Chapter 168.1: Audition
After figuring it out, Dr. Qiu shook her head without hesitation. “N-no need!”
“Mr. Shen, please rest assured, I have absolute professional ethics and will never reveal any of your consultation content or information to anyone.”
Upon hearing this, Shen Xiu’s tense body gradually relaxed. It was as if the tight grip around his heart had been released, and his heartbeat returned to normal. He put on his mask and sunglasses and gave a slight nod. “Alright, thank you.”
So… did that count as her passing his ‘test’?
“…Y-you’re welcome,” Dr. Qiu replied, watching Shen Xiu’s expression nervously.
Through the sunglasses, she couldn’t see his eyes, but even without seeing them, she could easily imagine how cold the gaze behind those lenses must be.
A man who clearly knew he was “sick,” yet controlled himself so perfectly that there wasn’t a single flaw to catch—she might dare to prescribe medicine, but would it even help someone like that?
Shen Xiu: “Goodbye.”
Qiu Yan: “Goodbye!”
Shen Xiu boarded the bus. There weren’t many people inside, so he picked an empty seat close to the exit and sat down.
Sitting on the bench, Shen Xiu thought about what Dr. Qiu had said, and his mood dipped slightly.
But then he reminded himself—yes, he was sick, but not to the point of needing medication.
It seemed… he was still doing okay?
Watching him get on the bus and leave, Qiu Yan let out a heavy sigh of relief and patted her chest. She murmured to herself, “It’s finally over…”
It hadn’t even really started, yet Shen Xiu had already been unwilling to continue—and before leaving, he directly pointed out the fact that he wasn’t normal.
Arrogant, reckless, with absolute confidence and control…
All of this made Qiu Yan look at the fading back of the bus and mutter under her breath, “As expected of Shen Xiu…”
“Wait… did Shen Xiu just take the bus?”
Qiu Yan recalled a popular comment online: people had seen Shen Xiu drive fewer times than the number of times they’d seen him take the bus. With that in mind, she didn’t find his choice to take public transportation strange at all.
After all, Shen Xiu had always prioritized convenience and never cared about how others viewed him—that was just who he was.
As for Shen Xiu coming in for psychological counseling today, and the matter of his mental state—whether out of professional ethics or pure fear of him—Qiu Yan wouldn’t breathe a word about it.
—
When Shen Xiu left home earlier, his mood had been heavy due to uncertainty about the severity of his “condition.” But upon returning home, having learned that his condition was so mild it didn’t even require medication, he was in great spirits.
In his good mood, Shen Xiu gave Lucky a thorough rub, only stopping when Lucky leapt up to the top of the cat tree to escape him.
Shen Xiu plopped down on the sofa and picked up the tablet on the coffee table to continue the novel he hadn’t finished.
Three hours later, after finishing yet another book, Shen Xiu rubbed his eyes. Having read so many different genres, he now felt a bit lost—he wasn’t sure what kind of story he actually wanted to film.
Everyone had different minds and thoughts, after all. Shen Xiu knew he couldn’t expect others to write something that would hit him right in the heart.
So…
Shen Xiu opened his closed laptop, turned it on, and rested it on his knees.
“Let’s give it a shot,” he thought. It was still better than endlessly searching like a needle in a haystack.
He opened a blank document, placed his index finger on the keyboard…
…
One Week Later
Shen Xiu leaned back on the sofa and typed the final words: “The End.”
As he thought back over the script he had just finished, Shen Xiu was reluctant to admit it—but even he could sense a faint trace of… twisted depravity in what he’d written?
At that thought, his brow instinctively furrowed. He quickly saved the document, expertly uploaded it to cloud drives on three different apps, then stood up and walked toward the bathroom.
In the bathroom, Shen Xiu turned on the faucet, cupped some cold water in his hands, and splashed it on his face.
The icy droplets met his warm skin, trickled down his face, and left behind only a faint coolness.
With the chill of the water clearing his head, Shen Xiu raised his eyes to the mirror and stared at his reflection, feeling noticeably more composed.
Now calm, Shen Xiu recalled his earlier thoughts and couldn’t help but find them ridiculous.
The psychologist had said his condition was very mild—so mild that he didn’t even need medication.
Twisted? Depraved?
How could those words possibly apply to him?
He was clearly overthinking it! He was totally normal—so normal that he didn’t need any meds! If you rounded up, the only thing “abnormal” about him was that he didn’t smile often. Aside from that, he was a textbook example of a bright, cheerful, and optimistic college student!
Now that the script was done, all that remained was casting actors, getting filming equipment, and assembling a production team. Summer break wasn’t long, and Shen Xiu had no time to waste on wondering whether or not he was “twisted.”
Shoving the thought aside, Shen Xiu stared directly into the mirror. It was a face he should’ve been most familiar with, yet the longer he looked, the more uneasy he felt. Beneath the awkwardness… there was also a strange, hard-to-name sense of unfamiliarity.
At that realization, a chill crept up his spine, and he quickly looked away, refusing to meet his own eyes in the mirror any longer.
He turned on his heel and strode out of the bathroom.
Back on the sofa, Shen Xiu instinctively avoided dwelling on the unsettling moment from earlier. Not wanting it to occupy his thoughts any further, he reopened his laptop and created a chart. Based on his script, he began filling in the character traits required for each role.
Since he had written the script himself, Shen Xiu remembered all the characters and their attributes clearly. He didn’t even need to refer back to the script while filling out the table.
