Chapter 41: A Dazzling Array Bewilders the Eyes

Liu Hui confidently switched her phone to speaker mode, and the speaker immediately came alive. Gu Cheng could hear both sides of the conversation clearly, prompting him to step back a few paces to prevent his own voice from being captured.

It seemed this young lady had endured many such “integrity tests” before and had already devised a solid strategy for proving her innocence.

A sharp and perceptive one, indeed.

“Feifei, it’s me, Sister Hui. The matter we talked about last time is taking shape. Gu Cheng just acquired the adaptation rights for ‘The Return of the Condor Heroes.’ Filming will start in the next two months. You don’t have any new commitments, right?”

Sure enough, the voice on the other end was Liu Feifei’s. “Gu Cheng? Why would you be filming ‘The Return of the Condor Heroes’? Are you perhaps… testing for the role of Xiaolongnü?”

“I don’t have the final say; I’m just recommending. It’s an unwritten rule that anyone who’s played Wang Yuyan gets priority for Xiaolongnü. If I didn’t recommend you, the casting director would be incompetent.”

“…I should be fine. I’ll discuss it with my manager and get back to you.”

“Alright, I’ll wait for your call. I can’t make decisions anyway, only recommend to Director Gu. Prepare yourself and don’t set your expectations too high.”

From the conversation, Gu Cheng could tell Liu Hui had carefully withheld key information—such as “the investor is Gu Cheng” and “the project is ‘The Return of the Condor Heroes’”—from Liu Feifei. She had only inquired whether Feifei had any plans or free time in the coming months.

A perfect adherence to professional ethics.

Moreover, since the 1980s, starting with Chen Yulian, the Chinese film industry had an unspoken convention: any female actor who had previously portrayed either Xiaolongnü or the “Fairy Sister” Wang Yuyan would be given priority if another production of similar nature was planned soon.

From Chen Yulian to Lee Ruotong, that was the standard. Cases like Wu Qianlian or Fan Wenfang from Taiwan and Hong Kong were exceptions, as their markets were too small to sustain back-to-back productions of “Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils” and “The Return of the Condor Heroes” within a few years.

After the first call, Liu Hui, trusted by Gu Cheng, accelerated her efforts.

Within half an hour, she gathered half of the “young female lead” lineup from the soon-to-be-completed CCTV version of “Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils” for Gu Cheng to review.

“Liu Feifei as Xiaolongnü, Yang Rui as Lu Wushuang, Jiang Xin as Cheng Ying—they’re currently working in the same crew, and the chemistry is good. The themes and emotional arcs are similar, so they should get into character quickly. Wang Yuyan can shift to Xiaolongnü, Zhong Ling to Lu Wushuang, and Mu Wanqing to Cheng Ying. Then, move Duan Yu to Yang Guo’s role. That way, the team feels complete.”

Gu Cheng ran through this in his mind and found the character matches fairly suitable, with acceptable looks. The key was that the preparation period before filming “Return of the Condor Heroes” wouldn’t be long. It was crucial for the main cast to quickly get into character. A group of actors who had just come off another wuxia production a month or two ago was the ideal “golden window” for joining a new project—they were neither too entrenched in previous roles nor losing momentum.

However, Jiang Xin’s face carried a somewhat intense aura. From the ruthless and fierce Mu Wanqing, to the domineering and fiery Consort Hua in “Empresses in the Palace,” to the tragic immortal Xia Zixun in “The Journey of Flower,” Jiang Xin’s expressions always carried a certain edge.

Gu Cheng didn’t watch female-oriented dramas and was unfamiliar with “Empresses in the Palace” or “The Journey of Flower.” He only felt a chill from Jiang Xin’s headshots.

“Having her play Cheng Ying lacks the sense of calm detachment and concession. It’s hard to imagine this Cheng Ying enduring Yang Guo’s proposal of becoming sworn siblings for sixteen years after Xiaolongnü’s cliff jump. She practically looks like she’s scheming to usurp his love. Maybe we should reconsider this casting.”

Liu Hui pondered and circled Jiang Xin’s name in red pen.

“Let’s see how the script adapts and sets the characters. Is it really wrong for Cheng Ying to love Yang Guo? Besides, the sixteen-year oath was proposed by Yang Guo himself, who even worried he’d lose control and disappeared. Cheng Ying’s heart might have softened toward Yang Guo over time. Maybe that’s more realistic and human—original Cheng Ying was too saintly and pure.”

Gu Cheng considered this and found Liu Hui’s point valid.

As Yang Guo, he could restrain himself, but that didn’t mean the girl wouldn’t flirt. Being able to resist when someone’s pursuing you—that’s true skill.

Constant vigilance prevents dust from settling—that’s humanity.

Emptiness without a thing—how can dust adhere? That’s enlightenment.

Where the original lacked human depth, the scriptwriter naturally bore the responsibility to make it more believable.

After securing the entire troupe from “Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils,” Liu Hui selected additional actors through her agency. The remaining female roles were minor—just picking attractive faces with decent acting skills sufficed.

Interestingly, the original crew mirrored a similar casting situation that would emerge in another timeline a year later.

However, when Liu Hui called Chen Zihan, whom she originally thought suitable for Guo Fu, she was told Chen had accepted another offer that week.

Because Gu Cheng’s filming schedule for “Return of the Condor Heroes” had been advanced by over a year, clashing with the Taiwanese production of “Heavenly Sword and Dragon Slaying Sabre,” Chen Zihan took the role of Yin Li first.

