A Max-Level Film Queen Takes on the Scumbag Alpha Script [Transmigration] - Chapter 9

Jiang Baihe walked slowly into Room 2.

The setup inside was simple. Several cameras were mounted around the perimeter, two long boom mics extended toward the center of the floor, and a corner was filled with props like umbrellas, folding fans, and long swords.

Three people sat at the front table—two men and one woman. A somewhat portly man sat in the center. At that moment, the three of them were huddled together, whispering about something.

Jiang Baihe took a quick look and guessed they were the director, assistant director, and screenwriter. She waited a moment, and once their conversation ended, she bowed politely.

“Hello, everyone. I am number thirteen, Jiang Baihe. I am auditioning for the role of Yu Wuhuan.”

The screenwriter on the far right had been looking down writing on a piece of paper. Hearing her voice, she looked up. A flash of surprise crossed her eyes, and she whispered something to Director Song beside her.

Director Song was slightly taken down by the screenwriter’s remark, but he followed with a natural nod—it was unclear if he was agreeing with the screenwriter or acknowledging Jiang Baihe.

“Jiang Baihe, right?” Song Zhishu flipped through the script, his sharp eyes scanning her. “Let’s see Scene 14.”

Jiang Baihe’s mind whirred. A second later, she recalled the plot of Scene 14.

While investigating the case of missing children in Qingyao City, Yu Wuhuan senses something is wrong. Hiding it from Yu Qingqing and the others, she returns to the sect alone. Just as she is about to report her findings to the Sect Master—her adoptive father—she accidentally overhears a conversation between him and a subordinate outside a secret door.

It turns out that her adoptive father is both the mastermind behind the disappearances and the person who has been secretly obstructing their investigation. Yu Wuhuan is a cold, stoic character who rarely shows expression. After learning the truth, her emotions must be conveyed primarily through body language and her eyes.

This is a massive test for an actor. If their skills aren’t up to par, the character easily becomes a boring, expressionless “wooden” face.

Jiang Baihe thought for a few seconds and nodded. She walked to the prop area, grabbed a long sword, and slung it behind her. Then, she walked toward the door, maintaining a specific distance from the center of the room.

Standing in her chosen spot, Jiang Baihe slowly closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, an aura completely different from her usual self radiated from her body.

Yu Wuhuan strode forward along the familiar secret passage. Over the years, she had received several secret missions from her adoptive father and would often come here to report the results. Whenever the Sect Master couldn’t be found in the main halls, he was sure to be in the secret room at the end of this tunnel.

The path was pitch black without a single candle, but it didn’t hinder Yu Wuhuan in the least. She stepped over the threshold with practiced ease. Her posture was natural, but her steps were light, exuding the sharp edge of a seasoned martial artist.

Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, nine—

The secret room ahead was lit by candlelight, and muffled voices drifted from within. Logically, she should withdraw and wait for her father to finish before reporting. But this time, her intuition told her to stay. She remembered the “Blue Lotus” emblem she saw on the black-clad assassin she had chased earlier—the same emblem she had seen in her father’s study.

Yu Wuhuan held her breath and crept closer to the secret room. She leaned her hand against the doorframe, tilting her ear to catch the dialogue.

She never imagined that this whim would lead her to a truth that overturned everything she knew. The murderer of the children was her father; the assassins hunting them were sent by her father; even the “evil-doers” she had eliminated over the past decade were merely thorns in her father’s side. In his hands, she was nothing more than a heartless killing machine used to eradicate his enemies.

Complex emotions—fury and disbelief—flashed in Yu Wuhuan’s eyes. Her breathing grew heavy. Because she was suppressing her emotions, veins bulged along the arm gripping the doorframe. Finally, the Phoebe wood of the frame couldn’t withstand her strength; with a crack, she snapped off a piece.

The sound snapped Yu Wuhuan out of her rage and alerted the people inside. She lunged backward instantly, but she wasn’t faster than the blast of “sword energy” roaring out of the room. She drew her sword from behind her back and held it horizontally to block, but the force of the strike still sent her crashing to the floor.

Yu Wuhuan coughed and forced herself up. Wiping the blood from her lip, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were devoid of all warmth.

She gripped her azure blade tightly. With a sharp ring, she pointed the tip of her sword at the man she had viewed as both mentor and father for over twenty years. She spoke coldly:

“Master… why did you do this?”

