Chapter 115: He would snap this bamboo in half
Almost the moment Li Wenbo spoke, the expression on his companion’s face changed.
They weren’t from the same company, but they were fairly familiar friends. This time, since Seeking Immortality was holding a large-scale audition, they had agreed to try their luck together. Their roles were different, so there was no competition between them, and they had been getting along quite well these past few days.
Everyone knew that Li Wenbo was arrogant and had always looked down on idol actors.
But they hadn’t expected him to say it outright in front of the person in question.
The young man beside him immediately lowered his voice. “Wenbo, what are you saying?”
Even Li Wenbo felt a tinge of regret.
No matter how much Xie Xizhao was trying to transition into acting, he had still been an idol for years and had skyrocketed to fame for two solid years. If nothing else, his connections in the entertainment industry were far beyond what a rookie actor like Li Wenbo could compare to.
If Xie Xizhao held a grudge…
Li Wenbo pressed his lips together tightly.
He had only been irritated by the fact that Xie Xizhao could casually show up for an audition and still run into fans. In a moment of impulse, he had blurted those words out. But now, he truly felt like he was being roasted over an open flame. Seeing the astonished look in his companion’s eyes, he steeled himself.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“It’s the truth.” He stiffened his neck and said, “Which one of you didn’t have to study for years, take countless acting classes, and fight for a single role? At the very least, you had to start from background roles and work your way up step by step. So why is it that some people can just ride the wave of popularity and get special treatment?”
He didn’t dare to call out names directly, but his words were already heavily targeted.
At some point, most of the chatter in the corridor had died down. The people present exchanged glances, and quite a few of them had an expression of understanding in their eyes.
This had everything to do with who these actors were.
Most of them were auditioning for supporting roles today. Among them, Jing Yin was already the most significant character up for grabs.
Most of the actors willing to take on these roles—and who had to fight for them through auditions—were those with no background, struggling to make a living in the industry after enduring years of hardship.
To them, Xie Xizhao was exactly the kind of person they disliked the most.
A so-called flower vase—someone with no acting skills but immense popularity.
They wouldn’t bother to seriously consider why Xie Xizhao wanted to transition into acting, nor would they realize that, given his status, if he truly wanted to take advantage of his fame, landing a lead role would be effortless. Playing a supporting character wasn’t even necessary.
All they saw was someone sitting here, trying to steal their jobs.
This was about survival.
In an instant, numerous eyes scrutinized Xie Xizhao, making him feel as though he had become a target for everyone.
The young fan sitting beside him had already turned pale. He was about to stand up and argue, but before he could, Xie Xizhao suddenly asked, “What should I write?”
The fan froze. “Huh?”
Xie Xizhao sighed.
He patiently repeated, “What do you want me to write in the autograph?”
The fan: “……”
He stared blankly at Xie Xizhao’s profile and muttered, “Just write, ‘Wishing Yao Lingxuan great wealth and fortune soon.’”
Xie Xizhao: “…”
A very down-to-earth wish.
He picked up the pen, wrote it down, and even added a final note: [Thank you for your support all this time.] Then, he handed the album back.
Only after finishing all this did he finally lift his head again.
The moment his eyes met Li Wenbo’s, an uneasy feeling surged in Li Wenbo’s chest.
Sure enough, in the very next second, he heard Xie Xizhao chuckle and ask, “Sorry, I was a little busy just now. Were you talking about me?”
The moment Xie Xizhao finished speaking, the corridor plunged into an eerie silence.
Just moments ago, everyone had been filled with complicated emotions, but now their minds went completely blank—except for one collective thought: Holy shit, he actually went straight in for the attack!
No wonder they were shocked.
Given Xie Xizhao’s status, when faced with this kind of veiled insinuation, the usual response was to silently endure it. After all, while they were in different fields, he was still a top-tier celebrity. Stooping to argue with a rookie actor would only make him seem petty.
It didn’t make sense, but that was just how things were.
Li Wenbo had thought the same. So when Xie Xizhao suddenly responded, he was caught off guard and nearly froze on the spot.
Two seconds later, a cold sweat broke out on his back.
Now what?
Deny it?
That would be a blatant lie—too many people had heard him.
Admit it?
That would mean openly confronting Xie Xizhao.
