The Villainess A Marked the Seductive Movie Queen - Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Goddess

What followed was complete chaos.

When theater staff, alerted by blood-curdling screams for help, burst into the room, they found Liu Yitong straddling Sun Chaoxing’s chest. She was gripping his chin, a pair of scissors raised high and aimed directly at the man’s eyeball.

“This is the last time,” Liu Yitong said, her face cold as she arched an eyebrow. “Which hand flicked the skirt?”

Sun Chaoxing’s face was already a mess of blood; his nose was likely broken, and his features were so swollen and bruised they were barely human. Looking up at the girl’s calm yet manic gaze, he knew she was serious. His survival instinct kicked in, and he chose to sacrifice his hand to save his eye:

“L-left… the left hand…”

“Good.”

They were being quite reasonable.

The girl swiftly switched her grip, pinning the man’s left wrist with one hand and raising the scissors with the other, the sharp blades aimed at his palm.

“No—no—!” “Yitong! Stop!”

Thud.

“AAAAAAHHHHHH—!” Sun Chaoxing let out a death-rattle scream.

The scissors had been driven straight into the gap between his left fingers, embedding deeply into the wooden floorboards. Had that force hit his palm, it likely would have snapped the bone.

Seeing a crowd of onlookers gathering outside the room, Liu Yitong quickly retracted the heavy, oppressive scent of hyacinth. She stood up, walked back to her seat, and tapped a few keys on her phone, her expression relaxed, as if fighting were as routine as breathing.

She shook the phone at the man curled on the floor, weeping in pain, and said:

“Sun Chaoxing, since I was a bit heavy-handed and you’ve been beaten too ugly, I’ll give you a choice as compensation. Either you resign from the group voluntarily, or I leak this video and you’re forced out in disgrace. Two options. Take your pick.”

“Thank you.”

The infirmary smelled sharply of disinfectant. Wei An sat across from her, dabbing a cotton swab as she spoke softly.

Liu Yitong didn’t care about these minor injuries, but Wei An had insisted on treating them.

“I’ll send you a copy of the video,” Liu Yitong said. “Honestly, him choosing to resign voluntarily is better for you. It means he still cares about his reputation, which means he’s afraid. He won’t dare come looking for trouble again.”

In today’s society, equal rights were emphasized, and since Omegas were rare, they were subjects of special protection. Sun Chaoxing’s vulgar private comments wouldn’t just ruin his idol image; they were a violation of the law. Before leaving the group, he would also have to face administrative detention for “ABO discrimination.”

Once the video was leaked, the theater would suffer the consequences of a collapsed brand image because of him. Therefore, Sun Chaoxing was entirely at fault; no one would side with him, and he wouldn’t dare retaliate for Liu Yitong’s brutality.

Wei An didn’t speak, her head lowered. She had just finished wiping the corner of Liu Yitong’s mouth and was now holding her hand to disinfect the wound on her wrist.

Only then did Liu Yitong notice that, likely due to the scuffle, the recently formed scab on the bite mark had been torn open and was bleeding again. The iodine spread a reddish-brown stain across her pale wrist. It didn’t sting much; Liu Yitong didn’t feel the pain, but Wei An was already in tears.

“Don’t cry…” Liu Yitong said awkwardly, not being good at comforting people.

Wei An wiped her tears with her elbow and stubbornly pursed her lips in silence.

Liu Yitong sighed and continued her instructions: “After I leave the group, you need to be sharper. Protect yourself.”

“You too,” Wei An finally spoke, her voice muffled. “Protect yourself.”

Liu Yitong was surprised. “Me?” She laughed. “Who would dare hurt me?”

“You would!” Wei An’s usually gentle voice was uncharacteristically stern.

Liu Yitong’s forced, relaxed smile froze on her lips. Wei An sniffled, quickly finished the bandaging, and put the medicine kit away. Then, she pulled out an album from behind her and placed it on Liu Yitong’s lap. This was the “something” she had promised.