An hour later, after reviewing the chart three times to ensure there were no errors, Shen Xiu saved it with practiced ease. Then he picked up his phone and consulted directors Xuan Yushu, Xuan Ji, and Shi Buwen to clarify a few questions.
Only then did he send the completed chart to the group chat for The Galaxy.
Everyone had been chatting casually in the group when they suddenly saw a document from Shen Xiu pop up. Curious, the members who saw it clicked to open it.
In the file Shen Xiu sent, he had listed all characters in the script with more than ten lines of dialogue, along with their role traits. At the end of each entry, he also included the names of actors he thought would suit the roles.
Among the names… were a few members from The Galaxy.
After sending the document, Shen Xiu followed up with a message:
[Group Chat]
Shen Xiu: Does anyone have actor recommendations?
Those who had taken the time to read the chart in full saw the follow-up message and, recalling what they had just read, the group suddenly went quiet.
In the document, under each role and its suggested actor, only names like Xiang Yueting, Zhuang Yi, Ning Sinian, and Jiang Yanxi appeared. None of the other The Galaxy members were listed.
In another team, this kind of thing could easily be mistaken for favoritism—someone using personal connections to give certain people an advantage or special treatment.
But for members like Mu Zhenchu, who didn’t see their names in the list, the only feeling they had—knowing it came from Shen Xiu—was one of calm acceptance.
Shen Xiu always said what he meant—direct, open, with nothing hidden or sugarcoated. That kind of straightforwardness actually made everyone feel more at ease.
If Shen Xiu hadn’t listed them, it must mean they simply didn’t fit the character profiles. It definitely wasn’t about targeting or excluding anyone.
The ones whose names were included—like Jiang Yanxi—did feel a little uneasy at first upon noticing the others hadn’t been listed. But just like Song Chengwang and the rest who hadn’t made the list, they quickly came to the same conclusion.
If Shen Xiu wrote their names down and gave them the opportunity to appear in his film, it must’ve been because they truly fit the roles—not because he was playing favorites or doing anyone any favors.
Once everyone had thought it through, replies quickly flooded the group chat:
[Group Chat]
Zhuang Yi: ! That was fast?! What’s the original novel? I’m curious—the speed is insane!
Xia Wenhao: I think I know someone—his look and vibe both match the description. I’ll send his profile to your agent or to you directly, Captain Xiu.
Song Chengwang: Tsk, I don’t know many industry folks, so I can’t really recommend anyone… but I am reserving a spot to visit the set!
Jiang Yanxi: Thanks, Captain! I know a friend who might be a great fit. If it’s okay, I’ll get in touch with her agent and see if she can audition.
…
One message after another rolled in. Shen Xiu, who’d gotten used to quietly lurking in group chats, had to press and scroll slowly just to keep up and make sure he didn’t miss anything.
While checking the messages and reviewing the names his teammates recommended, he filled them into the actor column on his open spreadsheet.
Only after finishing that did he finally have time to type a reply.
Shen Xiu: No original novel. It’s an original script.
Shen Xiu: All inputs recorded—thank you, everyone!
Xiang Yueting: Already looking forward to it!
Ning Sinian: +1!
Shang Yu: Need any investors?
Song Chengwang: Investors? Count me in! (winks, awkward attempt at being cute)
Shen Xiu: Yes.
After replying, Shen Xiu felt another wave of quiet gratitude rise in his heart—everyone really is so kind.
Not only had they recommended suitable actors, they had also solved the problem of investment for him.
Shang Yu and Xiang Yueting stared at Shen Xiu’s reply—short and straight to the point, with an exclamation mark—and found themselves momentarily speechless.
With K Corp already backing him, they had assumed that with Shen Xiu’s strong-willed and hands-on personality, he wouldn’t allow anyone else to get involved. They thought he’d have shut the door on any other investors before they even had the chance to knock.
But unexpectedly, Shen Xiu accepted their offer to invest—he was actually giving them a share of the pie.
After all, this was Shen Xiu’s first movie. Just thinking about it, anyone could tell it was going to be a major event. Even if it turned out to be a flop, the “Shen Xiu” label alone would attract a wave of curious viewers willing to pay just to see it.
And besides—this was Shen Xiu. A man who strived for the pinnacle of perfection in everything he did—how could he possibly allow himself to produce something bad?
Even though the film hadn’t been shot yet, they were confident enough to bet on it: a movie by Shen Xiu would definitely be good. Whether in reputation, box office, or awards, it would rake in everything there was to gain.
It was clear Shen Xiu genuinely valued them. Rather than coldly rejecting their investment offers, he welcomed them in so they could share in the success.
After the group chat quieted down, Song Chengwang couldn’t resist dialing Shang Yu’s number.
The moment the call connected, Song Chengwang said excitedly, “Captain Xiu’s first movie, okay? It’s guaranteed to explode. You thinking of squeezing someone in?”
Unlike K Corp, both the Song and Shang families had their own entertainment companies. Promoting their own artists and making money from it—that was just good business.
Shang Yu waved his assistant Tang out of the office. Once the door closed behind them, he finally spoke:
“Use your brain. This is Shen Xiu’s film. The fact that he’s letting us invest already means he’s showing us special favor.”
“If we try to shove people into his cast—do you really want to ruin how Shen Xiu sees the both of us?”
Song Chengwang: “…Got it.”
Right then and there, Song Chengwang decided he couldn’t let Shen Xiu down by acting like some stereotypical investor—throwing money in and then immediately trying to stuff his own company’s artists into the cast, interfering with Shen Xiu’s creative process.
