Melon Eating Cannon Fodder, On Air!-Chapter 69 - Sixty-Nine: Without Pretence

Lu Jiaxin watched the video in silence.

The tablet rested against the edge of the dressing table, paused just a second before the audition began. Soft light from the vanity lamps reflected faintly on the screen, catching in her eyes as she leaned forward, attentive in a way that had nothing to do with courtesy or obligation.

She had missed the casting audition that day because of a magazine shoot that could not be postponed. Contracts had been signed weeks in advance, schedules locked into place with ruthless precision. Even an actress returning to the industry did not have the luxury of rearranging everything at will. Even now, the faint scent of perfume and the sterile brightness of studio lights seemed to cling to her skin, a lingering reminder of the world she had stepped back into and the expectations that followed her wherever she went.

Still, when Wen Shaoheng sent her the video with a brief message telling her she should watch this one, she had opened it immediately.

There had been no hesitation. The screen resumed.

An Ning stood in the center of a bare audition room. There was no costume, no elaborate styling, no attempt to disguise herself as something she was not. She wore simple clothes and held a sword loosely at her side. And yet, the moment she appeared on screen, the air seemed to settle around her.

Lu Jiaxin straightened almost imperceptibly. She knew this feeling well. The feeling of recognising someone who belonged on screen.

It was not about beauty, nor about confidence alone. It was an instinctive recognition, the same way a seasoned actor could tell within seconds whether another person truly understood the camera or was merely trying to impress it. Some people acted for the lens. Others existed within it.

An Ning was the latter.

The scene Wen Shaoheng had chosen was not an easy one. It was the Senior Sister’s final stand, a moment that demanded restraint rather than volume, authority rather than spectacle. It was a scene that could easily be ruined by overacting, by tears that came too quickly, by visible desperation that cheapened the sacrifice.

A lesser actor would have leaned into tragedy.

An Ning did not.

She did not rush.

She did not raise her voice.

She listened first.

Even though the juniors were imaginary, An Ning’s gaze moved as if they were real, as if many figures stood before her, scattered, frightened, waiting for instruction. Her eyes tracked them patiently. Her shoulders squared, not with arrogance or theatrical bravado, but with quiet acceptance. The kind that came from understanding that responsibility was not something to be escaped from, but something to be shouldered willingly.

"You guys go first," An Ning said, her voice steady. "All of you."

The words were simple.

The meaning was not.

Lu Jiaxin’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of the dressing table.

This was not a performance driven by dialogue alone. This was understanding made visible.

An Ning’s expression softened when she spoke again. Just a fraction. Enough to be felt, not displayed. "The sect will be in your hands from now on."

There was pride there. Not loud, not indulgent. The kind of pride that came from watching something you had protected and guided finally grow strong enough to stand on its own.

"For the first time," she continued quietly, "I can say this without hesitation."

She paused, breath even and controlled, as though she had already accepted what came next. "I am proud of all of you."

Lu Jiaxin felt something tighten gently in her chest.

That pause mattered.

That restraint mattered.

Many actors mistook stillness for emptiness. They rushed to fill silence, afraid it would be mistaken for weakness. An Ning understood that silence, when used properly, carried more weight than any line.

Then An Ning raised her sword.

"Go."

The word landed cleanly.

Not an order.

A promise.

She would stay.

She would hold the line.

She would have their backs.

Her stance grounded fully, unyielding. There was no illusion of survival in her eyes. No melodrama. No false heroism. Only clarity. Acceptance without despair. Resolve without spectacle.

When the scene ended, the audition room on screen fell silent.

So did the room around Lu Jiaxin.

She replayed the final moments once more, slower this time. She watched the way An Ning’s grip tightened slightly on the hilt, the subtle shift in her posture as she committed fully to the choice her character had made. She watched the control in her breathing, the absence of panic even as death was implied in every frame.

"This is good," Lu Jiaxin murmured.

Not out of politeness.

Out of instinct.

She leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting away from the screen for a moment. Her thoughts shifted, unbidden, to another image entirely.

