`Chapter 25

Chapter 25

The auditions for Jianqiao 1937 were scheduled for a week later, leaving little time.

Shi Yin hurried home every day after class, diving headfirst into character preparation.

For several consecutive days, she stayed in front of the mirror practicing repeatedly, from dawn till dusk, refining her expressions and polishing her movements. How Ge Huijun should walk, how she should smile, how she should hold back tears in the face of national calamity—Shi Yin continuously built the fiery era in her mind, letting the character’s soul slowly awaken within her.

That day, the moment Tian Tian entered, she was stunned by the scene in the living room.

Three cameras were aimed at the center of the living room from different angles. Shi Yin was skillfully adjusting the tripod height, sweat beading on her forehead.

“You’re finally here,” her voice slightly hoarse from long hours of practice. “Help me record this, make sure you get the upper body in frame, and remind me if anything goes out of shot.”

Tian Tian nodded twice, put down her bag, leaned closer, and couldn’t help exclaiming: “Whoa! All red-ringed lenses? The ‘Big Three’ setup is complete! I thought we were equally poor, planning to eat dirt together, but you secretly hid the family treasure behind my back?”

Shi Yin smiled: “It was left by my family.”

“Your family are photography enthusiasts?” Tian Tian asked curiously. “This setup could shoot professional portraits.”

“…I guess so,” Shi Yin said vaguely, then picked up the script. “I’ll tell you a bit about the character, and I can also sort it out myself.”

She gestured for Tian Tian to sit, her eyes suddenly brightening: “The female lead Ge Huijun comes from a declining scholarly family. Poor in means but high in ambition, she’s like a bright lamp within the main cast—no matter how difficult her situation, she illuminates others.”

“Ge Huijun’s personality has three layers of transformation,” Shi Yin opened her densely written notes and slowly explained. “At first, she carries humble sensitivity and aloofness. Later, upon meeting like-minded Gao Zhenxiao, she begins to consciously examine her path forward. Finally, amidst the chaos of war and life-and-death separation, she solidifies into rock-like resilience—but the courage at her core remains unchanged.”

After finishing, Shi Yin quickly flipped through the script to one page: “Let’s try Ge Huijun’s first appearance scene. Help me cue the lines.”

They began the rehearsal.

“Ready? I’ll start recording.” Tian Tian pressed the record button.

When she looked up again, she froze—the Shi Yin in front of her had become completely unfamiliar.

It wasn’t a deliberately posed stance. It was as if another soul had been injected into her body. Her shoulders and neck were naturally straight, like a green bamboo standing in the wind. Her aura was calm as water, yet her eyes burned with a scorching light.

“The nation is on the verge of collapse, yet you indulge in pleasures! Shameful!”

A clear female voice, sharp with anger, rang out, entirely different from Shi Yin’s usual gentle tone.

Tian Tian glanced at the lines in the script: “Um… excuse me, we were just chatting. What exactly did we do to bother you?”

Shi Yin stepped forward two paces, looking straight ahead, eyes blazing with visible fury and contempt.

“Bother me? You’ve bothered this nation!”

Her voice was clear and forceful, each word striking: “The invaders in the Three Northeastern Provinces are watching like tigers, the people at home are homeless, and what are you doing? Wearing silks and brocades, drinking foreign champagne, talking about races and dances! The land beneath your feet is crying, bleeding—can you hear it?”

Tian Tian tried to stay in character, responding indignantly: “Hey! Who are you? We’re spending our own money—what business is it of yours?”

“Home? When the skin is gone, what can the hair attach to!” Shi Yin suddenly turned her head, eyes blazing like torches. “Look at you—beautiful shells, best education, most privileged resources. When the nation is in peril, what’s needed are not princes at the dance hall, not playboys at the ice rink! What’s needed are warriors who can shoulder arms, patriots who can awaken the people, those who can ignite sparks on this sinking land!”

Tian Tian was dumbfounded by this explosive performance, her mouth forming an involuntary O.

