Chapter 104: Just a Little Short of the Mark

When the famous drama The Pearl Princess aired.

It was only 1998.

We’re all roughly the same age, yet she calls me “sister,” and claims she’s watched me grow up since childhood—how many years has she even acted?

Even though Fan Bingbing has decent emotional intelligence.

She was momentarily speechless, not knowing what to say.

“Hahaha.”

Seeing Li Luo’s awkward expression, Kou Zhanwu couldn’t help bursting into laughter, then he straightened his face and solemnly extended his hand to Fan Bingbing: “Bingbing, hello—I didn’t grow up watching your TV shows.”

Each of them said one line, leaving Fan Bingbing utterly confused.

Before she could react.

Kou Zhanwu darted away, sprinting off.

Li Luo quickly rolled a snowball the size of a fist and hurled it hard at that bastard, striking his back with a perfect burst of snow.

“Sorry, sorry~”

Ignoring Kou Zhanwu’s loud laughter, he turned and took Fan Bingbing’s hand, frozen midair:

“Just a joke—don’t take it to heart.”

“Hehe.”

Fan Bingbing’s expression was slightly resigned: “Of course not.”

This kind of first meeting with a new crew member was something she’d never experienced before.

It was rather fresh.

Ignoring that oddball, Fan Bingbing went on greeting other crew members—actors, stunt performers, assistants—no one was left out.

Back at the rest area, Li Luo picked up his thermos and slowly sipped his coffee.

Out of nowhere.

He felt someone watching him.

He turned his head and met that gaze.

A short-haired woman in her thirties or forties, exuding a sharp, capable aura—she’d come with Fan Bingbing earlier.

When Li Luo noticed her, she showed no sign of fluster.

She nodded politely.

He returned her smile, then picked up the script resting beside his chair; even though he’d memorized every line, scenes were shot out of order, so he had to flip through it constantly.

As for Fan Bingbing.

She had two or three months to get familiar—no rush.

He wasn’t in a hurry.

Someone else was.

Just after reviewing his next dialogue with Kou Zhanwu, two footsteps approached him directly.

Looking in the direction of the sound, he saw Fan Bingbing and the short-haired middle-aged woman returning from their greetings; the latter’s smile radiated warmth.

“Li Luo.”

Fan Bingbing stopped and spoke clearly: “Excuse me—are you free right now?”

Her words were direct enough.

Li Luo closed his script and stood up, his action answering whether he was free or not.

“Hello.”

Before Fan Bingbing could speak, the short-haired woman extended her hand confidently: “I’m Wang Jinghua, Bingbing’s agent.”

At these words.

Several actors in the tent all lifted their heads.

Their gazes turned toward the short-haired woman.

They burned with interest.

Sometimes a name alone is a guaranteed brand.

Li Luo didn’t recognize her face, but he’d heard her name—the legendary top agent in China, renowned for her extraordinary influence and networking, holding contracts with numerous A-list stars.

At her peak, she led dozens of actors away from Huayi.

Causing a sensation throughout the entertainment industry.

She was undoubtedly a powerful woman.

“Hello.”

Li Luo shook her hand: “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“No big name,” Wang Jinghua replied politely. “I just do service work. Mr. Li, would you mind stepping aside for a quick chat?”

She was an agent—her intent was obvious.

But he couldn’t refuse outright.

Since filming wouldn’t start for a few more minutes, Li Luo simply rolled up his script and walked aside.

Under a pine tree, both stopped.

“I should’ve invited you to a café,” Wang Jinghua said, gazing at the snowy forest as she stretched her chest: “But seeing this scenery, I find it more refreshing than any indoor setting.”

This woman wasn’t a psychologist.

Yet she’d managed to sign many top stars—even convinced them to switch agencies together.

In matters of human relations and interpersonal skills,

Her abilities were exceptional.

A simple, relaxed gesture like that effortlessly bridged the gap between strangers and eased their guard.

“Indeed.”

Li Luo patted his script and pretended to appreciate the view.

No matter how beautiful the scenery,

Watching it for ten hours a day would eventually grow tiresome.

He said nothing more; sometimes, the more you speak, the more vulnerable you become.

“Actually, I’ve been following you for a while.”

