Hey! The Criminal Assistance System Can Even Be Used Like This? 89

Xu Zhizhi finished filming this scene, but still needed to shoot some additional shots of collecting bones and going down the mountain, as well as some background character segments. After her scene, the next part focused on Li Jiao’s storyline. Xu Zhizhi’s scenes were interspersed among them; although not many, they were scattered, requiring her to stay with the production team.

Zhong Man and the others had slightly more footage to complete, with a significant amount still left to shoot, including the capture scenes and the subsequent discussions with the village chief. In the plot, the village chief is discovered and retaliated against by the local bully. Fortunately, Wen Qing and Fang Cheng arrived just in time to prevent the village chief from being beaten to death. After rescuing him, they urgently evacuated the village. Xu Zhizhi’s part would likely be driving to the village chief’s house, allowing the male and female leads to successfully take him away.

Afterward, there would be the scene where they bring the village chief back and where Li Jiao, after confessing, identifies the scene. Once all of these are completed, along with some scattered clips sewn together, such as the part where they visit a farmer to gather information, this unit would essentially be finished shooting.

Director Meng had a tight shooting schedule; with Li Jiao’s scenes in the detention center included, it all boiled down to just two episodes. After finishing the remaining coroner scenes in the afternoon, Xu Zhizhi sat on set to watch the footage of Li Jiao’s character. She appeared calm, occasionally discussing Li Jiao’s scenes with Zhong Man.

The actress playing Li Jiao was a seasoned veteran in the industry, a well-respected three-gold film queen, with exceptional talent. The focus of their discussions was on each other’s acting methods. The veteran actress truly embodied Li Jiao’s repressed emotional portrayal. She was oppressed by her husband’s cousin, enduring their violence and abuse, being the lowest-ranking member in the household.

Her world was confined to a small courtyard; she had two exceptions when she stepped outside: the day she was forcefully married off and the day she gave birth to her child. They were afraid that she might suffocate the child in her resentment, so they took her to the village’s health station. Except for when she was pregnant, she did the hardest labor and endured the most insults. Even during her pregnancy, her treatment improved only marginally.

Her life was a tapestry woven with unending despair, where happiness was completely absent throughout her many long years here. Her only hope was for her doting parents to find her. Silence at certain moments is deafening; a lack of words can be more chilling than a shout. For instance, when she learned that her parents had been murdered by her “husband’s” accomplices, she felt numb and dazed.

After the numbness subsided, an emptiness filled her eyes, burning with a rage ready to consume everything. It annihilated any hope she might have clung to, along with the memories that supported her will to live. All that she had was gone, leaving her without any ties. She walked to the kitchen, standing there for an eternity, long enough for the moon to rise high in the sky, long enough that she seemed to have become a statue.

Her gaze landed on an axe nearby. Li Jiao concocted a plan; she decided to kill them. The camera captured the face of the veteran actress portraying Li Jiao, filming the ever-changing emotions in her eyes, her expressions creating a palpable tension throughout the set. Xu Zhizhi watched in a daze, feeling overwhelmed by the powerful impact of her performance.

At that moment, she understood for the first time what made acting enchanting. Weng Xin, the acclaimed three-gold film empress, truly owned the ability to convey emotions through her eyes, captivating audiences with an authenticity that stemmed from her core. The actress had only arrived that afternoon; due to her poor health from a past injury sustained while filming, she could only shoot for a few days at a time.

At barely fifty years old, her back required extensive treatment. Thus, she didn’t have to follow the crew continuously; she would join them for four or five days of shooting and leave afterward. Both Xu Zhizhi and Zhong Man respected each other, and Xu Zhizhi even offered a small suggestion regarding her makeup. Despite Li Jiao’s difficult life, she was only forty at the time of her crimes. The age difference of a decade made it hard to sustain a convincing portrayal in high-definition cameras.

After this scene concluded, the veteran actress approached, and her assistant quickly helped her recline in a chair. Xu Zhizhi understood that to make money in the entertainment industry, one must not hesitate to ask questions, so she poured a cup of hot water for the actress, showering her with compliments. She was genuinely polite, wanting to bring joy to others, and soon Weng Xin’s face broke into a smile.

Director Meng walked over, glancing at Xu Zhizhi with a sly look, and said softly, “Little brown-noser.”

“Meng, you’re going too far. How can you say that? She’s quite modest,” Weng Xin replied with a laugh. Zhong Man sat beside them, offering grapes to Weng Xin: “Aunt Weng, eat some. Director Meng is just saying that because the grapes are out of reach!”

Xu Zhizhi felt her face flush, sitting beside Weng Xin. Everyone gathered around, aware that most people in the studio came and went, afraid that Weng Xin might feel awkward lying there. Of course, Xu Zhizhi taking this chance to learn was genuine as well.

She chatted with the veteran actress, trying to make her happy while occasionally asking questions about acting. She wasn’t formally trained, and she still had some issues that needed correction. When it came to her eyeline work, her extraordinary looks often drew people’s gazes to her face. The expression of a murderer could mask some of that, but for more ordinary roles, it was challenging.

Weng Xin lay in the reclining chair, her lower back somewhat painful; she believed it was just a mild case of lumbar disc herniation and not too concerning. Watching Xu Zhizhi with bright eyes listening intently to her discussion, she was generous with her guidance. Xu Zhizhi listened quietly, absorbing the information like a sponge and gradually processing it.

Weng Xin believed that a combination of talent and hard work was essential in acting. Teaching a rookie actress wasn’t a chore at all for her. She had already achieved all the honors she deserved in her lifetime, gaining fame and fortune. Xu Zhizhi would ask questions, and she answered respectively, teaching some techniques.

Seeing Xu Zhizhi’s earnest demeanor, Weng Xin knew she wasn’t the type to exploit her learning for publicity. At the same time, she sincerely felt there should be more talented actors in the industry. What surprised her, however, was Xu Zhizhi’s seriousness and her willful ability to comprehend and integrate everything she said seamlessly.

For instance, when asked to act out Li Jiao’s expression from earlier, Xu Zhizhi was surprisingly eight tenths similar to it. Although lacking a bit of spirit, her sensory perception was very good. Weng Xin became genuinely interested, reminding her to pay attention to her body language in the next scene.

The break ended quickly, and Weng Xin returned to act, portraying a moment when she mixed sleeping pills into beer. Her “husband” and his cousin, inebriated, were mumbling, slumped over the table. In their slumber, “husband” could

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