CDJMM – Volume 4 – Chapter 27 Filming in the Interstellar Era (27)

Si Xuan was a small-time star. She had been in the industry for five years, always circling around low-budget productions, and her biggest success was playing a supporting role in a horror film.

So when Director Shi released word that he would hold open auditions for supporting roles in his new movie Records of a Republican-Era Literary Giant, Si Xuan’s manager pulled every string possible to get her a spot.

Before she left, her manager analyzed the pros and cons for her.

“Shi Jing is still a newcomer. Who knows what he’ll be like in the future? Who knows if Records of a Republican-Era Literary Giant was just a one-hit wonder? And his new film is completely self-funded, with no capital backing him. It’s hard to say if it has any future at all. So for now, the industry is still very cautious.”

Si Xuan didn’t understand. “Then why are you still recommending me?”

“Because this is the best—and most suitable—opportunity you can fight for.” Her manager was blunt. “Actors with actual name recognition won’t necessarily look twice at this project, so no-name nobodies like you have a better shot at picking up a bargain.”

“Picking up a bargain?”

“Yeah, picking up a bargain. Who knows—maybe this film will take off just like Records of a Republican-Era Literary Giant. Then you’ll be the next Huang Tingting.”

Si Xuan was skeptical. “And what if it flops?”

Her manager burst out laughing. “If it flops, it flops. Just treat it as gaining acting experience. It’s not like the shows you’ve filmed before haven’t flopped.”

Si Xuan: …Damn it, when you put it that way, it’s annoyingly convincing.

And so, Si Xuan marched off confidently to the audition alone.

As for her manager?

Sorry—she was too much of a nobody to deserve an agent accompanying her. Securing the audition slot at all was already a miracle.

The moment Si Xuan stepped into the waiting room, she was hit by countless stares. With her thick skin, she calmly stared back.

And with that one glance, fireworks erupted in her mind.

Her manager was right! Everyone here was a nobody! A few even seemed like part-time fashion magazine models.

So this audition, bluntly put, was basically a giant battle royale between rookies (…).

And all Si Xuan needed to do was stand out and become the one who was the least rookie among rookies.

From the perspective of the other competitors, they saw this newly arrived woman meeting their probing looks head-on, lifting her chin slightly, straightening her back, and confidently taking a seat.

Si Xuan discreetly took a deep breath to steady herself, then pulled up the audition script on her terminal and began reading carefully.

She hadn’t had the script for long—today made it the third day.

The script was short, barely over a page. It contained only the scenes she would need to perform during the audition. She had already stored it in the learning chip in her brain and had memorized it completely. But she still couldn’t help wanting to reread it and rethink the character’s emotions.

Her role was Shangguan Wan’er, a palace official with significant screen time—the female No. 2. It was the kind of deep, layered character she had never played before.

Everything she knew about Shangguan Wan’er came only from this one page of script. Everything else she had to imagine for herself.

Just as she was deep in thought, an unpleasant voice suddenly rang out beside her: “Oh, look who it is. Isn’t this Si Xuan?”

Si Xuan frowned and looked up, her eyes filled with unhidden dislike. “Wei Na, why are you here?”

Wei Na lifted her chin slightly, her brows full of sharp disdain. “If someone like YOU can come, why can’t I?”

Si Xuan shot her a glare, but knowing this wasn’t the place to argue, she lowered her head again and ignored her.

Wei Na’s manager and her own manager had longstanding beef, and so the artists under them also frequently clashed. Si Xuan had quarreled with Wei Na several times before.

Si Xuan quieted down, but Wei Na sat beside her and asked, “Which role are you auditioning for?”

There was nothing to hide, so Si Xuan answered straightforwardly, “Shangguan Wan’er.”

Wei Na leaned close to her ear, unable to hide the malice in her voice. “You’re probably wasting your time. The role’s already been decided—it’s me. I’m just here to go through the motions.”

Si Xuan: …You seriously think I’d believe that?

After fighting with her so many times, how could she not know Wei Na’s cheap tricks? It was just psychological warfare.

So she flashed a smile and whispered back, “Talking that big? Careful not to slap yourself in the face.” Besides, Wei Na might not even be auditioning for Shangguan Wan’er. With her style, she might actually be going for Princess Taiping.

