`Chapter 1

June wasn’t even halfway over, and Tan City had already entered full steamer mode.

In the morning, the sun was blazing, but by noon a few sudden showers had come and gone, stopping and starting, never fully clearing. The people in the city felt like steamed buns—moist on the outside, so much that water could be squeezed out, but the sweat inside couldn’t escape, only slowly soaking and permeating them, until at some critical point, a poke would make the burst of irritation explode completely.

Even the Yunxi Film and Television Base in the suburbs couldn’t escape the annoying “steamer curse.”

“Clop—clop—clop—clop—”

A cavalry unit, armored and kicking up thick dust, thundered forward, rapidly approaching a lonely city. The young commanding officer at the front had sharp eyebrows and bright eyes, his figure tall and heroic. He leapt off his horse, strode through the crowd, and walked to the edge of the moat, offering a perfunctory salute, his expression showing a carefree, world-weary indifference.

“Lin Yuan Xie Yun, requesting passage through Lord Jiang’s territory to attack Guo. I ask Lord Jiang to allow passage!”

The city fell into complete silence, no movement at all.

The young commander raised an eyebrow, then repeated loudly twice more. Finally, there was a response from the other side.

The heavy drawbridge slowly lowered, and a carriage embroidered with the Jiang family crest crossed the river. The curtain was half-lifted, revealing a graceful figure.

A beautiful-faced woman jumped down from the carriage, swaying her waist as she came to the front of the formation. She looked pitifully at the young commander, her shoulders trembling slightly, tears welling up and about to fall: “Ming Zhi—uh, General Xie…”

The yellow sand in the air seemed to pause for a moment.

“Cut—cut cut cut!!”

Two giant crane cameras swung past, immediately snapping everyone back to reality.

A small mound of earth, the same color as the sand dunes, bulged with a person pointing at the city gate and cursing loudly: “How many takes is this already? Huh! Huh!! Are there a whole bunch of people playing with you? You can’t even get a name right. If you can’t act, get out! There are plenty of people waiting to go on!”

Qiu He stared at the chief supervisor, not stopping the assistant director next to him from exploding. After shouting “Cut,” he said nothing, his expression equally unpleasant.

The Song of Turbulent Times is adapted from a popular web novel of the same name, with Qiu He taking on the sole role of director for the first time. It tells the legendary story of veteran gamer Xie Yun, who is transported into the game Turbulent Sixteen Kingdoms, rising from an unknown nobody to a godfather-level powerhouse.

The combination of “male or female lead + leveling up + satisfying story” has been a hot trend in recent years. The Song of Turbulent Times perfectly fits mainstream tastes, which is why Qiu He chose it as his stepping stone into the film industry.

In the film, the young and middle-aged Xie Yun are played by the popular star Ming Zhe and the mid-career powerhouse Liang Yicheng, praised as the “uncle circle heartthrob.”

The scene currently being filmed occurs early in the story. Xie Yun has many beauties throughout his life, but the one considered his “white moonlight” is only one—the former Princess of the Jiang Kingdom, Yu Ying.

Qiu He used on-location shooting, with over a hundred extras, each minute burning real money. Worried that the actors might stand in the wrong position, he personally went through the scene twice before filming. In the end, the positions were correct, but the actors were wrong—so wrong that he wished he could gouge his own eyes out and explode on the spot in this steamer-like heat! Spiral to heaven!

Yu Ying, acting opposite Ming Zhe, either forgot her lines or couldn’t make the right expressions. Standing still was barely tolerable, but once she moved, she fidgeted incessantly. Every time she appeared on camera, Qiu He felt like a thousand bugs were crawling over him.

Ming Zhe, unintentionally dragged into this mess, was also unhappy. His handsome face was tight, and anyone could see his displeasure. He flexed his stiff heels, turned, and walked away, leaving Yu Ying awkwardly standing in place.

The set fell into silence. The crew dared not breathe loudly, secretly glancing at Qiu He. No one dared underestimate this “second-generation director.” Qiu He’s mother was a senior figure in the industry, and he himself graduated from the Beijing Film Academy’s directing program. He had connections, resources, and a famous mentor.

Qiu He wiped his face, trying to calm himself: “…Teacher, I embarrassed myself.”

Next to him, on a metal chair, sat a small old man in a gray polo shirt and a baseball cap, ordinary-looking but famous throughout the country—Zheng Zongyao, leader of China’s “Fifth Generation” directors, a dominant figure in the film industry, respectfully called “Master Zheng” within the industry.

Zheng Zongyao shook his bamboo fan, comforting him: “Take a sip of water, calm down. Don’t get heated in this weather.”