“Feels a bit off,” Shi Yin stopped herself, the fierce aura dissipating instantly.

Tian Tian came back to herself and clapped: “That was great, really powerful!”

“…Too aggressive,” Shi Yin shook her head, picking up the script to examine it carefully. “Ge Huijun’s first encounter with Gao Zhenxiao and the others is emotionally dynamic, layered. At first, curiosity, then anger at their inaction, indignation—but not yet overwhelming. My previous intensity was too full.”

“Not your fault. The lines themselves sound extreme,” Tian Tian said.

Shi Yin didn’t respond. She paced in place, then tried two more of Ge Huijun’s scenes before sitting to read the script, her brow furrowed in thought.

Tian Tian propped her chin on her hand, turning her head as Shi Yin moved, like a sunflower following the sun. Sometimes Shi Yin needed her for line cues, sometimes she was entirely absorbed in her own world—often standing up suddenly to adjust her posture mid-reading, accustomed to this self-directed rehearsal style.

“So this girl becomes merciless when rehearsing,” Tian Tian thought silently.

At night, Shi Yin carefully studied the audition footage. Besides a few supporting roles, the male second lead “Shen Wangshu” stood out. This character, like Gao Zhenxiao, came from a prestigious family but was a flamboyant playboy—luxury cars, ostentatious displays. His true charm lies in his later “reformed rogue” arc—from a carefree young master to a patriotic fighter. If acted well, this growth arc would be the most captivating in the show.

The actor auditioning was Su Feibai. Shi Yin watched him with interest.

Su Feibai’s appearance matched the role: refined and handsome, elegant yet roguish in his smile, the white suit enhancing his dashing presence. Yet Shi Yin noticed he used many small acting movements, some planned, some habitual, which could bring difficulties for his scene partners.

~

The week passed in the blink of an eye.

On the day of the audition, Shi Yin and Tian Tian boarded the high-speed train to Shanghai, stepping over the morning dew.

Tian Tian had specially done Shi Yin’s makeup to look seemingly simple but subtly clever. A white blouse paired with a loose skirt, two low twin ponytails draped over her shoulders—at first glance plain, but in fact exuding the fresh, refined scholarly air of a Republic-era schoolgirl.

The audition was open, held in a hotel conference hall. After verifying the list, the staff allowed only Shi Yin to enter. Tian Tian gave her a supportive hand gesture, watching her walk through the door.

Shi Yin straightened her back and stepped into the hall. The moment she pushed the door open, countless eyes from all directions fell upon her—this was the ceremonial attention every newcomer experienced. Shi Yin met the gazes calmly, recognizing several familiar faces from the screen.

She found an empty seat and noticed the girl beside her quietly reading.

Casually glancing, she realized it was Lou Xiyu.

Lou Xiyu, highly sensitive to attention, looked up and offered a faint smile. Shi Yin was slightly taken aback, returning a friendly smile.

After nearly half an hour, the staff finished checking the list and hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign at the door. This meant anyone not present, whether voluntarily absent or late, had lost the opportunity.

Shi Yin scanned the competitors and was surprised to see Zhen Xue was absent.

“Hello everyone, I am Liu Qishui, the assistant director of Jianqiao 1937.”

A formally dressed middle-aged man stepped forward, voice loud and clear. “Due to last-minute notice, today’s audition will be conducted in an open format. Now, divided by roles, five people per group. When your name is called, please step forward in order and enter the audition room.”

Murmurs immediately rose among the crowd.

A bold contestant raised a hand: “Director Liu, the previous notice said individual interviews. Why is it suddenly a group interview?”

Liu Qishui’s sharp eyes swept the room, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “That’s the rule. If anyone is unwilling to cooperate—” He pointed toward the door with a gesture of invitation. “The exit is there. You may leave anytime.”

As soon as he finished, the hall fell silent.

Shi Yin and Lou Xiyu were placed in the same group.

While waiting, their eyes accidentally met again. Lou Xiyu moved slightly closer and quietly asked in Mandarin with a Liudao accent, “You’re here to audition for Ge Huijun too?”

