Chapter 16: Zhan Ying

Yu Zhi appeared somewhat dazed during the audition. Her head felt heavy, as if a chaotic tangle of lines hovered above her, accompanied by a “focus -1-1-1” debuff.

Human attention spans are fleeting.

Back in school, forty minutes was nearly the limit; in college, classes often stretched to an hour and a half or two, each session feeling like a torment.

Yet this interview had dragged on for four hours.

Pei Zhao had only gone to the restroom once, Lang Qingwen had stepped out for a five-minute break, and Zhai Duo had downed three cups of coffee.

The screenwriters behind them had set aside their laptops, slumped their shoulders, either sneaking away for fresh air or rubbing their eyes in a daze.

Yu Zhi had already started playing with her phone under the table.

[Chestnut]: So hungry... I want dinner.

[Hungry and Want to Eat]: Wake up, lunch isn’t even served yet.

[Chestnut]: I looked outside; they’re already serving food. They’re barely eating. I could eat for ten of them alone.

[Hungry and Want to Eat]: Shall we run off? I’ll treat you to shrimp.

[Chestnut]: Then let’s go?

[Don’t Know]: ???

[Chestnut]: Do you have to audition all day? No breaks?

[Don’t Know]: Lunch will be served, but awkwardly, no one has brought it up yet.

It was nearly one o’clock; the audition had started at nine in the morning.

Pei Zhao didn’t seem tired. She maintained a rapid pace in conversations with the artists, offering critiques on their acting.

“Whose style are you copying? Pick some good ones and imitate them. Don’t mimic that glare-and-mumble act you see nowadays.”

“Your voice is pleasant, but your line delivery is awful. I know you can get dubbing, but your voice quality is good and unique—that’s a plus. It leaves an impression on the audience, which is largely a matter of innate talent. Don’t waste it; keep practicing.”

“Commanding without anger is not about keeping a stiff face. Where’s your presence? Yes, she’s a time traveler, but she’s also masterfully disguising her identity as the Grand Princess!”

Some actors thanked her gratefully; others nodded with reluctant smiles, their attention elsewhere.

Yu Zhi glanced at Pei Zhao beside her, who was still radiant, energetically auditioning, critiquing, and advising.

If a woman’s greatest charm was at work, then at this moment, Pei Zhao outshone everyone else, the brightest star in the room.

Dazzling and brilliant, like a vortex drawing all eyes and ears to her resonant voice, leaving an echo in the mind long after.

Watching her, Yu Zhi felt a spark of inspiration for a novel.

Pei Zhao truly loved her craft.

She was nurturing a “raw jade,” striving to make it translucent and pure for future carving.

In this process, not only did the “raw jade” shine, but she did, too.

Yu Zhi wanted to write a novel about a director.

A warrior passionate about her field, undaunted, fighting for her dream.

Artistic inspiration comes from reality, but whether writing novels, composing music, or songwriting, the soul fragments born of a sudden “resonance” are hard to expand into a complete spirit.

And the muse of inspiration is not always a perfect reflection of the protagonist’s character.

Unless Yu Zhi spent the following days researching Pei Zhao’s life and weaving it into her story, layering multiple plotlines, character traits, and life traces, could the character be truly based on a real prototype.

Reference or adaptation—though the boundaries may blur slightly, distinguishing between them would not be difficult.

No one dared interrupt Pei Zhao, so the auditions continued.

·

Zhan Ying arrived at the door, waiting for the previous candidate to leave before stepping through the grand, resplendent entrance.

Her turn was not fortunate; by then, everyone was exhausted.

“Hello, director, screenwriters, I’m Zhan Ying,” she introduced herself quickly, her voice clear and posture upright.

Lang Qingwen watched silently, saying nothing.

When Zhan Ying’s gaze briefly paused on Lang Qingwen, it was subtle but noticeable.

Yu Zhi and the others knew who Zhan Ying was, and Lang Qingwen did not hide it.

The recently departed Lai Wen had been arranged by Pei Zhao, and the three directors’ connections were separately starred on the list.

It could be seen as a backdoor, or a phase of early collaboration and mutual exchange, deepening their understanding of one another.

Pei Zhao’s network, Lang Qingwen’s favored young actors, Zhai Duo’s preferred artist traits—all revealed their personalities and approaches.

Concealment would plant mines; open recommendations foster harmony.

Yu Zhi steadied herself, widening her eyes slightly. “No need to repeat the resume; we’ve all seen it. Let’s proceed?”

Pei Zhao’s voice was slightly hoarse: “Don’t be nervous.”

She took a sip of water.

Zhan Ying placed her papers on the chair beside her.