Qiu He sipped some herbal tea, feeling so uncomfortable that he didn’t speak for a while.

Outsiders think directors hold absolute power on set, deciding life and death with a word. In reality, it’s not so. Relationships in the crew are complex. Production, producers, and supervisors—none can be offended lightly. A director must not only know how to film, but also how to negotiate. The Song of Turbulent Times was a lucrative project. Several co-producers were wealthy and influential, and many connections were quietly inserted. Qiu He was particularly picky with actors—he couldn’t teach them properly, and he couldn’t replace them, only endure certain monstrous behaviors before him.

“Making money is hard, eating shit is worse,” Qiu He commented sharply.

Zheng Zongyao chuckled. Seeing him look utterly defeated, he fanned him: “Forgot everything I taught you? You’re the director; you control the final product. Who’s on set, how many takes, which take passes—it’s all up to you… Alright, alright. No need for you to eat shit. I came over, didn’t I?”

He was here today specifically to stabilize his beloved student.

Qiu He felt touched but still awkward: “Yeah, got it. Fan yourself; I’m not hot.”

Zheng Zongyao glanced at his soaked vest, smiled, and said nothing.

Yu Ying’s information was quickly delivered. She was neither a producer nor part of the production team—just an unknown 18th-tier actress, recruited by the assistant director of actors.

This was intolerable.

Qiu He made an immediate decision: “Replace her!”

~

Miao Huizhong was the assistant director of actors on The Song of Turbulent Times, responsible for extras, guest roles, and minor supporting characters. Her position was middling, but comfortable. At this moment, she returned with a dark face, saw her nephew, and without a word grabbed his ear, twisting it hard: “Are you out of your mind, or did someone pay you off?”

Her nephew immediately screamed in pain: “Ouch ouch ouch! Auntie, easy, easy!!”

Miao Huizhong remained unmoved: “That Yu Ying, did you find her?”

“It was me… wh-what’s wrong?” The nephew’s eyes darted nervously. He sheepishly patted his pocket, inside were two Tan City Tower shopping cards, each worth ten thousand, and anonymous. “She’s the prettiest among this batch of guest actors.”

“Pretty?” Miao Huizhong sneered repeatedly. “You think having a face is enough to get by in this business? Oh, she’s got a face, alright, but what about my face? Listen to this—stepped on, smacked, what a mess!”

Thinking back to the earlier scene, Miao Huizhong felt mortified.

In the scorching heat, Qiu He had called her over to watch Yu Ying’s NG clips frame by frame, second by second, then sarcastically said, “Sister Miao, I want a fallen kingdom princess, not a brothel courtesan.”

Miao Huizhong had been casting for nearly twenty years. Today, in front of hundreds of people, especially in front of Zheng Zongyao, being scolded by this young Qiu He—would her reputation in the industry survive?

The angrier she became, the harder she pinched: “You useless debt collector, go find someone else immediately. I’ll handle the audition personally. If she doesn’t make it, you’re the first to get fired. Got it?”

“Got it! I’ll find someone! Right now!”

Her nephew grimaced as he sent messages to the local agents’ group. It was so hot, and this was urgent work; unsurprisingly, responses were scarce.

He spun his eyes, half-serious, half-joking, and raised the banner:

“Master Zheng personally supervising today.”

The moment those keywords appeared, enthusiastic responses flooded the screen.

“Master Zheng? Which one?”

“I have someone on hand, arranging immediately.”

“Who else? Zheng Zongyao! That’s impressive. Even Old Zheng is coming to back it up.”

Some clever ones immediately sent voice messages, almost teasing: “Brother Miao, who are we dealing with here? Can you give a hint? What are the requirements?”

Her nephew gritted his teeth: “Requirements? A princess! And she must be a princess of a fallen kingdom, understand?”

~

Shi Yin had just left the Actors’ Guild when her WeChat notifications went off nonstop, like relentless summons.

“It’s Sunday today. Are you at Yunxi?”

Within five minutes, Xia Xia had sent several messages asking where she was.

“Here.”

Shi Yin typed with one hand, still holding her freshly issued guest actor certificate between her fingers.

“Da Yan arranged an urgent job. The Qin King’s Palace—can you take some on-site photos for me? I’ll manage.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Too late to get there. I’m in the West District, and besides, I still have to audition…” Xia Xia replied vaguely.

Shi Yin fanned herself with her certificate, realization flashing in her eyes. There was a luxury car exhibition in the West District today. Xia Xia, slender and pretty, could work as a part-time model and, if lucky, earn a few thousand a day. Compared to sweaty, grueling auditions in scorching heat—where even if she tried, she might not get a small role—it made sense she didn’t want to bother.

