Mad Dog

After Jiang Qi returned to the entertainment industry, in addition to the media and entertainment companies wanting to sign contracts with him, numerous acting offers also came knocking at his door.
However, Jiang Qi didn’t even have a manager, so he had nowhere to send the scripts from those producers. As a result, many people turned to Shen Lei and Qu Heng for help. Both of them found the situation amusing yet exasperating, urging Jiang Qi to sign with a company.
If one wants to stay in the entertainment industry for the long haul, having a strong backing is essential. Even the biggest stars need company public relations to provide support. And what about Jiang Qi?
Although he had a lot of haters, the popularity stemming from his scandalous past guaranteed his value, giving him quite a bit of leeway in terms of choices.
Whether it be companies or scripts.
For instance, a few days ago, there was a production team with a decent script that wanted to recruit Jiang Qi. Unfortunately, they couldn’t get in touch with him and had to call Shen Lei instead.
Shen Lei received such calls often, and after finding the situation amusing at first, he gradually started to listen.
If the scripts seemed poorly made or nonsensical, he wouldn’t even bother mentioning them to Jiang Qi. However, he brought up an invitation for an ancient costume film.
The reason was simple: the production team was top-notch, the lead character suited Jiang Qi well, and as the male lead, there were not too many romantic scenes.
At that time, Jiang Qi didn’t take it seriously until the recent incident with the young girl. After meeting Mei Ran and Zhi Minglin… Jiang Qi suddenly realized that he should have some ambition.
So, he came to Shen Lei for advice.
“Of course.” When Shen Lei heard him ask, he replied without hesitation: “I know the director of that film, Old Lin. He’s been saying you’re his first choice.”
Old Lin, whose full name was Lin Qihang, was a typical “commercial director” in the industry. The films he produced were always grand and commercially successful, and he liked to cast numerous stars, generally looking down on less known “transparent” actors. So when he contacted Shen Lei about wanting to meet Jiang Qi, Shen Lei was quite surprised.
Jiang Qi unconsciously tapped the railing with his fingers: “When can I audition?”
“You want to go? That’s rare,” Shen Lei couldn’t help but laugh: “Old Lin told me he’s been auditioning actors in Hengdian these past few days, but it mainly depends on whether you have the time.”
Shen Lei also knew that, in Jiang Qi’s heart, Zhi Qi was the most important, the first priority. Currently, the young man was taking care of Zhi Qi in the hospital and had taken a half-month leave from the crew… So would he really have the time to audition?
Yet after hearing this, Jiang Qi replied, “I have time this afternoon.”
He had already communicated with Zhi Yu—every day from ten in the morning until five in the evening was their family’s time to accompany Zhi Qi, and Mei Ran and Zhi Minglin didn’t want to see him.
So, he should avoid it.
Thus, that afternoon was naturally freed up, and he could do something else.
A few days later, on a certain afternoon, Shen Lei found time and personally drove over to pick Jiang Qi up for the set.
“Take a good look.” As soon as Jiang Qi got in the car, a document was thrown onto his lap, accompanied by Shen Lei’s nonchalant voice: “Just make sure to perform well and don’t embarrass me.”
……
Shen Lei always had a domineering, protective vibe.
Jiang Qi was speechless and quietly picked up the document Shen Lei handed him.
This was the script synopsis for Lin Qihang’s upcoming project, “Ruling the City”—before a drama’s cast was determined, no one could access the detailed script for review. Most could only get a character synopsis for a trial read.
In addition, Shen Lei had marked the audition segments chosen by Lin Qihang for today.
“Ruling the City” was a typical commercial blockbuster script, telling the story of the Liang family army, which wielded great power during the Wu Dynasty and was eradicated by royal authority. The only survivor, Liang Jieyu, wanders outside, burdened by a deep-seated grudge, gradually rising through the ranks in the army to become a general, and later seeking revenge and usurping the throne.
This was a classic male protagonist power drama, where the lead was sinister and extreme, blinded by revenge, using everyone as stepping stones to rise to power. Only when the usurper took the throne was there a hint of tenderness left.
Generally, audition segments for such power dramas often choose scenes that best test the lead actor’s ability to embody a charismatic yet ruthless character—
For example, a scene where Liang Jieyu, after leading a thousand troops to defeat invaders, is full of vigor, or perhaps the moment he points a sword at the emperor’s throat, smiling as he watches him bow down…
However, Jiang Qi noticed that the audition segment marked by Shen Lei was simply a few words—“Liang Jieyu ascends to power and sits on the dragon throne, observing the court.”
Choosing this audition segment… Jiang Qi’s eyes dimmed slightly, realizing that the director might want to test the actor’s true skills.
Because whether it was exuberance or coldness, both could be portrayed as “surface feelings” during youth and recklessness.
But Lin Qihang’s choice of the scene where Liang Jieyu first sits on the dragon throne obviously tests how the actor would interpret Liang Jieyu’s feelings at that moment, having only read the synopsis.
