MACRM Chapter 9

so uh… sorry for the delayed update. I scheduled ch 9 and ch 10 for September instead of August for some reason…

Zheng Yi’s polite greeting caught in his throat. He glanced back and forth at the scene before him, eyes wide with disbelief.

The Sichuan Film Crew is Wei Geping’s personal team.

It was the highest-quality crew in the country in recent years — every project they produced was guaranteed to be a painstakingly polished gem, practically a gold standard for ratings. The only catch was the director’s legendary temper. People said that when he blew up, he’d yell at actors, smash props, or even shut down the entire shoot. Yet, no one dared challenge him, because his talent was simply untouchable.

Before Zheng Yi came, his manager had reminded him again and again that he must treat Director Wei with respect. No matter how badly the director scolds him, just suck it up. Don’t expect the director to have a secret soft side. There’s no such thing. 

Yet now Zheng Yi felt like he was hallucinating.

“Uncle Wei, I do have work to do!”

Lin Zhu dodged the rolled-up script aimed at his head with a quick twist, darting behind Zhong Yao and poking out half his head. “It’s just mahjong! Pick whoever you want. I’ll win it back for you tonight…”

Most of the Sichuan Film Crew were from Tianfu, and their love for mahjong ran deep. Director Wei Geping led the charge himself.

For Lin Zhu, these sorts of games really weren’t any challenge—

All he needed to do was glance at each player and everyone’s tiles would be clear as day. No matter what hand he was dealt, winning only took a bit of mental math.

It was over a mahjong game that Lin Zhu had won the audition chance for the role of Zhan Yuan.

He’d won so decisively in that three-player round that Wei Geping immediately spotted his “talent.” For the remaining ten days that Lin Zhu kept visiting the [No Bridge] set, Wei Geping had practically held him hostage to keep playing mahjong, which allowed him to drag the role’s casting day by day.

Wei Geping gave a cold snort, but there was already a trace of a smile tugging at his lips. He waved his hand for everyone to sit down.

He was so often stern that it had solidified into a naturally fierce look. Even when he appeared in media photos, his face always radiated an intimidating air. Now, for him to smile so suddenly… it was enough to make the uninitiated wonder if the sun had just set in the east.

Zheng Yi’s palms started to sweat. Instinctively, he shuffled half a step backward.

Lin Zhu’s bright eyes curved as he grinned, tugging Zhong Yao forward. “Uncle Wei, this is Zhong-laoshi, the one I told you about—”

“You’ve told me about him eight hundred times!

“‘Good man, good acting, got the height, got the looks.’ I could recite his resume from the age of eighteen to thirty by now.”

Wei Geping knew Lin Zhu far too well to bother with pleasantries. He cut him off mid-sentence, tossed a small stool behind him, and barked, “We’re all film people here. You think we don’t know Film Emperor Zhong? If it were some rookie idol, you could try gambling a role over mahjong again. Sit down. That spot over there is for your audition.”

Lin Zhu flushed red from ears to neck at the teasing. He froze on the spot, heart pounding like a drum.

He could feel Zhong Yao’s gaze was on him.

He heard me brag about him behind his back!

Lin Zhu felt like a fresh bamboo shoot steaming in a pot, frozen stiff from top to bottom. The fine silk of his tailored suit was twisted tight between his palms, crushed into a mess of tiny creases.

Back then he hadn’t even officially become Zhong Yao’s agent. He didn’t know whether Zhong Yao would want this role or not, he’d just barged into the crew on sheer reckless faith and demanded the chance. Now he’d finally brought him here, and only now did the nerves hit him like a tidal wave.

A hand came to rest gently on his back.

“Director Wei, I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s an honor.”

Zhong Yao bent forward politely, his palm pressed lightly against the fabric at Lin Zhu’s back.

The calm, steady touch made Lin Zhu lift his head instinctively. Zhong Yao’s gaze fell to meet his.  Clear as running water, yet warmed by a gentle glow.

Lin Zhu looked up at him, not sure if he should relax or panic even more. His chest filled with a rush of warmth. Finally, he gave him a small, bright smile.

At last, this day had come.

The day he’d dreamed of since he was twelve, when they could stand shoulder to shoulder.

Zhong Yao returned the smile. He pressed Lin Zhu’s shoulder reassuringly, then turned to Wei Geping with calm courtesy. “I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused the production due to my personal matters.”

The crew had already started prepping Zhan Yuan’s scenes, but no one knew if Zhong Yao had returned to the country or would take the role. Everyone had been waiting on edge, making all kinds of backup plans.

He really had caused some hassle.

Wei Geping gave another cold snort and was just about to pull rank, to knock this film emperor king, who hadn’t acted in three years, down a notch. But then his eyes flicked past him and landed on Lin Zhu.

Wei Geping: “……”

He opened his mouth, then forced a stiff smile. “…No trouble at all. Have a seat.”

He still needed Lin Zhu’s help at the mahjong table. The famously tough, unyielding director was tasting the bitter flavor of being at the mercy of “connections” for the first time.

Zheng Yi and his manager’s faces were both utterly miserable.

The company’s original plan had been to intercept the news halfway. Before Lin Zhu caught wind of it, they’d rush Zheng Yi in to audition, muddling the role’s ownership so it looked like the company’s own resource.