Liu Yitong picked it up and was shocked to see it was their group’s first album, The Immortals. Since they were an obscure group, the print run was tiny—strictly limited to pre-orders from big spenders. They hadn’t even been given personal copies as keepsakes. Wei An had specifically asked around to grab a few copies.

In the one given to Liu Yitong, every glossy page was filled with messages, advice, and wishes written in colored pens by the other members. As Liu Yitong flipped through the pages, feeling a warmth in her heart, she heard Wei An murmur:

“Yitong, are you sure a Moon Goddess exists?”

Liu Yitong looked up, realizing Wei An was referencing the title track of The Immortals, “Iphigenia.” To ensure the Greek fleet could sail for Troy, Iphigenia voluntarily stepped onto the altar to destroy herself. Had she not been saved by the Moon Goddess, Artemis, the girl would have died, and there would be no myth of her becoming immortal.

In this song, Liu Yitong was the “concept center.”

Liu Yitong remained silent.

“You are the undeniable soul of this album’s concept because, among us, you are the only one with such a strong self-destructive streak.” Wei An’s expression was solemn, like a prayer or a plea: “If you aren’t certain a goddess exists who can save you, Liu Yitong, please… don’t become Iphigenia.”

Photos of that day’s fight were leaked online by someone with an agenda. Celebrity fights are always a hot topic, and the obscure Liu Yitong and Sun Chaoxing became minor viral sensations.

Rumors spread like wildfire. The narrative twisted into “two bullies fighting over status, both fired by the theater,” and it grew more bizarre with every repost. Liu Yitong had never bothered to be kind to people and had plenty of enemies; Wei An and the others likely didn’t dare speak up due to company pressure, so no one clarified the truth for her.

Fortunately, Liu Yitong didn’t care. Her attention was focused on Shu Ran’s “acting crash course.” Moved by Shu Ran’s encouragement and Wei An’s words, she had ultimately decided to go to the audition.

However, unlike Wei An, who gambled her fate on the existence of a goddess, Liu Yitong never believed she would become Iphigenia. She never expected a Moon Goddess to save her. Her goal was always clear: she wanted to build her own Tower of Babel, climbing high enough to see the moon for herself. And then, using the moonlight to incinerate her already rotting shell, she would vanish into bliss.

The audition was held at a cultural studio in the Huchuan suburban film city.

The long corridor was brightly lit, and mirrored walls cut the space into fragmented pieces. Liu Yitong walked alone, holding her printed script. The iron chairs outside the room were packed; many good-looking actors had arrived early, waiting for their numbers to be called.

Some faces were new—likely rookies who looked nervous when they met her eyes. Others she recognized from TV or commercials. Some artists in high heels and expensive clothes brought their own teams, purposefully raising their voices to assert their presence. When they saw Liu Yitong enter, they whispered to their assistants, casting wary glances her way, wondering who she was.

Liu Yitong habitually lowered her head, ignoring the chatter. There were no seats left, so she leaned against a wall, one leg slightly bent.

“Next, Female Supporting Role #05, Liu Yitong.”

Soon after, the director’s assistant called her number. Before entering, she specifically applied a pheromone-blocking patch to the back of her neck. An actor’s performance is delivered through screen and sound; she knew her Alpha grade was too high and didn’t want her pheromones to disturb others.

The room was simple: three chairs, one table, a white wall, and a blue screen—minimalist to prevent decor from distracting from the actor’s performance. Across the table sat the General Director, Zhang Lishen, and the acting coach, Jiang Qi. As Liu Yitong entered, Teacher Jiang gave her a friendly smile, while Zhang Lishen just kept his head down, flipping through documents, his lips a thin, straight line.

“Hello, Director. Hello, Teacher.”

Following the protocol, she stated her name, height, weight, and age, then prepared to perform. She had heard Zhang Lishen was cold and impersonal—a child prodigy who had been in the industry for over a decade. With his current status, crushing a newcomer’s career was as easy as snapping a twig. Geniuses with an obsessive pursuit of art were often arrogant and lacked empathy; it wasn’t surprising.

