Chapter 77

Their clothing varied.

But from this reaction, it was clear the other was also auditioning for the role of Duan Yu.

As rivals, there was no room for friendly chatter.

He maintained polite formalities, exchanged a few forced laughs, then crossed his arms and sat upright, eyes closed, resting.

Just strive hard for the role.

He had Zhang Wuji as a safety net; after the show aired, filming offers would surely come.

Sometimes actors finish shooting without knowing what kind of mess they’ve made, but sometimes they still have some sense of how their own work turned out.

This version of The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber is already an excellent work, and now it has fixed its weakness in fight scenes.

Even if his popularity is lower.

Li Luo could feel the broadcast result wouldn’t be bad.

He had confidence.

Naturally, he remained calm and composed.

While he rested with his eyes closed, Ma Yu couldn’t help studying the competitor beside him—this guy was way handsomer than him!

A bit tanned, but still describable as having a face like polished jade.

When he walked over earlier.

He was noticeably taller than Ma Yu.

His gait carried great presence—he clearly had experience in historical costumes.

The more he looked, the more familiar the face seemed.

Lin Pingzhi!

He clenched his fingers tightly, heart pounding.

At that moment, the door suddenly opened.

A group burst in; the lead man, with a full white beard, entered with the bearing of a lion surveying his territory, as if walking through empty land.

“Hu Zi.”

“Master Zhang.”

“Producer Zhang.”

A chorus of greetings filled the room.

To be blunt, landing a role in Zhang Zhong’s drama at this point was practically synonymous with becoming famous; even though he paid low salaries and demanded grueling shoots, everyone still flocked to him.

“Good, good, good.”

Zhang Zhong laughed heartily, responding to smiling faces: “You’ve all worked hard—thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules.”

Delivering such formalities came naturally to him.

Hearing the commotion, Li Luo stood up along with everyone else.

But he didn’t move forward.

It wasn’t arrogance—he simply couldn’t get close, as Zhang’s beard was already surrounded by a crowd.

Not even a greeting was possible; you couldn’t squeeze in.

Among the thronging crowd,

he spotted several familiar faces—Jiang Xin, who played Mu Wanqing, was one of them; she was a highly capable actress who had portrayed the mother of Wang Zicheng in Little Sacrifice with stunning depth.

It seemed this very drama had brought her into the public eye.

At this moment, Jiang Xin still had baby fat on her face, and colorful little braids hung from her head—her makeup and costume looked frankly odd.

After greeting everyone, Zhang Zhong signaled the group to go about their business.

The gathered crowd slowly dispersed.

“Master Zhang.”

Li Luo stepped forward first, smiling and shaking Zhang’s hand: “Long time no see—you still have such vigor!”

Ma Yu, a step behind, quickly halted.

“Li Luo?”

Zhang Zhong gripped his hand tightly, his white beard swaying as his gaze swept over him, expression slightly surprised: “You little rascal, how did you grow a whole notch?”

It had been over a year since they last met.

So he noticed the change at once.

Not only had he grown taller, but his appearance and aura had also improved significantly.

“Haha.”

Li Luo nodded and smiled: “I eat well and sleep well—naturally I grew taller.”

“What are you doing over there?”

Zhang Zhong released his hand with satisfaction, then called out to a crew member: “Get Li Luo made up right away—don’t waste time, we’re waiting for his audition!”

Plant good seeds, reap good fruit.

In truth, accepting phone invitations was routine for Zhang the Beard.

Forget movies—nearly every male actor of prime age in television today reacted the same way when he called.

What truly impressed Zhang Zhong about Li Luo was the filming of The Smiling, Proud Wanderer.

He didn’t fear hardship or fatigue.

Whenever he could perform his own stunts, this guy never held back—who doesn’t love a diligent, hardworking actor? At least Zhang the Beard himself adored such performers.

When preparing for The Legend of the Condor Heroes, Zhang Zhong had considered contacting Li Luo to audition for Yang Kang.

But the guy was busy preparing for the college entrance exam.

So he gave up.

Now, with a new drama, he immediately thought of that little extra he’d found in Hengdian.

As soon as he said this,

every eye in the room instantly fixed on Li Luo.

Curiosity, scrutiny—every gaze was probing.

Everyone wanted to know who this person was to earn such urgency from Zhang Zhong.

“Teacher Li Luo.”

The crew member who had spoken earlier quickly blocked the unknown extra from sitting down, pulled the chair outward, and smiled: “Come over here—we’re ready for you.”

Fawning over the powerful and stepping on the weak—this was the industry’s longstanding custom.

“I’ll go get made up first.”

At this point, Li Luo couldn’t refuse—he bowed slightly and walked toward the makeup station.

Before sitting down,

he offered a apologetic smile to the unknown extra.

The man’s faint resentment vanished instantly; he politely stepped aside.

Put on the wig, apply makeup.

The entire process took half an hour.

In the mirror appeared a young nobleman, dressed in splendid robes, radiating dignity.

Then came more waiting.

But he no longer had the patience to close his eyes and rest—half an hour was enough for everyone in the room to uncover his background, and people with various motives kept coming to test him.

He’d even collected five or six agency business cards.

Li Luo didn’t refuse.

He returned smiles and accepted every card.

But he promised nothing.

“Li Luo.”

After waiting over twenty minutes, his name was finally called—he stood up immediately and followed the crew member out of the makeup room.

They turned several corners down the hallway, and the crew member pushed open the conference room door.

Gathering his composure, Li Luo walked in calmly.

In the center of the small conference room stood several long tables; seven people, led by Zhang Zhong, sat behind them, with a recording camera set up beside them.

A few production assistants were scattered around.

“Hello, everyone.”

He looked around, walked calmly to the marked spot with crossed tape, and smiled: “I’m actor Li Luo. I’m here to audition for the role of Duan Yu.”

Aside from Zhang Zhong, there was one familiar face.

From the moment he entered, everyone inside studied him—his appearance, posture, gait—all observed without omission.

Some nodded silently; others slightly furrowed their brows.

Expressions varied.

Sometimes, a simple script excerpt is given to actors beforehand, letting them prepare; upon arrival, they perform based on their own interpretation.

Other times, they’re tested on the spot with impromptu challenges, evaluating adaptability.

What Li Luo faced now,

was the latter.