“I asked her last week, and she said she was free. Maybe I didn’t dare reveal the project info, so she took the offer when the ‘Heavenly Sword’ crew called. The risk of losing both roles was too high,” Liu Hui complained without shirking responsibility.

Gu Cheng could tell she was grumbling about her limited authority.

After finishing all the calls, Liu Hui organized the list and reported to Gu Cheng:

“Of the three secondary female roles initially considered, one is unavailable. I have a complete newcomer and a near-newcomer. Why don’t you decide which two to fill first? I’ll find the third later. We always pick one intention per role and guarantee at least three times as many candidates for auditions.”

Gu Cheng adjusted his glasses and carefully examined the slightly messy memo.

Chen Zihan, Yang Mi, Sun Li. Chen Zihan was crossed out.

The three vacant roles were Guo Fu, Guo Xiang, and Gongsun Lü’e.

Yang Mi’s name had several arrows indicating swaps, then was crossed out. Gu Cheng looked puzzled.

“What does that mean?”

Liu Hui didn’t hide it: “She’s a first-year student at Beijing Film Academy. Initially, I thought she fit Guo Fu better, but after meeting her for coffee in Beijing the other day, I felt her demeanor suited Guo Xiang more—less flamboyant and proud than Guo Fu.”

“Then switch her back to Guo Fu. I have someone else for Guo Xiang.”

Liu Hui’s eyes flickered—this was the first time Gu Cheng spoke up personally that afternoon.

Could it be that the director himself had secretly scouted a beauty?

Liu Hui stayed calm. “Since you’re personally involved, that’s fine. Do you want to see any of the male actors?”

Gu Cheng nodded, “Just a quick look. Men are fearless about casting couch tactics.”

Liu Hui stifled a laugh. “Please, men are the ones more likely to be targeted by female casting agents.”

Gu Cheng shrugged. “True, but unfortunately, apart from Yang Guo, there aren’t many particularly handsome guys in ‘Return of the Condor Heroes.’”

…

That day, in front of Gu Cheng, Liu Hui auditioned all the preferred actors for the main roles.

Gu Cheng was pressed for time, so Liu Hui handled the backup candidates herself.

Gu Cheng gave both Guan Hu and Liu Hui a red envelope of fifty thousand yuan each that day—one as consolation for Guan Hu’s humility in accepting the deputy director role after being officially promoted, the other as compensation for Liu Hui’s immediate loyalty and endurance of the casting couch test upon meeting.

Money wasn’t everything, but it was a gesture.

Gu Cheng also instructed Liu Hui that a young Taiwanese actress around her age would soon join her to learn casting. Liu Hui readily agreed, showing no fear of being sidelined by Gu Cheng cultivating his own inner circle.

Lin Zhiling was called to the mainland by Gu Cheng for casting training, so she could better serve as an agent for Chengpin Audio-Visual and help her clients explore cross-industry collaborations.

A week later came the auditions, spanning three to four days due to the number of actors.

While waiting, Gu Cheng took the opportunity to study the 1996 Gu Tianle and Lee Ruotong adaptation’s script to understand the basics of television scriptwriting. He then proposed some character and plot adjustments and hired a capable co-writer to polish the draft.

With the original novel and previous adaptations as references, creating the script for “Return of the Condor Heroes” was relatively straightforward.

Gu Cheng had no intention of mimicking Yu Ma’s gimmicky tactics. From start to finish, he made no overt additions but revised many unnatural and outdated elements that lacked realism or resonance with contemporary audiences.

For instance, Guo Jing’s reckless self-sacrifice over minor troubles, Huang Rong’s indiscriminate disdain for young Yang Guo, Cheng Ying’s silent and passive love, and Yang Guo’s inexplicable provocation of Zhao Zhijing upon entering the Quanzhen Sect—all these illogical scenes were excised based on Gu Cheng’s suggestions.

Once the first draft was complete, Guan Hu immediately took over storyboarding.

On the audition day, Liu Hui distributed the new script draft to all candidates for role preparation.

Liu Hui led the process, Lin Zhiling observed and learned, and Gu Cheng mostly stayed silent, offering input only occasionally.

The main cast selection largely matched their prior discussions.

However, Liu Hui auditioned at least a dozen actors for nearly every attractive role, except those less focused on looks. After three days, Gu Cheng’s eyes were nearly glazed.

After wrapping up, Gu Cheng couldn’t help but comment, “Didn’t you say you’d arrange at least three times the number of candidates? How come the less important roles have over a dozen each?”

Liu Hui gave him a sideways glance. “King Yung and Qiong Yao dramas always cast this way. Whoever plays the pretty or handsome roles gets famous, regardless of experience or seniority. The veterans always fight tooth and nail to get in.

“If I’d picked fewer, what if you personally liked someone and wanted to boost them? You know, if it weren’t for your reputation and backing, even securing adaptation rights for a small TV station or production company would cost millions.”

Gu Cheng thought it over and realized she was right. Zhao Wei and Fan Ye, stars from Qiong Yao’s works, were once pure rookies who rose swiftly. King Yung’s dramas often featured newcomers making their TV debuts.

Where fame’s shortcut exists, fierce undercurrents swirl.

“There are at least fifty beauties here offering bribes and willing to sleep with you for a contact. I’ve shielded you from all that. You don’t blame me, right?”

“Uh, no, well done.”