Liu Yitong expected Zhang Lishen might not look up at all. Surprisingly, as she prepared to begin, he raised his eyes and moved his gaze from the paper to her.

“You must be exhausted, right? Here, let me rub your shoulders,” Liu Yitong delivered her line steadily.

She was auditioning for the third female lead in Counterkill, a character who appears late in the story. As the partner of the protagonist (played by Ruan Minxue) after she has survived her many trials, it was a “savior” type role with a great personality—the kind that easily goes viral. The only downside was that being the third lead meant limited screen time, but since it was a “white moonlight” gentle character, the acting difficulty wasn’t high, making it perfect for a newcomer.

“Which brat made my wife this angry? Tell me, I’ll teach him a lesson for you.”

As she spoke, Liu Yitong performed without props, her long fingers moving with a soft but firm rhythm in the air, purposefully simulating the resistance of kneading muscles. Shu Ran had emphasized that the tone here must balance “the firmness of supporting your girlfriend” with “the playfulness of trying to make her laugh.”

During her performance, Liu Yitong consciously modified her naturally cold voice, making it go higher. Her usually stoic face was like a field brushed by a spring breeze, carrying a warm, gentle smile. Shu Ran couldn’t resist the tenderness of a melting iceberg and had squealed during rehearsals, but an amateur’s praise didn’t necessarily mean she was qualified in the eyes of professional elites.

During the scene, Liu Yitong occasionally glanced at Zhang Lishen, only to find the director had started scrolling through his phone, not looking at her at all.

When she finished, Jiang Qi maintained her polite smile and began marking the evaluation form. Liu Yitong noticed that most of the checkmarks were in the “middle” column. This meant her acting was “passing”—neither exceptionally bad nor exceptionally good.

But “not bad” was the worst possible answer in front of a famous director.

Liu Yitong lowered her eyes, accepting the reality. She and Shu Ran had suspected this; she wasn’t professionally trained, and the probability of failure was high.

Jiang Qi also noticed Zhang Lishen playing with his phone. From their brief interactions during the auditions, she knew his standards were strict: “passing” wasn’t enough. Zhang Lishen wanted the character itself, natural and unforced.

The way an actor moves their face and body reveals the traces of their past life. An insecure person playing a great beauty will still have shifty eyes; a person from a wealthy background playing a poor worker will subconsciously stick out their pinky while doing “dirty” work. The academic school uses technique to hide instinct; the method school relies on merging with the character.

This girl had done neither.

The girl was playing a gentle person, but her core was not yet in harmony. Beneath the wooden surface, dark tides were surging. Jiang Qi didn’t know what those tides were; she only knew that Liu Yitong’s quiet sharpness couldn’t be turned into “gentleness” just by lowering her voice or smiling beautifully.

As the Acting Evaluation Scorecard was completed, Jiang Qi saw Zhang Lishen was still on his phone. Confirming the director’s attitude, she smiled at Liu Yitong:

“Thank you for your performance. That will be all.”

Hearing Jiang Qi’s signal, Liu Yitong thought she would be composed. But when the words effectively telling her to leave rang out—when she realized she had truly lost this opportunity…

Liu Yitong felt an unexpected surge of unwillingness. her heart beat like a drum, refused to be quiet. It wasn’t regret; she had done her best, and a second try wouldn’t be better.

But in the moment of acting, when she had projected Ruan Minxue into the role—when she imagined her fingertips pressing into Ruan Minxue’s shoulders… she had tasted a bit of sweetness. And that sweetness made her greedy.

That greed made her reckless, wanting to fight for one more chance.

Seeing the girl still standing there, Jiang Qi smiled and reminded her again: “You can go back and wait for—”

“Wait a moment.”

Liu Yitong looked up in shock. Speaking in unison with the voice in her heart was a real voice from across the room.

Zhang Lishen had suddenly spoken—his very first words since she entered the room.

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