It was only then that he realized Xie Xizhao’s question hadn’t been impulsive at all. Of course, Xie Xizhao knew Li Wenbo had been talking about him—yet he still deliberately asked. It was an obvious trap.
And for the sake of his pride, Li Wenbo had no choice but to walk straight into it.
A minute later, he gritted his teeth and said, “Yes.”
As soon as the word left his mouth, the air around them grew even heavier.
Now there was no way to smooth things over. What had once been just passive-aggressive snark had turned into an outright, face-to-face confrontation. Some of the more perceptive onlookers exchanged glances, a few even casting sympathetic looks at Li Wenbo.
But he remained oblivious, still holding his head high.
Xie Xizhao, instead of getting angry, actually seemed to appreciate his directness. “Popularity privilege?”
“That sounds pretty fancy,” he said with a smile. “But I do have one question—if I really had such a thing… why are you still here?”
The second those words landed, a jolt ran through the crowd as they finally snapped back to reality.
…Wait. Yeah!
For someone of Xie Xizhao’s status, a mere supporting role was nothing. If the production team really wanted to capitalize on his popularity, they could have easily pre-selected him. Even if they wanted to check whether he fit the role, they could have arranged a private audition.
People like Li Wenbo wouldn’t have even heard about it.
So what did any of this have to do with him?
Some of the onlookers began to waver, uncertainty creeping into their gazes.
Meanwhile, Li Wenbo’s palm was already red from how hard he had been clenching it. Regret surged through him—why had he run his mouth just now?
Seeing the shift in people’s expressions, panic took over, and he blurted out, “How would I know if you and the production team made some kind of deal in private? What if they already locked you in—”
The moment the words left his mouth, he froze in horror.
What the hell was he saying?!
Throwing passive-aggressive jabs at Xie Xizhao was one thing—
But now he was dragging the production team into it?
As murmurs broke out around him, some laced with mockery, dizziness overwhelmed him.
And just then, a noise came from inside the audition room.
The assistant in charge of the auditions stepped out, knocked on the doorframe, and, without even looking up, called out—
“Next—Li Wenbo.”
Li Wenbo snapped back to reality.
He took a deep breath, not daring to glance at Xie Xizhao, and stiffly followed the assistant inside.
Outside, Xie Xizhao lazily retracted his gaze and put his headphones back on.
The suffocating silence finally lifted.
Everyone returned to how they were before, chatting and laughing as if nothing had happened. But the way they looked at him had changed—there was no longer any disdain.
Instead, there was curiosity. And a hint of intrigue.
…
Xie Xizhao had done it on purpose.
To be honest, he didn’t really care if people talked about him behind his back.
Idols transitioning into acting had always been seen as a shortcut, and there had indeed been cases of them snatching roles from trained actors. He himself knew that he had a proper acting background, but others didn’t. Given that, it was only natural for there to be prejudice.
But not caring didn’t mean he would tolerate blatant lies being spread to his face.
Li Wenbo’s words had been laced with obvious insinuations, and Xie Xizhao had no intention of letting him get away with it just because he played the “weaker” party.
Though their conversation had ultimately been cut short, he knew that at the very least, everyone present today would no longer believe Li Wenbo’s claims.
That was enough.
After glancing through his script for a while, the assistant’s voice rang out once more from the doorway—this time, calling his name.
Xie Xizhao stood up, switched his phone to silent mode, stuffed it into his pocket, and stepped into the room.
The first thing he saw was Li Wenbo sitting in the audience area, his face dark and sullen.
Xie Xizhao paused for two seconds. He understood immediately.
Before coming here, he had looked into Lu Yong.
A notoriously tough director—his word was absolute. And just like Dou Fei had said, he judged purely on professional ability and was brutally honest. Based on how things had gone so far, about 99% of the people who walked out of this room had the same miserable expression as Li Wenbo.
Li Wenbo’s acting skills were average, but he had a strikingly delicate, almost androgynous face.
He had probably felt that he matched the role’s appearance well, which gave him the confidence to audition. What he hadn’t expected was for Lu Yong to be so merciless—he must have been completely crushed.
As Xie Xizhao pondered this, he didn’t miss a beat. His voice was smooth and composed as he completed his self-introduction.
At that moment, Xie Xizhao’s résumé was in Lu Yong’s hands.
The director didn’t even glance at it. Instead, he studied Xie Xizhao for a few seconds before making an offhanded remark:
“You’ve got quite a sharp tongue.”