Wang Jinghua didn’t mind, continuing as she rolled her shoulders: “When The Smiling, Proud Wanderer aired in 2001, I loved your portrayal of Lin Pingzhi—I thought you had real talent.”

“Then came Zhang Wuji in The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber.”

“I didn’t expect you’d land the lead role.”

“I asked friends on Wandao about the series—they all gave it high praise.”

Her short hair swayed as she smiled at the silent man beside her: “But those aren’t the reasons I admire you. Do you know what I admire most about you?”

“You’re good-looking.”

Li Luo sometimes spoke with brutal directness.

Wang Jinghua paused, then laughed and agreed: “That’s unquestionable.”

“There’s another key reason.”

She paused slightly, then continued: “It’s Li Luo Studio.”

“You’ve investigated me?”

Li Luo frowned.

“I’ve learned about you.”

Wang Jinghua spread her hands, showing no ill intent: “Through learning, I realized you’re smart—very few young actors plan their careers the way you do.”

“That’s why I like you.”

“I came here specifically for you. My goal is clear—I want to sign you.”

She lowered her hands, her tone sincere: “There are many actors with talent, but few with brains. I want to help you move more smoothly through this industry and reach a higher position!”

The last line was delivered with absolute confidence.

Of course,

She had the ability to make it happen.

“Thank you.”

Li Luo swung his script, politely declining: “I’m very satisfied with my current situation.”

This answer

Surprised Wang Jinghua slightly.

She didn’t sign just any actor anymore—only those she truly believed in received her personal visit. Normally, actors gladly accepted; after all, her track record wasn’t fabricated.

In selecting scripts and planning actors’ careers, her vision was unmatched.

And her resources were extraordinary.

Still,

It was within her expectations.

Someone who founded a studio and started acting in their first year of college must have strong convictions—Wang Jinghua never expected to seal the deal with a few words.

“Of course, your current situation is comfortable.”

Wang Jinghua nodded in agreement, adding: “Your studio is your own—no constraints. After The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber airs, your offers won’t be lacking.”

“You earn your own money, you spend it yourself.”

She sighed and shook her head: “If I’d achieved what you have when I was young, earning big money, I’d have wanted to stay in that state forever too.”

“But.”

Li Luo helped her express the turning point.

“But.”

Wang Jinghua paused again, then tapped her forehead and laughed: “You’re quite funny, but have you ever considered this: clinging too tightly to small money can make you miss out on big money.”

“Even if you have to give up some profit, you could earn far more than you do now.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

She looked at Li Luo with sincere tone: “With Huayi as your backing, you’ll get many opportunities. Right now your income is just from acting fees, isn’t it?”

“But an actor’s income isn’t just from acting fees.”

“Brand endorsements.”

“And commercial performances.”

Wang Jinghua kept talking, trying to appeal to his interests: “With your looks, if handled well, these extra earnings could match your acting fees—spend two days shooting an ad and you walk away with hundreds of thousands.”

“Sing two songs at a commercial show and you can earn tens of thousands.”

“A big platform can consolidate high-end resources, strengthen your bargaining power, and greatly enhance your personal image.”

Listening to these words.

Li Luo smiled faintly inside, saying nothing.

Ads.

As long as your fame is hot enough, manufacturers will find your contact information themselves.

Commercial performances.

He feared that after singing, the boss would chase him for money.

Seeing his impassive expression, Wang Jinghua swiftly swung her second axe: “Then there’s your career—you have to admit, actors don’t always land good roles.”

“If you accidentally take a bad film, your career can collapse easily.”

“With a big platform behind you, even if that happens, you’ll still have enough resources and opportunities to help you restart.”

“You know Huayi’s strength well.”

Wang Jinghua looked confident, delivering her final blow: “The resources our company can offer are certainly exceptional, and our chances of producing hits are higher—if you’re willing to sign the contract.”

“I can guarantee you’ll get preferential treatment in resources.”

Any film or TV drama produced by Huayi, under suitable conditions, would naturally give priority to its own actors.

The company’s strength is indeed formidable, and it will only grow stronger.

It has produced many fine works.

By normal logic, her words had no flaws.

But Li Luo was different.

He couldn’t guarantee good scripts, but if given a choice, he could ensure every role he took was of high quality.

