"Props team, the bodhi tree next to him is too short. Since it's a fake tree anyway, why bother with botanical logic? The only standard here is my standard. Are your brains still foggy? I want a taller tree."
"Extras, what are you looking at the camera for? If you're playing temple visitors, then act like temple visitors! Quit squinting around for screen time like your eyes grew out of your nostrils!"
Director Liao Dachong was the living embodiment of double standards—outright insults for extras, loud scolding for crew members, and only slightly gentler treatment for Chu Zhi.
The entertainment industry was nothing if not a hierarchy.
"Teacher Chu, just lower your head and close your eyes. No expression needed."
"Don't deliberately look at the camera."
Liao Dachong flexed his directorial skills, demonstrating how to make an actor look good without requiring actual acting chops.
The technique was simple. Take Giuseppe Tornatore's Malèna—though the story was neither beautiful nor legendary, it served as many boys' sexual awakening. Tornatore mastered the art of utilizing a "pretty vase": stick to medium and close-up shots, avoid freeze frames unless absolutely necessary.
Even when a close-up was essential, focus the frame on long legs, curves, or other assets to distract from the actor's vacant eyes.
Any difficulties Chu Zhi encountered were swiftly resolved by Liao Dachong.
"Might as well scrap the stunt double too", Liao mused. A little extra time was worth it.
This man wasn't just heaven-fed—heaven was force-feeding him. Faced with such perfect material, Liao felt an almost divine responsibility.
Unlike Koguchi Yoshihiro, Liao wasn't just a shallow admirer of looks. To him, Chu Zhi was like a writer stumbling upon a golden premise—the kind that screamed bestseller. Given the chance, any author would itch to write it. Similarly, Liao saw Chu Zhi not as a person, but as vibrant pigment on his palette.
"Acting doesn't seem as hard as I imagined", Chu Zhi thought.
The universe promptly humbled him.
The next scene required the holy monk to chant the Earth Store Thousand-Tined Chant to liberate the female lead's family souls.
This chant was a supreme Buddhist mantra—each syllable purportedly required enduring hellish torment. The script insisted only this could purify souls tainted by demons and allow reincarnation.
How does one act out "enduring the 18 layers of hell"?!
Even with Liao's angles minimizing the need for expressive eyes, Chu Zhi still had to convey agony through subtle frowns and clenched resolve. Two takes ended in NG.
Watching the playback, even Chu Zhi cringed at his forced expressions.
"Performing in front of people versus a camera is totally different," he sighed. Life was hard.
Which was odd, because his pity-baiting livestream acting always worked. Why fail now?
So there's a difference between [Performance King] and [Acting King] after all?
"Teacher Chu, read this." Liao handed Chu Zhi his phone displaying a classical essay.
["Is a white horse not a horse?"
"Indeed."
"Why so?"
"'Horse' denotes form; 'white' denotes color. What denotes color is not what denotes form. Thus, a white horse is not a horse."
...]
"White Horse Not Horse"? Chu Zhi looked up at the director's stern face.
"Gongsun Long's White Horse Discourse, the cornerstone of sophistry. Memorize it," Liao ordered.
Though reluctant to invest effort, Chu Zhi complied. The 500-word text wasn't overly complex. Even with average memory, he could manage it in half an hour.
Yet barely ten minutes in, Liao suddenly called, "Teacher Chu, let's film."
"?" Chu Zhi blinked. "Director, I'm still stumbling through it."
"No matter." Liao waved him off. "Just maintain your posture and mouth the words silently."
"Alright—" Trusting the professional, Chu Zhi swallowed his confusion.
Since the Earth Store Chant was pure scriptwriter fiction, there was no actual text. Previous takes had allowed ad-libbed muttering.
Chu Zhi, unlike some young idols who'd chant "1,2,3,4," at least mouthed "Two Tigers"—having a mental script helped.
The set readied. At Liao's cue, Chu Zhi assumed position. This take sailed through.
"Cut! Perfect!" Liao grinned like a wolf eyeing dinner.
Unable to resist, he praised, "Teacher Chu, remarkably consistent performance. We got it."
"Perfect? Consistent?"
Chu Zhi almost suspected sarcasm. He knew he'd done nothing special.
Reviewing the playback, however, he was stunned. The scene did work—his strained focus while reciting translated into pained solemnity.
Golden lashes fluttering over contemplative eyes, his delicate features taut like cracking porcelain—it looked like spiritual torment.
"You can... do that?!"
Chu Zhi gained newfound respect for professionals. Never judge a director by his gruff exterior.
Meanwhile, PR manager Fei Ge was equally baffled—but by Japan's logic.
"Are Japanese brain circuits wired like huskies?" he muttered.
Investigating why Snow Beauty skincare bought Chu Zhi's image rights, he kept hitting the same reply: "Mr. Chu's aura perfectly matches our brand."
"Aura match"—the ultimate non-answer.
"Am I talking to a chatbot?"
Digging deeper, Fei uncovered the truth: Chu Zhi had minor fame in Japan, thanks to superfan Koguchi Yoshihiro.
Fei pulled up an episode of London Hearts, where Koguchi Yoshihiro appeared. The raunchy variety show ranked unsuitable for children by its own admission.
Koguchi Yoshihiro's episode featured a "Which Man Should Women Marry?" ranking.
"Forgive me, but there's one man whose character need not even be considered marriage material." Koguchi Yoshihiro unveiled edited clips of Chu Zhi from I Am a Singer.
The studio audience—Japanese variety staples at exaggerated reactions—erupted. Women literally leaped from seats.
"I'm sold! My life goal is now dating someone who looks like that!"
"Normally I believe in dating stages, but for him? Skip everything!"
"I fully understand Koguchi-san. If I married this man, just seeing his face would dissolve any anger!"
...
As a Friday primetime show on TV Asahi, London Hearts had solid ratings. Without a single work released there, Chu Zhi had gained a Japanese fanbase—through sheer visuals alone.
The last Chinese star to penetrate a foreign market purely by looks was Leon Lai of the Heavenly Kings. (For specifics, research his 1990s Korean fan riots.)
Snow Beauty's ad director, a London Hearts viewer, had greenlit the image deal.
"Take their money! Why not?" Fei decided. Have Old Qian—wait, "Negotiator Qian"—hike the price.
"With this face, Chu could clean up in Japan. I'll tell Niu Jie—this market's oozing profit."
Grabbing the Armani Men's skincare collab proposal, Fei rushed to August 1st Studio.
Why print hard copies in the digital age? Because corporate still loved paper trails.
Normally only core staff accompanied shoots, but Fei was in Beijing for ad negotiations. (Armani's China HQ oddly chose Beijing over luxury-brand-favored Shanghai.)
By 6 PM, as sunset painted the sky crimson, Fei sat gridlocked in traffic.
"Most beautiful are twilight years, warm and serene?" Bullshit. Try "most infuriating" when stuck in a jam.
He recalled opposing the expensive MV shoot back in Shanghai—What's the point if fans won't watch? No promotional hook.
He'd only conceded because rivals like Li Xingwei were attacking. Better a weak counter than none.
But what changed Fei's mind was witnessing the current scene: Chu Zhi in full "Heavenly Emperor" makeup—