After Binding the Face-Slapping System, I Rose to Fame [Entertainment Industry] - Chapter 2

Staying behind closed doors? Sure. Reflecting on her “mistakes”? Not a chance. Not in this lifetime.

The System could only predict Lin Shuyu’s general movements in advance; it lacked granular detail. Consequently, Chu Jinzhi was dying of curiosity about this “overnight sensation” of a film that was supposedly sweeping both the box office and the critics’ hearts. After hanging up the phone, she remained fused to her sofa like a salted fish under a sealing spell, scrolling for information.

When she discovered there were still pre-sale slots for a limited screening, Chu Jinzhi who had been unemployed long enough to start growing mushrooms decisively clicked “buy.” She bragged to the System with smug satisfaction: “This is called ‘knowing your enemy.’ If you want to strike true, you have to do your homework.”

To ensure she was “slapped in the face” with 100% efficiency, she first had to identify the specific points where the opponent was bulletproof. Otherwise, what if she accidentally mocked something that actually deserved it? That would be a professional failure.

On the morning of the screening, Chu Jinzhi sat before her vanity and began her transformation.

She was a natural “strong-featured beauty” (nongyan-xi). Her features were deep and intense: a pair of long, dark eyebrows that required no pencil to look defined, and upturned “peach blossom” eyes that were large and brilliant. When those pure black pupils—rare for a Huaguo native focused on you, the starlight within seemed to shine for you alone.

Her nose was high and straight, a departure from the softer lines of most women; its bridge and perfectly proportioned nostrils were the “golden standard” for rhinoplasty references. Her lips were naturally vivid without tint—well-defined and full, a shape her millions of fans once dubbed the “most beautiful petals.”

The perk of being a “strong-featured beauty” was looking like you were wearing a full face of makeup even when bare-faced. Chu Jinzhi, however, was dissatisfied; because she looked so good naturally, putting on makeup never resulted in a dramatic transformation. It was hard to get a sense of achievement out of it.

After over an hour of dabbing and blending, she finally left the vanity with a modicum of satisfaction. She threw on a canvas bag devoid of designer logos, packed a box of jam-filled cookies and a bottle of water, and donned a hat, sunglasses, and a massive mask. Once she was certain she was unrecognizable, she grabbed her phone, slipped on her white sneakers, and headed out.

The System was bewildered: [If you’re going to cover it all up anyway, why spend so much time on makeup?]

Chu Jinzhi rolled her eyes. “You must be a male system.”

The System, which lacked gender perception: [?]

Perhaps because the marketing blitz hadn’t started yet, or simply because it was a weekday, the theater was sparse. After the ticket check, Chu Jinzhi found only about twenty people scattered throughout the hall. In a bustling metropolis like Peiping, such emptiness was a rare sight.

Chu Jinzhi scanned the room, then boredly flipped through the Weibo trending topics while waiting for the film to start.

Yesterday’s “Black Trend” about her acting like a diva at an audition had already sunk. The current trending list was filled with “This Actress’s Legs” or “That Actor’s Lips”—obvious paid placements. Remembering that Lin Shuyu was from the Archaeology Department at Peking University, and figured she might as well kill time, Chu Jinzhi logged into the PKU (Peking University) forums as a guest to poke around.

Before she could find any threads on Lin Shuyu, the lights dimmed. The screen flickered to life with cinema etiquette reminders and pre-show advertisements.

Chu Jinzhi tucked her phone away, opened her cookies, and slid a piece under her mask. As she chewed, her eyes remained fixed on the screen. The opening credits dispersed like mist, and suddenly, without warning, she found herself staring into a pair of brownish-amber eyes as translucent as glass beads.

In that instant, struck by a powerful surge of shock and wonder, Chu Jinzhi’s heart skipped a beat. Her dark eyes flickered; she subconsciously stopped chewing, staring blankly as the camera pulled back from those eyes—clear as a mountain spring—to reveal a face like a “water lily emerging from the pond.”

If a person is naturally naive and ignorant of the world, possessing clear eyes is expected. But if a person can possess such eyes and then, in a flash, transform them into the depth of a sage or the muddy dullness of the mediocre, then they must possess breathtaking acting skills.

When the System first designated Lin Shuyu as the “Face-Slapper,” Chu Jinzhi had wondered if she was living in a novel where Lin Shuyu was the protagonist. Isn’t that how the tropes go? The female lead is either inherently brilliant or blessed with “Plot Armor” by a doting author.

Chu Jinzhi thought she had prepared herself for both scenarios. Yet, at this moment, she was still rattled by Lin Shuyu’s performance—a visceral, soul-shaking shock.

Previously, while Chu Jinzhi technically agreed with the anti-fans who said her acting was “bad enough to scrub floors,” she secretly believed she could shed that label with a bit of effort. Now, she realized just how delusional her self-assessment really was.

Chu Jinzhi swallowed her cookie with difficulty and whispered to the System: “System, search for how many points I need for the Interstellar Acting Course.”

The movie was titled “Gunfire,” a story set in a small county town during the Japanese occupation.

It opened in a bustling market. The female lead was dressed simply, her bare face like a soft gardenia lighting up the dusty, grey streets. Suddenly, several sword-wielding ronin appeared. They harassed the vendors and threw things around with impunity. The locals, gripped by silent rage and terror, bowed and scraped, kneeling in the dirt to pick up their scattered wares with tearful eyes.

The cinematography was incredibly evocative. Even without seeing the rest of the plot, this single scene confirmed that the camerawork and editing were top-tier—the “ceiling” of domestic cinema.

