After filming her stunning yet brief two-scene appearance as the courtesan, Su Qianqian officially began her training life as a newcomer at Shen Media.
For the past month, her days had become structured and fulfilling, revolving between two locations: the company and her apartment.
On this particular morning, sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Shen Media’s dance studio, scattering across the polished floor.
"Good! Perfect! Qianqian, that’s exactly the feeling!"
The dance teacher’s bright voice echoed through the spacious practice room, brimming with undisguised admiration.
This elegant middle-aged woman had once been one of the country’s top classical dancers.
Now, her gaze was fixed on the girl in simple practice attire reflected in the mirror.
Su Qianqian had just completed a series of continuous spins, her breath still slightly uneven, fine beads of sweat glistening at her temples. A few strands of jet-black hair clung to her flushed cheeks.
Her movements might still carry the rawness of a beginner, but her innate sense of rhythm and physical expressiveness were far beyond ordinary.
Her eyes shifted with every motion.
When she leaped lightly, her almond-shaped eyes sparkled with clarity, brimming with passion and longing, her lips naturally curving into an unconsciously sweet smile.
When her movements transitioned into slow, graceful extensions, her gaze would instantly deepen, tinged with an ethereal melancholy, as if carrying untold secrets.
And when she held a slow-motion pose, her slightly furrowed brows and tightly pressed lips revealed a quiet yet resilient stubbornness.
Pure as untouched snow, heartbreaking in sorrow, yet unyielding in her quiet strength.
"Your physical condition is exceptional—flexibility, coordination, all top-tier," the teacher said, stepping closer to adjust her outstretched arm, her tone filled with genuine appreciation and the excitement of discovering raw talent.
"But what surprises me most is your camera presence and emotional expressiveness."
Pointing at her reflection, the teacher continued earnestly, "Many dancers can perfect their technique, but when standing before a camera or on stage, they lack that magnetic pull."
"The audience may acknowledge their skill, but they’re rarely truly drawn into the beauty of the performance. That’s what we call 'dance sensibility.'"
"But you’re different."
The teacher’s eyes gleamed as she studied Su Qianqian. "Even though your dance foundation still needs polishing, your expressions, your gaze, the emotions you pour into every movement—they’re all so precise!"
"It’s like the heavens are force-feeding you with natural stage charisma!"
Su Qianqian’s cheeks flushed deeper at the teacher’s blunt praise. She lowered her lashes slightly, her pink lips curving into a shy smile. "Thank you, Teacher. I’ll work even harder."
She loved dancing—loved this way of using her body and expressions to tell stories, to experience different lives.
Yet behind that bashful smile lay a secret only she knew.
This so-called "heaven-sent talent" wasn’t some effortless gift.
It was born from eighteen years confined to a white hospital room.
From countless days and nights where imagination was her only escape.
The TV screen had been her sole window to the world.
She watched stories of joy and sorrow, imagining herself as the characters.
Unable to move freely, she lay on her small hospital bed, mimicking roles in front of a mirror, acting out the love and hatred in her heart.
Her body had been imprisoned, but her soul had long wandered through countless stories, embodying countless roles.
If this was talent, it was something she had earned through years of solitary, unwavering dedication.
The afternoon was acting class.
Here, too, the teacher showered her with similar praise—praise that bordered on astonishment.
"Cut!" The acting coach called for a stop, his face alight with delight.
Instead of offering immediate feedback, he walked up to Su Qianqian, studying her closely.
Still immersed in the scene, Su Qianqian’s eyes were slightly red-rimmed, brimming with lingering resentment and defiance.
"Su Qianqian."
The teacher’s voice carried a note of awe. "Your empathy is extraordinary."
"Just now, though your technique needs refinement, what shone through your eyes was real."
"That sense of injustice, unwillingness, and the stubborn pride barely holding it together—it was deeply moving."
He patted her shoulder, his tone that of a mentor placing hope in a protégé. "Technique can be practiced. Experience can be accumulated. But this innate ability to connect with a role—that’s an actor’s most precious gift."
"Hold onto this purity and sensitivity. Don’t let this industry wear it away."
Su Qianqian nodded firmly. "I will, Teacher!"
Vocal lessons were comparatively dull, focusing mainly on breath control and basic vocal techniques.
Su Qianqian’s voice was naturally pleasant—clear, sweet, and melodious, like a mountain spring.
Though her technique still required extensive practice, the purity of her tone and her earnest dedication had the vocal instructor nodding in approval time and again.
After vocal class, Brother Wang summoned her to his office.
"Qianqian, take a seat."
He gestured to the chair opposite him, his expression warm.
"The company has registered an official Weibo account for you. I’ll send you the login details later."
Brother Wang studied the girl before him, whose natural beauty was undeniable even without makeup, and felt increasingly certain of his judgment.
Having spent years in the entertainment industry, he’d encountered countless newcomers who relied solely on their looks or were ruthlessly ambitious. Someone like Su Qianqian—patient, hardworking, talented, and humble—was a rare gem.
"For now, you don’t need to manage it. The company will handle your initial image, posting training updates and official photos."
"You can check it occasionally."
Pausing, his gaze settled on her face. "I know you don’t want to rely on... certain shortcuts. That’s commendable."
He was referring to Gu Chengyu.
Though what happened on set that day had been kept under wraps by the young master’s orders, bystanders could sense that Su Qianqian and the heir had an unusual connection.
Yet over the past month, Su Qianqian had never made any demands or thrown her weight around. Instead, she worked harder than anyone.
This had earned his respect.
"I value artists who rely on their own abilities and have a down-to-earth attitude."
Brother Wang spoke earnestly. "You have talent, spark, and this face that seems handcrafted by the heavens. If you stay focused on honing your craft, step by step, you’re exactly the kind of material that grows into a top-tier actor."
From a folder, he pulled out several thin script summaries and character profiles, sliding them toward Su Qianqian.
"These are some roles I’ve been scouting for you."
"All minor parts, not much screen time, but each has distinct traits—good practice for a newcomer and a way to build on-camera experience."
He pointed to one. "For example, this one’s a mute girl in a period drama, born into hardship, who ultimately sacrifices herself to save the male lead. No lines, just expressions and body language."
"Then there’s this modern drama role—a slightly rebellious but kind-hearted high schooler. Minimal dialogue, but you’d need to capture that youthful energy..."
Su Qianqian accepted the scripts, her almond eyes shining with excitement. "Thank you, Brother Wang! I’ll study them carefully!"
"Good. Think them over. When opportunity comes, seize it."
Brother Wang felt more at ease seeing her both excited and earnest.
He didn’t expect Su Qianqian to become an overnight sensation, but this steady, step-by-step approach—relying on skill and her work to speak for itself—would lay an unshakable foundation once it took off.
Compared to so-called top-tier stars like Lin Shu, talent and character were what truly won over the public.
Not to mention, he stole a glance at the girl’s breathtakingly beautiful face, paired with that rare spark of intelligence and serene demeanor. Given the right stage, her rise to fame was practically inevitable.
Leaving the company and stepping into the balmy evening breeze of early summer, Su Qianqian carried a file bag of scripts, her steps weary yet light.
She pulled out her phone and tapped on the brand-new Weibo icon.
The account name was simple: Actor Su Qianqian.
Follower count: 8.
Verification info: Signed artist under Shen Media.
Seeing the handful of followers—all Shen Media staff—Su Qianqian didn’t feel discouraged. Instead, she was filled with a quiet sense of renewal.
This was her own starting point, one she would have to fill herself.
The feeling was wonderful.
Su Qianqian’s world had never revolved around Gu Chengyu alone.
Even if she had come here for him.