When an actor’s every TV drama or film is either critically acclaimed.

Or highly profitable.

Why fear a lack of opportunities?

To investors, he’d be a guiding light.

“Thank you, Sister Hua,” Li Luo pretended to hesitate, then said with a pained expression: “What you’ve said is very reasonable, but it’s a major decision for me.”

“Can I take some time to think it over?”

“Of course.”

Though disappointed, she was glad he’d softened—Wang Jinghua pulled out a business card and handed it to Li Luo: “No matter your decision, I’ll count you as a friend. Keep my contact—call anytime if you have questions.”

“We can even chat casually.”

In the end, he’d politely refused.

But she believed harmony brings wealth; after years in the industry, she rarely burned bridges.

She wouldn’t harbor resentment.

“Alright.”

Li Luo gladly accepted it.

Wearing his costume, he gave her his number directly.

The matter settled.

Wang Jinghua left without delay.

Watching her back, Li Luo chuckled and slipped the card into his pocket—she’d be disappointed, of course. Leaning on a big tree wasn’t impossible, and the shade was indeed comfortable.

But not now.

Even if he joined a big platform, it’d have to be after this woman led a group of actors away from Huayi.

Adding flowers to brocade—lacked the right meaning.

Giving charcoal in snow.

That’s how he’d gain more benefits and opportunities.

Fan Bingbing joined the cast.

Bringing immediate changes.

For Li Luo, this change was, in some ways, negative.

Looking at the schedule stretching from morning till night, his head ached—unlike across the ocean, where strict shooting hours meant heavy overtime fees for delays.

Here, once things got busy, actors had to stay on set.

Coming early, leaving late.

Was no big deal.

When filming got intense, they’d shoot all night!

Fortunately, his body was strong.

He could handle it.

Spending all day together on set, Fan Bingbing’s goddess filter shattered quickly in his eyes.

Unlike her on-screen persona.

When filming wore her down,

Actors on set showed every possible state—falling asleep sprawled on chairs was common.

In this semi-closed environment,

Emotions grew fastest.

In just over a week, Li Luo grew familiar with Fan Bingbing.

“Giddyap, giddyap, giddyap!”

Shouts echoed through the forest as massive hooves kicked up clouds of snow.

Li Luo was having fun—he sharply tugged the reins, riding his white horse through clusters of uniquely shaped pine trees; the thrill of galloping sometimes felt even better than driving a G-Wagon.

“Whoa~~~”

Reaching an open patch, he pulled the reins tight.

The tall white horse neighed several times, its long legs pawing the snow, then stopped, exhaling plumes of mist.

“How’s that?”

Holding the reins, he circled the horse in place, then looked at the dozen or so people standing or sitting nearby: “My riding’s decent, right? Don’t worry—I can carry someone safely.”

What they were filming now: Zhang Danfeng and Yun Lei, disguised as a princess, fleeing from the Golden Knife Camp.

He Qun wanted to capture the medium and long shots of the two riding one horse in escape; since the director demanded it, the actors had to comply.

But this was dangerous.

If the actors lacked riding skills, they’d have to drop these shots.

Li Luo, of course, wouldn’t miss the chance to ride together.

From mounting the horse, he’d already shown the crew his superb riding—moving from stillness to motion, then whipping the reins.

Everything flowed effortlessly.

Though his technique was extraordinary, everyone turned their eyes to the riding instructor.

They still trusted the professional.

“Hmm.”

Under everyone’s gaze, the riding instructor nodded firmly: “Movements are beautiful, horse control is extremely skilled—I’d do no better myself. Li Luo, how many years have you been riding?”

“Two years.”

With the instructor’s astonished look, Li Luo dismounted easily.

“Don’t worry.”

He flicked the reins, looking at the graceful woman in red beside him: “Even if I fall, I won’t let you fall.”

“Fine, I’ll do it!”

Fan Bingbing wasn’t timid—if it was safe, no need to hesitate.

“Alright.”

He Qun took off his glasses, wiped them, and said: “Ride around for a while, get used to it. Li Luo, be careful!”

“No problem.”

Li Luo snapped his fingers and grinned at the woman in the red robe: “Fatty, get on the horse!”

“Hey!!!”

Fan Bingbing bared his teeth and rolled up his sleeves.