·

The audition scene was a segment of the female lead’s “Empty City Stratagem.”

The timeline was toward the later part of the story; the female lead, holding military power as the Regent Grand Princess, was pursuing unification of the realm, with many supporters but even more opponents.

During an inspection trip, her whereabouts were leaked, and she was besieged in a separate courtyard.

Yet through the “Empty City Stratagem,” her enemies were scared off, missing a rare chance to kill her.

Zhan Ying understood why this stratagem resonated—starting from baiting a prince from a rival clan with a marriage trap and killing him on the spot, the female lead had warned all that her “gentleman stands at a perilous wall,” and that “wall” was mostly traps.

In subsequent instances, the female lead used this tactic repeatedly, common yet always effective.

She wasn’t a straightforward paragon of virtue; she grew into a schemer, an ambitious ruler, an emperor who built her empire over corpses—both villain and hero fell along her path.

Her specialty was deliberately provoking others then centralizing power.

In this scene’s timeline, she had just used this tactic to lure a noble family into action, successfully eradicating them.

With a “troubled past,” the Empty City Stratagem became her key to breaking deadlocks.

Those opposing her clenched their teeth, desperate to kill her but afraid to reveal their identities.

The artists had been given three pages: a script excerpt, a character brief of the female lead, and an outline of the story.

Yu Zhi didn’t intend to trap anyone; this was no predetermined casting.

The character brief and story outline emphasized the background and consequences of the Empty City Stratagem.

Anyone who read these carefully would understand the context.

But a synopsis is just that—a condensed summary of a thrilling event, informative but not evocative.

It can convey rich information in a second but cannot transmit the emotional highs and lows.

Like the phrase “When six kings have ended, the four seas become one,” just six words leaving vast space for imagination, reliant on personal interpretation.

Zhan Ying was different.

Her advantage was that she saw how the “six kings ended” and how the “four seas became one.”

She saw the female lead of “Seizing Power,” the protagonist of “Becoming the Princess of a Fallen Kingdom,” the hardships she endured, the arrows both overt and hidden, and how she repeatedly stood victorious.

Her character was rounded out; the “female lead” was no longer a cold, scheming, resilient figure but a fully realized person in one’s mind.

Readers often resent adaptations because each imagines the character differently.

Zhan Ying needed to approach the novel’s female lead closely, meaning she also had to align with Yu Zhi’s vision.

This was difficult.

Zhan Ying was not Yu Zhi, so her interpretation of the female lead would inevitably deviate.

Yet this was not a dead end.

Among a thousand readers, their “Hamlet” shared common traits.

That shared core was the protagonist’s charisma, even if it divided readers into lovers and haters.

This precisely proved those traits were inherent and universally acknowledged.

She existed, drew attention—

Thus, readers’ differing preferences, experiences, and ideas birthed diverse opinions and debate.

Zhan Ying keenly sought this core, analyzed key scenes, and built her own version of the character.

As long as the “core” shared by everyone was about thirty percent aligned, it could gain collective acceptance.

The screenwriters had extracted the character brief from Yu Zhi’s novel, strictly following industry standards: only the female lead’s backstory, vertical axis, and horizontal axis.

This text was concise, under five hundred words, summarizing her entire life.

It was not a eulogy but a clear outline of key turning points, without embellishment.

Actors, on the other hand, write character briefs from their perspective, aiding their portrayal of the character’s life, with more subjectivity.

They act, bringing the character alive.

This was how Zhan Ying began her character brief for “Seizing Power”:

Jiang Yan, a fighter pilot who, after dying on a test flight, transcended from one blue sky to another, spreading her wings.

Zhan Ying had experience in military dramas, playing a decent supporting role. During location changes, she took the chance to obtain a helicopter pilot’s license.

It was a private pilot license, moderately difficult, achievable by many.

She just took up the challenge suddenly and found she could do it.

Compared to the script’s female lead, it was nothing.

Yet this fact resonated deeply with her.

No one forgets the feeling of flying under the blue sky—the only time humans grow wings.

Brief, ethereal, lonely, yet soaring into the clouds.

Those who fly gradually strengthen their feathers and bones, never wanting to lose their wings.

·

Yu Zhi and the others chose this scene not for its difficulty but because the female lead here reaffirms her determination for centralized power.

Feudal society cannot leap directly into modernity; history spirals upward.

There is no soil for democracy to take root.

Jiang Yan is a modern thinker who understands democracy.

But now, she must recognize the absence of democracy.

Surrounded once, it’s a gamble on loyalty; Jiang Yan’s chance of success was sixty percent—

This number reflected that this was the last chance; she had pushed her opponents too hard and planned to audit the local accounts next.

Otherwise, the odds would be over eighty percent.