The moment Jiang Baihe entered the role, Song Zhishu and the others felt the atmosphere shift. They almost forgot they were at an audition; it felt as if they had been dragged directly into the script, and the three of them were the villains plotting in the dark room.

Especially Song Zhishu, who sat in the center with the prop sword pointed straight at him. He felt as though a real, sharp blade-aura was pressing against him. It felt like if he didn’t call “cut,” his head might be severed by that sword in the next second.

For a moment, they were all speechless.

Jiang Baihe’s performance was flawless. She remembered all the lines and even added details not in the script—like the way she stepped over the threshold of the dark tunnel or the bulging veins on her arm. She had recreated the scene through sheer “imagination-based” acting.

She sheathed the sword, satisfied with her performance. But seeing the unreadable expressions on the three faces—especially Song Zhishu—she felt a bit nervous.

“Uh, Director Song, my performance is finished.”

Song Zhishu snapped out of it. His attitude became remarkably kind, looking nothing like the grumpy old man who had greeted her.

“Baihe,” he said, “have you really never acted before?”

Jiang Baihe: “…”

I have, but not in this world.

She couldn’t exactly expose her transmigration. After a moment of consideration, she replied: “No, but I’m interested in acting, so I’ve studied some techniques.”

Song Zhishu nodded. He didn’t say whether she passed or not, only: “Alright, go home and wait for the notification.”

“Okay, thank you everyone.” Jiang Baihe bowed again and left the room.

The moment she was gone, the female screenwriter slammed her hand on the table. “Director Song! Her! She’s the living Senior Sister!”

The assistant director on the left shook his head, looking hesitant. “Screenwriter sister, Jiang Baihe’s reputation is… not great.”

Screenwriter: “But she looks the part perfectly!”

Assistant Director: “She has zero acting experience…”

Screenwriter: “But her acting is totally there!”

Assistant Director: “She has too many anti-fans. What if she drags the show down?”

The two battled it out across Song Zhishu. Finally, they both turned to him. “Director, what do you think?”

“What do I think?” Song Zhishu messed with his phone, looking jovial. “I’m thinking, when I talk to Song Jia later, exactly how much investment I can squeeze out of her for the crew…”

The screenwriter pumped her fist. “Yes!”

The assistant director rubbed his face as if he had a toothache, fearing the show’s reputation would tank before they even started filming.

“Lao Zhang, I know what you’re worried about.” Song Zhishu beckoned an employee to bring over the recording of the audition and handed the tablet to the assistant director. “With her talent, tsk.” He tapped the table. “If you say that kid Pei Xingyi was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, then she… you could say the heavens are chasing her down to shove food into her mouth.”

Assistant Director Zhang watched the playback and fell silent. Eventually, years of industry experience told him that Song Zhishu was right.

Leaving the venue, Song Jia didn’t dare ask Jiang Baihe how it went, fearing a bad result would discourage her. But Jiang Baihe wasn’t worried at all. She was curious why Song Jia was so quiet.

“Sister Song, why aren’t you asking about the result?”

Song Jia: “…”

This little brat is truly asking for a beating. Here I was, afraid of hurting her feelings.

“Fine, how do you think it went?”

“Oh, that,” Jiang Baihe leaned back comfortably. “Guess?”

Song Jia: “…”

Calm down, calm down. This is your own artist. You can’t kill her… but leaving her half-paralyzed should be fine!!

Seeing her manager about to blow a fuse, Jiang Baihe chuckled behind her hand. “Alright, alright. Just wait for the director’s call to sign the contract when we get back.”

Song Jia looked skeptical. “Are you serious? No joking?”

“Serious! Realer than real pearls!”

“Fine. If we don’t get the call, you’re going on that new ‘Invincible Dance Forest’ show tomorrow.”

Jiang Baihe: “…”

Song Jia is a total savage.

Back at Shallow Water Bay, Jiang Baihe said goodbye to Song Jia and rang the doorbell, hiding something she had bought behind her back. She had keys, but for this, she needed a bit of ceremony.

Yan Shu, who was home from work, opened the door. Jiang Baihe looked at her and beamed. “Ta-da!”

She pulled a bouquet of purple and white tulips from behind her back. The petals weren’t solid purple, but white flecked with light blue-violet. Nine stems were tied together beautifully.

Seeing the surprise on Yan Shu’s face, Jiang Baihe shifted her gaze sheepishly. “I saw them on the way and thought they suited you, so I bought them. Um… do you like them?”