Shi Yin nodded: “Mm, you?”

“Me too,” Lou Xiyu smiled, two small dimples forming, especially sweet. “I’ve actually seen your work, Lin Yutong in Saints in the Fog, right? I’ve always wanted to play aggressive, particularly powerful roles.”

Her tone was naturally soft, with a subtle coquettishness, yet never felt forced.

Shi Yin returned the courtesy with praise: “Your performance in Sinful Angel was stunning, especially your ‘white-cut-black’ interpretation. The twist at the end caught me completely off guard.”

“Oh, that role was a little sheepish at first, only standing up in the last few minutes,” Lou Xiyu said bashfully, waving her hand. She then pulled out a pack of neatly packaged coconut candies from her small bag and offered them to Shi Yin. “Want some? A specialty from my hometown, not too sweet. If you pop one when you’re nervous, it calms you a lot.”

She paused, thoughtfully adding: “Individually wrapped, very hygienic.”

Shi Yin took the candy, lightly rubbing the wrapper with her fingertips. “Thank you.”

She placed it in her palm but had no intention of eating it.

While they were chatting, Shi Yin suddenly noticed someone outside the door—a small figure talking to others. She stood quickly and whispered to Lou Xiyu, “Sorry, I see someone I know. I’ll go say hi.” She hurried out.

At the hallway corner, she ran into a slender middle-aged woman who smiled sweetly and called out: “Director Miao, what a coincidence! Didn’t expect to see you here.”

It was common for casting directors to move between productions, so Miao Huizhong’s presence was not surprising.

Squinting for a moment, Miao Huizhong recognized her: “I remember you, your name is…”

“Shi Yin,” she naturally answered, her tone familiar. “From the Song of Turmoil crew. You personally auditioned me—I played Princess Yuying. I’ve always wanted to thank you in person.”

“Yes, I chose you back then,” Miao Huizhong’s smile grew warmer. “A very sensible little girl.”

Shi Yin maintained a polite smile, knowing in her heart that Miao Huizhong remembered her not just for her acting but also because of the ten-thousand-yuan gift afterward.

“You’re here for the audition too? Which role?”

“Ge Huijun.”

“The female lead? Ambitious.” Miao Huizhong nodded, then casually asked, “Just applying for one? Haven’t considered a backup?”

Shi Yin paused briefly, then answered immediately: “I have considered! Director Miao, your judgment is the most accurate. Which other role do you think suits me? I can try any.”

Miao Huizhong thought for a moment: “Second female lead Cheng Daisy, third female lead Zhou Xianghong, both are good. Zhou Xianghong has already been confirmed…” She turned to her assistant, received confirmation, and nodded. “Confirmed, right? I remember it’s confirmed. Cheng Daisy’s audition is in the afternoon.”

Miao Huizhong looked down at her phone. “Prepare well. I need to get busy first.”

“Okay, Director Miao, you go ahead.” Shi Yin watched her leave.

Once Miao Huizhong’s figure disappeared at the end of the hallway, Shi Yin’s smile faded.

She stood in place for a moment, recalling Miao Huizhong’s words, then glanced back toward the audition hall, lost in thought.

~

Shi Yin and Lou Xiyu were in the third group. The audition proceeded quickly, and within an hour it was their turn.

The five walked into the audition room one by one.

The room was simply arranged. Behind a long table sat the judges, side by side. Against the wall were five chairs, leaving an open performance area in the center.

Shi Yin scanned the room and recognized director Xu Qingsui and screenwriter Yan Wen, quietly discussing something. A few unfamiliar faces were nearby, one middle-aged man constantly checking his watch, looking impatient—most likely an investor.

Three cameras were already set up, their red recording lights glowing, radiating undeniable professionalism.

The assistant handed each person a page of the script. Assistant director Liu Qishui stood in the center of the room, voice steady and strong:

“Your group’s scenario: Ge Huijun is secretly printing leaflets in preparation for a march the next day. On the eve of the action, a companion brings news of a leak. Begin your performance from this point.”

