Chapter 58: The Counterattack of the Reincarnated Supporting Actress (Part 9)

“As long as there are singing parts, that’s all that matters. Let’s get the script done first, then cast the roles. According to the rules of this program, more than half of us must participate on stage, so we need to consider each character carefully,” Mu Yin said. Li Qiqi followed up, “In the original story, besides the male and female leads, there’s also the female lead’s maid, her parents, and the household servants. Of course, the television version has even more characters.”

“So, whoever wants to act or be behind the scenes, sign up, and then you can adjust the plot based on the number of people,” Mu Yin said, circling the essential roles: the male and female leads, the maid, and the female lead’s parents—making five in total.

“I’ll sit this one out,” Li Qiqi declared at once; the last theme song had nearly done her in.

“Um, I can’t act,” said Huang Mimi, the composition major, scratching her head shyly.

“I can’t either,” said Tang Huan, the lyricist.

“Actually, I’d rather not…” Xu Shuo, the directing major, quickly added that he’d prefer to work behind the scenes.

“That won’t do. Director Xu, if you refuse to act, we won’t have enough people,” Mu Yin insisted immediately.

“But I’m the director—what would I do on stage?” Xu Shuo protested, waving his hands.

“I’ve heard that directing majors also have to minor in acting. After all, if you don’t understand what acting is, how can you cast your actors?” Mu Yin was unyielding. Of the remaining five, two were acting majors and three were vocal majors; no matter how you looked at it, things were tight.

Beyond those five, the rest were three men and two women. The five set roles included three women and two men, which meant someone would have to cross-cast.

“I think five roles work just fine,” Xu Shuo said.

“Director Xu, you must realize that in a stage play, especially on a variety show like ours, the director isn’t as crucial as you think,” Mu Yin wasn’t about to let him off the hook. “Anyway, the female lead and the maid, we’ve reserved those. The rest you all can figure out amongst yourselves.”

She pulled over another music major, a girl, and they began discussing the allocation of the lead and maid roles. “You should take the female lead, since you’re an acting major,” said the girl, Wang Xixi.

“I haven’t even started classes yet; I’m not much better than you,” Mu Yin replied, self-aware.

“Well, let’s wait until the script is done and then see which of us suits which role better,” Wang Xixi suggested.

“Alright,” Mu Yin agreed, and then dragged Wang Xixi over to Li Qiqi, who was tapping away at the only computer on the desk in the rehearsal room, working on the script.

Neither of them said anything; after all, too many cooks spoil the broth, and with scripts, interference only ruins things. It would be best to revise once Li Qiqi finished the first draft.

The storylines were already well established—they only needed to add content or tweak the dialogue, which made writing the script much faster. Once it was done, everyone gathered to discuss the plot, made some changes, and then moved on to composing music—this was Huang Mimi’s responsibility, with Tang Huan assisting, mainly to adjust the lyrics to make them more singable.

“Using an operatic melody would fit better, since this is based on an ancient myth,” Tang Huan said to Huang Mimi.

“I agree,” Huang Mimi nodded.

Anyone who made it into this competition had come prepared. While they weren’t given the script in advance, they had an idea of the topics they might encounter. Scripts and songs can’t just be conjured out of thin air, after all.

Besides the scripts needed for their performances, nothing else was strictly by the book. In this world, the entertainment industry was relatively clean—well, mainly because of a recent crackdown after some past scandals.

From what she knew, the borrowed storyline came from another world’s entertainment industry, which was rather chaotic and messy. Hopefully, this world wouldn’t end up in such turmoil.

During this time, they rehearsed constantly, revising the script and honing both their acting and singing skills—especially singing. Unlike film and television, stage plays rely heavily on vocal ability to convey emotion.

The mentors, all experienced in stage performance, would occasionally stop by to offer advice. Their suggestions helped refine the play, and the vocal coaches guided the singers in improving their technique.

Soon, a week had passed. After training and being tested by their mentors, it was finally time for the official performance. There were twenty groups, and only 150 people would be left—fifty would be eliminated, and it wouldn’t be in neat groups.

This time, teams would be ranked by overall score; the top three groups’ members would receive bonus points. Then there would be individual rankings, and those at the bottom would be eliminated. Performers’ scores included audience votes, while behind-the-scenes members had their own scoring system.

Backstage scores depended on the group’s overall ranking, since script quality, lyrics, and rehearsals all depended on them. If a good script or composition was wasted by poor performers? Well, luck is a kind of skill, too.

Mu Yin’s group was ninth to perform. The earlier performances were a mixed bag—some stumbled under pressure, others exceeded expectations. Mu Yin watched with quiet interest. While these trainees couldn’t compare to real stage actors, they hadn’t yet been tainted by the industry’s darker side. They still had dreams, which lent their performances a certain spirit. The subjects varied, but mythological plays tended to be the most absurd—without special effects, everything depended on the actors’ ingenuity.

The third group, who drew a mythological play, cleverly used operatic techniques to overcome these limitations, earning Mu Yin’s approval. The seventh group, however, stumbled—not because the members weren’t trying, but because their assigned script was centered around street dance, which is a world apart from traditional dance and not easily mastered. Despite their efforts, one member made a mistake and fell during the performance.