Jiang Zhen sat rigidly across from Sheng Quan.
Even though he had already asked over the phone, he couldn’t help but ask again:
“You’re hiring me to act, not as a martial arts director?”
Sheng Quan handed him a script excerpt: “Of course it’s for acting. Aren’t you an actor?”
A flicker of realization passed over Jiang Zhen’s handsome face. He wanted to say, “Of course not, I don’t act anymore,” but after his long, powerful fingers unconsciously tapped his knee a few times, he still took the script.
It was just a fragment of the script, light in weight, but at this moment, Jiang Zhen felt it was as heavy as a thousand pounds.
He knew full well—the era of martial arts actors had passed. Nowadays, which production team didn’t use stunt doubles for fight scenes? Even if actors did perform, they could just learn temporarily.
Yet in this environment, a production team had specifically asked for him.
But when opportunity came, how could he not seize it?
Suppressing the turmoil in his heart, Jiang Zhen met Sheng Quan’s gaze, his dark eyes gradually firming with resolve: “Yes, I am an actor.”
Sheng Quan wasn’t actually very familiar with Jiang Zhen.
In the book, his first appearance was at his funeral. The most dazzling martial arts star of the era had passed away, and when Yuan He attended the service, he couldn’t help but lament that good people never lived long.
And it was true. Jiang Zhen had died while filming, when a young actor’s wire snapped. He had tried to save them, falling together.
With no parents, no children, and no ties to this world, Jiang Zhen had left just like that. His last words before his final breath were to the young actor he had shielded:
“Are you okay?”
Some said that in that moment, Jiang Zhen might have also been trying to save his younger self.
Because he had once struggled through pain, he didn’t want to see the next generation become like him.
Jiang Zhen had risen to fame at 47 and died at 49—like a firework, brief yet brilliant.
From the very first moment of the audition, even Sheng Quan, an outsider, could tell Jiang Zhen had undeniable screen presence.
Clearly, he had never stopped practicing, because no one who hadn’t acted in nearly two decades could slip into character so effortlessly.
Of course, she wasn’t the only one watching. The casting directors sat beside her, and the moment Jiang Zhen began, their expressions shifted subtly.
The role he was auditioning for was Taoist Xingyun—a Taoist who sought enlightenment not through cultivation but through the body.
“Through the body” meant: no spiritual energy, just pure skill.
The character had to hold his own against cultivators with cheat-like abilities.
A mortal’s body, yet capable of rivaling immortals.
No spiritual energy meant no flashy techniques—every move had to be something a mortal could execute, yet so formidable it visibly surpassed magic.
Key point: To best showcase this, the role would have no special effects. The actor had to rely entirely on their own skills.
When the casting director first saw the requirements, he nearly stormed off to yell at the screenwriter:
“This is a movie!! Not an anime!!! How am I supposed to find someone like this?!”
The screenwriter, though mild-mannered, refused to budge:
“This character is compelling and drives most of the plot. Whoever plays him will skyrocket to fame.”
The casting director: “...”
Sure, anyone who played the role would blow up—if such an actor even existed.
With martial arts in decline and no new talent being trained, where was he supposed to look?
He had sworn to the screenwriter that no such actor existed in the entire entertainment industry, suggesting they might have better luck abroad—maybe bleach a foreign actor’s hair black and give him colored contacts?
And now, watching Jiang Zhen’s strikes literally cutting through the air with a sharp whistle, the casting director quietly buried his past declarations.
Chairwoman Sheng was incredible.
How had she even found someone like this?
With the role that had tormented him for so long finally filled, the casting director was overjoyed, itching to shower Sheng Quan with a hundred compliments.
Meanwhile, Sheng Quan, deemed “incredible,” was thoroughly engrossed.
Jiang Zhen wore simple, loose-fitting pants and a long-sleeved shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, well-defined forearms. His powerful legs were a sight to behold as they sliced through the air.
A sheen of sweat glistened over his sun-kissed skin like highlighter, especially when his movements exposed the faint outline of his abdominal muscles. His belt—a rare cloth sash—cinched his narrow waist, accentuating his lean yet taut physique.
Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, long legs—though not overly bulky, the moment he began the scene, he exuded a feral intensity, as if he could take down a bull barehanded.
That gaze—wild and ruthless—was a perfect match for Taoist Xingyun.
Sheng Quan had never been particularly drawn to this type before, mainly because she had never encountered anyone like Jiang Zhen in her past life. Yet after just one scene, she was already itching to have him perform eighty more.
So handsome. So mesmerizing.
No wonder wild, untamed male leads were so popular in novels. This kind of raw energy was intoxicating.
She’d have to find some similar novels to binge tonight.
When Jiang Zhen finally stopped, applause broke out. Still radiating heat, he looked up to see the young woman at the head of the table gazing at him with unmistakable admiration.
She didn’t hesitate: “Brilliant! The role is yours.”
That… simple?
A rare flicker of disbelief crossed Jiang Zhen’s sharp, deep-set eyes. Having been burned before, his first reaction to such sudden good fortune was wariness.
