Chapter 15: The Homeroom Teacher’s Thoughts

Chu Luoxi had already told Bai Yun about her current identity, so whenever they talked, she often spoke from a professional perspective, explaining different ways of cinematic expression or how a script should narrate its plot. She hoped that by drawing comparisons, Bai Yun would come to his own realizations—if he did, her task would be complete.

Fortunately, after Bai Yun’s horizons broadened, he rarely spoke in a defeated tone. Instead, he actively sought out problems to solve, and his entire mental state transformed; he completely emerged from his slump.

It seemed Bai Yun truly loved writing. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to sustain such passion for so long. That was what Chu Luoxi firmly believed. Watching him grow more perceptive through their ongoing conversations, she couldn’t help but smile in relief. The work of an emotional guide was never easy, but it was incredibly rewarding.

“Oh my, Xiaoxi, are you having an online romance? The semester is nearly over, yet you’re glued to your computer every day, grinning like... well, in the throes of infatuation! Don’t tell me I’ve guessed it right!” Liu Yujia exclaimed as soon as she entered the room, catching sight of Chu Luoxi’s radiant smile.

“What? You’re the one in the throes of infatuation!” Chu Luoxi shot her a glare, unable to comprehend how she could be accused of having an online fling. Even elementary schoolers wouldn’t bother with that anymore, would they? People these days were far too shrewd—everyone knew online romances were unreliable.

“Pft, I think it’s Yujia who’s lovestruck, so now everyone she sees is too...” Zhu Xueshuang, entering behind, closed the door and laughed, adding her own quip.

No one unfamiliar with Zhu Xueshuang would ever guess that this gentle, elegant girl could toss around words like “in the throes of infatuation” so casually. She really seemed possessed by someone else.

“Hmph, Xue, you always side with Xiaoxi to bully me!” Liu Yujia rubbed her nose and flopped into a chair, rolling her eyes dramatically.

Chu Luoxi chuckled, knowing they were all just playing around, and quickly steered the conversation away from this topic.

Ever since her rebirth, her days had become extremely regular—so regular, in fact, that she hardly resembled a student of the Film Academy. Classroom, cafeteria, dormitory—she hadn’t left campus in ages, which often left Zhu Xueshuang and Liu Yujia incredulous.

Neither of them could be as much of a homebody as Chu Luoxi. Though they spent most of their time in the dorm chatting with her to gain experience and broaden their knowledge, they would occasionally join the crowds in search of that so-called sliver of opportunity.

“Xiaoxi, Professor Tang said that Director Yun Jishan is preparing to shoot a new film and is looking for actors. He wants us to go audition—are you interested?” Zhu Xueshuang, having just finished washing the dishes, flicked water from her hands and suddenly remembered to mention it.

“Yun Jishan?” Chu Luoxi’s hand paused on the mouse, and she froze for a moment.

That name was very familiar to her. Now, he was already a well-known young director. Of course, “young” was relative to other big-name directors—he was actually around forty.

Yun Jishan and the Professor Tang Zhu Xueshuang mentioned were old friends, though neither had graduated from the Imperial Film Academy. Professor Tang, Tang Ming, was now their class supervisor in the acting department, which made it easy for them to get news about Director Yun.

In her previous life, Chu Luoxi used to get excited whenever she heard such news. Yet after years in the industry post-graduation, she learned that Yun Jishan actually had a not-insignificant quirk: he disliked hiring actors trained in the academy. He thought they were too mechanical, lacking natural intuition—especially students who hadn’t yet been tempered by society.

And as for Tang Ming, though he was their supervisor, he only mentioned these things in passing; he wasn’t truly offering them opportunities. After all, with so many students, he couldn’t possibly take care of everyone. The reason he told his own students was simply to let them try their luck. As for himself, he hadn’t made any special arrangements with Yun Jishan.

Chu Luoxi didn’t believe that, as old friends, Tang Ming was unaware of Yun Jishan’s hiring preferences. Perhaps he just wanted to teach his students to cope with disappointment after hope. After enough rejections, one would eventually develop a calm, unruffled heart.

She understood Tang Ming’s good intentions, but not everyone needed such toughening. At least for Chu Luoxi, in both her lives, she never wanted that kind of experience. Besides, some students fared even worse—without enough mental resilience, they lost all confidence and never recovered.

It could be said that Tang Ming liked to use rather extreme teaching methods: if you endured, you’d become a dragon; if not, you’d stay a worm.

It sounded cruel, but it was simply a more explicit form of survival of the fittest. So the actors who emerged from his tutelage, the ones he valued, generally had good careers afterward.

Considering all this, Chu Luoxi explained Yun Jishan’s preferences, making it clear she wouldn’t be going, and left the choice up to Zhu Xueshuang and Liu Yujia: “That’s why, even for minor roles, Director Yun won’t use students. For extras, he hires groups led by professional coordinators—they’re easier to manage and not too expensive, much better than hiring scattered student actors.”

She then briefly analyzed the well-known relationship between Yun Jishan and Tang Ming, easily highlighting the teacher’s mindset. Zhu Xueshuang and Liu Yujia listened in astonishment.

“So right from the start, we never really had a chance!” Liu Yujia couldn’t suppress her disappointment. At first, no one thought much about it—they assumed that with their supervisor’s connection, their odds were pretty good.

Naive students only saw the upside, so they were naturally overjoyed and full of hope.

“Now that I think about it, it makes sense. There are over thirty people in our class alone—if we could all get in through Professor Tang, the odds would be terrifying,” Zhu Xueshuang realized, and her earlier expectations faded away.

After spending this much time with Chu Luoxi, both of them had come to trust her judgment. Besides, her explanations were detailed and convincing—they had no reason to argue, only to try and learn what they themselves lacked.

Though their enthusiasm for auditioning had cooled, Zhu Xueshuang couldn’t help but ask, “Xiaoxi, have you lost interest in acting? It feels like you haven’t been as invested this semester.”

To be fair, this change had occurred since the incident before National Day, when Chu Luoxi was beaten down. Before, she’d always been the fastest and most enthusiastic in chasing after opportunities like this.

She knew her recent behavior had raised some questions, but Chu Luoxi had no intention of changing or pretending otherwise. She simply smiled. “It’s not that I don’t want to act anymore. It’s just that, after learning more, I’ve come to believe it’s better to let things happen naturally.”

Perhaps in this life, acting was more a hobby than a dream to her. Without actively pursuing it, any gain would be a happy accident, but she no longer had the initiative she once did. Now, knowing something was impossible, she wouldn’t waste her time trying.