Chapter Three: Intermediate Acting Skills

Once again, he entered that wondrous interface, and the only change on the data table was in the reputation column. Though it merely increased from one to two, this small increment gave Liu Qingshan a clearer understanding of how these values worked. Evidently, his previous fainting spell was due to his dedication to his profession; fulfilling his duties and achieving results both contributed to earning reputation points.

Reputation was the sole currency required to access the exchange mall—even if he hadn’t been able to enter it yet, he could surmise the importance of enhancing his skills through purchases there. This time, he set aside all his earlier speculations. Since the miraculous Star Creation Device had appeared and he had instinctively accepted it, further doubts seemed pointless.

He focused entirely on the system’s single lottery draw, which was likely the greatest benefit granted upon binding with the Star Creation Device. The data made it clear how difficult it was to increase each value. The previous upgrade reward had forcibly raised his overall skill level by one, so he could expect the randomly gifted free lottery opportunity to be equally astonishing.

With a mere thought, a screen of shimmering light unfolded before Liu Qingshan’s eyes. In the blink of an eye, the light rippled like water, forming a circular lottery wheel about one meter in diameter, standing upright before him. The pointer, also formed by converging points of light, hovered over dozens of triangular segments of varying colors and widths. Only light and shadow flowed across them—no words or symbols were visible.

He selected the virtual “Yes” key, and heard a sequence of electronic musical beeps as the slender pointer spun rapidly. After dozens of seconds, it gradually slowed, the beeps transforming into clear tick-tock sounds as the pointer’s shape became more defined. When the pointer finally landed on a segment, the lottery wheel dissolved into a surge of radiant light and vanished, leaving only an orange glow beneath the pointer.

“Congratulations, host! You have gained the physical skill ‘Micro-Expression Refinement and Conversion (a1 level)’. Each use lasts five minutes, with a cooldown time of twenty-four hours!”

Before Liu Qingshan could revel in his joy, the professional skills column on the data list had already changed. The suffix data for facial expression control (1/100) remained the same, but the prefix had shifted from “Beginner Actor” to “Intermediate Actor.”

His excitement stemmed precisely from this.

In an instant, he had leapt from c1 beginner level to a1 intermediate actor—a jump of six sub-levels. Even though he was unsure how these grades related to real-world acting ability, he understood that this was a tremendous leap in his acting qualities.

He still possessed two other entry-level professional skills: positioning and body language, and facial expression control. In his understanding, entry-level skills were akin to students at an acting academy whose performance abilities, due to lack of experience, didn’t yet qualify them as true actors. But these were not difficult for him; in the last three years, he had participated in hundreds of production crews, large and small. Though he had never had a speaking part or appeared on camera, he had seen and experienced enough—the only thing lacking was actual work experience.

Only the refinement and conversion of micro-expressions required prolonged, rich performance opportunities—a subtlety that could not be learned from books. The latter two, like physical presence and temperament, could be partially mimicked by observing other actors. But the internal revelation and concealment of expressions belonged to the realm of psychological micro-reactions—instinctive, uncontrollable, impossible to disguise.

It was not as simple as it appeared in ordinary dramas. The more skilled an actor, the more they relied on these cues to judge the quality of a role’s portrayal.

Liu Qingshan did not linger in the joy of his skill improvement. Instead, he actively chose to enter the skill training room. Though he was still puzzled by the Gan Fengchi martial arts technique he had acquired, he knew that a strong physical foundation was crucial for an actor.

With the mindset that even if it did not benefit his acting career much, it would still improve his physical health, he committed himself to his first practice session.

As he had imagined, the learning process felt like ordinary rest—when he awoke, the gained experience was etched deeply within him. The process was arduous, akin to learning in a dream, accompanied by profuse sweating and exhaustion. Fortunately, all fatigue vanished the moment he opened his eyes.

Checking the data column again, he saw his experience in “Flower Fist Thirty-Six Techniques” had jumped from one to ten—an improvement of nine points, likely due to mastering the basic routines.

Perhaps each subsequent increment would be just as difficult, requiring continual accumulation of proficiency.

But his attention had already shifted, for the next day had arrived, and his phone rang with Li Qi’s call.

“Brother Shanzi, yesterday I managed to secure your guest actor credentials. Deputy Director Lin from the production crew played a big part in this!”

Guest actor credentials were not easy to obtain; they required extensive acting experience and relevant film or graduation works. For someone like him, lacking formal qualifications, he needed the support of an organizer like the group leader—who held partial agent status—and special industry recommendations from the crews he’d participated in, to meet the application requirements.

Of course, there were hidden rules at play. Li Qi, seasoned from years in Hengdian, inevitably had personal connections with members of the local actors’ guild. Otherwise, no matter how complete the application, it would never have been processed in a single day.

“Qi Bro, I’ll always remember your kindness. My finances are tight right now, so I’ll save any big gifts for when I’m better off. But at least I can afford a meal—how about we meet at Happy Gate for lunch?”

Happy Gate was a somewhat larger restaurant outside Hengdian Film City. Though not upscale, the food was tasty and the prices reasonable.

“As long as you remember your brother, that’s enough. Forget about the meal. If your health permits, I do have an opportunity here—are you interested in trying?”

“My health’s fine—after a night’s rest, I’m fully recovered! Qi Bro, which production is it this time? How many days will it take?”

He didn’t ask about compensation; just obtaining guest actor credentials was an achievement. Starting as a minor guest actor, he could earn a hundred yuan a day—a major breakthrough.

“It’s the historical mystery drama ‘Detective Judge Di’. Supposedly thirty episodes, but the location is Dunhuang in Gansu Province. In Hengdian, they’re only shooting some incidental scenes. Whether you stay with the crew depends on your own ability!”

Li Qi quickly explained.