“Each person has a five-minute limit. Props are over there,” Liu Qishui pointed to the corner with boxes. “Take what you need.”

A silent tension spread through the room.

The first to step forward was a student from Jingying, delicate in appearance, with a glint of youthful determination in her eyes.

“The paper isn’t enough,” she said with strong emotion. Her foundation was solid. “I’ll figure something out. Teacher Wang knows people at the printing house; maybe we can take a risk.”

As she said, “I’ll figure something out,” the problem appeared—her hand, originally hanging naturally, suddenly shot up and waved unnaturally large in the air. At “take a risk,” the gesture went out of control again. Combined with her forward-leaning posture and overly intense gaze, what should have been a discreet decision turned into a public shout.

The first contestant’s body language was too exaggerated, disconnected from the composed image of Ge Huijun.

Performance finished.

Behind the table, assistant director Liu Qishui showed no expression. The investor looked down at his phone, uninterested. Only director Xu Qingsui remained focused, jotting notes quickly on paper.

She looked up and calmly announced, “Next.”

The second contestant was a female actor who had appeared in several popular dramas.

“The paper isn’t enough…” She opened her mouth, and Xu Qingsui immediately furrowed her brows.

Yan Wen silently mouthed: “Swallow your voice.”

The first few words were clear, but as emotion increased, the problem became obvious. “Afraid? Of course I’m afraid… but some things… even if afraid, you must do.” The latter part sounded muffled, especially “even if afraid, you must do,” the four words stuck together, almost incomprehensible.

Shi Yin thought to herself: this one probably can’t perform without dubbing.

The third contestant was a moderately famous actor, exuding an aura of “I understand drama” upon entering.

She didn’t speak immediately, first scanning the surroundings cautiously, as if in enemy territory. Then she leaned toward a non-existent companion and whispered: “The… paper isn’t enough,” drawing out each word like passing a secret of global importance.

“I’ll figure something out,” she said, pausing deliberately. A mysterious smile curled at the corner of her lips. Her voice lowered even more: “Teacher Wang knows… people at the printing house, maybe… we can take a risk.”

What should have been a straightforward task scene ended up feeling like a covert spy rendezvous.

Shi Yin clearly saw that this contestant was lost in her own “secondary creation.”

It was Lou Xiyu’s turn.

She approached the prop box and carefully selected a stack of blank papers and a fountain pen. As she turned, her entire demeanor had already become calm. Lou Xiyu tucked imaginary stray hair behind her ear, a subtle gesture instantly conveying the refinement of a scholarly family.

She picked up a “just-printed” leaflet, her fingertips lightly tracing its surface, as if touching a precious ideal.

“So what if the news is out?” she looked up, eyes bright with clarity. “Tomorrow’s march, I will not retreat.”

Her voice was soft like water, yet her spine was perfectly straight. She pressed the leaflet to her chest as if making a solemn vow.

“We march, not to become heroes, but so that more people need not be heroes. If we shrink back out of fear, then the Republic of China today is truly hopeless.”

As she spoke with emotion, she slightly raised her chin, and the seemingly gentle side profile suddenly gained sharpness.

Yan Wen’s eyes brightened slightly, exchanging a look of admiration with Xu Qingsui.

The only minor flaw was Lou Xiyu’s Ryukyu-accented Mandarin, which made some of the emphatic lines feel slightly out of place.

Shi Yin was the last to perform.

She didn’t take any props, instead walking quickly to the center of the stage as if she had rushed straight from a secret meeting.

Her breathing was slightly hurried, her cheeks flushed with a natural pink, and fine beads of sweat appeared at her temples—these physiological details were so real that everyone present held their breath.

“Not enough paper?”

She suddenly crouched down, prying up an imaginary “floorboard” with both hands and carefully pulling out a stack of “leaflets” from a nonexistent hidden compartment, the entire action exuding desperate determination.

“Here’s the last batch.” She raised her head, her gaze piercing the air toward the nonexistent “companions,” each word short and forceful. “Do you remember the route clearly? Assemble at the auditorium at six tomorrow morning.”