Maybe it was a shady contract. Maybe the terms were exploitative. The smoother things seemed, the colder his guarded expression became.
But when Sheng Quan stood and circled him, studying him with genuine interest, the tall man instinctively held his breath, forcing himself to relax.
She seemed so young. He didn’t want to scare her.
Fully aware of his own “intimidating” appearance, Jiang Zhen kept his gaze lowered—only to realize Sheng Quan wasn’t the least bit afraid. On the contrary, her eyes shone with open appreciation.
Yes, Sheng Quan admired this near-perfect form.
No wonder Jiang Zhen had managed to rise against all odds in the book. His talent was undeniable.
If even someone like her, who had never been into the “wild and untamed” type, could be captivated, it was easy to imagine the heights his career would reach.
She desperately wanted to poke, to touch—but this was the real world, not some anime where she could gush “AWSL must touch!” without consequence. Regretfully, she held back.
Clearing her throat, Sheng Quan said, “You’ve kept yourself in excellent shape. You’ll need to maintain that in the production. We’ll assign you a nutritionist and trainers—diet and exercise will be strictly managed. Can you accept that?”
Though his past experiences made him skeptical of such sudden windfalls, Jiang Zhen found himself nodding at Sheng Quan’s friendly, appreciative demeanor.
His voice, slightly hoarse from exertion, came out even deeper and more magnetic:
“I can. May I see the contract?”
(Even his raspier tone was somehow more attractive. Damn.)
Sheng Quan couldn’t help but fantasize about the glorious future where Jiang Zhen would become a massive star, bringing in endless streams of money for her, all while mentally noting that she absolutely must commission a novel featuring a rugged, wild male lead tonight.
Sign him!
She had to sign him!
If Sheng Quan had initially decided on Jiang Zhen purely because of the book’s ending, witnessing his skills firsthand made her realize that the decline of martial arts actors was nothing short of a downgrade in audience aesthetics.
Not only did President Sheng sign Jiang Zhen, but after discussions with the screenwriter and Xu Man, she also decided to revamp the entire Taoist sect—where Taoist Xingyun belonged—into a "sheer force overcomes all" style before filming even began.
And so, this day became one etched deeply into the memories of many martial arts actors who had either switched careers or were struggling to make ends meet.
In a cramped, low-rent apartment, Ai Xiao, forty years old, returned home exhausted after a long day’s work. Catching sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror by the door—her muscles taut with even the slightest exertion—she let out a bitter laugh and tossed her clothes over the mirror.
Decades of relentless training had ultimately left her obsolete.
Just as she was about to throw together a simple meal, her phone rang. Listlessly answering, Ai Xiao froze in disbelief at the voice on the other end before whirling around:
"A screen test? For The Cultivator?"
Meanwhile, Qin Kai, pulling an all-nighter on set, also picked up a call: "A screen test for The Cultivator? For a martial arts role? Yes, yes, I’ll be there on time."
In an ordinary household of three, Zhao Xuehan hung up the phone and rushed back to her room, planting a kiss on her sleeping daughter’s cheek. Her husband stirred groggily: "What’s going on?"
"They want me for a screen test—specifically for a martial arts role. It’s a big production, and the pay is great." Her voice trembled with excitement. "I’m already in my thirties, and they sought me out. Unless I mess up, it’s practically a done deal."
That night, countless martial arts actors tossed and turned in exhilaration. Most were well past thirty, faultless in their craft, even exemplary—yet cast aside by the times.
And now, it seemed a new era was dawning.
After securing Jiang Zhen, spending the money became much easier.
This was precisely why Sheng Quan wanted to funnel her next investment into The Cultivator—she could channel the funds right back into the production.
But first, she took Jiang Zhen for a medical checkup.
A renowned hospital, naturally, came with a hefty price tag.
When the doctor announced, "You can recover up to ninety percent of normal mobility," the towering man—even seated—flinched slightly, his lashes trembling with emotion.
After the accident, he had been bedridden for five years, followed by a decade of rehabilitation. No matter how hard he pushed himself, seventy percent was the best he could manage.
And now, hope lay right before him.
Jiang Zhen wanted the treatment, but the exorbitant cost gave him pause.
Sheng Quan, who had brought him here, seemed to read his thoughts. The young, stunningly beautiful woman—who seemed to belong to a world entirely separate from his—smiled playfully:
"Then earn it back for me."
"I want to make Xingmang the absolute best in the world. And the best company deserves the best artists. You’ve got what it takes, right?"
Jiang Zhen met her gaze, the sharp edges in his eyes—usually reserved and unyielding—now alight with rekindled ambition and confidence.
A man who could stage a comeback at forty-seven was never one to settle.
And now, someone believed in him.
So why shouldn’t he believe in her?
The towering figure bowed his head before Sheng Quan, every ounce of his formidable presence subdued in her presence, like a beast sheathing its claws and fangs.
His heart burned with fervor as he pledged, wholeheartedly:
"I will become the finest artist under your command."
