembered stories.

But one glaring issue remained: the audience wasn’t interested.

These veteran directors made great efforts to lean toward commercial filmmaking, yet their attempts lacked the thoroughness of the emerging filmmakers. As for art films, they excelled at exploring the traumas of their own era, but they struggled to resonate with contemporary audiences.

Not long after The Path of Bones gained popularity, Zhang Zhizhen had praised Lu Xu in front of a crowd of reporters, expressing his desire to collaborate with him in the future.

Recently, with Voice of the Dead exploding in popularity, reporters revisited the topic.

Zhang Zhizhen smiled warmly and said, “Of course, I’d love to work with him. There’s a role in my new film that would suit Lu Xu perfectly. Collaborating with such an outstanding young actor would also help us understand what contemporary audiences want and allow us to grow together.”

This statement stirred excitement among the reporters.

When Voice of the Dead’s popularity score surpassed 15,000, speculation began that Lu Xu might soon transition to films.

For rising stars in the television industry, making the leap to cinema was a prestigious move. Unless they started their careers in films, actors transitioning from TV to film were typically recognized as first-tier talents.

With Zhang Zhizhen openly extending an olive branch, it seemed unthinkable for Lu Xu not to accept.

However, the reporters waited in vain for any news of Lu Xu joining Zhang Zhizhen’s new film. Instead, it was revealed by Mu Qian and Jin Mu during a casual conversation that Lu Xu had already joined the cast of When I Was 18.

Mu Qian and Jin Mu were indeed long-time collaborators and friends. While Lu Xu had missed out on working with them in Rising Sun for various reasons, reporters believed that even if he felt regretful, it wasn’t reason enough to forgo Zhang Zhizhen’s film in favor of collaborating with Mu Qian and Jin Mu.

The disparity in reputation between the two directors was glaringly obvious. To most observers, the logical choice was clear.

Reporters rushed to Feiyang Entertainment to get more details, but they didn’t need to dig much. On-set photos of Lu Xu filming When I Was 18 had already surfaced online.

“Has Lu Xu lost his mind?”

“Maybe he’s obsessed with Jin Mu’s scripts? He was booted from Rising Sun back then, so perhaps he’s trying to settle that unfinished business.”

“Even if Lu Xu just wanted to prove a point, did he really have to give up Zhang Zhizhen’s film? What kind of career planning is Feiyang Entertainment doing for him? Or is it just letting him do whatever he wants?”

“I used to think Lu Xu had the potential to become a top-tier superstar, but now I realize I might have been too optimistic. He seems to lack ambition.”

The reporters, unable to let the matter rest, sought out Zhang Zhizhen again for comments.

This time, the director wore a completely different expression. When asked if he had extended an invitation to Lu Xu, he furrowed his brows, rubbed his chin, and stared at the ceiling for a long moment before showing a puzzled look. “Lu Xu? Who’s that again?”

“My films always feature actors who are more dedicated, more promising, and better suited for development. As for the Lu Xu you mentioned, he was never on my list of candidates.”

He added, “The cast for The Swordsman has already been finalized. All I can reveal is that the chosen actors are those I believe best embody the characters.”

Before Zhang Zhizhen’s interview was even fully published, online discussions had already exploded.

[Wow, Lu Xu thinks he’s all that, but to the director, he’s just a nobody.]

[This is second-hand embarrassment. Does Lu Xu not feel humiliated?]

[Is Lu Xu officially the first actor to be ‘returned’ by the film industry? This is so shameful!]

[Lu Xu’s fans are still trying to defend him, saying he turned down Zhang Zhizhen’s film. But it’s obvious Zhang Zhizhen didn’t want him. Between Zhang Zhizhen and Mu Qian, anyone with sense would know which one to choose. I bet Lu Xu auditioned and wasn’t selected. Not so smug now, huh?]

Zhang Zhizhen’s new film The Swordsman indeed had its cast confirmed. Aside from the lead roles of the swordsman and his adopted daughter, the only young male actor listed was Zhang Che.

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