Xie Xizhao’s expression stilled.
He looked up and saw Dou Fei standing behind him, smiling as he mouthed, ‘The room isn’t soundproof.’
Xie Xizhao: “…”
So they had heard everything.
Sure enough, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Li Wenbo—who had already been looking dejected—had gone completely pale.
As if reading his thoughts, Lu Yong spoke in a flat tone, “I don’t do favoritism. If you’re good, you stay. If you’re not, you get the hell out. I don’t care if you’re a trained actor or a top idol.”
One sentence, and he had taken a jab at both of them.
Xie Xizhao let out a short laugh.
As he lowered his gaze, he could feel Lu Yong’s scrutiny lingering on him.
The director had always been skeptical whenever his protégé talked about someone having a good image.
But at this moment, even someone as sharp-tongued as Lu Yong had to admit—this young man standing before him did have a strikingly good face.
For actors, appearance wasn’t as crucial as it was for idols. When people talked about looks in acting, they meant presence—aura. But the role of Jing Yin was special. It required a balance of both delicate features and strong bone structure.
Such actors were rare.
That was also why the so-called most beautiful men and women in many dramas often ended up being ridiculed.
But…
Just from Xie Xizhao’s face alone, Lu Yong thought—
He could pull it off.
Even as this thought crossed his mind, his expression remained unreadable.
“You’ve read the script?” he asked.
“I have,” Xie Xizhao replied.
“Then let’s start.”
Lu Yong gave him no time to prepare, simply instructing Dou Fei to step forward to the front of the stage.
Dou Fei stood below the stage, preparing to step in.
Meanwhile, Lu Yong flipped through the assistant’s compiled notes on Xie Xizhao once more. Line after line of “Best Newcomer Award,” “Music Award,” and “Album of the Year” filled the page, leaving him unsure how to react. After a brief moment, he could only shake his head in resignation.
But just as he lifted his gaze, he suddenly froze.
—
That night, heavy snow fell.
Outside the long corridor, snowflakes drifted silently as lonely clouds veiled the moon.
It was the first snowfall of winter. The air was bitterly cold, and even the sounds of animals had vanished.
Within the corridor, disciples of the Floating Cloud Sect, assigned to night watch, rubbed their hands together to keep warm as they chatted about the grand sect gathering earlier that day.
Disciple A: “I never expected it… Senior Brother Jing Yin actually lost. This must be his first time losing to an inner disciple, right? And to someone with such poor aptitude, too. What a shame.”
Disciple B: “Shame? What’s there to pity? It just proves he’s not as skilled as we thought. If he can’t even defeat an inner disciple, then his reputation as a genius is pretty hollow.”
Disciple C: “Exactly. I don’t get why you all worship him so much. He couldn’t even beat Yun Jue—he’s just a failure. And with that icy expression of his, acting like the world owes him a fortune… If you ask me, he doesn’t deserve the title of First Disciple anymore.”
As they spoke, their voices grew louder.
Inside a nearby bamboo house, a man sat cross-legged in meditation.
The muffled conversation reached his ears. His lips twitched slightly.
Moments later, he abruptly coughed up a mouthful of black blood.
He opened his eyes, staring at the crimson stains between his fingers. His gaze flickered, shifting rapidly—pain and struggle one moment, icy mockery the next.
But more than anything else, there was an uncontrollable madness creeping in.
Emotions flickered in his eyes, shifting and changing before finally settling into place.
Jing Yin fixed his gaze on the wooden window not far away.
Then, suddenly, the corners of his lips curled into a smile—an almost eerie, otherworldly grin.
At that moment, a voice came from outside the door.
Yun Jue (nervous and cautious): “Senior Brother? Are you asleep?”
Jing Yin’s smile vanished in an instant.
His gaze locked onto the tightly shut wooden door, unmoving, as if he could pierce through it to seize whoever stood beyond—perhaps to tear them apart, to flay them, to strip them down to the bone.
A storm of violence churned in his mind, rising like a ferocious beast baring its fangs and claws.
A moment later, he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, they were calm, void of any emotion.
Jing Yin (his voice gentle, carrying a hint of exhaustion and hoarseness): “Junior Brother? I’m still awake. The snow outside is heavy. Come in.”
—
“Stop.”
The sharp command rang out.
