Chapter Thirty-Five: A Nerve-Wracking Interview

Jin Xishan’s tone was filled with gratitude. “Thank you so much for your trouble, Brother Sun!”

Sun Zhou shook his head with a smile. “It's nothing, Xishan. If you plan to pursue your career here in our country, you must first understand one thing: the mainstream reality inland is a society built on personal connections. Everything depends on relationships and mutual favors. I’m just laying some groundwork for good relations for myself in advance.”

Liu Qingshan nodded in agreement. “Of course, ability is the most important factor. For major roles in any series, practical ability is what counts. But as for supporting roles, it all depends on the strength of your connections.”

“There’s no specific regulation? In Han Country, we have entertainers' unions. I heard that here, only the big film bases have something similar, but it's very limited.”

Sun Zhou, more familiar with the situation than Liu Qingshan, explained, “The official domestic organization is coming soon. The unions you mentioned are actually experimental zones in the national film industry. Once the timing and experience are mature, they will be implemented.”

“Shanzi told me the entertainment industry here started late, and I see now that's really the case!”

“Starting late has its advantages too. There’s more room for growth and opportunity—especially important for newcomers.”

“No wonder Shanzi wouldn’t join the Chen family troupe. Seems like coming here to develop my career was the right decision.”

“Absolutely. There’s a saying in Hua Country that’s been around for centuries: ‘The foreign monk chants the best sutras.’ It means outsiders, whether people or things, often receive more attention. That’s a great advantage for you.”

“But it all depends on real ability. When it comes to pure acting, I’m still confident.”

“That’s why choosing a drama series with excellent script and market prospects for your debut here is necessary. Otherwise, no matter how strong your abilities, if the work doesn’t attract attention or receives poor reviews, you’ll flop all the same.”

“‘Flop’? That means bad, right?”

“Pretty much! So you shouldn’t rush. Choosing the right project is crucial.”

Despite Jin Xishan’s somewhat awkward communication, Sun Zhou deliberately slowed his pace, allowing the conversation between them to continue, albeit barely.

Around three in the afternoon, Liu Qingshan, busy as ever, was called to a hotel meeting room.

The abandoned warehouse on the outskirts was isolated, and the so-called hotel provided by the local authorities for the crew was in far poorer condition.

It wasn’t that Chen Long was unwilling to invest; this place was simply close to the set, saving the trouble of transporting vehicles in and out every day.

The meeting room itself was just two adjoining rooms converted, cramped and dim.

Ye Weixing and his companion appeared about the same age, and were even more courteous than expected—presumably the word “master” passed on by Lin Fengqiao had done its work.

Upon seeing Liu Qingshan, both men’s eyes lit up, not because he was particularly handsome, but because of the powerful masculine aura he exuded.

It wasn’t mere physical strength, but the mature, resolute, profound, and dignified charm of a grown man.

Moreover, his unhidden martial energy imparted an air of calmness and poise, as if nothing could faze him.

Of course, he kept a humble posture, striding forward quickly and addressing them as “brother” at every turn.

“Mr. Liu, I believe you’re aware of the situation, but there’s one premise I must explain. Our film is still missing a substantial assassin role—requirements are simple: exceptional martial skill, ruthless, and able to kill without a second thought.”

Liu Qingshan replied earnestly, “I have no objections to the role. Though film is an art, the director determines the process, path, and method. As an actor, my professional attitude is to do my best according to the director’s requirements.”

“I’ve heard about your recent work, Mr. Liu. Honestly, I admire you. But there’s a caveat: this role may be too violent and bloody to be released domestically. For a newcomer like you, playing such a brutal character might leave a negative impression on some viewers.”

“Doesn’t that just mean I’m fulfilling the director’s vision? Moreover, before this film, I already played an assassin who later repented, earning tears from some viewers. That series will air soon, so I don’t think there’s any need to worry about negative impact.”

“Is it ‘Detective Di Renjie’? Good. Can you act out that assassin’s demeanor?”

“No problem, but I should mention something. That assassin’s nickname was Viper. He not only kept poisonous snakes, using them as weapons, but was also renowned for wielding a Ghost Orchid Sword.”

“What do you think of this sword?”

It was Zhen Zijian who spoke, handing over a sword—clearly prepared in advance.

