After Transmigrating Back, I Became My Own Stand-in - Chapter 7

Shi Xu’s original plan back then was to stop being an actor once she finished her missions and returned. After all, her only goal in becoming an actress in the first place was to rake in money to pay off her debts. Once the debts were cleared, there was no need to keep struggling in that circle. To her, awards and honors weren’t nearly as rewarding as the roar of a full house in her original profession (opera).

However, she had never actually won any major awards—mostly just nominations. She was famously unlucky, to the point where even when everyone knew she should have won, she would be intercepted at the last second while the cameras were pointed right at her face for the broadcast.

Now that she was back, not only had her identity changed, but she was younger than before and forced to stay in this line of work. Time had moved on, and the industry had turned upside-down; many program formats were now entirely new to her.

Shen Tianqing’s “psychotic warning” before her discharge had annoyed Shi Xu. She wasn’t into that kind of drama. Although being kept as a “canary” was a personal choice, and she had seen hosts in similar situations while serving as a System, she hadn’t been the one in the driver’s seat then. Most of the time, she was just a guide.

Now that she was experiencing it firsthand, if it weren’t for the lack of system prompts in her head, she would feel like she was still on a mission.

And Meng Heng’s acting… was truly as “rotten” as Shen Tianqing described.

During her hospitalization, Shi Xu caught up on Meng Heng’s past works. The way the fans bragged about the viewership ratings made it seem like a masterpiece, but when Shi Xu clicked on the first episode, she didn’t last five minutes before her scalp went numb from embarrassment. Meng Heng’s expressions were either non-existent or just a blank stare. Her “one face for a thousand roles” was laid bare before the camera, her entire body screaming, “I’m just here to phone it in.” Even the “highlight clips” praised by fans relied entirely on the voice actors’ dubbing to create an atmosphere.

The idol-filled cast of her debut work, The Eternal Bright Heart, was clearly just a group of talent show survivors having a reunion. They relied on “CP shipping” to stay relevant. Even now, nearly a year later, it remained at the top of the trending topics, suppressing actual high-quality productions.

Shi Xu felt that if she did a “Reaction Video” to her own work, it would be the highest level of self-roasting.

In the Mainframe space, Meng Heng had mentioned that her work was agonizing. Looking at the footage, Shi Xu thought: Watching it is agonizing, too.

At least she had a good face, which made the fans’ “blind praise” feel slightly less shameless.

Shi Xu had wondered why Meng Heng couldn’t just leave after paying off her debts, but now that she was Meng Heng, she understood it wasn’t that simple. This girl’s mother had died early, but she still had a biological father—a complete piece of trash. Once Meng Heng became famous, he treated his daughter like an ATM; after remarrying, his entire family seemed to be sucking Meng Heng’s blood.

Shen Tianqing knew this, but she had no intention of helping. Meng Heng suffered in silence, lacking a strong personality, and her current bank balance was likely lower than that of her assistant, Yao Fangfang.

After being discharged, Shi Xu was taken back to her apartment by Yao Fangfang. It was a unit assigned by Melon Entertainment, but supposedly the high-end apartment was Shen Tianqing’s private property. The amenities were top-tier. This benefactor’s way of keeping someone was very dependent on her mood: when she was in a good mood, things were great; when she wasn’t, she just watched the drama unfold.

Meng Heng feared her but couldn’t leave her, nor could she escape. Only death felt like a release. Because she missed her mother—the only person in the world who truly loved her.

Shi Xu didn’t know what conditions the Mainframe had promised Meng Heng, but based on her knowledge of the Mainframe, it was likely “to see her mother one more time.” Humans are such simple creatures; they will give up everything for a single second of a reunion, and find the courage to rush into an unknown future just for that moment.

Calling it “wanting to experience a new life,” Shi Xu thought. She didn’t expose Meng Heng; she sincerely wished her well.

But it was hard not to think of Shen Tianqing through this lens. Currently, it seemed that Shen Tianqing’s drastic change in personality was entirely because of Shi Xu herself. Shi Xu didn’t understand: What about me was worth her changing so much?

Their time together was scattered, mostly spent in the presence of Tan Tan, with Shen Tianqing acting as Tan Tan’s “shield.” Later, when they filmed together, it was always under the eyes of a crowd. They had almost never spoken privately. In Shi Xu’s entire life, her intersection with Shen Tianqing was minimal.

How could that be a reason for Shen Tianqing to go crazy?

And the comments like, “It’s your blessing to look a bit like Shi Xu” or “Your dog-sh*t acting really does a disservice to your face that looks like hers”… Shi Xu’s own soul, wearing Meng Heng’s skin, felt deeply offended. She felt like punching the woman. No wonder Meng Heng looked like she’d stepped in sh*t every time her benefactor was mentioned.

