Chapter 58: The Tyrant Director

When it came to casting, Qiu Xian had always been rather autocratic. Everyone was used to it, especially Qi Yue, who had worked with him for so long and naturally understood his temperament. He could also sense that Qiu Xian had high expectations for Chu Luoxi, and was even a little impatient.

Chu Luoxi, who was just as familiar with Qiu Xian’s temperament, was not surprised in the least. She simply nodded to show she had taken note. This calm and unhurried composure made several people’s eyes light up.

Given the director’s excitement, Qi Yue shook his head and said with a laugh, “Chu Luoxi, wait outside for a bit. There are still a few more people to audition. Once we're done, we’ll sign the contract with you first.” Signing a contract meant the role was settled, saving Qiu Xian from looking as though he was afraid she’d run off.

“Alright!” Chu Luoxi smiled and nodded. She understood that with both the director and Qi Yue speaking so, it meant that the remaining auditionees were just going through the motions. Still, the process had to be completed.

Before leaving, Chu Luoxi thanked Huang Zixue and the other staff present. After all, they had helped her with the scene and prepared for the audition, which was no small effort.

When she stepped outside, she naturally ran into number twenty-four, who was after her. Facing a pair of eyes that scrutinized her as if scanning, Chu Luoxi’s expression remained unchanged, neither happy nor sad, revealing nothing at all. This made the other woman purse her lips with some irritation, her attitude haughty.

To this, Chu Luoxi was rather puzzled. Was having strong backing really something to be arrogant about? Yet another person who couldn’t see herself clearly…

Observing Chu Luoxi’s reaction, Qiu Xian couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “What a polite child.”

Qi Yue stifled a laugh. “It’s rare to see a newcomer so professional. A student, no less—what a surprise!” Encountering such a dark horse was indeed delightful.

“Heh, today’s harvest is more than satisfactory,” Qiu Xian raised his brows, thinking of the people recommended by Leng Daji and Xiao Jingxuan. They truly were extraordinary—good looks, solid ability, and from Emperor Shadow. Did Leng Lu intend to cultivate a female version of Xiao Jingxuan?

“Say, Director Qiu, that thunderous roar of yours just now—was it on purpose?” Huang Zixue shot him a sidelong glance. Their familiarity was obvious, allowing for such casual speech.

“Exactly! You nearly gave that young lady a fright!” Qi Yue couldn’t help but laugh. He’d naturally seen through Chu Luoxi’s momentary pause.

Qiu Xian laughed as well and admitted, “I won’t deny it—I did it a little on purpose. This young lady’s adaptability is impressive. She knows how to turn an unexpected situation to her advantage and handled it with real skill.” Her technique gave no hint that she was a newcomer.

Of course, this was only an audition, and the performance was a bit off from what would happen during actual filming. If it had been a genuine shoot, Huang Zixue, as the emperor, would not have acted that way. After all, there would be more than just Consort Rou on set—an entire cast to consider. Otherwise, it would have become a two-person scene.

But in an audition, it was just two people, and a bit of improvisation was normal, so long as what needed to be shown was shown.

“Moreover, her acting has a rare vitality, as if it’s the distilled essence of countless trials—none of that stiff, formulaic school style.” It was rare for Qiu Xian to praise someone so highly, and both Qi Yue and Huang Zixue agreed with his assessment.

Many people believed that being able to cry meant being able to act. That’s why many auditionees strove to cry faster, more miserably, than the others. But in truth, scenes of crying were among the lowest forms of acting. Chu Luoxi’s performance just now, however, had been a masterful elevation.

It’s not a skill just to cry; what’s truly impressive is to be able to control it at will. For instance, if only tears welling up are needed, not a single one should fall. If a single tear is required, there must not be a second. Or if a tear is to fall from the left eye, not a drop should appear in the right. Such control is beyond the reach of most.

Clearly, Chu Luoxi had reached that level. When she heard “cut,” she could withdraw her tears immediately—far harder than simply stopping after letting them fall.

It was, in truth, a matter of practice. Chu Luoxi had honed this skill over many years. There was no choice; leading female roles in film and television seldom made it through a story without crying. As though to prove that “women are made of water,” tears were used to express everything. She’d played many such roles—crying in every episode until she sometimes feared her eyes would be ruined.

But back then, she had no say; company contracts bound her, and however much she disliked it, she had to act. Deep down, she’d come to loathe tearful women.

Of course, she wasn’t so inflexible. Tears were, after all, a woman’s weapon. When they were needed, she would not hesitate to use them—just as she had a moment ago. It all depended on how they were wielded.

“So…how did it go?” Ding Ju hurried over. Seeing Chu Luoxi’s neutral expression, she wasn’t sure if she should ask.

Glancing at the people still in line, casting curious looks their way, Chu Luoxi nodded lightly. “Let’s go out and get something to eat.” There were some things better left unsaid in certain places. Otherwise, even if she meant nothing by it, she’d be seen as showing off.

Ding Ju understood and smiled, falling silent. Then, as if just remembering something, she exclaimed, “Wait, you haven’t had breakfast yet, have you?” Goodness, it was almost noon, and she was still mentioning breakfast?

Chu Luoxi walked out, unhurried. “That’s right.” She’d been caring for Zhu Xueshuang last night, then tying up matters in the morning, and then came with Ding Ju to the film city. She hadn’t had a chance to eat.

But there was no rush. The main filming location for “Empire” was this palace complex, situated in one of the bustling streets of the Imperial Film City. How could there not be food?

The film city was always packed, with various crews and wandering actors. How could food, clothing, and shelter possibly be lacking?

“What? You haven’t eaten breakfast? Why didn’t you tell me?” Ding Ju practically jumped, as if her tail had been stepped on, nearly shouting.

This was bad—she was Chu Luoxi’s life assistant, and taking care of her was a core duty that Leng Daji had emphasized. If she heard that Chu Luoxi had skipped breakfast, harming her health, would she freeze Ding Ju with her icy glare? Most importantly, she’d finally landed this good job—would she lose it?

Glancing at Ding Ju’s devastated, doomsday expression, Chu Luoxi was puzzled. “What’s wrong with you?”

It was just breakfast. She simply hadn’t had time. If she’d had the chance, she wouldn’t have mistreated herself. Why was this woman more upset than she was? After living a second life, no one cared more about her own health than she did—but in this industry, compromise was sometimes necessary.