Chapter Thirty-Six: The Mischievous Crow Flits About

Not only was Director Jiao Chendong left bewildered by the wind, but even the extras watching from the sidelines were utterly stunned! Having spent years drifting through Rong City, these crowd actors had witnessed all sorts of bizarre tactics to land roles: some would snoop out the director’s address in advance, show up dressed to impress, recite lines, and flaunt their acting skills to catch attention; some blocked the set entrance holding signs, claiming to be grassroots film kings and begging for a chance to perform; others used financial prowess, delivering free drinks and bottled water to crews in summer, sponsoring heat packs and thermos cups in winter. There were even those who snuck into the director’s quarters late at night... In short, strange and shameless ploys abounded—anything for a shot at fame.

But no one, not a single soul, had ever seen anyone quite like Li Shixin!

Everyone in the courtyard was floored by Li Shixin’s godlike ability to manipulate the conversation. Jiao Chendong felt awkward: Li Shixin wasn’t asking for a mere bit part—he’d made it clear he wanted a supporting role. The request was precisely measured; not pushing for a lead, but with the old man’s cheerful smile, a role with only a handful of lines or a minor supporting part probably wouldn’t suffice!

“Um, senior... Have you acted before?” Jiao Chendong was an old hand in Rong City, spending half the year here each season. He knew the lay of the land, and most actors who worked regularly in the area were familiar faces, if not acquaintances. Especially actors as old as Li Shixin—there weren’t many in Rong City, a handful at most, all remembered by Jiao Chendong. Yet Li Shixin, after careful scrutiny, left no impression.

Facing Jiao’s question, Li Shixin nodded, “Of course I’ve acted.”

Jiao Chendong finally breathed a sigh of relief. He’d fought for a year to secure the script for this project. The story was solid; as long as the cast was right and production quality maintained, he dared not claim it would be a huge hit—that depended on luck—but it should easily boost his reputation, perhaps elevating him from a third-tier director to second-tier.

Therefore, in recent days, Jiao had withstood mounting pressure, keeping the casting decisions firmly in his own hands. His aim: to assemble a crack team and make this new film shine!

Now, hearing that Li Shixin had acted before, he felt much more at ease.

“Senior, what productions have you been in? What roles? How much screen time did you have? Tell me, and I’ll see what role I can arrange for you.”

Exhaling, Jiao Chendong spoke to Li Shixin amid envious gazes from the surrounding extras.

Li Shixin chuckled, raising a finger: “I’ve acted in one film. The role was a beggar. As for screen time... perhaps three or four seconds? Since the film hasn’t been released yet, I’m not quite sure.”

Caw... caw... caw...

Above the silent neighborhood, a crow flew by.

So you’re just an extra after all!

Jiao Chendong and the set crew nearly had their jaws drop to the ground! After a moment of speechless silence, Jiao’s lips twitched and he cleared his throat. “Well... senior... how about this: when my new film starts shooting, you can join the crew as an advisor, overseeing costumes and props. If there’s any standout... um... non-main role, I’ll arrange something for you. How does that sound?”

“Hiss?” Li Shixin feigned surprise, clutching his head and leaning onto Zhang Ying beside him. “Girl, what’s my name again? Why... why did I suddenly forget?”

“......”

Your acting is way too exaggerated!

Not only could Jiao Chendong hardly bear it; even the prop masters on the side couldn’t watch any longer.

Jiao saw Li Shixin pressing his advantage as an elder, leveraging his expertise to squeeze him, and while his temper flared, he still had to keep a pleasant face.

“Haha, old man, please... don’t make it hard for me. Look, you’ve only acted in one film, as an extra. Even if I wanted to give you a chance, you might not be able to take it! Besides, extras like you register as temporary actors, right? Our supporting roles require formal contracts, not temporary ones—your qualifications just... can’t pass muster, right?”

With Jiao’s reasoning, the extras who’d been stung by Li Shixin felt vindicated.

Pfft—

So what if you know props? So what if you’re experienced? So what if you have clever tricks? In the end, you’re still just a temporary actor, playing extras like us!

Li Shixin, nestled in Zhang Ying’s arms, frowned. He’d forgotten about this snag—indeed, it was a problem.

Just then, a scooter rolled in from the neighborhood entrance. Seeing the crowd gathered in the plaza, the rider headed straight over.