The female lead, who had only come to town to sell eggs, looked terrified. She stood frozen in a corner. When her eyes met one of the ronin, her pupils contracted and her face went pale. She stumbled back, finally reacting, and bolted into an alley.

The ronin, naturally unwilling to let such a beautiful woman escape, gave chase without a second thought.

The close-up on her eyes made Chu Jinzhi’s chest tighten; she found herself worrying for the character. But the director was determined to tease the audience. The screen faded to a somber greyscale, lingering on the empty alley for a few seconds. Then, with a sharp BANG, the movie truly began.

Only then did Chu Jinzhi realize she still hadn’t finished her first cookie. Around her, the other audience members were shifting and whispering, their postures straightening. Everyone had shifted from “killing time” to “total immersion.”

Chu Jinzhi sighed inwardly to the System: “Lin Shuyu’s acting is divine. Someone this talented doesn’t need a System to find ‘cannon fodder’ like me to make her look good.”

The Face-Slapping System remained as silent as a machine. Chu Jinzhi didn’t care what it was brooding about; she turned her full attention back to the screen.

The story of Gunfire wasn’t necessarily groundbreaking, but the storyteller was a master of atmosphere. They knew exactly when to cast a hook to keep the audience’s interest peaking, and the cast down to the street hawkers delivered performances that were vividly, hauntingly real.

Furthermore, the production design—costumes, makeup, and props was incredibly meticulous. At the very least, there were none of those idiotic tropes where the protagonist emerges from a hail of bullets looking as pristine as if they were walking a runway. Even the occasional extras in the background wore clothes that perfectly matched their social standing and economic reality.

Beyond the suspenseful “hook-and-sinker” cinematography and the masterful montage transitions, the most indelible impression was left by the female lead’s performance.

In an era where almost every genre is hijacked by the “romance-in-disguise” trend where even gods go mad for the sake of a love plot, this film was a breath of fresh air. It featured zero romance from start to finish, choosing instead to keep the lens focused squarely on national duty and sacrifice. Such works are becoming a rare breed indeed.

As the movie ended, many in the theater sighed with emotion to their companions. “A film like this is so hard to come find. It’s practically a ‘nationally protected species.’ I’m going to look up the director, screenwriter, and cast list later, I took photos of the credits just now.”

Chu Jinzhi nodded silently.

Exactly. People who make movies with this much heart are rare animals. They must be protected.

She was the last to leave the screening room. Near the ticket counter, she spotted staff members handing out small gifts, seemingly as part of a promotional event.

The love for a good spectacle is baked into the DNA of every Huaguo citizen, and Chu Jinzhi was no exception. Towering over the crowd thanks to her height, she couldn’t help but peer in to see what was happening. Her presence was immediately caught by a staff member in a red vest.

“Excuse me, miss! The organizers of Gunfire are holding a review-for-gift event at every screening location. Could you spare two minutes to write down your thoughts on the film?”

Most people, after receiving such profound spiritual satisfaction, are more than happy to give back. A quick glance told Chu Jinzhi that almost everyone from her screening had written a review and claimed a gift. Some were even laughing as they told the staff how great the movie was, asking them to tell the theater manager to schedule more screenings so they could recommend it to friends.

Caught in a swirl of extreme shock and lingering emotion, Chu Jinzhi took the ballpoint pen. Standing in a distinctly uncomfortable posture, bent over and leaning against the corner of a table, she began to write as if possessed. In one go, she penned a 300-word “mini-essay.”

If it weren’t for the limited space on the review slip, Chu Jinzhi might have completed the first 800-word masterpiece of her life right then and there.

Finishing with a flourish, she stood straight and tucked a stray lock of long, curly hair behind her ear. She held the slip between her slender index and middle fingers and handed it over. The staff member couldn’t help but take a second look at her, struck by her elegant silhouette and graceful hands.

As Chu Jinzhi walked away with her gift bag, her high heels clicking with poise, the staff member looked down at the slip. Upon seeing the content, her pupils dilated in shock at the sight of the dense, tiny handwriting that had completely overshot the lines. Then, her soul was hit by the sheer intensity of the words.

A moment later, a colleague finished up and noticed her standing there dazed. “Xiao Li, what’s up?”

Was it a prank? Did someone write something weird just to snag a gift?

Xiao Li snapped out of it and burst into a giggle, sharing the hilarious find with her colleague. “Look at this! That leggy beauty from just now wrote hundreds of words, she filled every square inch of the paper. But get this: only the opening and closing sentences actually praise the movie. Everything else is a tribute to the lead actress!”

The colleague took a look and couldn’t stop laughing either. She immediately turned to show the rest of the team.

“This is top-tier praise! She didn’t just praise her from head to toe; she covered every possible angle. There are even sentences in the middle that read like poetry. I hereby dub this a ‘Masterpiece of the Fancy Rainbow Fart School!'”

Xiao Li nodded, grinning. “It’s so unique, haha! I’m going to snap a photo for my Moments before I turn it in.”

“Me too!” her colleague chirped.

The departed Chu Jinzhi had no idea that her rare burst of literary inspiration would be shared across WeChat and Weibo by numerous staff members that day. Later, due to her extraordinary “Rainbow Fart” skills, her review would occupy the absolute “C-Position” (center stage) in Gunfire’s official “Real Audience Review Collection.”

Lin Shuyu’s fans would eventually treat this anonymous review as their “Primary Textbook” for new recruits. It would be quoted, studied, and imitated for years, but never surpassed.