“It’s just a brief scene. You can clock it in DingTalk for me. I’ll tell Da Yan later that it wasn’t significant.”

Xia Xia’s tone was casual, seemingly assuming Shi Yin had nothing else to do.

“Which team? Which scene?”

Shi Yin waited a long time after sending the message. Xia Xia still hadn’t replied—she didn’t know if she was genuinely busy or pretending to be.

Shi Yin stopped checking her phone, put away her certificate, and, with practiced ease, boarded the bus.

Yunxi Film and Television Base is known as the “Eastern Hollywood.” As the largest filming base in China, it has over a hundred first-class studios and more than 2,000 contemporary and period film sets, the starting point for countless actors’ brilliant careers.

It was peak filming season. Just at the Qin King’s Palace, there were more than a dozen teams. After clocking in, Shi Yin hid under a tree for shade. WeChat had no read receipts. She sent the photos, but Xia Xia seemed to have vanished—no reply, not even a thank you.

Shi Yin stared blankly, seemingly daydreaming, but in reality, a screen had popped up in front of her.

Yes, she had a system.

The system’s full name was “Grand Slam Best Actress Growth Assistance System 1.0,” abbreviated as “Little Assistant.” It had suddenly appeared a month ago. Apart from a name, it was nothing—no matter where Shi Yin tapped, no matter how she triggered it, it always displayed “Inactive Status.”

Until just now, Little Assistant finally changed.

【Ding! Positioning successful, automatically activating…】

【Newbie Mission: Tremble, inner fish! Your strong arrival is here!】

【Mission Content: Participate in the filming of a movie or TV drama, with more than five lines of dialogue.】

Shi Yin’s first reaction: Little Assistant is alive? Is her professional career about to start? As she read the words on the screen, she fell into thought.

This system looked a bit… chuunibyou.

Chuunibyou or not, the mission still had to be completed.

Logically speaking, a role with more than five lines was no longer an extra; at least it was a supporting role, maybe even a major supporting role. These roles were highly sought-after, and people competed for them. How could it possibly come to her?

“Little Assistant, can you give me a hint?” Shi Yin tentatively asked in her mind.

Little Assistant remained quiet, without a single reaction.

Fine, dead again.

Shi Yin was only disappointed for a second before immediately cheering up. There was already a ready-made opportunity.

Although Xia Xia wouldn’t reveal audition information, Shi Yin was the most promising candidate in Yan Li’s hands. For Xia Xia to hurriedly reschedule a shoot like this, it definitely wasn’t a simple background role.

Yes, your role is fine, the next second it’s mine.

Shi Yin exited the chat window and opened the newly added guest actor group. Today, three teams had posted casting announcements: a Republican-era spy drama, an immortal romance idol drama, and a costume fantasy film. She quickly checked the profiles of all three teams. Unsurprisingly, she couldn’t find the call sheet for the day.

Film crews always implement confidentiality measures, making it difficult for outsiders to gather internal information.

No matter, if one path doesn’t work, take another.

At Yunxi, aside from the casting directors of each team, there was another type of person whose information was quite reliable.

Shi Yin turned into a convenience store and bought a bag full of chilled orange juice.

From the city center to Yunxi, one could take the subway and then transfer to a bus. Shi Yin often came here on weekends. Having come many times, and being a genuinely pretty girl, many security guards at the base recognized her.

“Ah, look who’s here today! No school?” From afar, Old Wu greeted her, sweat soaking his dark security uniform.

“On vacation!”

Shi Yin’s eyes curved with a bright, charming smile. “Captain Wu, I’ll treat you to a soda.”

Old Wu was the head of security for the Qin King’s Palace, supervising a dozen or so people, and he had access to all sorts of insider news.

He didn’t hold back, gulping down half a bottle of soda. The summer heat melted away, leaving him refreshed: “Ah, that feels good.”

Shi Yin showed off her newly obtained certificate: “Uncle Wu, look, I’m officially an actress now.”

Old Wu looked skeptical: “You? You can act? Weren’t you just here chasing big stars for autographs?”

Shi Yin puffed her cheeks, speaking earnestly: “I can! I’ve been acting since I was little.”

Old Wu laughed heartily, clearly not taking her seriously, joking: “Who would have thought, you’re actually a little acting prodigy?”