“Excuse me, does Mr. Li Shixin live in this neighborhood?” Hearing his name called, Li Shixin looked up, abandoning his earlier act of forgetfulness and waved at the newcomer, “Right here!”

With someone answering, the rider slipped through the crowd, sized Li Shixin up, pulled a brown paper file from his bag, and handed it over.

“Sir, our supervisor asked me to deliver this personally.”

Supervisor? Personally?

Hearing these keywords, Li Shixin frowned, “Young man, which organization are you from?”

“The union,” the youth, still wearing his helmet, grinned, sensing Li Shixin was busy and made no small talk. “Sir, you’re something else. This is the first time I’ve seen our supervisor care so much about an actor’s certificate. Sir, you must have some connections!”

With that, he tossed out a congratulation and sped off on his scooter.

Li Shixin curiously opened the folder and, upon seeing its contents, laughed aloud.

He slapped the certificate into Jiao Chendong’s hands. “Director, look at this!”

Jiao cradled the little green booklet, staring at the bold “Special Contract Actor” and the Rong City Actors’ Union seal—once again, he was bewildered.

Jiao Chendong felt the urge to smack himself.

How could he try to block him with actor credentials? He’d run straight into a wall!

He’d trapped himself with his own rules!

Caw... caw... caw...

Another playful crow flew merrily above the neighborhood.

......

Jiao Chendong truly had no way to deal with Li Shixin.

He admired Li Shixin’s expertise with props and valued someone who remembered every detail of life and understood props so deeply to enhance his new film.

Put simply, Li Shixin’s skill in costumes and props made him a king in Jiao’s eyes.

But as an actor, having played only one three-second extra role, Li Shixin was undeniably a stubborn bronze!

Jiao Chendong was a hundred times unwilling to grant Li Shixin’s request.

But he had no choice! After pondering the new script’s roles, Jiao left his phone number for Li Shixin, told him to come for an audition in a few days, then urged him to continue his earlier demonstration.

But Li Shixin refused to proceed.

What a joke! The contract hadn’t been signed yet—how could he possibly share more secrets?

Trying to milk his experience and wisdom? Have the contract ready, then we’ll talk!

Once he joined the crew, there’d be plenty of time for live guidance.

After Jiao Chendong and his team departed in resignation, Li Shixin was escorted home by the crowd.

That morning, Li Shixin had stirred up envy among all the extras in the neighborhood.

Leaving aside everything else, just the actor’s certificate alone was impressive. In Rong City’s ecosystem, excluding stars, among grassroots actors, the hierarchy was crystal clear. Specifically, it showed in the actor certificates.

According to Rong City crew pay standards, extras without certificates earned fifty yuan per day, or could be hired as general workers—occasionally acting as extras for two thousand yuan a month.

Extras with certificates, thanks to union protection and wage policies, got one hundred yuan a day. Or, if they met special criteria—like when Li Shixin joined the “End of the Road” crew, and they needed actors over 1.8 meters tall to play foreigners—they could earn one hundred fifty yuan.

These were the bottom of the food chain.

The middle tier were actors with “Special Contract Actor” certificates—like Li Shixin now.

This tier’s pay scale varied: junior special actors earned 150–300 yuan per day, mid-level 300–800, and those with some fame as senior special actors could earn at least 800–2000 yuan daily, with dialogue paid separately.

Well-managed senior special actors could make three to four hundred thousand yuan a year in Rong City. Generally, reaching this level meant you’d “made it” in the eyes of all extras.

Above that were the small fourth- and fifth-tier celebrities.

Other types—such as stunt performers—weren’t suited for ordinary folks, so were left aside.

Though not yet a senior special actor, Li Shixin had now obtained the special actor certificate, stepping into the middle tier of Rong City’s ecosystem.

With Jiao Chendong’s new film in hand, he instantly became the object of envy, jealousy, and resentment.

“Hey! Godfather, I didn’t expect my connections to be so impressive. After a trip to the union, the supervisor personally got you a special actor certificate and delivered it to your home! That’s real face!”

Surrounded by down-and-out extras, Li Shixin sat on the sofa like a star.

Watching Zhang Shuo’s smug expression, he snorted.

How did this kid get so full of himself?

Glancing at the note in the folder which read, “Keep chasing your dreams, take care of your health,” Li Shixin frowned.

Clearly, this favor wasn’t meant for Zhang Shuo.

But then, who was it for?