We Are Filthy, Born From Mud - Chapter 27

Chapter 27: Yes, She Is Zong Yougu. Zong Yougu’s Audition…

“Can you tell us why you chose the character Lin Lingwan? Or tell us your understanding of her.”

Zong Yougu heard the director ask.

Her eyes rested on the white wall behind the director, and in her vision, that wall began to shift. The pristine white surface transformed into white clouds set against a blue sky—the sky she had looked up at as a child.

Back then, she was just like Lin Lingwan: equally misfit, equally gloomy, and reclusive. She had greedily absorbed knowledge while simultaneously fantasizing about her future life. Those distant childhood memories overlapped with what she had seen at the orphanage over the past two days.

Zong Yougu let out a slow breath, her eyes curving into crescents. “May I sit down?”

“Of course.”

The chair legs scraped against the floor, creating a sharp, piercing sound. Zong Yougu sat down composedly, her thumb tracing circles over the knuckle of her index finger.

“Lin Lingwan…” Zong Yougu began slowly. “Her keyword is contradiction.”

Upon hearing this, the director and the screenwriter, who had been looking down, raised their heads.

Zong Yougu glanced around and realized every gaze in the room was focused on her. Satisfied, she closed her eyes again.

“The public materials state that Lin Lingwan is gloomy, and one can even glimpse anti-social tendencies in her behavior. But on the other hand, she is exceptionally diligent in her studies, and her grades are among the best. Therefore, I surmise that Lin Lingwan’s inner self is contradictory. On one hand, she seeks success in the conventional sense; on the other hand… she doesn’t actually understand the meaning behind her actions. Her inner wandering manifests externally as behavioral cruelty.”

A fountain pen resting on the table fell to the floor with a thud, and ink bloomed across the ground.

“Then what do you think Lin Lingwan’s story would look like in a complete script?”

She heard the screenwriter ask.

Zong Yougu opened her eyes, her gaze landing steadily on the screenwriter. She gave a small smile and slowly turned her head to look out the window. She heard the chirping of a few birds. There weren’t many flowers left on the branches, even though they had been blooming beautifully just two days ago.

“I don’t know Lin Lingwan’s specific family background or personal information, but I know… this contradiction brings inner struggle, and this struggle makes her appear extreme and fractured. For example… she often feels complacent about her own talent, showing an unconcealable disdain for her peers. But at the same time, her inner struggle and uncertainty lead to a lack of self-awareness. This might result in self-loathing; perhaps in the dead of night, she sinks into an inescapable sense of inferiority…”

Zong Yougu spoke very slowly and softly, letting the words flow. Her weightless voice circulated through the room, eventually gaining gravity in everyone’s hearts.

“So I suspect that in the drama, Lin Lingwan’s plot should revolve around her inner struggle and contradiction. There might be arguments with the protagonist, Yu Yulai, regarding this issue.”

When she finished, the room fell into a brief silence. Zong Yougu exhaled heavily, the sound of her breath startlingly loud in the quiet room. It was this sigh that pulled everyone back from their own thoughts.

Zong Yougu smiled, her mouth curling wide. She was determined to win this role. As she had said, she would make Lin Lingwan come alive.

The screenwriter picked up the fallen pen and wiped the ink from the barrel with a tissue. Her brows were tightly knit, as if she were burdened by heavy thoughts.

“Your analysis is excellent… it’s exactly what I wanted to express. This character was created to explore the question of how a person navigates the world—how to carry oneself and how to save oneself. But… it’s nothing… You have a very accurate grasp of the character. You will be a very fine actor and a very remarkable person.”

The split nib of the pen brushed against the white tissue; upon contact, the ink rapidly climbed and stained the white paper. The screenwriter sighed and said no more.

“But? But what?” Zong Yougu asked.

She furrowed her brows. Su Tongguo’s guilty expression flashed before her eyes, followed by the memory of Liao Qinghe standing beside her. She looked up at the conflicted screenwriter.

Lin Lingwan, Su Tongguo, Liao Qinghe…

A shadow cast over Zong Yougu’s eyes, yet she continued to smile. It was a smile filled with disdain, contempt, and mockery.

People with backings are so foolish; they are always taking shortcuts. But so what if there’s a shortcut? It doesn’t mean Zong Yougu can’t catch up to them. Shortcuts make people stupid and careless; one day, Zong Yougu will overtake them. Together with Zong Liangu, she will walk to the highest point.

But for now, annoyance and anger swirled in her heart. A heart full of burrs began to swell, making her very internal organs feel uncomfortable; every breath became heavy.

Zong Yougu stood up, the chair legs thumping against the floor again. She wore a smile—a flawless one.

“Can I have a scene to perform? This is an audition, after all. Talk is just talk; only by acting can we know if I’m truly suitable for this role, right?”

Zong Yougu’s gaze was firm, and her gentle tone now carried a sense of undeniable authority. The screenwriter looked at the director with some hesitation, but the director smiled.