Wei Na, having failed to provoke her, snorted coldly and returned to her script.

The auditions started quickly. Si Xuan hadn’t arrived very early, so she was in the back half of the line.

She watched as one beautiful girl and handsome guy after another walked in and out. Her previously calm mood gradually tightened.

Finally—her turn.

She adjusted her clothes, exhaled, and walked slowly into the audition room.

…

Since releasing the open casting announcement, Le Jing had received many résumés. After flipping through them, he found that almost all of them were small-time actors—there wasn’t even a single third-tier star.

Seeing this, Le Jing sighed.

He had been too impatient.

Every time he thought about how many pieces of history he had yet to film, he grew anxious. The history he knew was vast; even if he spent his entire life filming, he would only capture a tiny fraction. So he had to race against time.

Even though Records of a Republican-Era Literary Giant had exploded in popularity, he was still young, had no major awards, and his films weren’t backed by capital. In the industry’s eyes, he was still just a rookie director.

As the saying goes: a boy with no beard can’t be trusted to do real work. Many in the industry were still observing him cautiously.

So when he announced the open auditions, only small actors wanting to gamble on a chance showed up.

After careful consideration, Le Jing decided he would still go ahead with holding the audition. Who knows, he might actually discover a hidden gem or two? Besides, these young actors come with lower pay and tend to be more obedient. If they were big-name celebrities, they might not even listen to his direction.

But Le Jing was destined to be disappointed.

That entire morning, he interviewed four or five “Princess Taiping,” two or three “Shangguan Wan’er,” four or five “Li Xian,” and even one male favorite “Zhang Changzong,” yet none of their acting met his expectations.

It seemed he had been too naive.

He began to hesitate—perhaps he should wait until after award season, after Records of Republican-Era Literary Giants had won a few awards, before hosting the audition.

“Next.”

He picked up the résumé and glanced at it—Si Xuan. Another small-time actress who only starred in flop dramas before, but her looks were dignified and elegant, very fitting for the character Shangguan Wan’er.

Si Xuan walked in. She truly was a bright and generous-looking young woman. Just based on appearance alone, she passed.

Le Jing said, “You may begin.”

The scene was about Wu Zetian summoning Shangguan Wan’er and testing her on the spot. Shangguan Wan’er wrote with divine inspiration; in just moments she produced a brilliant essay—gorgeous in language, dazzling in literary grace, absolutely the work of a master. Wu Zetian, who at the time was not yet emperor, was greatly pleased when she read it. Fond of her talent, she immediately issued an imperial order to free Shangguan Wan’er from servitude and put her in charge of palace edicts.

Going from a servant to a female official sounded inspiring, but the reason she became a servant in the first place was also thanks to Wu Zetian.

Shangguan Wan’er came from a distinguished family. Her grandfather was the famous chancellor Shangguan Yi. Because he submitted a memorial asking the emperor to depose the empress, Wu Zetian flew into a rage and executed him on charges of treason. The Shangguan family fell with him, and Shangguan Wan’er went from a noble young lady to a palace maid.

Wu Zetian was her family’s enemy—her enemy. Yet the only way Shangguan Wan’er could rise again, the only way she could restore her family’s honor, was by pleasing this enemy. The tangled emotions involved were not something that could be described in a few words.

In the script, Le Jing briefly mentioned this feud between Shangguan Wan’er and Wu Zetian, hoping the actress could use it as reference to enrich the character.

However, the previous actresses he auditioned either carried too much resentment or were overly fawning. Not a single one satisfied him.

Si Xuan took a deep breath, cleared her mind, and focused entirely on acting.

An assistant began reading Wu Zetian’s lines to act opposite her.

“You are Shangguan Wan’er?”

Shangguan Wan’er knelt with her head lowered, not daring to look directly at the empress’s face. “This servant is.”

This woman had destroyed her family. She was the true culprit behind her fall to this lowly state.

But she was also the Heavenly Empress, high and mighty, her only hope of changing her fate and reviving her clan.

She… could not hate, and she did not dare to hate.

