Chapter 161 161 New Nomination

Chapter 161: The New Nomination

Bei Hong loathed Lu Xu. Ever since he took on *Sanctuary*, whether in the industry or the media, people kept comparing him to Lu Xu, suggesting he was inferior.

Having signed with Liu Rennong’s studio before even graduating from university, Bei Hong had always been top of his class. How could he tolerate being constantly measured against someone else?

Especially after *Sanctuary* was shelved, the media praised Lu Xu for his good judgment, making it seem like Bei Hong, the lead actor, had been foolish.

So even though Lu Xu paid no attention to Bei Hong, the latter couldn’t help but subconsciously treat him as a rival.

Bei Hong’s obsession with Lu Xu went beyond what anyone imagined. When Lu Xu took on *Fearless Life*, Bei Hong privately mocked him for only being able to land "countryside movies." When Lu Xu decided to take a break from acting, Bei Hong thought he was faking it—one that couldn’t get any more pretentious.

Still, Bei Hong was smarter than Qi Di. Though he looked down on Lu Xu in private, he never showed it publicly.

He was signed under Liu Rennong, and logically, his boss should have been one of the most resentful toward Lu Xu in the entertainment industry. Yet, in all the time Bei Hong had interacted with Liu Rennong, the man had never shown any displeasure when Lu Xu’s name came up.

Only once—when Liu Rennong heard that Lu Xu had been cast in Miao Zhi’s new film—did he briefly reveal an icy expression. Bei Hong couldn’t quite describe it, but it sent a chill down his spine, like a cold wind had swept past.

Bei Hong was bold in public, given that he was considered a "privileged insider" among the younger generation. But when it came to Liu Rennong, he didn’t dare toe the line. Whatever Liu Rennong wanted to do with him, Bei Hong obediently followed.

Yet Bei Hong could sense that Liu Rennong *must* resent Lu Xu—he was just good at hiding it. And while Lu Xu’s career was thriving, with undeniable presence in the film industry, he still wasn’t significant enough for a top dog like Liu Rennong to pay him much attention.

For now, Bei Hong only dared to mock Lu Xu in private, not daring to take action like Qi Di had. He wouldn’t repeat Qi Di’s mistakes—his acting career had just begun, and he hadn’t made enough money yet to risk causing trouble for himself.

But seeing Lu Xu’s skyrocketing fame in the industry while he, after just one film (*Sanctuary*), was being ridiculed, it was hard for Bei Hong not to feel resentful.

The main issue was… while the other actors in *Sanctuary* had received their full paychecks, Bei Hong’s salary—though substantial—mostly went straight into the studio’s account. He never even touched the cash, yet he got stuck holding the bag.

And none of the others had Lu Xu as a constant point of comparison.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that if things continued like this, he’d never escape Lu Xu’s shadow.

The more popular Lu Xu became, the more frequent these comparisons would be.

The studio suggested Bei Hong take on a "heartthrob" image, but personally, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea.

Out of all his trained classmates, he was the only one signed to Liu Rennong’s studio—and why? Because he had talent.

This gave him a sense of superiority over his peers.

Some of his classmates had also become quite popular, mostly by starring in idol dramas and amassing fans. Deep down, Bei Hong was green with envy, but he’d never admit it.

He was a *film* actor—how could he possibly be inferior to someone who only did idol dramas?

Now, being pushed toward a "heartthrob" route felt like he was being forced into the very path he once looked down on.

To fit this image, Bei Hong even had to get work done. But no matter how he looked at it, the reference photos the doctors were using didn’t even measure up to Lu Xu’s looks. If they tried to make him resemble Lu Xu, he’d feel like a stranger.

Yet he didn’t have the courage to defy the studio. He could only convince himself that it was all for clout—once he became successful, he’d naturally gain more control.

…

Lu Xu, of course, had no idea about Bei Hong’s resentment toward him. If he had known… well, he’d talked trash about him too, so they were even.

He already had plenty of perceived rivals—one more or less didn’t make a difference.

There was no such thing as hatred without cause. It was simply because he was too damn good that he attracted so much envy.

During this break, Lu Xu watched many films—some he’d seen before, but now with a different perspective. He kept a thick notebook, writing detailed breakdowns after each film he found inspiring or worth learning from. By the end of two months, he’d piled up a whole stack.

Lu Xu reads film reviews, having read many for *Deception*, *Feather of Youth*, and *Reversal City*. Some were from industry perspectives, others from the audience's viewpoint, while his own reviews captured his reflections as an actor post-viewing.

Actors have distinct performance styles, even among those from the same acting schools. For instance, certain renowned overseas actors have a strong classical theater background, excelling in more artistic films.

