Chapter 89: An Astonishing Transformation

Chu Luoxi’s words stirred everyone deeply; not only did Zhu Xueshuang feel moved, but even Liu Yujia’s eyes sparkled, her spirit soaring as the urge to make her mark, which she’d felt upon first joining the crew, returned anew.

“I’ve always wanted to act well. As the heroine of an idol drama, I don’t want to be labeled a mere pretty face,” Zhu Xueshuang sighed, never realizing that her earnestness itself might be the issue. Still, she knew that Chu Luoxi was absolutely right.

“A pretty face isn’t just something people can call you at will, and besides, it’s not impossible to break that mold!” Chu Luoxi lifted her chin with confidence. “Things are never perfect. No matter how much you want to act well, you can’t ignore the essential traits of idol dramas. Maybe, like Wei Chi Hao, you should put in less effort, be a bit more exaggerated—who knows, it might work better, and you won’t be so exhausted during filming.”

Though her words were a bit biting, the truth was just so. Wei Chi Hao, when acting, surely didn’t overthink things.

“I understand now!” Zhu Xueshuang’s smile bloomed, her gentle temperament remaining undiminished. Even in modern clothes, she exuded the distinct charm of a southern woman—a unique personal flair that made her memorable to audiences. “So that’s how it is. Thank you, Xiao Xi…”

Seeing Liu Yujia nodding vigorously, Chu Luoxi couldn’t help but laugh. “You two already owe me a basketful of thanks—save them for now, and I’ll collect with interest later.”

The three exchanged smiles, their camaraderie so warm it seemed almost enviable.

At noon, Chu Luoxi managed to snag a boxed lunch, and occasionally shared some subtle tips with Zhu Xueshuang and Liu Yujia to boost their camera presence. By the afternoon, the entire crew was astonished.

For nearly two months, Zhu Xueshuang had never passed a scene without several retakes. Overall, even Wei Chi Hao, who had no formal training, fared better. Yet after just one lunch break, it was as if the goddess of acting had possessed her—she nailed each scene in one go, growing bolder with every take. Where bystanders had once focused their attention mostly on Wei Chi Hao, now they found themselves involuntarily drawn to Zhu Xueshuang, her performance captivating them completely.

People rubbed their eyes, feeling incredulous as they realized what was happening. Her styling was the same, her outfit unchanged. So why did she seem so different?

It was like a bright moon finally breaking through the clouds, its brilliance shining clear and compelling.

Zhu Xueshuang’s dramatic transformation left everyone a bit off-balance—including Wei Chi Hao, who, caught off guard or simply mesmerized by her, caused several retakes himself.

“Cut! Wei Chi Hao, what’s going on? You've been looking for almost two months now—haven’t you ever seen a beauty before? What are you daydreaming about?” Li Shuangmu barked out the command.

Yet, if one listened closely, Li Shuangmu’s voice carried a note of ease and satisfaction—not directed at Wei Chi Hao, but at Zhu Xueshuang’s improvement. As a director, he couldn’t very well ask an actor not to be too earnest, or not to act well; he could only hint indirectly. He’d waited nearly two months, watching these two dig themselves ever deeper into their rut, feeling anxious for them. Now, thanks to Chu Luoxi’s advice, they finally understood. How could he not feel relieved?

So, in his good mood, Li Shuangmu’s “fierceness” was more lenient, and he spared Wei Chi Hao from further scolding.

This scene had to be reshot because of Wei Chi Hao, but Zhu Xueshuang’s performance was remarkable, as if she’d suddenly found her rhythm—her acting was impressive.

In terms of talent, Zhu Xueshuang was no less gifted than Wei Chi Hao. Though Wei Chi Hao was trained and fit idol dramas perfectly, Zhu Xueshuang, once freed from her rut, unleashed her own unique gentle aura. Coupled with her skills, honed at the Imperial Film Academy, she easily outshone the male lead.

Charisma, presence, and momentum—the “three airs” of an actor. Zhu Xueshuang, though a newcomer, hadn’t yet developed these qualities through experience, but Wei Chi Hao certainly didn’t possess them either. So, with a normal performance, Zhu Xueshuang was more than enough to match him.

Chu Luoxi secretly gave Zhu Xueshuang a thumbs-up, making the latter’s eyes shine even brighter with confidence.

“What did you say to her? Compared to before, she’s a whole new person,” Li Shuangmu approached curiously, speaking in a low voice to Chu Luoxi. She’d solved a major headache for him the moment she arrived.

“Isn’t this what you wanted me to tell them?” Chu Luoxi smiled, a sense of accomplishment rising in her heart.

“What did I ask you to say? Now, Xiao Zhu’s performance completely overshadows the male lead—is that what I wanted?” Li Shuangmu shot her a sidelong glance, steadfastly denying his own little schemes.

Chu Luoxi was speechless, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, before replying calmly, “A drama isn’t just about the male lead. The script already favors him enough, doesn’t it? Everyone should do their best…”

Zhu Xueshuang had merely highlighted her own role’s strengths, without cornering the male lead or disrupting the shoot. Chu Luoxi didn’t believe Li Shuangmu disliked this outcome.

For a director, having all the actors shine is the ideal. If they could, they’d wish every role was deeply memorable to the audience.

“Xiao Zhu is quite perceptive, though she’s prone to overthinking,” Li Shuangmu sighed. Without Chu Luoxi’s guidance, who knows when Zhu Xueshuang would have come to her senses?

“Xiao Xue and Xiao Jia have always been outstanding—especially Xiao Jia, who sometimes is the most intuitive,” Chu Luoxi replied with a worldly air, quietly lamenting Liu Yujia’s path in her past life. She was truly suited for acting. Whether she was suited for this industry, though, was another matter entirely.

“Yes, Xiao Liu is pure and straightforward, making it easiest for her to grasp the essence of a role. But she’s also easily influenced by others,” Li Shuangmu observed astutely. Since the start of filming, Liu Yujia’s performances hadn’t been as problematic as Zhu Xueshuang’s, but she hadn’t found her own understanding either—largely because she’d been affected by Zhu Xueshuang.

“That’s true,” Chu Luoxi nodded in agreement, remembering that in her past life, Liu Yujia’s final choice had been triggered by Zhu Xueshuang’s death.