Yu Zhi wrote that Jiang Yan was calm, even somewhat eager; after exposing the traitor, she asked if they thought the enemies would charge in.

Zhan Ying stood there, staring into the air as if someone truly knelt before her.

“I don’t think so,” she said with certainty and a touch of regret, “They’ve been scared by my killings. I should’ve spared the Song family earlier, kept it all for today.”

Her companions beside her were furious, unable to believe the traitor was a friend, angrily demanding answers.

The kneeling figure kept their head down, silent.

·

The garden was filled with birdsong; the security was lax compared to Jiang Yan’s outings in recent days.

But this laxity was deliberate in the assassin leader’s eyes.

He ground his teeth: “Retreat!”

His men protested: “This is our only chance! She’s about to find out—”

Leader: “Didn’t you see she was faking it? That’s how she trapped the Song family! This woman is cunning and sly. When have you ever found a weakness around her? This is a trap! Charging in, we’d face a thousand troops!”

Men: “To my knowledge, Gui Luosha is still in Pingyang; she can’t arrive so fast!”

Leader: “Ha, when the Song family ambushed her, they thought the same.”

Men: “…”

Outside, the assassins refused to leave; someone reported the area was safe.

The person kneeling suddenly lifted their head, disbelief in their eyes.

Zhan Ying met their gaze, calm and profoundly strategic.

Her companion still pressed for clarity.

The sound of flowing water, rock gardens, and soft music accompanied Zhan Ying’s quiet answer for the kneeling figure:

“She betrayed me because she was born into a noble family. No matter how distant or fallen, when given a choice, one returns to their bloodline.”

Someone chooses her, forsaking others.

Someone chooses family, forsaking her.

“Noble clans stand for centuries; dynasties change, but noble families endure. Even after a thousand years... If you crave power so much, afraid I’ll snatch even a fraction, then fear nothing.”

“Everything’s gone. What is there left to fear?”

The noble clans rose in the Eastern Han, peaked in Wei and Jin, and faded amid the uprisings of late Tang.

In Jiang Yan’s story, the backdrop was mixed; between Tang and Song, there was a Great Yan dynasty. The noble families were less dominant than in Tang but still powerful.

After the new emperor’s ascension, Jiang Yan’s reforms to the imperial examination met resistance.

That was her first ruthless thought to eliminate the noble families.

This was the second and final time.

Yu Zhi originally wrote:

Jiang Yan again felt the clash between modern ideas and ancient society but no longer suffered as before.

She pulled the traitor from the mud, bestowed honor, placed her on a celestial ladder, and seeing her expression, understood the betrayal.

The meaning behind a name was profound.

A single surname entangled millions of relations, sprawling and unshakable.

Then, burn it all down.

In the earlier audition, some portrayed the female lead’s pain at betrayal, others her indifference, some her helpless self-mockery.

Zhan Ying played the lead shedding some of her modern beliefs.

People adapt to their environment; Jiang Yan was no different.

But she still held onto certain things.

Yu Zhi seemed to see, beneath Zhan Ying’s gently raised finger, something transparent falling, while the wings on her scapula suddenly grew fuller.

Perhaps Zhan Ying’s performance was somewhat raw, her acting and lines not flawless, but her portrayal highlighted the core of the scene beautifully.

Yu Zhi glanced at the open screen.

She exclaimed silently: “!!!”

My goodness!

She habitually searched the [Missing Persons Notice] for the new audition’s name as they entered, waiting for the audition to finish before deciding whether to keep the file.

She saw actors with over 70% match rates and some with over 80%.

The latter were indeed better.

But for the first time, she saw someone who could raise her own match rate from 74% to 87%!

Lang Qingwen said she knew a young actor who lacked opportunities.

Yu Zhi had thought only 74%.

She was grateful she hadn’t directly used the scriptwriting app’s function to finalize the lead but used it as an aid to find the right candidate.

There was still room for growth! Just a few minutes, and the match rate jumped to 87%!

“Acting truly is a,” she said aloud, drawing everyone’s attention, “creative process.”

As Zhan Ying shifted from character back to herself, her match rate fell back to 74%.

Pei Zhao praised her approvingly: “A very good actress, born for this craft.”

Lang Qingwen breathed a sigh of relief: “Thank goodness.”

No mistake in the recommendation.

Zhai Duo: “A thoughtful performance—I’m seeing this for the first time today.”

Yu Zhi’s compliment was more straightforward: “I really like it.”

This was a soul-to-soul exchange between a literary creator and a performing artist, cautious yet harmonious, inspiring awe.

If this could always be so, Yu Zhi eagerly anticipated how beautiful it would be when words became images.