Now, Shi Xu was also helpless and had to follow the arrangements.

While Yao Fangfang and another assistant tidied the apartment, Meng Heng’s manager, Chen Kaiqi, checked messages on her phone while gesturing for Shi Xu to look at the laptop.

Shi Xu rubbed her temples. Her left hand wasn’t fully healed—”a hundred days for a bone injury.” The system’s acceleration package made her recovery faster, but not instantaneous. However, her schedule was already set. Having lost a second-lead role in a drama, Shen Tianqing had “considerately” found her a new resource.

It was a top-tier variety show from Whale Video—A World from a New Line.

It was an S+ level production aimed at making a massive impact in the new year. Naturally, the actors invited were meticulously screened. The planning group had discussed the participants for six months. Now, with a sudden addition to the cast, the planned announcement had to be pushed back.

Someone leaked the news. A marketing account with five million followers posted:

“Whale Video’s new variety show is delayed again. Word is someone is ‘parachuting’ in, someone you all know very well [doge face].”

Entertainment marketing accounts always talk in riddles, waiting for fanbases to tear each other apart before coming out to say it was “just a guess.” This time, the comments were exploding by the hundreds every minute.

Shi Xu read the overview. Shows about directors casting actors weren’t new, but they were usually mediocre and lacked “heat.” This time, Whale Video was collaborating with Melon Entertainment (which specialized in livestreams). The main show would be live, with pre-recorded interview segments interspersed. From Sunday to Friday, there would be live broadcasts of training rooms or dormitory life. More votes meant more exclusive content.

It was a mature “pay-to-win” model. The guest list definitely included high-traffic stars. Shi Xu felt the filming duration was too long. The show graded actors into S, A, and B levels—similar to the talent shows popular last year, but live-streamed. Since it was about acting, the mentors invited were more academic.

The details mentioned that the rehearsal process would also be live-streamed. Days of live-streaming? Are they really that bold now? Zero privacy, Shi Xu thought.

She read seriously. Chen Kaiqi, noticing her artist was actually thinking for once, was moved to tears.

Shi Xu: “…” Why is everyone in this studio, from the manager to the assistants, so dramatic?

“Xiao Heng, don’t be too scared. Director Shen will cover for you anyway. You definitely won’t be eliminated in the first round.”

Chen Kaiqi knew where this resource came from. It proved that once you taste the “soft rice” (being supported), your bones get soft—especially when you have a giant tree to lean on. It goes from “scary” to “always eating, always feeling good.” If she didn’t know that Shen Tianqing lacked “worldly desires” in private, she would have encouraged Meng Heng to work harder on the relationship; a benefactor like this was better than a middle-aged man with a potbelly.

Shi Xu had never been this speechless in all her years as a System. No wonder Meng Heng was so hopeless; every time she tried, her manager would say, “It’s fine, the boss has you,” so why bother trying?

“This variety show records for two months? Can we not leave during that time?” Shi Xu asked, ignoring the manager’s “soft rice” comments.

Chen Kaiqi shook her head. “Those are talent show rules. This show just follows the format; it’s not that strict. It’s fine as long as you’re there for the new episodes.”

Shi Xu hummed. “Why am I in the ‘S’ category? I…” She swallowed the words “Am I worthy?”, but Chen Kaiqi knew what she was thinking.

“Uh… it’s a comprehensive ranking. You have to go shoot posters the day after tomorrow. The directors will talk to you then.”

The script was detailed, even marking out potential “conflict shots.” The mentor lineup was high-profile: Chen Caiwei, Zhao Manchun, Ji Qiao, and Qiu Chao. All were Best Actors/Actresses or famous directors. Especially Qiu Chao, a top actress who had been out of the spotlight for a long time. It was a lineup designed to peak the ratings. However, Qiu Chao’s name had “TBD” next to it.

That evening, Shen Tianqing was dragged to dinner by Yan Muyu. Lin Chi was also there, dressed formally compared to Shen Tianqing’s casual attire.

“I heard the special guest Qiu Chao can’t make it. Is that true?” Yan Muyu asked. She looked like a fox reincarnated. She had a master’s in product design (specializing in adult toys), then helped her brother as a manager, but finally found success in photography. She was the chief photographer for a major magazine and had never suffered a day in her life.

Except for when she “tripped” over her sister-in-law.

At the mention of the name, she gritted her teeth. “Don’t mention that woman to me.”

Lin Chi, a shrewd businesswoman, glanced at Shen Tianqing, who was playing a game on her phone. “Well, Director Shen is right here. Do we really need to find someone else for an emergency save?”