Chapter 118: Like a Fishbone Stuck in the Throat, Like a Thorn in the Back!

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Before long, Lin Yubai and Wen Yan arrived on stage with two other actors.

The two performers, one man and one woman, were experienced professionals, each having nearly ten years’ experience. Yet at this moment, they still had to play alongside the two leads. In terms of role weight, they were only marginally more substantial than a background extra.

Through their acting, many in the room understood the premise of the plot. In essence, trouble had arisen in the company where the leads worked, and through their joint efforts they had solved it. Yet amid the details, they had disagreed, and now, with the affair of scores and reckonings upon them, old grievances surfaced. At this point, the two leads had not yet become a couple—at best, they were just in a flirtatious, unresolved phase. In mutual complaint and impulsive emotion, they let harsh words spill out. The scene could have gone completely off the rails, and in that state they began recalling everything between them in fragments; the harsh words turned into confessions, and their love was expressed in full force.

This scene was simple—so simple it was almost laughably plain in structure. The trouble was this was live performance, with none of the flashback inserts and narrative maneuvers that television dramas can use. To keep it from sounding abrupt, they had to revise the script to some extent and convert those awkward transitions into searing emotional expression through their acting. Even for Lin Yubai, who is considered a film-king, achieving that required real effort and total immersion. For Wen Yan, it was even harder.

How they would overcome it, how they could deliver a brilliant scene—this was the real attraction.
Not every scene is as naturally and cruelly demanding as the one Bai Ling had drawn at random; most scripts, including the one featuring Lin Yubai and Wen Yan, depend on both adaptation and performance.

Soon, the scene between Lin Yubai and Wen Yan began to play.
Bai Ling, who had been somewhat distracted, suddenly seemed to pay close attention.

“Qiao Nanshan, I am truly tired of you!”
“You think you’re so great? You think resolving the company crisis was all because of you?”
“What does that make my contribution? What does that make my effort?”
“Let go of me!”

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As soon as Wen Yan stepped in, that impulsive tone, coupled with exaggerated movement, landed like a heavy punch on everyone.
Everyone understood this was the moment to erupt emotionally and vent the heroine’s pent-up resentment.
But this was almost a fist heading straight for Lin Yubai’s face—was that really appropriate?

“Er... maybe she was just very immersed,” Wang Dagang murmured softly, as if trying to explain it to the other directors.
No one paid much attention. It was only the beginning; nobody wanted to judge too quickly.

Qiao Nanshan, as played by Lin Yubai, held in his anger and stared hard at the person before him.
Without saying a line, a single look—capped impatience and helplessness in his face—already conveyed a character of surprising complexity.
By contrast, Wen Yan’s gaze, never really settled on Lin Yubai, looked immediately off, unnatural.
In fact, from what was happening at that moment, this looked less like two people in a flirtatious quarrel than a young pickpocket who had just been caught stealing a boy’s wallet—ready to run, unable to meet his eyes, and struggling with bare force.

In that single instant, Bai Ling caught her breath.
Good heavens. Though she knew Wen Yan was no acting prodigy, she had never expected such a “surprise” at the very beginning.
Her whole body seemed to go numb.
And then she felt, absurdly, as if there were a needle stuck beneath her own seat, and wanted to get up and run to the restroom just to steady herself.

It wasn’t some extraordinary performance trick—just Wen Yan, as the heroine, had slapped Lin Yubai during a scuffle.
It was obvious Lin Yubai had not expected that improvisation; the surprise and grievance in his expression didn’t look acted at all.
From that point on, his rhythm too was thrown off.

What should have followed was a gradual softening while they quarreled, then the heroine wounded, then the hero softened with pity—then a few touches of reflection and memory, then tenderness flowing back.
That would have made the emotional transition feel complete, and their sharing of feelings natural.
With that setup, even the later “confession” and even the “kiss” would have seemed all the sweeter.
Such drastic swings are what can make that kind of heat possible.

But when Lin Yubai, after being pushed, began to push back and try to rebut the heroine, Wen Yan only pressed harder, wearing the look of someone asking, “Could I be wrong?”
Lin Yubai swiftly decided to alter the rhythm and match her mood.
Yet Wen Yan seemed not to grasp it; she continued to quarrel as if to the script.
Two lines failed to connect in between, and Lin Yubai had to redden, fill the gaps himself, and keep pace.

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No one knew whether it was the script that was stoking him or Wen Yan herself.
One small misstep would have been bearable, but then similar ones kept coming one after another.
When Lin Yubai tried to calm things, Wen Yan surged forward with a ramming vigor.
When he tried to catch up, she became suddenly hurt and defenseless, as if deeply wronged.

The two hardly found a shared beat at all.

In the end, Lin Yubai seemed to resign himself, gave up trying to keep rhythm, and only barely rejoined the flow, ending the performance with a forceful kiss.
He had no other way—if he didn’t alter the plot by forcing a kiss, how could this scene end?
Was he expected to let them keep pulling at it indefinitely?

And when Lin Yubai and Wen Yan finally bowed, all the faces in the room had already gone still.
They had not seen a performance with such “chemistry” in a long while.
Wonderful. Truly wonderful.

The host, when stepping onto the stage, had a smile that was faintly unnatural.
With a grin he said, “Next comes the critique period.”
“Besides the director, we’d also like to invite some of you actors to share your thoughts.”
“Is there anyone willing to stand and say a few words?”

Everyone exchanged glances.
How to say something about this?
Could one even put it into words?

After a while, an actor’s earpiece crackled; it seemed the directing team had pulled him out to rescue the moment.
Reluctantly he stood, and pointed out the strength—“The emotional expression was intensely, almost fiercely, passionate.”
That was fair enough; perhaps just a little too fierce.

Still, hearing it, Wen Yan truly took it as praise and said, with delighted sincerity, “Thank you, senior, for the guidance!”
When she gave that sweet smile, it was enough to make many people, Bai Ling included, feel distinctly uneasy.

End of Chapter