300: Chapter 300 Veto Power (Volume 2 - End)

The moment the call connected, Lin Que reached out and pressed the inconspicuous small black box on his desk.

The voice changer hummed to life, compressing his vocal cords into a slightly raspy, middle-aged timbre.

“Hello?” On the other end of the line, Director Guo Changhe's voice sounded noticeably weary.

“Dream Weaver, about the email...”

“I've read the email.”

Lin Que didn't give him any room for pleasantries and cut straight to the point.

Director Guo Changhe's breathing hitched for a beat.

Lin Que took his legs off the desk and leaned forward. His tone wasn't heavy, but every word was nailed down firmly.

“I have a very clear image of the character Zhao Ali in my mind.”

“That is a soul who has lived in the cracks between the worlds of the living and the dead for God knows how many years. Every inch of his skin is stained with the scent of the dead.

He isn't some decorative 'vase' from an idol drama who can be served up just by putting on some smoky eye makeup.”

“A role like this doesn't need the face of a wealthy young master from big capital; it needs someone who can make the audience believe he has truly seen ghosts.”

There was two seconds of silence on the other end.

Lin Que didn't stop.

“Capital can come in. Filming isn't a charity; everyone knows money is the engine.

But the power to choose characters must remain on the creative side. This is my only bottom line.”

Outside the window, a cicada was chirping recklessly, its sound piercing through the gaps in the soundproof glass and trickling in.

“If this line isn't held, I'd rather not do this project at all.”

He spoke those last few words very softly.

But Director Guo Changhe heard it.

This wasn't a threat.

A threat is hollow, a bargaining chip at the negotiation table.

But what Lin Que said was a statement of fact; he really would flip the table.

The copyright gambling agreement was there in black and white. The original author's veto power over core characters was a clause welded shut when the contract was signed.

If Lin Que set his mind on not relenting, the entire project would be nothing but a pile of scrap metal.

After a brief silence, a long exhale came from the other end of the phone.

“Understood.” In Director Guo Changhe's voice, a string that had been taut for who knows how long finally relaxed.

“With those words from you, my back is straightened.”

“Mhm. I'll send a reply email later. Director Guo, please make sure to follow it strictly.”

“Alright.”

The call ended.

Lin Que placed his phone on the desk, unplugged the voice changer cable, and tossed it into a drawer.

Then he opened his mailbox and created a new email.

Recipient: Director Guo Changhe.

His fingers danced across the keyboard without any hesitation.

The reply wasn't long; it was all substance, with a clear framework.

There were three core points.

First: Casting standards must use character fit as the sole criterion.

Recommendations from investors can be considered, but they have absolutely no decision-making power. Any attempt to bind a role to investment will be vetoed without exception.

Second: The actor for Zhao Ali doesn't have to be a 'traffic star,' but they must have 'stories in their eyes.'

I suggest Director Guo extend your reach into the theater and independent film circles, focusing on young actors from stage backgrounds who have long-term experience immersing themselves in roles.

The third point was the real highlight of the email.

He attached a document to the file bar.

File name: 《Zhao Ali · Character Biography》.

Three thousand words.

This biography wasn't the standard template taught in screenwriting classes—no stereotypical jargon like 'core motivation,' 'character arc,' or 'key turning points.'

Lin Que wrote about a living person.

To be precise, a dead person who had lived too long.

The biography started with Zhao Ali's gait.

“When he walks, his left shoulder dips slightly because he has carried the chains for ferrying souls on that side for years.

The chains aren't heavy, but after hundreds of years without removal, his skeletal frame has grown crooked. He doesn't even realize it himself.”

Then, the gaze.

“When speaking with the living, he unconsciously avoids their eyes because he is used to looking at souls rather than flesh.

The soul is located near the left chest cavity, so when he chats with people, his gaze always lands three inches above the other person's heart.

Living people might find it impolite that he doesn't look at them. But it's not that he isn't looking; he's just looking at what you truly are.”

Next were speech habits.

“Zhao Ali speaks quickly, but the key information is always suppressed at the end of the sentence. This is an instinct honed over hundreds of years of dealing with various ghosts and monsters.

He throws out nonsense first to test the other party's reaction speed and emotional threshold, and only then does he whip out what he truly wants to say.

This is especially obvious when he's bickering; the first nine sentences are all banter, while the tenth is the blade.”

And micro-expressions.

“He rarely truly smiles. When the corners of his mouth turn up, his eyes remain flat. The only exception is when he's eating. Especially hot, soupy food.

Because there is no warmth in the underworld, every sip of hot soup is a confirmation to him that he is still alive.

At these moments, tiny crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes; that is a real smile.”

The three-thousand-word biography, from outside to inside, from bone to soul, meticulously disassembled Zhao Ali into a framework that could be 'worn' by any talented actor.

There was only one sentence at the end of the email.

“If the character stands firm, the project will naturally stand firm.”

Click send.

The email jumped into the sent folder.

Lin Que leaned back in his chair, resting his hands behind his head.

He knew one thing clearly in his heart.

He couldn't directly name who should play the role.

In this world, those people were still unknown theater actors,

huddled in small troupes in some city, earning a salary of a few thousand yuan a month,

grinding through stage plays in dimly lit hundred-person halls that would never be made into movies.

If he inexplicably named an amateur no one had ever heard of to carry the male lead, everyone would think he had lost his mind.

Worse, such abnormal precision might invite unwanted suspicion.

But he held the power of veto.

This card wasn't for nodding; it was only for shaking his head.

Veto Chen Chengrui.

Veto those smooth-skinned traffic faces.

Veto everyone who was 'wrong.'

The options would naturally narrow down round by round.

When Director Guo Changhe's casting team cast their net into the theater circle, staked out small theaters one by one, and flipped through young faces that had never been on the big screen,

one day, in some obscure corner, they would see that pair of eyes that had 'seen ghosts.'

At that time, without him saying a word, Director Guo Changhe himself would slam the table and shout, “It's him!”

The corners of Lin Que's mouth curled slightly as he stretched, his joints popping.

He leaned back and casually clicked on the Wenyuan Pavilion forum.

The massive thread about the 'Mei-Xue Dispute' had completely devolved.

The front page was floating with fan-made 'Mei-Xue Pairing, each holding their own grace' art.

Someone had even edited rival scenes of unyielding loyalists and aloof emperors from various dramas, set to those two poems as BGM; the comment section was shipping them like crazy.

Lin Que browsed with great interest.

When he saw Chen Jiahao and Dan Yi's two truce messages being treated as 'tokens of love' by fans, he nearly sprayed his cola onto the screen.

Just as he was about to click on a post titled 《Deep Analysis: Two Futures of the Chinese Literary World from the Perspective of the Mei-Xue Dispute,

his phone on the side of the desk suddenly vibrated.

Lin Que picked it up and saw the caller ID clearly showing two words.

Old Shen.

His finger paused for a second over the answer button.

Shen Qingqiu.

Lin Que pressed answer.

“Teacher Shen.”

Shen Qingqiu's voice came from the other end, cold and clear, neither fast nor slow.

“Lin Que, school is about to start soon.

Are you... still coming back to school?”

...

【End of Volume 2】