“Not at all,” Shi Yin said modestly, waving her hand, looking both humble and eager. “Uncle Wu, I finally got my certificate. Can you give me a little help? It’s my first time on duty. Is there any role where I can be on camera and have lines? I’m not asking for much—five lines is fine.”

Old Wu lowered his head to think, then suddenly slapped his thigh: “Then you came on the right day! Director Qiu’s team, all afternoon, so many pretty girls coming in and out. There are still some now!”

Director Qiu? Qiu He?

Shi Yin’s mind flashed back to the information she had just looked up.

Rising director Qiu He, famous for pursuing cinematic aesthetics, was currently filming the costume fantasy movie The Song of Turbulent Times.

~

The Song of Turbulent Times crew, actor recruitment office.

Amid the noisy background, the girl responsible for registration was busy sorting resumes, not looking up as she said, “Today’s extras quota is full.”

“I’m not auditioning for extras. My agent sent me.” Shi Yin said calmly.

Her voice was soft, with a slight Jiangnan lilt. The girl paused her work, stared at Shi Yin’s face for two seconds, then quickly realized: “Oh! You’re here to audition for the fallen kingdom princess, right? First, submit your resume to get a number, then go inside. The room with the sign is the one.”

Fallen kingdom princess.

Shi Yin silently repeated the four words in her mind and successfully received a number card.

The audition room doors were closed. In the hallway, a dozen or so girls stood scattered. Six were ahead of Shi Yin. She observed for a while; each person went in for about five to six minutes. The pace was fast, and in roughly half an hour, it was her turn.

While waiting, Shi Yin opened the original novel of The Song of Turbulent Times and searched the keyword “fallen kingdom princess.”

As a typical male-oriented novel, Yu Ying fit most readers’ stereotype of the “first love.” She was intelligent and brave, loyal and steadfast. She met Xie Yun in their youth, loved and sparred with him multiple times, and ultimately died for her country, leaving Xie Yun haunted for life.

Her death occurs in Chapter 39. After that, Yu Ying no longer appears. Shi Yin always felt something was odd. As she fast-forwarded, indeed, Xie Yun, while remembering Yu Ying, met one, two, three new beauties, married other women, had children and second children, and lived the rest of his life brilliantly.

Tsk tsk, claiming pure love while running a harem behind the scenes.

Such values obviously couldn’t be directly translated to the big screen. It would depend on how the screenwriter adapted them. Still, the fallen kingdom princess was clearly a tool character. Not even a main character, definitely couldn’t overshadow the female lead. Therefore, she didn’t need to stand out—just “fit the role.”

Both appearance and lines were meant to emphasize the character’s traits.

Auditions generally required light makeup. Shi Yin took out a small round mirror, wiped off the apricot-colored lip tint, and the pure student-like look on her face faded noticeably. Then she used an eyebrow pencil to reshape her brows into a slightly arched classical style. The slender, distant-mountain brows added negative space to her face and gave her an extra air of icy elegance.

Another delicate-featured girl came out, reluctantly biting her lip, a trace of regret on her face.

“Next,” the staff member called from inside, “Shi Yin.”

Little Assistant, you have to protect your strong one, Shi Yin muttered in her mind. She took a deep breath and stepped into the audition room.

The room had drawn curtains. Two long tables were set side by side against the wall, with three people seated. In the middle sat a woman in her forties, with short hair, small frame, but eyes as sharp as an eagle.

Miao Huizhong sized Shi Yin up from head to toe, then handed her a sheet of paper: “Try this scene.”

She didn’t ask Shi Yin to introduce herself, clearly a no-nonsense type. Shi Yin read through the sheet at a glance, memorizing as much as possible, then stepped back to the doorway. Her demeanor subtly shifted.

Miao Huizhong, flipping through her materials, looked up, pausing briefly.

Chinese etiquette has a mature “walking ritual.” It is said that in ancient times, noblewomen wore jade steps when going out. They restrained their movements and created a light tinkling sound from the pendants on the steps when walking gracefully.

Shi Yin, wearing modern T-shirt and shorts, naturally had no jade steps and made no tinkling sound. Yet, Miao Huizhong, as the assistant casting director, had sharp eyes and keen judgment. In just a few steps, she discerned the nuances.

—“Soft and gentle in step, flowing robes trailing.”

The line from the poem The Walk of Luo Fu suddenly came to mind. Miao Huizhong straightened, her gaze more focused.

As she watched, her thoughts flickered, and she couldn’t help but let out a small “eh.”

This is… taking the martial step?

The author has a note:

[Throwing flowers] New story is up! As usual, comment on the first three chapters to grab a familiar baby and get a red envelope.

·

The opening timeline is 2025.