The dating show.

Her first impression of An Ning had been relaxed. Natural. Almost disarmingly so.

On camera, An Ning had never concealed who she was. She did not perform kindness, nor did she exaggerate reserve. She did not soften herself to be liked, nor sharpen herself to be noticed. In a show built on emotional exposure, exaggerated reactions, and carefully crafted personas, that kind of realness was almost unsettling.

And exceedingly rare.

It was not the careless honesty of someone unaware of the camera’s presence. It was something more deliberate than that. An Ning knew she was being watched. She simply refused to pretend.

She portrayed herself as she was, without polishing her edges or hiding her silences. That level of authenticity was almost unheard of in the showbiz world, where most people learned very early how to curate themselves into something more palatable.

Lu Jiaxin had admired that, even then. Because she recognised it. She had once been like that herself.

Before the industry shaped her.

Before expectations sanded her down, softened her edges, and moulded her carefully into what the public preferred.

Somewhere along the way, she had stopped choosing roles for herself and started choosing them for others. She became gentle because gentleness sold. Reserved because restraint was praised. Perfect because perfection was rewarded.

And in becoming what people liked, she had lost the spark that made people remember her as alive.

In her haste to escape that hollow feeling, she had chosen love. Or rather, what she believed was love. A man she thought would see her, protect her, value her beyond the screen. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

That belief had not survived reality.

Now, watching An Ning, Lu Jiaxin felt a familiar ache settle in her chest. It was not jealousy, nor regret. It was recognition. The quiet understanding of seeing someone else walk a path she herself had once stood on, but chosen differently.

An Ning did not perform to be liked. She performed to be true.

Lu Jiaxin reached for her phone and typed a message to Wen Shaoheng. She understands the role.

She paused, then added another line. She understands responsibility.

The reply came quickly. That was my impression too.

Lu Jiaxin smiled faintly.

In this film, she herself was the main character. The one whose journey the audience would follow from the beginning. The newcomer to the sect, inexperienced and unsure, slowly growing into her strength. And in that growth, the Senior Sister was what her character aspired to be. Firm. Unyielding. Steady in the face of chaos.

Without the Senior Sister, the sect would not be what it was. Without her sacrifices, there would be no future for anyone else.

And yet, because of the structure of the story, their timelines barely overlapped.

An Ning’s character existed largely in memories. In echoes. In the ideals that shaped others rather than in shared scenes.

They would not stand side by side.

They would not exchange lines.

They would not act together in the present,

Lu Jiaxin felt, unexpectedly, that this was a pity.

Not because she wanted the spotlight to herself, but because actors like An Ning were rare. Partners who could share weight without stealing it. Presences that strengthened a story simply by existing within it.

She turned off the tablet gently.

Interest lingered.

So did anticipation.

If this was the kind of actor stepping into the world she was returning to, then perhaps this comeback was not merely about reclaiming what she had lost.

Perhaps it was about moving forward properly.

At last.

She sat there for a while after the screen went dark, hands resting loosely in her lap, the hum of the vanity lights the only sound in the room. In the mirror before her, Lu Jiaxin caught her own reflection. Calm. Composed. Familiar.

And yet, subtly different from the woman she had been years ago.

Back then, she had learned how to smile on cue, how to angle her face for the camera, how to soften herself just enough to be pleasing but never challenging. Every expression had been measured. Every word filtered. Even sincerity had been carefully curated.

An Ning, on the other hand, carried no such pretence.

She did not try to appear real. She simply was.

That difference mattered more than talent alone. In an industry built on illusion, someone who could stand before the camera without disguising themselves was quietly dangerous. Unpredictable. Hard to replace.

Lu Jiaxin exhaled slowly.

Perhaps that was why the role of the Senior Sister fit An Ning so well. Not because she played strength convincingly, but because she understood it. Strength that did not seek recognition. Resolve that did not require witness.

If the future of this industry belonged to people like her, then maybe Lu Jiaxin’s return had come at exactly the right time.