When she heard “dissuade,” she shook her head firmly, the two low ponytails swinging with stubborn arcs.

“No time to hesitate!” Her voice suddenly rose, full of resolute determination, her eyes slightly reddened—not from fear, but from the steadfastness ignited by belief. “Even if I’m alone, I will stand in front of the auditorium—I must make the voice heard! Must!”

Her performance was even “harder” and more “stubborn” than Lou Xiyu’s, carrying a solitary courage that defied fate. This was not gentle motivation, but a decisive declaration—storm approaching, yet I will swim against the current.

When her performance ended, the room fell silent for a moment, followed by the soft intake of breath from someone.

Assistant director Liu Qishui cleared his throat and said dryly, “Alright, go back and wait for notice.”

The five thanked him politely and filed out.

Shi Yin felt a bit disappointed; that phrase translated to “Go home and wash up, then sleep.”

But she didn’t show it, obediently trailing at the end of the line. Yet, just before exiting, she turned her head on impulse.

That single glance made her heart skip a beat.

Behind the long table, director Xu Qingsui and screenwriter Yan Wen still had lingering admiration in their eyes, but the investor in the middle had already lowered his head to scroll on his phone, his face full of indifference. The starkly different gazes hit her like a bucket of ice water.

Something was wrong.

Shi Yin lowered her eyes, silently calling in her mind, “Xiao Assistant, why haven’t you issued a mission?”

Only now did a neglected detail gradually emerge—since receiving the audition opportunity, the system had never issued any mainline mission regarding Jianqiao 1937.

The system that usually pushed her to overwork had been silent this time, unusually quiet.

Unless…

Shi Yin’s pace slowed, gradually falling behind the others.

—Unless the system had already decided that the role of “Ge Huijun” didn’t belong to her.

Her mind flashed back to Miao Huizhong’s seemingly casual reminder before the audition: “Just applied for one? Didn’t consider a backup?”

Good grief, that wasn’t concern—it was a hint.

In the hotel lobby, Tian Tian was buried in her phone, pretending to serve meals as a flight attendant. Just as a steak nearly slipped away, Shi Yin rushed over like a gust of wind.

“Did you bring backup clothes? We need them now!”

Tian Tian quickly stood, patting her bulging backpack. “Yes, I prepared several sets—clothes, shoes, accessories, makeup. What’s going on?”

“Ge Huijun is no longer in play.” Shi Yin’s voice was unusually calm.

“What?!” Tian Tian nearly jumped. “You didn’t perform well? Too nervous?”

“The role has been preassigned. Probably happened just in the last day or two. They didn’t have time to cancel the audition, so they just went through the motions,” Shi Yin tugged the corner of her mouth.

Tian Tian felt as if the sky had fallen. “Then what do we do?”

Shi Yin’s gaze sharpened, her words coming fast: “Find a high-waist dress, with ruffles or puff sleeves. Bell hat, beret, pearl necklace… get everything you can find. I’ll go change in the restroom!”

“There’s a puff-sleeve dress, and I’ve got the pearl necklace!” Tian Tian quickly responded while digging through her bag.

“Good. Help me redo my makeup. Did you bring the curling iron? We need wavy curls.”

“Got it!” Tian Tian quickly pulled out the makeup bag and curling iron.

Besides Gao Zhenxiao and Ge Huijun, the official couple, Jianqiao 1937 also had a pair with comparable screen time as a contrast group—reformed playboy Shen Wangshu, and the spirited, straightforward Cheng Daisy.

Ge Huijun was out, but there was still Cheng Daisy.

Shi Yin took the clothes, her eyes shining with excitement.

Opportunities are never waiting to be picked up; since the stage was already set, she was determined to fight for a role in this scene.

She wasn’t going to give up. At worst, she’d snatch it—let skill decide.

Author’s note: Let’s make a bet: In a serious drama, with the virtuous official couple versus the playboy and heiress, which pairing would the audience prefer?