Then there are pure instinct actors—unpolished but magnetic, like screen chameleons.

Of course, Lu Xu felt some films were overrated. In his view, certain actors' performances weren’t outstanding, yet they received more praise than they earned.

After all, awards are subjective, not some algorithm’s verdict.

It had been a long time since Lu Xu immersed himself so deeply in watching films. He thought his brain would fry, but it didn’t.

As an experienced actor himself, he took only what helped his acting. Even if a performance on screen was profoundly moving, if it clashed with his style, he’d ignore it.

He could learn, but he wouldn’t abandon his own direction.

Still, this time definitely leveled him up.

Continuous acting brings progress, but pausing to study also moves you forward.

...

Summer passed in a blink, and autumn arrived swiftly. During this time, Lu Xu kept such a low profile that he almost faded from public memory. Yet, as one of the most polarizing stars in the entertainment industry, he always managed to make his presence felt.

Because the annual awards season was approaching.

The first to announce its nominations was the Chinese Film *Contention Award*.

Lu Xu had previously been nominated for the Golden Flame Award for *Feather of Youth*, a shock to many. This awards season, with no new releases or public feuds, his name rarely came up in predictions.

After all, in today’s film circles, Lu Xu is far from the industry’s darling.

Yet, when the *Contention Award* nominations were revealed, it left jaws on the floor.

Bei Hong, as usual, refreshed the *Contention Award* nominations page.

A mentor he looked up to had been in the running last year—a plugged-in, talented actor who occasionally shared resources with Bei Hong.

Bei Hong avoided the strugglers but admired this mentor genuinely.

This year, he hoped his mentor would secure a *Contention Award* Best Actor nomination—a nod that’d boost his mentor’s clout and, by extension, benefit Bei Hong’s own career.

The nominations were expected today. Outsiders might not know, but insiders were well-informed. Not even Liu Rennong could sway every judge.

Grumbling about the poorly designed webpage, Bei Hong suddenly noticed an update—two empty boxes appeared, likely awaiting content.

Compared to his mentor, what was Lu Xu?

A washed-up idol from a cringe boyband, signed to some obscure company, who rose to fame through a cheesy web drama—not even formally trained, yet now suddenly some “acting prodigy”?

Was it really that easy to be called a "talented actor"?

When Bei Hong refreshed again, the *Contention Award* site finally updated.

He ignored other categories, focusing solely on Best Actor.

He scrolled down with his mouse and soon stopped at the Best Actor category. At that moment, he froze.

Because—among the Best Actor nominees, there was a name he had never expected to see.

Bei Hong quickly exited, refreshed the page, and re-entered—but the name was still there.

In the Best Actor nomination list, Lu Xu from *Reversal City* was clearly listed.

How was this possible?

To make matters worse, his senior brother’s name wasn’t on the list at all.

Bei Hong scoured the list repeatedly, staring at the screen until his eyes nearly blurred, before finally confirming—his senior brother had indeed not made it into this year’s Contention Award nominations.

Lu Xu had played a villainous role in *Reversal City*, yet he was nominated for the Contention Award’s Best Actor—did that even make sense?

Bei Hong went over the five nominees’ names again and again but couldn’t find Zhao Yifan, the actual male lead of *Reversal City*.

What kind of fluke had Lu Xu stumbled upon?

How could he possibly be considered the Best Actor?

Didn’t Zhao Yifan have anything to say about this?

Bei Hong wanted to reach out to Zhao Yifan and ask how he felt, but ever since Qi Di leaked their private chat records, Zhao Yifan—and even his agency, Enne Entertainment—had blocked everyone from Liu Rennian’s studio, afraid someone else might pull a Qi Di.

Bei Hong was fuming, especially at the thought that Lu Xu might actually win. The mere idea made him itch with frustration.

Opening Weibo, he saw that, as expected, this year’s Contention Award Best Actor nomination was causing an uproar. What confused netizens most was how Lu Xu, who played a villainous role in the film, could be nominated for Best Actor.

“? No matter what Zhao Yifan did, cutting him out of the nominations is just too much, right?”

“Isn’t this an obvious snub of Zhao Yifan? Doesn’t the production team find this too embarrassing?”

“…emmmm Lu Xu gets a Best Actor nomination while Zhao Yifan gets screwed over—anyone would think Zhao Yifan got the raw deal.”

However, the online backlash didn’t last long before an insider familiar with the Contention Award’s selection process jumped in to explain:

First, the Contention Award has always allowed two Best Actor nominees per film.

Second, *Reversal City* did indeed submit both Lu Xu and Zhao Yifan.

As for why Lu Xu made the cut instead—well, netizens could figure it out for themselves.