Chapter 21: There’s Nothing Wrong with Copying the Answers, Right?-I Became a Top Star Before Gaining Mastery(Even the silly husky is captivated by cats.)

Under the incredulous gazes of everyone present, Su Mu found a spot and sat down, then began to change his clothes. Clearly, his claim of having already memorized the script had completely upended everyone’s perception of him.

Something wasn’t right! Weren’t these so-called “top visuals” in the industry rumored to be incapable of remembering lines—only ever mouthing nonsense or counting numbers on set? Yet this guy hadn’t even officially joined the crew and had already memorized the entire script? Was he even human?

This made the rest of them look terribly unprofessional.

The other actors around him found themselves struggling to adapt to Su Mu’s rhythm.

As for Su Mu himself, he was as calm and composed as ever, showing no sign of nervousness. He was as steady as an old dog.

[Emotion Control Proficiency +1]

[Skill Point +0.01]

[…]

[Emotion Control Proficiency Upgraded to Lv2]

[Emotion Control Proficiency Lv2: 1/50 (Entering the Hall)]

While changing into costume, Su Mu kept grinding his proficiency. Under normal circumstances, he would have felt tense and anxious in such a setting, but by deliberately acting out emotions contrary to his inner state, his proficiency improved rapidly after a few attempts.

His emotion control had now reached the second level—“Entering the Hall.”

In fact, Su Mu wasn’t surprised by the audition scene assigned by Zhang Huaimou. He had done his homework before arriving. Zhang Huaimou was notorious for his unconventional methods, extremely demanding in his choice of actors, but always precise. Anyone who performed in his productions could expect a flood of job offers afterward.

At this moment, Su Mu’s only proficiency was in emotion control—a skill related to acting. It didn’t seem enough to support him fully through the audition. Yet, he retained vivid memories of this particular scene from his previous life. He’d watched “Surging” two or three times and had been especially impressed by the actor Zhang Songwen’s portrayal of Gao Qiqiang. Zhang Songwen’s performance was so remarkable that he became a sensation, winning recognition from both the industry and audiences.

If he recalled correctly, this scene appeared in the fourth episode. Zhang Songwen’s acting left an indelible mark—after splitting the spoils, Gao Qiqiang sat alone at a small table downstairs, torn between the fear of retaliation for having killed someone’s son and the desperate choices he had to make for his siblings’ sake. Su Mu remembered every shot, every facial expression.

Zhang Songwen sat in a chair, forcibly suppressing his trembling hands and body. His face seemed numb, but in reality, it twitched with fear. The terror and pressure of being forced into a dead end eventually brought tears to his eyes, which slid down one cheek. He pressed down his panic, preparing to shoulder everything alone, hiding it all from his younger brother.

Su Mu recalled every detail of that performance—not because his memories had improved after his rebirth, for his cognitive attributes remained at 1.1—but because he truly loved that scene and had watched it repeatedly, leaving a deep impression. If it had been any other show, he probably wouldn’t remember it so clearly. Call it luck, perhaps.

Though his current proficiency wasn’t enough for a masterful performance, he could at least mimic Zhang Songwen’s approach and technique. If nothing else, Su Mu knew how to copy someone else’s homework. He would do exactly as Zhang Songwen had done. That couldn’t go wrong.

Now, with his emotion control at Level 2—“Entering the Hall”—he was capable of shedding tears at will and expressing emotions relatively naturally: joy, anger, sorrow, fear, struggle, and contradiction. Although he hadn’t fully mastered stage presence, he could certainly manage the surface details.

For this temporary audition, that would suffice. Ultimately, quality is only revealed through comparison. Fortunately, in this world, there was no Zhang Songwen to compare with Su Mu. He was the only, and the first, actor to portray Gao Qiqiang.

Changing clothes and applying makeup was straightforward and didn’t take long. He simply donned period-appropriate attire and had his complexion darkened to match that of a fishmonger—darker and dirtier.

Soon, Su Mu’s transformation was complete. He slipped into character instantly—even before the camera was fixed on him, he’d shed his usual persona as a suave, wealthy young man and became a timid, cowardly fish vendor. His face bore a shy, guilty smile; his posture hunched, as if weighed down by unspeakable worries. This was exactly the right state.

The moment Zhang Huaimou saw Su Mu emerge, he was immediately struck. Though Su Mu’s acting still had room for improvement, the feeling was spot on. Without the right feeling, no amount of skill could create immersion. From the very first nod and awkward smile, Su Mu captured the soul of Gao Qiqiang. He was the character.

Su Mu approached the camera with a smile. After makeup, his entire aura had shifted. He picked up the prop—thirty thousand yuan—and sat down slowly.

“Begin!” Zhang Huaimou called from behind.

Su Mu, with his back to the camera, remained motionless, as if he hadn’t heard the director. After a few seconds of immersion, he began reciting his lines to the empty air, as though the two brothers, Tang Xiaohu and Tang Xiaolong, were really before him. He delivered every line flawlessly, maintaining perfect rhythm.

Then, pretending to see the two brothers leave, Su Mu drew a deep breath and launched into the heart of the scene: Gao Qiqiang’s inner turmoil.

His expression changed, shifting from stiff to terrified. On camera, Zhang Huaimou and the others saw the muscles on one side of Su Mu’s face twitching slightly—a sign not of anger, but of fear so intense it made his face tremble.

“What is he doing?” someone whispered from behind.

“Shouldn’t there be more lines? Why isn’t he speaking?” another muttered.

Sitting in front of the monitor, Zhang Huaimou’s eyes sparkled as he explained, “He’s leaving space. Fear, struggle, and pain don’t always need words or exaggerated gestures. The highest form of expression is to simply sit there and let the details speak. I suspect Su Mu has his own understanding, so he omitted that line. This is Gao Qiqiang’s most painful, conflicted moment—when a man stands at the edge of the abyss, powerless yet unable to resist, so aggrieved he wants to sob but dares not let his brother see…”

“His expression is correct, but the feeling isn’t quite at its peak. Push a little further, boy!” Zhang Huaimou murmured, eyes glued to the monitor.

The actors behind him were all astonished at how seriously Director Zhang took this. Yet Su Mu’s performance was truly impressive—most agreed he’d done well. But, as Zhang Huaimou had noted, it still seemed to lack a final touch. If it ended there, it would suffice, but a certain emotional climax was missing.

Just then, a few tears suddenly slid down one side of Su Mu’s face in front of the camera.

In an instant, the room fell silent.

Everyone stared in shock, as if all previous regrets had been smoothed away. Gao Qiqiang’s emotions—grievance, pain, fear, struggle—had reached full saturation. It was perfect.

“That tear... what a masterstroke.”

“When did Su Mu get so good at acting?”

“…”

“Cut!”

“Excellent! Hahaha!” Zhang Huaimou suddenly called out, unable to hide his smile.

Everyone in the crew knew—if Director Zhang responded like that, the role of Gao Qiqiang was as good as decided. Su Mu was all but certain to join the cast.