Chapter 8

The groupings and script selection for the second round began on the day after the first episode aired.

Since the show didn’t confiscate their phones, when everyone gathered, all the remaining contestants, whether subtly or openly, kept their eyes fixed on Qi Linyuan.

Although the first episode of “The Strongest Actor” didn’t become a nationwide sensation, it still achieved its expected goals and could be considered a hit.

But there are different kinds of hits.

Some shows are popular in terms of viewership, but the guests and contestants are rarely discussed; others manage to draw attention both to the show itself and to its participants.

The results of the first episode were clearly the former—except for Qi Linyuan’s segment.

His scene was the only one widely discussed, and the only one generally agreed to have surpassed the original—in his part, at least.

The original author of “Uncontrollably Falling for You” even liked an animated gif of his performance made by character fans, igniting an online debate about whether looks or acting mattered more in adaptations.

Of course, this debate was a side effect, and the main focus wasn’t Qi Linyuan himself—the actor who played Xu Yunfei in the adaptation didn’t have outstanding skills either. While not terrible, he did a perfect job of serving as a foil to highlight the male lead’s charm.

Qi Linyuan’s agency didn’t miss the chance, and promptly released a series of his candid photos. At first, Qi Linyuan wondered if the higher-ups had been possessed by ghosts—since when did they market him so aggressively? But as he pondered, he suddenly remembered: Wait, I haven’t been disfigured yet, and I’m the company’s only remaining contestant in this show. If they don’t market me, who would they market?

As for Lu Xiang, who in his previous life had been the company’s focus at this time, he was probably now as unimportant to them as Qi Linyuan himself used to be: Who is this? Does he have any value? No? Then let him cool his heels for a while.

Compared to what he’d suffered between “The Strongest Actor” and his own disfigurement, Lu Xiang’s current cold treatment was probably even worse—he didn’t have Qi Linyuan’s looks, lost the competition, and even caused a scene by shoving someone out of jealousy. Someone like that… tsk.

Qi Linyuan felt not the slightest sympathy for him, not even the will to pay him any further attention.

He knew that with rising popularity, he was bound to become a target, but he didn’t care.

As cannon fodder, he was destined to be eliminated sooner or later. Better to be eliminated while in the spotlight than to leave in obscurity.

His thinking was remarkably clear, and his mood exceptionally calm, even when he discovered that his second-round opponent was not the same as Lu Xiang’s had been in the previous timeline.

Unlike last time, where both were nobodies, this time his opponent was an “aristocrat”—though not the kind who was the center of attention, just a regular one.

This was evident during script selection: their group was, once again, not among the first to choose.

“Segments 9, 13, 14—I think all three are fine. You pick one,” Wang Yuwei said, perhaps wary of repeating Lu Xiang’s blunder.

Qi Linyuan glanced over the options. All three had something in common: the two characters had similar amounts of screen time, but one was clearly written with a better character arc, and the other with a weaker one.

Qi Linyuan realized: being in the spotlight does have its perks. Even if they wanted to eliminate him, they couldn’t be too blatant about giving him a smaller role and risk backlash, so they went with scripts that appeared fair.

Looking at the self-assured man beside him, Qi Linyuan decided to make him even happier. “I’ll take 13,” he said.

Before he’d even finished, Zhou Siqi shot to his feet, clearly baffled by this madness.

This time Le Xi did not stomp on anyone’s foot, but simply stared at him, just as dumbfounded, sharing Zhou Siqi’s confusion.

Qi Linyuan smiled at them, offered no explanation, and repeated, “I’ll take 13.”

Wang Yuwei struggled to keep from grinning too widely. “You know that the person who picks the script chooses the role second, right?”

Qi Linyuan nodded with a smile. “I know. You pick first.”

Wang Yuwei was instantly satisfied.

He was confident, but his ease didn’t come from arrogance alone. In segment 13, the two characters differed dramatically in difficulty.

One was an older brother, wracked with grief over his younger brother’s death, who had turned him into a puppet and poured out his emotions to it every day. The other character was the puppet itself.

For ninety percent of the time, the puppet was just that—apart from blinking and breathing, it gave no reaction at all. Only at the very end, when the brother, cradling the puppet and finally breaking down in tears, realized his brother was gone forever and decided to destroy the puppet, did the puppet, unseen by the brother, shed a single tear.

Under normal circumstances, these roles were equally appealing. But the point was, this was “The Strongest Actor,” not “The Most Suitable Actor.”

