Money 10%

The enormous background screen slowly drew back, revealing the set for this episode’s themed short film.

“Schedule Not Full” was a show where, each season, new and veteran actors alike contributed countless memorable moments—both positive and negative—in their performances.

Held year after year, now in its fourth season, its popularity showed no sign of waning.

This year, the production had been fully upgraded, with a special real-time livestream segment added.

It was as if the show was made for fans starved for drama.

In previous seasons, the participating actors’ abilities varied wildly, and the “iconic acting moments”—for better or worse—became the entertainment industry’s favorite source of gossip and memes.

No one cared much about the quality of the unknowns’ performances, but if an actor with even a hint of popularity was involved, it inevitably turned into a fierce battleground.

Whenever a beloved idol’s bad acting landed on the trending topics, their fans would immediately rush to control the comments, flood the feed with positive posters, and post huge infographics touting their idol’s “acting achievements.”

Inevitably, the show’s comment section would be overrun with fans from every camp accusing the production of malicious editing and blaming them for exposing their idol’s embarrassing moments in the final cut.

From the director down to the lowliest assistant, everyone on the production team felt wronged.

Who was it, after all, that screamed themselves hoarse on set? Who cried for fifteen minutes without even managing a snot bubble? Who couldn’t remember three lines in a row…?

Incidents like these were too numerous to count.

Finally, the director’s team made a sweeping change in production—“live broadcast.”

Now, the “Schedule Not Full” team could instantly pull up the live footage for any fan causing trouble.

This gimmick sent the already-popular show’s ad slots skyrocketing in value.

Suddenly, sponsors were lining up, and the guest list was packed with big names.

But among the contestants, the usual crowd of third-tier, barely-known idols—once eager to sign up—chose to stay home and avoid embarrassing themselves on live TV.

The audience, following the livestream’s camera, entered the “Imperial Garden,” as if they were right there on set with the actors. Even Jiang Tangmian, present in person, found herself drawn into the immersive atmosphere.

The show was riding a wave of popularity; prime sponsorship slots were hotly contested, and the set and props were nothing short of impressive.

This round’s theme was the imperial harem. The garden was filled with ornate railings and carved jade, and at the end of the covered walkway was a lush lotus pond, every detail lifelike.

The first group was a PK between two actresses.

“Mu Xi VS Yan Chunyi”

Jiang Tangmian was very familiar with Mu Xi—outwardly humble and kind, but at her core, the classic, brainless, villainess template.

Her opponent, Yan Chunyi, was an actress who had once exploded in popularity thanks to a coming-of-age film—her debut was her peak.

Perhaps due to her agency, or perhaps her own choices, Yan Chunyi never received the resources she needed to build on that success. Years later, she was still virtually unknown.

If not for the show’s live format, Yan Chunyi probably wouldn’t have gotten this spot. With no backing, even her styling looked rough compared to Mu Xi’s.

She was clearly brought in to make the other look good.

In Jiang Tangmian’s memory, the ending of Yan Chunyi’s breakout film saw the heroine living incognito as a school cook in a fishing village.

Just as the rumors said, actors sometimes echoed the fate of their first big roles. Was obscurity Yan Chunyi’s ultimate destiny, too?

In the show’s intro, Yan Chunyi’s only highlight was still that decade-old movie. The rest of her filmography was so bad she probably wished she could delete it from Baidu herself.

With the host’s introduction, the two actresses took the stage. Their scene was from the classic palace drama “The Emperor’s Favor,” where the Noble Consort and the Empress confront each other in the Imperial Garden, only to be caught by the Emperor.

The three-person standoff was legendary—a true battlefield.

But beyond the two actresses, Jiang Tangmian’s peripheral vision kept being drawn to the aura in the corner. She finally realized why this scene had been chosen to open the new season.

The actor playing the Emperor was none other than industry heavyweight Shen Yuchuan.

In Jiang Tangmian’s pre-transmigration memories, Movie King Shen was a legendary figure—a child star who, seven years ago, swept major domestic and international film awards with his performance in a spy thriller no one expected to succeed, shattering the stereotype that child actors couldn’t make it in the industry.

He’d become a top-tier star, combining both skill and popularity.

Shen Yuchuan’s presence was commanding—even without the dragon robe, he radiated the aura of a wise and fearsome king.

He waited in the corner, coldly observing the set, his usual gentle public persona replaced by a face that seemed to declare, “Are kings and ministers born so different?” His entire being exuded the madness of “submit or perish.”

This scene—Mu Xi and Yan Chunyi’s acting duel—was a highlight, but the real challenge was acting opposite the Movie King, Shen Yuchuan.

Jiang Tangmian, who had bought her way into the industry with cash and had little set experience, knew as a longtime viewer that when the acting gap was too wide, rookie actors often couldn’t keep up.

The mad Emperor from “The Emperor’s Favor” had already come alive on screen. Shen Yuchuan’s portrayal seemed to outshine even the original, and the live barrage was going wild.

“Ahhhhhh, Movie King!!!”

“This level of acting shouldn’t be a guest—he should be a judge!”

“Shen Yuchuan belongs on the judges’ panel!!”

“How did this show land him?”