“Certainly. Everyone gets a chance to act. That is only fair.”

The screenwriter nodded in agreement.

“Next, I will describe a scene to you, and you must perform it. However, there is one requirement: you cannot speak a single line of dialogue.”

Zong Yougu nodded seriously.

“Assume you are a student with excellent grades,” the director said, picking up a teacup to moisten her throat. “You discover a classmate on the rooftop who intends to end her life. You fail to save her. However, once you snap out of it, she is standing before you again.”

The director spoke calmly, while a look of surprise appeared on the screenwriter’s face. The director continued: “You must complete the aforementioned scene and present an ending to me.”

Zong Yougu contemplated for a moment and then said, “Okay.”

“Ready? No need to rush; I can give you some time to think.”

“No need. I’m ready.”

“Good. Three, two, one, start! You discover a classmate on the rooftop about to jump.”

Zong Yougu turned and took two steps to stand near the door. She took a deep breath and fully entered the state. In an instant, her surroundings transformed; the white walls were no longer white walls—Zong Yougu seemed to truly be standing on a rooftop.

She treated the windowsill as the edge of the roof. For a split second, she seemed to see a vague figure by the window—the rival actor of her imagination.

She stepped forward twice, seeing the other’s pale face as they calmly spoke of their inner wandering and confusion. She watched the other’s face grow even paler. Zong Yougu cautiously moved forward, then retreated several steps in succession.

Bright sunlight filtered through layers of leaves, leaking diagonally through the window into the room, casting a band of light on the floor that divided the space into sharp light and shadow. At this moment, half of Zong Yougu was illuminated while the other half remained hidden in darkness.

“Your classmate falls from the building before your eyes right now,” the director pushed the progress.

Zong Yougu remained motionless, her brows slightly furrowed as if she found it difficult to comprehend what was happening. After about two seconds, she rushed forward. Her legs felt weak, and her hands gripped the edge of the windowsill with force. She leaned her head out as far as possible; with every inch she moved, her face grew a shade paler.

Tears surged out unconsciously, large droplets rolling from her eyes, landing on the tip of her nose, and finally falling like raindrops from a great height. Her hands lost their strength, and she slumped against the wall, her eyes filled with nothing but self-reproach and emptiness.

“Your classmate suddenly appears before you again. She seems to be saying something to you.”

Zong Yougu still didn’t move; she just stared blankly ahead. She opened her mouth but couldn’t make a sound. She saw the other person standing on the edge of the rooftop once more.

“What is life? What is death? What am I living for? What is it that I actually want? Can you tell me?”

In Zong Yougu’s imagination, she heard the other person ask her this. Along with the voice, that blurred face in her mind became increasingly concrete. She squinted, and she saw it was Zong Liangu’s face.

Or rather, it was her own face.

“I feel I have the ability to understand everything, but I also feel that I will remain as ignorant as I am now for my entire life, until I die. I don’t know what I want to do. Can you tell me?”

Zong Yougu’s expression also became dazed. She stood up, her entire being bathed in sunlight. The light was blindingly bright, forcing her to squint her eyes even tighter. The chirping of birds came from outside the window.

She saw the other person reach out a hand to her. Zong Yougu froze for a moment before dazedly placing her hand upon it. She took two steps, walking out of the sunlight’s reach. Looking toward the sun from the shadows made the light appear even more brilliant and dazzling.

She gripped those non-existent hands tight. She charged toward the window, mimicking Zong Liangu’s movements—using the baseboard as a fulcrum and pushing off with one hand, she leaped high.

In those few seconds of being airborne, she finally saw that noisy little bird. There truly weren’t many flowers on the branches, only leaves, but the lush green was a comforting sight. Her hair flew wild, and a bright smile hung on her face.

With a soft thud, she landed outside the window.

“Cut!” the director shouted.

Zong Yougu climbed back inside from the window, frowning as she brushed the dust off her clothes. The screenwriter pulled out a tissue and handed it to her, pointing at her face. Only then did Zong Yougu realize her face was covered in tears.

After tidying herself up, she asked, “Do I need to explain my performance? Without lines, it might be difficult to convey the meaning.”

“No, no need. You were completely in sync with us.”

The director smiled. As she spoke, she placed Zong Yougu’s file on her right-hand side. It was placed together with Su Tongguo’s.

“You will certainly make a mark for yourself. That’s all for today’s audition. Get home safely.”

Zong Yougu turned and walked out the door.

“Sister Yougu! You’re finally out!” Hu Yinghua ran over noisily. She looked around, then leaned into Zong Yougu’s ear and whispered, “Sister Yougu, just treat this as a learning experience. There will be plenty of chances in the future. Liao Qinghe has very good ties with the producer of this project; the role of Lin Lingwan has already been internally decided for Miss Su.”

Zong Yougu gave a light snort. “And? I am Zong Yougu.”

Her pride began to swell again, and she once more started looking down on everyone. Because she was Zong Yougu.