How could you prove your acting skills by playing a puppet? Wouldn’t the judges eliminate you on the grounds that “your puppet imitation is great, but we can’t see your acting skills” in a heartbeat?

Qi Linyuan didn’t see this as a problem. He was quite fond of the beautiful, marionette-like state of the puppet’s early scenes—a feeling he’d never experienced before.

Besides, wasn’t there still that last ten percent of the script where the puppet wasn’t just a puppet?

Qi Linyuan was delighted with the role, and Wang Yuwei was just as pleased with his.

They smiled at each other, even shaking hands in perfect harmony.

What an idiot, thought Wang Yuwei, beaming.

What a naïve little fool, Qi Linyuan thought, also smiling broadly.

Thus, the two shook hands amicably, then returned to their seats with the most genuine of smiles.

With groups and scripts settled, the production team dismissed them, and everyone started preparing.

This time, they had more time: script selection on Monday, recording on Thursday—an extra day to prepare.

Zhou Siqi wanted to complain about Qi Linyuan’s decision, but watching him prepare so cheerfully, trying on costumes and asking how he looked, everything he wanted to say got stuck in his throat, finally emerging as a comment to Le Xi, “I never thought I’d meet someone in the entertainment industry more clueless than you.”

Le Xi shot him a glare. “Unlike you, I don’t see the worst in everyone all the time. Remember the first day I helped Linyuan up, and you were worried he’d fake an injury to get sympathy? Admit you were wrong. He’s such a sweet, innocent person!”

Qi Linyuan, labeled as “sweet and innocent,” felt the hairs on his arms stand on end.

He looked silently at the two people discussing him, his face clearly saying, Are you kidding me?

Le Xi burst out laughing. “Okay, okay, my fault. You’re not sweet and innocent—you’re wise and heroic!”

Qi Linyuan took a deep breath and told himself not to stoop to the level of people deceived by his appearance. He didn’t know, though, that it wasn’t his looks that won them over. Rather, these two were genuinely kind to him because they had never sensed a trace of malice from him.

No jealousy, no contempt—he treated them naturally. Whether he was targeted by the aristocrats or adored by the audience, none of it affected him, nor did it change how he treated them.

Wasn’t it perfectly reasonable that they saw him as a friend?

“Linyuan, after the show, you should try taking a role in a historical drama,” Le Xi said, unable to hide her amazement as he tried on his costume. When he put on the wig, she couldn’t help but exclaim in admiration.

Qi Linyuan gazed at his reflection, momentarily dazed, then answered, “All right.”

Although the look wasn’t fully complete, the person in the mirror could certainly be described as “features like a painting.” Qi Linyuan finally understood why such a profit-driven agency would sign him, and why, even after his poor performance and elimination in his previous life, they never completely gave up on him.

But he hadn’t seized the opportunity.

Still, Qi Linyuan quickly put it behind him.

If he hadn’t experienced disfigurement, he might never have been desperate enough to hone his craft. So things were fine as they were now—he was content.

The second episode of “The Strongest Actor” dropped at noon on Sunday, just like the first.

With the first episode paving the way, more people tuned in as soon as the second became available.

Ji Yuchen was working in his study, and when he finished, he glanced at the time and clicked on the new episode.

He wasn’t watching for entertainment; he just wanted to see how the variety show he’d invested in for Fengqi’s new product placement had turned out. After two segments, he couldn’t take it anymore and, expressionless, moved his mouse toward the close button.

But before he clicked, he remembered something, moved the mouse to the timeline instead, and skipped straight to Qi Linyuan’s part.

This time, in stark contrast to the pale, fragile young man from before, Qi Linyuan didn’t even seem human—he was nothing but a puppet.

Ji Yuchen was intrigued. He wanted to see how long Qi Linyuan could keep it up, how soon he’d slip. But after four minutes, the puppet remained nothing but a flawless puppet.

It breathed, it blinked, but there was no soul behind its eyes.

Not until the final thirty seconds, when the other character snapped and decided to destroy it—while he went to prepare the firewood—did something finally change in the puppet’s eyes.

It was a sorrow not intense yet unforgettable, and with that grief came a single tear, falling from the puppet’s right eye, tracing his flawless cheek, dripping from his chin, and vanishing into the dust.

Ji Yuchen paused the video.

He stared at that face on the screen in silence for a moment, then picked up his phone and sent a voice message to the advertising director: “Ask the production team—was that scene pieced together from multiple takes, or was it shot in one go with multiple cameras?”