At this moment in the script, Liang Jieyu should be experiencing the most complex feelings.
Having hidden his abilities for over thirty years, with only “revenge” on his mind, he becomes a rebellious usurper at the moment of success. How complex must his feelings be?
Jiang Qi pondered this all the way until Shen Lei parked the car in front of the set.
Until the man handed him a mask and told him to get out of the car, the youth finally snapped back to reality.
There were many male actors auditioning for the big production of “Ruling the City,” with fifteen scheduled for today.
Jiang Qi didn’t receive any “privileges” simply because Shen Lei was accompanying him; he queued honestly for the audition. He blocked out all the probing or curious gazes around him, immersing himself in thoughts about the script.
In a daze, Jiang Qi understood.
He understood how to portray Liang Jieyu’s psychological state and how to depict the audition scene.
As a man burdened with a deep-seated grudge, but also a man who “ate the salary of Wu and served Wu’s subjects” during his growth, Liang Jieyu should be a contradiction. He must seek revenge and usurp the throne, but as the protagonist, he must also view himself as a subject of the Wu Dynasty, or else he would be seen as a “traitor.”
And for a general with such complex feelings, when his long-held wish finally came true, amidst the boiling blood, only desolation remained.
A desolation that no one could understand, a desolation that couldn’t be articulated.
Thus, when Liang Jieyu sits on the dragon throne, gazing at the bloodied corpses in the court below, his heart should be “desolate,” and he should also feel incredibly lonely—an unrecognized loneliness.
Liang Jieyu was a good son avenging the Liang family, but he was not a hero; at most, he could be considered a ruthless figure in a chaotic world.
Jiang Qi closed his eyes, knowing how to act.
That day in the audition room, he was the thirteenth male actor to perform. The previous ten had mostly interpreted Liang Jieyu as full of ambition, laughing maniacally or crying dramatically.
Only Jiang Qi portrayed him with restraint.
His Liang Jieyu was a lonely and cold emperor. Though his expression was indifferent, sitting on that “dragon throne,” he gave off a surrounding feeling of desolation.
As if everything was unavoidable, as if he didn’t want to be like this.
While Liang Jieyu was full of vigor, his heart was thinking that “fate is a cruel trickster.”
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have endured for thirty years just to become a rebellious usurper.
Coming from the bottom, he would feel sympathy for those below him, possessing what could be called an “emperor’s compassion.”
Jiang Qi grasped this layer of Liang Jieyu’s psychology and expressed the “sense of loneliness”—because at this moment, Liang Jieyu was the emperor, and the path of the emperor was inherently lonely, with only himself.
He didn’t know how much time passed, but Jiang Qi finally heard the director behind the camera call “Cut” with a delay.
He stepped out of character.
Jiang Qi’s expression immediately returned to the usual indifference as he stood up and walked out of the audition room.
Shen Lei, hearing the door close with a “click,” came back to himself, looking at the tall youth: “You acted very well.”
Actually, it should have been very good, but Shen Lei wasn’t used to praising someone before the results were out.
Even though he felt that this role was already a near certainty for Jiang Qi.
Among the two male actors remaining after Jiang Qi, their interpretations also chose to showcase Liang Jieyu’s “lonely desolation.”
However, their attempts were too obvious and easily turned into a joke.
After all the auditions were over, sure enough, the producer came to find Jiang Qi.
“Mr. Jiang.” With everyone watching, he smiled and
said, “Director Lin would like to see you.”
This basically meant that today’s audition already had a result.
Beside him, Shen Lei released the fist he had been unconsciously clenching, finally letting out a breath. He couldn’t help but smile and pat Jiang Qi on the shoulder, saying only two words: “Well done.”
Amidst the complex and sharp gazes filled with jealousy around him, Jiang Qi stood up and followed the producer, calmly saying to Shen Lei, “What’s there to be proud of?”
Nothing was settled yet; surprises were abundant.
Ever since his last “loss of control,” Jiang Qi felt there was nothing in this world that was set in stone.
He could let a duck already in hand fly away—let alone these situations where the outcome was still uncertain.
But right now, Jiang Qi didn’t realize that he was the so-called “duck,” and it was Lin Qihang’s production team that was afraid he would fly away.
They were almost quick to act, eagerly signing a simple draft contract with Jiang Qi.
This was considered a “new deal” settled.
Shen Lei was an insider, understanding whether this deal was promising or not. He wrapped his arm around Jiang Qi’s shoulder, excitedly saying, “Let’s go celebrate with a drink?”
Such a big event should definitely be celebrated.
Jiang Qi glanced down at his watch; it was three o’clock. Zhi Qi’s parents should still be in the hospital.
The time delay for the audition wasn’t long, and there were still two hours left, so it was indeed possible to have a drink.
But he didn’t drink or smoke now, and if Zhi Qi caught a whiff with her sensitive nose, she would feel upset.
So Jiang Qi, prioritizing love over friendship, ruthlessly brushed off Shen Lei’s hand.
The youth said blandly, “I’ve quit drinking.”