So long as they were shameless enough — even if Lin Zhu had clearly said the role was for Zhong Yao — if the two didn’t show up by the agreed time, they could spin it into a story that Zhong Yao looked down on this “third male lead” part, acting like a diva who refused to accept it.

Zheng Yi’s acting wasn’t bad, and the crew was eager to start shooting Zhan Yuan’s scenes. Maybe they really could bluff their way through and snag the role. Even if Lin Zhu and Zhong Yao found out later, who knew if they could get it back. And if they did snatch it back, the company could still flip the narrative and release a wave of gossip about “Film Emperor bullies newcomer, snatches role by force.”

What they hadn’t expected was for those two to be so well-informed, and getting here even faster than they did.

Let alone the fact that Lin Zhu’s rapport with the core production team was this warm and tight-knit…

The agent let out a silent sigh, grabbed Zheng Yi’s arm, and tried to drag him away in defeat, but Zheng Yi didn’t budge an inch.

Zheng Yi’s face was dark as ink, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth almost cracked, eyes locked onto the group chatting and laughing as if glued there.

A jolt of alarm shot through the agent. He quickly lowered his voice. “What are you doing? You want to stick around and get humiliated? Come on, let’s go—”

“I heard the Sichuan Film Crew doesn’t play favorites. The best wins, right?”

Zheng Yi’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and shrill. He didn’t bother lowering it. The whole set fell quiet in an instant.

The few production leads who’d been chatting with Lin Zhu all looked up at once.

Zheng Yi’s face flushed red. He stepped forward. “If Zhong-laoshi can play the role, why can’t I? …A senior doesn’t always perform better than a junior! I got the audition notice, so here I am—”

“I only sent out one invitation.”

The assistant director, who’d been handing Lin Zhu a chocolate bar, calmly pushed up his glasses and cut in mildly, “And just how did you get that audition notice?”

Zheng Yi’s expression twisted in an instant, red creeping up under his eyes until it almost looked like blood would burst out. He was about to explode when Wei Geping’s voice came, cutting him off.

“Then let’s test you both. Zhong Yao?”

Zhong Yao gave a faint, easy smile. “Sure.”

“Camera on. Record the whole thing.”

Wei Geping knocked the table, gestured at Zheng Yi. “You first. Act 3, Scene 2.” 

Zheng Yi drew a deep breath, shut his eyes, and slowly adjusted his clothes, forcing himself back under control. He cast Lin Zhu a cold glare, dropped his script, and strode to his mark.

He wasn’t just some pretty vase[mfn]someone who only has good looks, but no skills.[/mfn] propped up by his popularity.

Though he was in the same traffic-heavy “idol” lane, he was a properly trained actor with a real degree. Next to the average pretty boy who needed stand-ins and read lines like counting numbers, his acting was actually decent.

He was determined to win this role. He’d gotten his stylists and makeup artists to work overtime all night, knowing the audition probably wouldn’t provide a costume. Every piece of clothing, every strand of hair, his makeup — everything was tailored to fit the character of Zhan Yuan.

Zhan Yuan was a very special role.

He is the young master of a wealthy merchant family. He is lavish and sociable, famous for throwing extravagant parties that cost tens of thousands in a single night. He is the city’s notorious profligate. Yet beneath that facade, secretly a covert operative sheltering refugees and wounded soldiers, who would first oppose and then become an ally of the protagonist.

Act 3, Scene 2. Zhan Yuan’s identity was still hidden. He was hosting a party, mingling with the guests.

Zheng Yi had studied the script inside and out. He settled into character instantly, transforming into a poised and graceful young master. He gave a courteous nod and smile.

“Come, come, all of you, please come in. Tonight, eat your fill and enjoy yourselves. Any expense, any tab, put it all on Zhan’s account…”

To capture Zhan Yuan’s essence, this party scene was the obvious choice for an individual test. His styling had been meticulously designed for it.

He’d already practiced this scene privately several times. The lines came smoothly, and even in this makeshift space he vividly embodied the character. Even his agent couldn’t help but show a faint smile of satisfaction.

This level should be enough to clear Sichuan Film Crew’s bar.

After all, Zhong Yao had been off the screen for three years. What if his acting had dulled? Skill like that, once set aside, couldn’t be picked back up overnight.

Even if he had been at Film Emperor level back then, who knew how much he had left now…

It was almost time for the “cut.” The scene had reached the point where Zhan Yuan would toast and chat with the guests. Without scene partners there was no need to keep going. Zheng Yi stepped out of the smooth, flowing performance, straightened up confidently, and shot Lin Zhu a smug, challenging look.

Wei Geping gave a small nod. “Not bad.”

Zheng Yi’s performance was solid. Nothing mind-blowing, but enough to match Zhan Yuan’s outward persona. In an era where most young actors counted numbers as “line reciting” and used stand-ins, he stood out quite well.

Wei Geping tossed off a casual compliment, then caught how Zheng Yi kept glancing past everyone’s shoulders. He raised an eyebrow, looked back, and followed the line of sight straight to Lin Zhu.

“Lin Zhu, we’re short on hands. Come run lines for the next one.”