Xie Xizhao closed his eyes for a brief second. When he reopened them, clarity had returned.
Not far away, Dou Fei stood frozen in place, his expression dazed.
He had made a mistake.
The moment Jing Yin finished speaking, he should have stepped into the scene.
But he had been too stunned to move.
Yet, at this moment, no one reprimanded him.
Lu Yong stared fixedly at Xie Xizhao. His voice remained as level as he could manage, but his eyes betrayed everything.
He lowered his voice. “Xiao Fei, snap out of it!”
Dou Fei snapped back to reality.
He turned to look at Xie Xizhao, apology written in his gaze.
But beyond that, there was something else—something deeper, something far more complicated.
Xie Xizhao gave him a small smile.
The audition continued.
—
Yun Jue carefully, almost clumsily, pushed the door open.
He held a bottle of healing ointment in his hands—medicine he had secretly taken from the storage room.
Yun Jue had been deeply worried about Jing Yin. His senior brother had looked unwell throughout the day. Jing Yin always had a habit of forcing himself to endure, and Yun Jue felt that this was a terrible habit.
With a soft creak, the wooden door was pushed open. Yun Jue looked at Jing Yin, his gaze clear and sincere.
Yun Jue (placing the medicine down, speaking with concern): “Senior Brother, I brought you some medicine. Are you feeling better?”
As soon as he finished speaking, the air around them fell into an abrupt silence.
Yun Jue (hesitantly): “Senior Brother?”
Jing Yin (covering his mouth and coughing lightly): “I’m feeling better.”
Jing Yin: “Thank you, Junior Brother.”
Yun Jue (relieved, sitting down on the edge of the bed): “Earlier today…”
Jing Yin (cutting him off, his voice calm): “Earlier today, I simply wasn’t skilled enough. There’s no need for you to dwell on it, Junior Brother.”
Yun Jue (hesitant): “Actually, I…”
Yun Jue didn’t know what he should say.
He was well aware that his victory over Jing Yin had been nothing more than luck. The way people fawned over him now, stepping on his senior brother to flatter him, made him deeply uncomfortable. But at this moment, as he faced the senior brother who had always been kind and protective of him, he found himself unable to say anything at all.
He sank into an unusual sense of dejection—until, suddenly, his eyes landed on something at the edge of the bed.
A striking color stood out against the fabric.
It was…
A silk handkerchief, stained with blood.
Yun Jue (shocked): “Senior Brother! You coughed up blood!”
He reached out in a panic, intending to take Jing Yin’s pulse, but his wrist was caught midair.
Yun Jue had no idea that, in this very moment, he was the closest he had ever been to death.
Just a little more, and Jing Yin’s fingers would have closed around his throat. His pale, slender hand twisted behind the boy’s back, fingers curling unnaturally. Murderous intent surged in his eyes, so thick it was almost tangible.
Outside the window, a stray cat suddenly appeared.
The moment the sound of footsteps landed on the rooftop tiles, Jing Yin’s gaze abruptly cleared.
Beyond the boy’s sight, his eyes turned cold as he stared at the wall, where the moonlight cast its shifting shadows.
He let the boy grasp his wrist in a flustered panic.
Yet, just as Yun Jue was about to touch him, Jing Yin suddenly withdrew his hand.
Jing Yin (weakly): “Junior Brother, I’m fine.”
Yun Jue (pushed away, hesitant): “…Are you sure?”
Jing Yin (looking at him, smiling gently as always): “Really, I’m fine. I’m just a little tired. If there’s nothing else, you should go get some rest too.”
Yun Jue seemed like he wanted to say more, but as he looked at his senior brother’s exhausted expression, he finally held back his words.
Yun Jue (softly): “I’ll come see you again tomorrow.”
Jing Yin (smiling): “Alright.”
He watched as Yun Jue walked toward the door.
The boy’s slender figure was like a young bamboo shoot—upright and elegant. A youthful, vigorous body filled with life.
But what Jing Yin thought was—
One day, sooner or later—
He would snap this bamboo in half.
—
A loud crash shattered the silence.
Xie Xizhao flinched, startled. He turned his head just in time to see Lu Yong knocking over a chair as he shot to his feet, his movements too abrupt.
But Lu Yong didn’t seem to care at all.
His voice, no longer restrained, rang out through the room with barely contained excitement:
“Ziyin! Clear the set for me!”
