Chapter 55: Ready and Waiting

While Contestant Twenty-One was in the midst of her audition and Twenty-Two was preparing, it came time for Luo Xi Chu to draw her lot. She remained perfectly composed, but the assistant, Ding Ju, who was at her side, was visibly tense. If people hadn’t been so focused elsewhere, they would have noticed her slight, involuntary shivers—an anxious reaction even Ding Ju herself hardly realized.

“I’m the one auditioning; why are you so nervous?” Luo Xi Chu asked calmly, glancing at the slip she’d just drawn. She couldn’t resist teasing her assistant—a reaction so straightforward and endearing, it was impossible not to indulge. It was this sense of mischief that had always delighted her; in a former life, she’d had many assistants, among them one with a similar disposition. Luo Xi Chu had loved to watch her jump at the slightest provocation.

“I can’t help it…” Ding Ju sniffled, a little frustrated. Her nerves seemed even worse than when she was facing her own exams, yet she simply couldn’t control her feelings.

Luo Xi Chu rolled her eyes. “It’s just an audition for a supporting role. If you’re like this now, what would you do if it were for the female lead—have a heart attack?” She’d seen anxious reactions before, but never anyone so utterly defenseless. Anyone watching might have mistaken Ding Ju for the one truly at the center of attention.

Pausing for a moment, Ding Ju blinked, then nodded in sudden understanding. “You’re right, I really ought to get used to this.” She was only an assistant, after all—why act as if it were some grand occasion?

Shaking her head with a small laugh, Luo Xi Chu marveled at the director Leng Daji’s unusual taste. Perhaps he lived with such contradictions just to give life a bit more flavor? Well, her own thinking hadn’t yet reached such heights.

Inside, the previous contestant was still auditioning. A staff member collected Luo Xi Chu’s drawn scene to deliver it in advance, and she waited at the door for her turn.

The scene she’d drawn was nothing out of the ordinary—a common enough scenario, but one of the rare moments where Consort Rou’s character and cunning were both on display. In the imperial garden, Consort Rou is framed by a powerful rival, accused of plotting to poison a newly pregnant concubine. Just as she’s about to defend herself, the emperor arrives, and Consort Rou turns to him to demand justice.

From her recollection, the scene was unremarkable as it had been performed before. It should have been a highlight for Consort Rou, but it had always devolved into set dressing: pitiful sobbing and pleas for the emperor to clear her name, all tears and snot. Luo Xi Chu could never understand what the emperor saw in such a woman.

If played that way, aside from the crying, Consort Rou would have only two or three lines before the camera moved on—reduced to mere background. The drama’s pacing was tight; there was no room for drawn-out laments just to pad the runtime.

To Luo Xi Chu, Consort Rou was no mere vase—she was beautiful, yes, but also shrewd and skillful in her own right. In this scene, she reasoned, if the emperor hadn’t arrived in time, Consort Rou’s counterattack should have been sharp and incisive. She would never bear the charge of harming the imperial heir and would have been prepared for such a trap.

With that in mind, Luo Xi Chu formed her own plan.

Nearby, the woman playing Consort Rou was sobbing uncontrollably, tears streaming as if a faucet had been turned on. Her “claws” clung to the emperor’s robe, threatening to use the hem as a handkerchief. Huang Zi Xue, who was playing the emperor, frowned deeply, inwardly repulsed. Crying, always crying—did she not realize how unseemly she looked?

Suppressing the urge to kick her off set, Huang Zi Xue bitterly regretted agreeing to act opposite her at Director Qiu Xian’s request. Was this what acting had come to? In the very first scene, he’d been clung to and wept upon until he was shaken; his left shoulder was still damp. Thank goodness his imperial costume wasn’t unique—he’d definitely change after this. Today, he’d truly learned what it meant for women to be made of water, and he never wanted to repeat the experience.

“Cut. That’s enough, thank you. Please wait for further notice,” Director Qiu Xian said, noticing Huang Zi Xue’s impatience and rubbing his temples in exasperation, eager to rescue him from the scene.

As the actress, satisfied with her performance, left the room, Huang Zi Xue took the chance to complain, shaking his bright yellow robe in distaste. “Director Qiu, what kind of people are you bringing in? Is crying all it takes to act? Are you trying to fool amateurs? I’m not afraid of strong opponents—only teammates who ruin everything. Be careful this role doesn’t sink your whole series.”

Sighing, Qiu Xian couldn’t hide his frustration. “These days, I don’t know what actresses are thinking.” He’d wanted to do a favor for some old friends, but this was not the result he’d hoped for. He was looking for talent, not just a pretty face—though both together would have been ideal.

But look at what he’d gotten: every single one started with tears. Fragile, yes, but not at all moving; he seriously doubted whether any of them truly understood acting. It was deeply disappointing.

“It’s not entirely their fault. The essence of Consort Rou’s scenes is grievance and sorrowful pleading, but all they understand is ‘crying.’” Producer Qi Yue tried to excuse them, though his expression was full of resignation—caught between mediocrity and unremarkable talent.

Actresses with both fame and skill wouldn’t bother with a supporting role like this, nor did they have the time. As for those lower in the ranks, real talent was rare. Qiu Xian, trying to do his friends a favor, had asked for recommendations, but the results were lackluster.

At this point, Qiu Xian’s influence wasn’t what it would become after “Empire” aired, so it was natural for him to be troubled by this casting.

Some had a bit of skill but lacked personal flair; without a director’s guidance, they couldn’t grasp the deeper meaning of a role. Others relied solely on their looks, with nothing else to offer. Altogether, it was just passable.

Huang Zi Xue rubbed his forehead, nearly driven to tears himself. “Good grief, how many more are there? If this keeps up, how will anyone survive?”

No one dared respond—when the main bosses spoke, everyone else simply listened. They could joke among themselves but would never pass on any complaints.

Seeing Huang Zi Xue’s distress, Qi Yue couldn’t help but laugh. “Let’s get this over with and send them home. Looks like we’ll have to simplify Consort Rou’s role and cut her scenes. We can’t afford to keep wasting time on casting.” Everyone who showed up had to be given a chance to audition, after all; otherwise, it would be impossible to explain.

“Ah—” Qiu Xian let out a long, dispirited sigh. “Friends—they’ll be the death of me. I just hope one of the remaining candidates brings a surprise.”

Qi Yue teased, “It’s not your friends’ fault, it’s yours for not specifying what you wanted. With a title like ‘Empire: The Schemes of Beauty,’ everyone expects a parade of beauties, so naturally, all the recommendations were for pretty faces. Didn’t you notice?”

“Er…” Qiu Xian scratched his nose. “Alright, that was my oversight!” It seemed his friends really had been “considering” his needs after all.