Chapter 312: Defining the Angle

The next to enter was another of the Four Heavenly Kings, Li Ming.

“Director Wu, hello! Hello, all the teachers!”

This wasn’t the first time Wu Yuchen had met Li Ming—he had auditioned for the role of Shen Lian in “The Sword of the Brocade Uniform” before, but was rejected due to his looks and aura.

Yet seeing Li Ming again now, Wu Yuchen couldn’t help but think: He really is beautiful.

Unlike last time, when Shen Lian was an Embroidered Uniform Guard, this role, Lin Wu, is a cellist—so Li Ming’s appearance and demeanor wouldn’t be a liability.

Wu Yuchen and Li Ming slipped back into casual chat, smiling:

“Li Ming, I heard when you first went to the set, you drove a Mercedes—and got shunned by the crew. Is that true?”

Li Ming, slightly embarrassed, replied: “Back then I’d just returned from abroad, a rookie, didn’t think much about it~ It never happened again!”

People say Li Ming has noble bearing—and it’s tied to his family background. In the early 80s, his parents sent him to study in Britain and let him drive a Mercedes; back then, in Hong Kong, that already marked a wealthy household.

Think of the other three Heavenly Kings: Hua’s father was a firefighter raising six kids in a Hong Kong slum; Ge’s father was a sailor addicted to gambling and alcohol, poisoning the whole household; Guo’s family was relatively well-off—his father ran a small gold shop—but had five children to support. So forget a Mercedes; Guo couldn’t even afford a motorcycle…

But Li Ming was an only child, his father wealthy, and after arriving in Hong Kong, he lived comfortably. When he studied abroad, he couldn’t sleep because he could only bathe twice a week—couldn’t wash daily. If Liu Dehua, then still called Liu Furong, had heard that, he’d have screamed: “Why don’t you just eat meat?”

“How old were you when you went abroad?”

“Fourteen. Stayed five years in Britain, then returned to Hong Kong to recover from hay fever—that’s how I entered showbiz.”

“Wasn’t it hard being alone overseas? Did your parents visit often?”

“Uh, Director Wu, actually my parents divorced before I left. My father sent me to Britain after that.”

Hearing this, Wu Yuchen perked up and asked the question he’d wanted to ask:

“A fourteen-year-old boy should be in rebellion. Facing such a family upheaval—parents separating—what was your reaction? Did you argue with them? Resist? Was that why they sent you away?”

Li Ming waved his hands: “Nope! I was happy!”

“Happy? Why?” Wu Yuchen asked, surprised. Usually, children in such situations aren’t happy at all.

“Maybe I matured early. I just thought they were both miserable together—Dad suffering, Mom suffering. When they were unhappy, Mom might take it out on me. Every fight between them was a burden.”

Then Li Ming made a splitting gesture with his hands: “Now they’re apart—I feel like everyone’s free. Wow, congratulations!”

Wu Yuchen nodded and praised him: “I never expected you to be so insightful at such a young age.”

But then Wu Yuchen suddenly asked: “May I ask you a personal question?”

“Director Wu, please,” Li Ming nodded.

“What do you think of your biological mother?”

Wu Yuchen already knew this: Li Ming’s biological mother divorced his father when he was under a year old. His father later remarried—so the woman who divorced him at fourteen was his stepmother.

Given Li Ming’s earlier answer, Wu Yuchen suspected the stepmother hadn’t treated him as a true son—which explained his relief at their divorce.

Li Ming paused, then shrugged, slightly bewildered: “Honestly, I was so young—I have zero memory of her.”

Wu Yuchen nodded, understanding. He’d hoped Li Ming would carry some lingering resentment, trauma, or distance—like characters in films or reunion shows—making him more similar to the protagonist. But this reaction was normal. How could you feel anything for a woman you barely remembered? Humans are emotional creatures—nurturing creates far deeper bonds than blood.

Wu Yuchen didn’t press further and let Li Ming begin his audition.

Five years in Britain had given Li Ming a Western air, and his musical background made him look utterly natural holding the cello.

His acting wasn’t bad either—he’d played introverted, sensitive characters before—and his overall performance was genuinely strong.

But before Li Ming left, Wu Yuchen asked: “If we cast you as the lead, you’ll need to train with a mortician for a while. Can you do that?”

Wu Yuchen also briefly described what he’d witnessed while shadowing a mortician.

Li Ming paused, realizing from the description this wasn’t easy work—but after thinking, he said: “Director Wu, I’m not afraid of hardship. But may I ask—how long will the training last?”

Wu Yuchen shook his head: “Can’t say for sure. Maybe a few months, maybe half a year.”

Li Ming hesitated, then said: “Director Wu, if it’s half a year, I’ll need to fulfill some promotional commitments and promote my album—but I guarantee it won’t affect my performance!”

Wu Yuchen smiled and nodded as Li Ming left, then sighed.

Among the Four Heavenly Kings, each had their own achievements—but in business, Li Ming stood alone at the top, even earning the nickname “Business King.”

In the 90s, Li Ming became a shareholder of “Bai Shi Talent Agency,” later a major shareholder after internal changes—but didn’t expand aggressively yet. In the new century, he slowly built his commercial empire; this year, after leaving Sony, he founded his own record label.

Though his acting and singing career later faded behind Liu Dehua’s, his business acumen far surpassed Hua’s—he eventually shifted almost entirely behind the scenes.

