Chapter 39: Are You a Cabbage? (Requesting Monthly Votes)

Could it be that Qi Hao couldn’t stand his female co-stars anymore and paid for them to hire teachers himself?

That’s an insult of the highest order.

“It’s not for this drama—Qi Hao has recently been studying acting theory to further improve himself.”

Zhang Nan watched Liu Shishi, who had already NG’d three times after two lines with Qi Hao, and knew Zhang Songwen had completely misunderstood.

“Then fine, I can exchange ideas with Teacher Qi Hao on theoretical aspects.”

Zhang Songwen wasn’t foolish—he didn’t boldly claim he’d teach Qi Hao.

His small studio didn’t need the gimmick of “taught an Emperor of Acting”; just regularly exchanging with an Emperor was enough to boost his status.

“Alright, I’ll take you to meet him.”

Zhang Nan led Zhang Songwen toward Qi Hao’s direction; Qi Hao was sitting on a chair while his assistant Yang Liu wiped his face.

Zhang Songwen felt slightly nervous.

He knew Qi Hao was a highly skilled actor—a self-taught performer who’d built his craft through sheer personal effort, and such actors usually had immense confidence in their own acting.

A clash between practitioners and theorists was bound to happen.

We’ll settle it once and for all—either you’re out, or I’m dining.

Zhang Songwen didn’t know how to approach Qi Hao—should he be slightly defiant, or slightly… flattering?

Before he could decide, Qi Hao grabbed his hand:

“You’re Teacher Zhang Songwen, right? I’m glad you came. I have a question that might be impolite—do you mind if I ask...”

“Not at all, not at all!”

Sure enough, he started with the hard truth upfront—making money off an Emperor of Acting really isn’t easy.

No wonder so many acting teachers had passed him up—he was unknown, just starting out.

“Do you have a teaching certification?” Qi Hao asked quietly.

“Huh?” Zhang Songwen was stunned.

He’d imagined countless test scenarios, but never once considered the employer would ask if he had a teaching certification.

Zhang Nan also gaped.

He was reflecting.

He’d been too careless—he hadn’t even confirmed whether Zhang Songwen had a teaching certification.

“Yes, I taught at Beijing Film Academy.” Zhang Songwen finally found his voice.

“Good, let’s cooperate. I’ll study for a month first.”

Qi Hao didn’t know how long the system required him to study to complete the task—surely it wouldn’t mark the task done the moment he found a teacher.

If so, then a month it would be.

Finding an acting teacher to learn from wasn’t a bad thing.

He’d gone ten years without studying because he hadn’t needed to—most of the time, his self-honed acting was enough, and when it wasn’t, directors usually taught him.

Only during the filming of “Heavenly Dog” had it been particularly tough.

Recently, Qi Hao had trained in the system’s training space, learning from multiple acting masters.

He’d learned plenty.

But it was like Linghu Chong absorbing too many kinds of true qi—he felt like he was on the verge of demonic deviation.

Qi Hao now needed someone to help him unblock himself.

If after a month the system still didn’t consider the task complete, he’d extend it.

He was sure Zhang Songwen wouldn’t refuse.

After finalizing the cooperation, Zhang Nan took Zhang Songwen to the production supervisor to arrange meals and accommodation for him.

Tuition was paid personally by Qi Hao, but meals and lodging could be covered by the crew.

After all, Qi Hao had only brought one assistant—adding one more name wasn’t a big deal.

Lessons would officially start tomorrow; Zhang Nan first took Zhang Songwen to settle in.

After all, this guy had rushed over overnight, even taking the train to save money.

“You hired an acting teacher?”

Tang Yan ran up to Qi Hao curiously.

The set was so small that news spread fast.

She was the first to come because they were currently filming Yang Mi’s scenes, so Tang Yan’s parts would be delayed.

Like Qi Hao, she had only a few scenes per day and was idle most of the time.

“Yes!” Qi Hao was calm.

“Your acting’s already that good, and you’re still hiring an acting teacher—are you even leaving room for the rest of us?!”

Tang Yan couldn’t help but protest.

She might play the cute girl sometimes, but she wasn’t here to be cute.

Whenever there was an NG during filming with Qi Hao, there was no doubt—it was always Tang Yan’s fault.

Always being the one at fault put immense pressure on her.

Life was six words: no matter what you did, it was never enough.

Even though her agent Ji Rujing constantly told her to relax and not compare her acting to an Emperor’s, she couldn’t shake her anxiety.

Just as she’d started to adapt to this anxiety, Qi Hao hired an acting teacher.

Are you a cabbage?

What’s there to roll?!

“I didn’t hire this teacher for ‘Immortal Sword 3.’ Remember? I never went to school. I’ve been studying acting lately, but I just can’t figure it out, so I need a teacher to guide me.”

Qi Hao gave a brief explanation.

He hadn’t meant to push her so hard—he really hadn’t intended to be this intense.

“Oh, I see. Sorry.”

Tang Yan felt embarrassed; she’d just been about to say, “If you don’t understand anything, ask me—I studied acting.”

But then she remembered her own acting, and her confidence vanished.

How embarrassing.

The several classically trained actresses were being humiliated by Qi Hao.

Since filming began, they’d never seen Qi Hao give his full effort.

“It’s fine. I never went to school isn’t a secret—can you help me read this character?”

Qi Hao put down his phone and pointed to a book.

Tang Yan leaned over quickly, uncertainly reading: “Kong (first tone) Zong (second tone)?”