“So handsome I’m stunned…”

…

Jiang Tangmian was immensely grateful she wasn’t an actor. With her “foot-level” acting, she wouldn’t even make it as a consort or empress—she’d be the palace maid who, in the first ten minutes, spills tea before the Emperor and gets executed as cannon fodder to establish his ruthless persona.

“Action!”

Before anyone could react, Mu Xi raised her hand and slapped Yan Chunyi, who was so startled she tried to dodge.

This slap wasn’t in the script—how could Mu Xi just add it in front of everyone?

Yan Chunyi, playing the Noble Consort, had been standing by the lotus pond. Trying to avoid the sudden slap, she stumbled backward and fell into the pond.

“Hey, hey!!”

“That’s not right, that’s not right!”

“Quick, help her out…”

…

The set descended into chaos. Both directors turned to check the script, frowning deeply.

Yan Chunyi’s makeup was ruined, her lips and teeth still striking.

After the accident, Yan Chunyi choked on water and, when pulled out, was soaked through, looking like a bullied little white rabbit.

Anyone who saw her would have to cry out, “So pitiful!”

Come on, this was the female lead of a box office smash—she could outshine half the industry even barefaced.

Jiang Tangmian recalled that, in the original novel, Yan Chunyi was just a pretty name for a disposable character.

Shivering from the lingering cold, Yan Chunyi was pulled from the pond. She wore a gorgeous Tang Dynasty consort’s dress, the red bodice highlighting her healthy complexion, her shoulders half-bared.

Many staffers’ eyes couldn’t help but linger on her exposed skin, not to mention the live camera.

The next second, Jiang Tangmian quickly found a blanket and draped it over Yan Chunyi, and the director decisively cut away from the risqué shot.

Yan Chunyi, thinking her “mistake” had delayed the shoot, looked anxious, but when she saw Jiang Tangmian handing her the blanket, she felt much more at ease.

“Thank you.”

She accepted it with a grateful smile.

Compared to her fame, the live focus was almost entirely on Mu Xi.

Yan Chunyi changed into a new costume and had her makeup retouched in a quiet waiting room.

Jiang Tangmian passed by and saw a behind-the-scenes PD following her with a camera, so she went in too.

Yan Chunyi saw the camera and nervously stood up, but the makeup artist was still fixing her lipstick, so she couldn’t move much and looked a little apologetic.

“…”

Jiang Tangmian waved it off and sat down playfully beside her, starting a casual chat.

She glanced at her phone, noticing the most frequently asked questions, and picked one at random. “Was the lotus pond water cold?”

Yan Chunyi, unused to such big events, still hadn’t found her voice—it came out sharp and unnatural. “It was okay…”

Jiang Tangmian saw the livestream had cut to Mu Xi, but didn’t mind, continuing to ask a few more questions.

Since Mu Xi had more traffic, the director preferred to keep the camera on her.

Jiang Tangmian knew these were the unspoken rules of the business—when it came to popularity, honest people were left in the background.

Especially someone like Yan Chunyi, with no backing at all.

Her answers were timid, nothing like the bold, domineering consort she’d played in “The Emperor’s Favor.”

She seemed to have lost before the competition even began.

But Jiang Tangmian didn’t want to give up. In terms of real achievement, Yan Chunyi was the lead in a box office champion film—back when Mu Xi was still a background extra somewhere!

The comments and bullet screens mentioned “Resonance of Fate” most often when it came to Yan Chunyi.

Her early success had given her a high starting point, but the following decade was nothing but silence.

Jiang Tangmian didn’t know Yan Chunyi’s true acting ceiling. Standing behind her, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror—her makeup was a bit too plain, so she had the artist extend her eyeliner and deepen her lipstick.

Instantly, Yan Chunyi’s “demon consort” image leapt to life—cool and alluring, a striking contrast that gave her a pure yet seductive aura on camera.

The main director, seeing this new Yan Chunyi on the monitor, immediately switched the livestream back to her.

In the stream, Producer Jiang Tangmian—backed by cash—appeared with a heavy student vibe: blunt bangs, a pink business suit, and flowing silk that was both elegant and cute.

The director replayed the moment she’d had the makeup artist adjust Yan Chunyi’s look, her expression serious in a way that belied her youthful air, making her seem trustworthy.

Just as Yan Chunyi now gazed at her with hope—though Yan was older, her lack of follow-up resources had nearly erased the goodwill from her breakout film.

The reviews she saw were rarely positive; years of criticism had worn down her spirit.

Yan Chunyi had come to see it all as “Resonance of Fate”—an excuse to escape.

But in the mirror, Yan Chunyi looked at Jiang Tangmian with a determination as if she were about to scale a mountain.

Everything was ready.

Jiang Tangmian nodded, gently resting her hand on Yan Chunyi’s shoulder, and whispered in her ear, “Chunyi, you debuted as the lead in a box office champion film!”

In that instant, Yan Chunyi felt electrified. For ten years, everyone had summed up her effort with “Resonance of Fate,” but no one had ever said something like this to her.

“That’s right, I was the lead in a box office champion!”

Yan Chunyi repeated it to herself, her gaze suddenly burning, as if she’d rediscovered the feeling she’d had in front of the camera ten years ago.