Liu Qingshan weighed it in his hand and couldn’t help but praise, “Excellent sword, obviously cherished by a lover of swords—polished clean right down to the decorations! I’m just curious, Brother Zhen, how did you bring it through airport security?”

“Haha, sharp eye! You know Master Yu Chenhui? Yes, the one who played Wang Renzhe in ‘Shaolin Temple.’ He’s right here in Chang’an, and I borrowed the sword from him.”

Liu Qingshan instantly grew solemn. Yu Chenhui had devoted his life to ancient swordsmanship, creating the two-handed mantis sword technique—not just the ‘Drunken Sword’ he showed after entering the film world.

Within the domestic martial arts community, he was known as the Sword Sage. Earning such a title, and being recognized by his peers, proved his extraordinary skill.

“No wonder. If it’s the Sword Sage’s cherished blade, I understand. This sword is remarkable—not only masterfully forged, but it naturally exudes a fierce killing aura without needing to be brandished. You can feel its cold, solemn presence. Sorry, I’m speaking too much!”

Zhen Zijian smiled and nodded. “No problem! Mr. Liu is clearly a master swordsman—he sensed the hidden menace of the sword even while it was sheathed.”

Such praise was warranted. The sword was still in its scabbard, and even Zhen Zijian, familiar as he was, could only feel its aura after unsheathing it.

Only those deeply attuned to the murderous energy of such a weapon could sense it through the scabbard.

Liu Qingshan said no more. He drew the sword in a reverse motion, spinning the hilt in his palm to perform a flourish, then settled into a proper stance.

At the same time, as he channeled his strength, an invisible force expanded outward.

A faint blue light flickered, making him seem like an ancient, awe-inspiring figure descending to earth.

It was a wild, deadly aura—no exaggeration. For Ye Weixing, who had no martial foundation, it brought a chill that sent shivers down his spine.

Zhen Zijian, on the other hand, sensed clearly that Liu Qingshan’s killing aura had merged with the sword, radiating strong authority and heightening his interest.

Though the aura wasn’t oppressive enough to suffocate, its cold, violent edge was unmistakable.

Liu Qingshan’s arm moved, unleashing a ghostly, icy murderous intent that spread swiftly, with several sharp energies bursting from the blade.

As they flared, they seemed to transform into sword rays, each so sharp it felt as if they could slice through space itself.

It was the fusion of sword intent and power, a unity of form and spirit that transcended any technical skill—a different realm.

Not that Liu Qingshan’s swordsmanship was unfathomable, but he had woven in the uncanny techniques of the Thirty-Six Hands, creating an illusion of killing intent that far exceeded mere skill.

True sword intent, when refined to a certain degree, condenses into something greater. He was still far from that, but the peculiarity of his moves was enough to fool many martial artists.

Zhen Zijian was one such.

In his eyes, Liu Qingshan’s swordplay already possessed the rhythm of life. This ability to turn the tangible into the intangible was a realm even the Sword Sage Yu Chenhui hadn’t reached at his peak.

As the moves accumulated, the killing aura grew more vivid—wisps of cold mist, like mountain fog, gradually thickened.

A domineering force was taking shape, morphing into strange, shifting patterns that fit together in fragments within the small space.

Compared to his last demonstration, Liu Qingshan was more focused today, immersed in the moment, his fighting spirit rising.

He was unaware that the air around him seemed to be stirred by his growing murderous intent, sending waves stronger and stronger.

Though still intangible, these waves began to emit a low whistling sound.

That eerie hiss, to the observers, was like the wailing of lonely souls in hell, filling them with mounting dread and chill.

Zhen Zijian, who had originally felt delight in watching, now shivered at the menace, his hair standing on end.

He also noticed the atmosphere in the meeting room had grown tense and grim.

Especially Ye Weixing, the most vulnerable, who let out an involuntary cry, snapping Liu Qingshan back to the presence of others.

He changed his moves, waving the sword again. As he leapt, the blade’s edge instantly retracted.

His body folded in midair—over two meters high—and landed gently.

In truth, he had used nearly all his repertoire; any further demonstration would require repeating moves. Though he could fool most people, this was only an audition, not a fight to the death, so there was no need to show everything.

The two men stood frozen with horror, mouths agape as if they’d seen a ghost, perhaps thinking to themselves that this was the true realm of a master.