In his past life, his divorce from Le Jier stirred massive controversy: Hong Kong media claimed Le Jier drained 700 million from Li Ming over four years, including a final settlement of 150 million, just to settle things. His father raged: “Better marry Shu Qi!”—back then, when Li Ming and Shu Qi failed to marry after seven years, his father had opposed it most fiercely.

Later, Hong Kong media estimated Li Ming’s net worth after divorce at over one billion.

Wu Yuchen sighed because Li Ming was no longer just an actor and singer—he’d just left Sony to launch East Asia Records, become his own boss, and would pour immense energy into his new company and album. How much focus would that steal from the film?

From Li Ming’s view, six months—taking one month out for promotions shouldn’t be a problem. But to Wu Yuchen, that wasn’t enough. He wanted someone fully committed, pure in focus. There’s a saying: body here, mind elsewhere.

After two days of auditions, Wu Yuchen reviewed the list. Three candidates met his criteria: Jin Chengwu, Zhao Wensuan, and Li Ming.

But he eliminated Li Ming—he was too busy. Wu Yuchen could only wish the Heavenly King good fortune in business.

Jin Chengwu also fit, but Wu Yuchen felt Zhao Wensuan matched the role better.

Plus, he’d recently heard other things about Jin Chengwu: he was being harassed by a Taiwan gang because his older brother was a gambling addict who ran an illegal casino, defaulted on massive gang loans, and fled. Now the gang was targeting Jin Chengwu, the celebrity younger brother.

Wu Yuchen shook his head. He didn’t know if Taiwan gangs specifically targeted stars—but this mess was Jin Chengwu’s problem. He wasn’t casting him anyway.

Sometimes casting actors was complicated—not just about performance. External factors could heavily interfere.

…

“Director Wu, thank you! Thank you so much!”

Zhao Wensuan bowed repeatedly to Wu Yuchen, deeply moved.

Honestly, many big names had auditioned: Li Ming, Liu Dehua, Jin Chengwu—he had no fame or status to match them. He’d come just to try. But he’d actually been chosen!

Wu Yuchen smiled: “Don’t thank me. You performed best—you’re exactly the lead I envisioned.”

He patted Zhao Wensuan’s shoulder: “Go enjoy the New Year. Afterward, you’ll train with a mortician and practice cello—it won’t be easy.”

“Director Wu, rest assured—I won’t let you down!”

Wu Yuchen was pleased with Zhao Wensuan’s attitude. He’d chosen him precisely because he wouldn’t be burdened by distractions like Li Ming—he could give the role 100% focus.

For this award-bait film, Wu Yuchen didn’t care about star power—he himself was the biggest brand.

Besides the leads, “The Mortician” had several standout supporting roles—but Wu Yuchen didn’t need to rush. He could cast them later. His goal now was to secure the lead, so he could begin living the role early. Mission accomplished—he could finally relax.

…

“The first snow of 2002

Came later than usual.”

Listening to the rough voice and melodic tune, Wu Yuchen smiled at Gao Yuanyuan: “Didn’t know you liked this song.”

Gao Yuanyuan blinked her big eyes: “Why? I think it’s great—full of emotion, makes me feel like I’m remembering the past.”

Wu Yuchen gave her a thumbs-up: “Good, good—our Yuanyuan appreciates both highbrow and lowbrow, great taste. This song will be a huge hit this year.”

He knew this song, “The First Snow of 2002,” would become a massive hit—and trigger backlash from Beijing’s music circle: calling it crude, vulgar, a tragedy for music…

In truth, it was just jealousy. Dao Lang’s popularity threatened their interests. A country bumpkin from the frontier, with no ties to Beijing’s music elite, rising this high—how could they save face?

Gao Yuanyuan’s eyes crinkled into crescents as she fed Wu Yuchen a cherry: “Sweet?”

“Sweet! Your cherries are the best!”

“Here’s another—good cherries are hard to find in winter.”

Wu Yuchen hugged Gao Yuanyuan: “A girl as good as you is even harder to find.”

Gao Yuanyuan giggled, fed him another cherry, then caught the pit he spat out and tossed it away.

Wu Yuchen luxuriated in her service while watching TV. On screen appeared a familiar face—the girl was still young, but her beauty and aura were striking, carrying the role perfectly: Liu Qianqian as Wang Yuyan.

The TV series “Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils” had been promoted for half a year and finally aired on CCTV last month.

It premiered nearly simultaneously across the Taiwan Strait and Hong Kong, topping ratings in both mainland China and Taiwan. The cast’s popularity surged—Jin Yong’s dramas truly launched stars.

Seeing Liu Qianqian, Wu Yuchen recalled more: from Cai Yinong, he’d learned Liu Qianqian had won the role of Zhao Linger in “The Legend of Sword and Fairy.”

He hadn’t intervened. Though He Meidian had been the early favorite, after auditions, director Li Guoli and Cai Yinong carefully chose Liu Qianqian.

The reason? Age.

Zhao Linger is sixteen in the game—just entering womanhood. Liu Qianqian is exactly sixteen—her youth radiates naturally.

He Meidian, though sweet, is twenty-eight. She could play sixteen with makeup—but compared to Liu Qianqian’s pure, vibrant energy, she fell short.

Thus, Liu Qianqian was officially cast as Zhao Linger in “The Legend of Sword and Fairy.”