“Rumor has it your writing is quite good. Write something for me.”

“Please give me a topic, Your Majesty.”

The empress stated one.

Shangguan Wan’er didn’t even need to think—her brush danced across the paper, completing the essay in one breath.

“Rumors were right. You really are talented. With skills like this, it would be a waste for you to stay in the inner court as a mere maid. From now on, you’ll handle palace edicts.”

Shangguan Wan’er trembled all over. Tears surged up, but she didn’t dare lift her head. Instead, she bowed even lower, answering in a shaking voice, “Thank you for Your Grace.”

Le Jing was a little surprised.

It seemed Si Xuan really had put effort into understanding the role. Although her interpretation differed somewhat from how he envisioned it, that was because she lacked a deeper understanding of Shangguan Wan’er. For someone working only off a single page of script, achieving this level was already remarkable.

As for the shortcomings—there would be plenty of time to train her later.

Nodding in satisfaction, he didn’t reveal his approval. He simply told her to go back and wait for further notice.

Si Xuan walked out feeling anxious, unsure how she had done. The director hadn’t shown any inclination—did that mean she was doomed?

Uuuuugh, she had worked so hard for this opportunity. If she didn’t get the role, her agent would kill her.

She prayed in her heart: God, please let Director Shi pick me. I’m willing to trade ten pounds of my body fat in exchange!

After Si Xuan, he found no other suitable actors. But having found even one was good enough—he couldn’t ask for more. As for the other roles, he would have to wait. Once Records of Republican-Era Literary Giants achieved better results and won several professional awards, he would have the right to be picky.

Right now, Le Jing only wished he had more time. If he could, he would even trim down his hours of sleep.

After a full day of exhausting auditions, Le Jing lay in bed still thinking about his new film.

There were countless films and dramas in China about Wu Zetian. Her life story had been told to death—there was nothing new left to explore. So Le Jing decided to take a different approach—to portray the empress’s life through the eyes of an observer.

And this observer was not a person, but a dog—a royal palace dog. But not an ordinary one.

She carried within her the soul of a deceased palace maid.

When alive, the maid had suffered a tragic fate—beaten to death over a trivial mistake. But after reincarnating as a dog, she suddenly became the empress’s beloved pet, holding a lofty status in the palace, truly a “Lord Dog.”

The story would begin with Wu Zetian’s ascension to the throne.

Wu Zetian reigned for fifteen years, roughly the lifespan of a dog.

This royal dog accompanied Wu Zetian through her highs and lows, witnessing dazzling political struggles and watching wave after wave of power players rise and fall in the palace.

The scene Si Xuan had just acted was from Shangguan Wan’er’s dying recollection.

This palace official who rose to power through the empress fell quickly after the empress’s death, killed in the new emperor’s political purge, dying full of resentment. Before her death, she remembered her first encounter with the empress.

This woman had destroyed her family but had also made Shangguan Wan’er who she was.

Without Wu Zetian, Shangguan Wan’er would have been just a normal noble lady. With Wu Zetian, she became a Neisherren, acquired power, and gained the qualification to play political chess alongside men.

She hated her, but she admired her even more.

Without Shangguan Wan’er, Wu Zetian would still be the greatest empress in history. Without Wu Zetian, Shangguan Wan’er would be nothing.

That was why she died so easily.

Le Jing was truly looking forward to how Si Xuan would interpret everything once she saw the full script.

He pondered the title for a long time and eventually settled on the provisional name The Empress’s Dog.

A story of the greatest empress in history, seen through the eyes of a dog.

Le Jing sincerely felt grateful for how advanced AI technology was now—it could effortlessly bring his vision to life. On Earth, training a qualified canine actor would be no easy task.

But with today’s AI tech and post-production, even a dog could deliver superb acting.

While he was still thinking, his phone rang.

Another unfamiliar number.

Another reporter?

He answered casually, and received a piece of news that was expected—perfectly reasonable.

The Red Peony Committee invited the production team of Records of Republican-Era Literary Giants to attend the awards ceremony at the end of October.

This implied that the film would receive at least a few nominations.

If it won…

Le Jing smiled quietly. By then, he would have the right to choose his actors.