“Thank you!” Qi Hao looked up, smiling brightly.

He wore Xu Zhangqing’s Daoist robe, his wig simply tied up with a hairpin, radiating an ethereal, transcendent aura—his smile added a gentle warmth.

It made Tang Yan dizzy.

She nearly forgot to breathe.

Tang Yan remembered she was a love-struck girl; she took a deep breath and hurriedly took her leave.

Qi Hao picked up his phone and searched the app.

Kong (third tone) Zong (third tone).

Well, a college student—and she misread both characters.

What the hell is “empty pot”?

But this was just a minor incident.

Everyone was just confused about why Qi Hao had hired an acting teacher—actors and crew alike were buzzing.

What did it even mean?

Was it that their level was too low, or was the Emperor’s level too profound?

Cai Yinong even spun a conspiracy theory: Was Qi Hao dissatisfied with the girls’ acting, so he brought in a teacher to make them learn before acting again, so they wouldn’t waste his Emperor’s time with endless NGs?

Qi Hao didn’t care about any of that.

The next day, he arrived on set with Zhang Songwen.

When Qi Hao had scenes, he filmed; when he didn’t, he attended Zhang Songwen’s lessons.

After watching Qi Hao film a few times, Zhang Songwen gave up discussing those scenes.

They were too childish.

But those girls… hmm, they really needed discipline.

Zhang Songwen’s main role was answering Qi Hao’s questions and systematically explaining the Method.

Qi Hao, Zhou Xun, and others like them were more experiential.

This school believed actors should think as their characters thought, feel as their characters felt, strive to become the character, then express the character’s emotions.

No matter the role, you must first immerse yourself in it.

For example, playing a lecher, you must truly become lecherous.

The deeper the immersion, the more authentic the performance.

When Qi Hao watched films, he was utterly absorbed—as if he were the character himself, mentally performing alongside them.

But Zhang Songwen’s Method school believed the most important thing in acting was for the actor to genuinely think on stage—emotion erupted from triggering personal experience, not from forcing one’s thoughts to align with the character’s.

This theory was an extension and supplement to the experiential school, yet its core remained the experiential school’s core.

The two factions actually share the same underlying purpose in their theories and cognitive foundations.

That’s why Qi Hao could accept his theory.

It’s not hard to understand.

Asking Qi Hao to abandon all his past experience and skills and switch to learning unrelated theories would be impossible for him.

This kind of theoretical organization helps Qi Hao understand what he’s learned in the training space.

Unfortunately, Zhang Songwen hasn’t produced many famous works.

Even if Qi Hao captured him, he couldn’t learn from him in the training space.

All he can do is hope the training space continues to upgrade.

Ideally, it should introduce even better features.

For example, if he chose the movie “To Live,” a group of acting masters would gather around to teach him how to perform, crafting a performance style perfectly suited to him.

That would be a teaching lineup no drama school could ever assemble.

Days passed like this.

The others on set grew restless.

This Zhang Songwen seems to have some real ability—he teaches the movie star how to act, and does it with clear logic.

At least the movie star hasn’t kicked him out, which proves he’s got some talent.

“Big brother, can I ask Teacher Zhang Songwen how to act?”

Yang Mi leaned over and grabbed Qi Hao’s arm.

Her shooting schedule was already heavy, and now Qi Hao was completely monopolized by Zhang Songwen—she had no time to interact with him at all.

If there’s no interaction, how can rumors ever spread?

She was somewhat superstitious and firmly believed that spreading rumors with Qi Hao would make her famous.

She’d never forgiven herself for failing to spark rumors with Qi Hao during the filming of “The Legend of the Condor Heroes.”

So no matter what, she had to start some rumors now.

Tang Yan, whose scenes weren’t heavy these days, kept popping up to see Qi Hao, deepening her sense of crisis.

Somewhere deep inside, a voice screamed: her time was running out.

“What do you want to ask?” Qi Hao asked curiously.

He wasn’t doubting Zhang Songwen’s ability—he was surprised Yang Mi knew her own acting was bad.

She always seemed so confident.

“Um…um…just now in that scene,” Yang Mi struggled to ask: “I’m playing the spoiled daughter of the Tang family—how do I show her spoiled nature?”

“Actions, expressions, lines—all easily reveal a character’s personality… That’s basic stuff they teach in school… uh…”

Zhang Songwen couldn’t go on.

This was basic training.

What the hell did you even learn in school?

Yang Mi understood, but didn’t know how to respond.

What an awful person—he’s rude, doesn’t flatter, is ugly, and has no money.

“Actually, you’re already doing very well, Yang Mi,” Qi Hao stepped in to smooth things over: “A character’s impression is carved slowly—too much is worse than too little. You’re doing fine right now!”

Not all effort pays off—just like a fifty-yuan note, no matter how pretty, can’t win favor like a hundred-yuan one.

“You don’t call me little sister anymore…” Yang Mi pouted.

I call you big brother—shouldn’t you call me little sister, like you did during “The Legend of the Condor Heroes”?

“That won’t help you re-enter the role. Why are you still stuck in the feeling from the last drama?”

Zhang Songwen was an honest man.

He had no idea about Yang Mi’s hidden motives—this girl had no hidden thoughts, only desires!

He didn’t even know Qi Hao had the fortune of bringing luck to women.

He genuinely thought Yang Mi was trapped in her role as Guo Xiang.

Come on, let me lend you a hand!