Chapter 26: Audition for

Among distant relatives and close neighbors, being kind to others, Yan Li didn’t charge money and served the child a bowl of braised pork.

The neighbor across the way felt a bit embarrassed and, when returning the bowl, specifically brought over a bag of fruit, which improved Yan Li’s impression of them.

Mutual exchange is the way to maintain relationships!

Those who only seek to take without giving are never wanted for long-term dealings.

After instructing Zhou Weiwei to clean the dishes, Yan Li returned to his bedroom, studied ways to improve the next batch of braised pork, then shifted his focus to other intelligence analysis.

Running a braised pork shop or a cooked-food stall was merely a temporary measure or side business; Yan Li had no intention of making it his lifelong livelihood.

His true, legitimate profession was acting, and his current primary goal remained securing a new film role.

Over these past few days, Yan Li had been preoccupied with this matter, and it had triggered several related pieces of intelligence, giving him some insight.

In Beijing, there were still a few projects where he had a chance to compete.

After all, Yan Li’s personal image was strong, he was a graduate of Beijing Film Academy, and now he had the notable credit of having appeared in “Sui Tang Heroes,” even though the drama hadn’t aired yet, it already earned him extra respect.

Combined with the system’s assistance, Yan Li planned to carefully cultivate key contacts and had a good chance of landing one or two roles.

Yet, compared to these uncertain projects, Yan Li had always kept in mind the future films mentioned in his monthly intelligence reports.

For instance, that film directed by Gao Qunshu: “Conquest.”

Intelligence indicated that “Conquest” was the most popular crime drama of 2003, with some rankings even listing it among the top ten television dramas of the year.

This achievement was far from ordinary; being associated with terms like “annual,” “most popular,” and “top ten” meant even a supporting role would bring immense benefits.

After all, aside from a handful of renowned productions, actors never knew whether their projects would become hits.

Worse still, many didn’t even know if their dramas would ever air—they simply took the pay, shot the scenes, and left it to fate.

Landing a hit drama meant sudden fame; failing to do so meant no luck, and they had to keep struggling in the industry.

For actors, landing one potentially hit drama was more valuable than performing in five or even ten others.

If Yan Li didn’t know the truth, fine—but now that he clearly knew “Conquest” was poised to become a smash, ignoring it and chasing uncertain projects was like throwing away a watermelon for a sesame seed.

After some thought, Yan Li made his final decision.

He would temporarily ignore all other projects and focus entirely on landing “Conquest,” betting everything on this 2003 crime drama.

Thinking of this, Yan Li pulled out his phone and dialed the connection he’d already established.

“Brother Liu, it’s Yan Li—yes, the one who had dinner with Brother Wang last time… I’d like to ask about that ‘Conquest’ you mentioned before…”

————

The next day, Yan Li took a taxi to Haidian and, through Brother Liu’s introduction, met Director Gao Qunshu of “Conquest.”

Gao Qunshu was a short, stout man wearing sunglasses, with a serious, expressionless face.

Before arriving, Yan Li had done his research; this director specialized in crime-themed films, favored a documentary style, and his signature work was “Thirteen Cases,” released in 2000.

Yan Li had watched that drama and remembered it vividly—its narration was straightforward, its realism strong, and it deeply explored human nature and the legal system.

For a director who had produced such outstanding work, Yan Li adopted a humble posture, lavishly praising “Thirteen Cases,” his words filled with admiration and reverence for Gao Qunshu.

Everyone loves to hear compliments, even someone as seasoned as Gao Qunshu couldn’t help but form a favorable impression of the young man.

“I’ve reviewed your materials—your conditions are good, but I’ll be blunt: our production has limited funds and offers very low pay.”

Gao Qunshu’s first move was to lowball the salary, revealing just how tight the production’s finances were.

Yan Li wasn’t surprised; whether from prior intelligence or newly triggered information today, he knew this drama’s funding was extremely scarce.

According to intelligence, Gao Qunshu was currently financing the project out of his own pocket.

The actors weren’t from his old team, but rather friends he’d begged to join, or low-cost hires—all aimed at cost efficiency.

The system had clearly warned: lowering salary demands increases the chance of passing the audition.

So the moment Gao Qunshu lowered the offer, Yan Li immediately responded.

“The pay is no issue—I’m here for the chance to learn from Director Gao.”

The moment Yan Li spoke, Gao Qunshu’s demeanor brightened.

Actors who don’t care about pay are everywhere—outside Beijing Film Academy, you can find dozens waiting for any role, willing to do anything as long as they’re paid.

But most of them can only play extras or background props, utterly failing to meet Gao Qunshu’s standards.

Those he does notice usually have real talent and more options available.

In such cases, offering too low a salary makes casting difficult.

After all, most actors shoot dramas to earn money; television productions last months, and “Conquest”’s crew didn’t look like it would become a hit—if the pay wasn’t enough to cover basic expenses, anyone with another option would refuse this job.

Yan Li had good looks, formal training, and prior experience playing major supporting roles; if he didn’t care about pay, he was definitely worth serious consideration.

Gao Qunshu’s previously stern, round face softened somewhat, but he still required Yan Li to audition.

“No problem.”

Yan Li agreed readily—he and other academy graduates were very familiar with this kind of audition.

During training or exams, teachers often assigned roles or topics, asking students to perform on the spot, sometimes even increasing difficulty mid-performance to test reaction, creativity, and expressiveness.

In contrast, the approach of Hu Mingkai on “Sui Tang Heroes,” who cast actors based purely on appearance, had once made Yan Li uncomfortable.

The script was ready; Gao Qunshu had Yan Li audition for several roles in quick succession.

A young policeman, a hoodlum named Liu Huawen, a killer named Da Peng, a businessman named Wu Tian—he even performed two scenes for the suspected lead, Liu Huaqiang.

As he watched Yan Li’s performance, Gao Qunshu’s brow would furrow, then relax.

Frankly, Yan Li’s acting wasn’t bad, but it didn’t leave him awestruck.

Still, that was understandable—Yan Li had just graduated; if his skills had already impressed Gao Qunshu, Beijing Film Academy’s professors would have recommended him for films long ago, and he wouldn’t be auditioning at this small production.

Gao Qunshu asked Yan Li to take a break, then quickly weighed which role suited him best.

Liu Huaqiang?

No—his acting was too raw, and his appearance and age didn’t match.

The young policeman and Liu Huawen were too minor roles; casting Yan Li there would be a waste.

Da Peng—he already had someone in mind: Zhang Li, who had worked with him on “Thirteen Cases,” and whose appearance better fit his image of a ruthless killer.

That left Wu Tian!

Gao Qunshu studied Yan Li and felt he was perfect for the role.

In the drama, Wu Tian was cold and shrewd, Liu Huaqiang’s enemy—a successful young businessman. Most importantly, his backstory involved climbing the social ladder by attaching himself to a powerful woman; Yan Li’s appearance and physique made this entirely believable.

But after chatting with Yan Li and letting him read the script, Gao Qunshu realized Yan Li preferred the gun-toting killer, Da Peng…

(End of Chapter)