Chapter 8

‘Drip~’

A soft beep sounded, and the door slid open.

Stepping onto the thick carpet, Li Luo glanced around with curiosity at the place he’d live in for at least half a year.

It was a king-size room.

It had a bathtub, air conditioning, a color TV, and a large sofa—all present and accounted for.

Outside the huge window, he could see swaying treetops.

The view was extremely open.

Compared to the eight-person dormitory in Hengdian, it was like heaven.

No more being woken up in the middle of the night by strange shaking, or choking on foot odor while deafening snores kept him awake all night.

No wonder Zhang Da Hu Zi could afford this—small crews couldn’t possibly pull this off.

He could have a single room himself; he wondered what the lead actor’s quarters were like—maybe even a five-star hotel.

The entertainment industry was brutally pragmatic.

Not only was hierarchy rigid, but every benefit directly tied to one’s status.

It wasn’t exaggerated yet.

In another decade or so, stars big and small wouldn’t dare step out without a few assistants and a whole security detail.

There was no help for it—it was a fame-and-fortune arena.

If you didn’t fight for your perks, others wouldn’t hesitate to take them.

Lesser actors tried to elevate their status.

Big stars feared losing theirs.

Except for a few truly confident heavyweights, nearly everyone in entertainment relied on showy displays to chase fame and profit.

Shaking off those thoughts, Li Luo cheerfully hung his personal clothes in the closet.

After a wash and brush-up,

he collapsed onto the soft bed and fell into a deep sleep.

After a day and night of rest, idling Li Luo was soon visited by producer Wang Weiguo, accompanied by the production’s legal staff.

As for Zhang Da Hu Zi, he was busy with other matters.

Under Wang Weiguo and the legal staff’s explanation, Li Luo carefully read through the acting contract prepared by the crew.

Though he barely understood it, he had no leverage to negotiate.

But he still had to maintain the right attitude.

At the very least, he couldn’t let anyone think he was easy to fool.

As a newcomer, the Xiao Ao Jianghu crew offered him 1,500 yuan per episode—a deal that was clearly a win-win.

Hiring a newcomer saved the crew considerable costs.

For Li Luo, what he needed most was the opportunity; and 1,500 yuan per episode wasn’t exploitative—after all, every industry had its rules, and as a newcomer, he shouldn’t expect too much.

He felt genuinely pleased to receive this pay.

At the time, the average monthly wage for urban workers was only 700 to 800 yuan.

The average annual income was under ten thousand.

Sure, Hengdian extras earned thirty yuan a day, but landing twenty shooting days a month was already good.

The role of Lin Pingzhi ran through nearly the entire series; as a 40-episode TV drama, Li Luo appeared in thirty-one episodes, at 1,500 yuan per episode.

That came to 46,500 yuan.

The shooting schedule was estimated at five months, translating to a daily wage of nearly 310 yuan.

Even though this was far less than what actors playing other major roles earned,

it was still much higher.

But this was the year 2000—it was already high income!

No wonder so many people fought tooth and nail to break into this circle, especially in later years, where once you made a name for yourself, money flowed like the wind.

First came Yi Mang.

A breakfast cost 650 yuan and still wasn’t enough.

Then there was the Bowl-Breaking Brother, who once had only a cold one million yuan left in his bank account.

Finally came Yi Shuang.

Daily earnings of 2.08 million yuan—far beyond the imagination of ordinary people.

While Li Luo reviewed the contract, Wang Weiguo added that the salary was non-negotiable, but given the importance of the Lin Pingzhi role, the crew would enhance his living conditions.

The room he was staying in was one such benefit.

Even if the crew had money, they couldn’t give everyone a private room.

Frugality was a must.

Many newcomers like him stayed in double or quadruple rooms.

Wang Weiguo didn’t need to explain this, but since Zhang Da Hu Zi had such high hopes for Li Luo, he took the extra trouble to speak up.

The contract was quickly reviewed.

With a single stroke of Li Luo’s pen, he officially secured the role of Lin Pingzhi in Xiao Ao Jianghu.

“Thank you so much, Producer Wang,” Li Luo said, firmly shaking the man’s hand after putting down his pen: “Please also thank Director Zhang for me. Rest assured, I’ll work hard to deliver a great performance.”

“I believe you will.”

Wang Weiguo smiled and shook Li Luo’s arm in return.

This was a TV drama produced by Zhang Zhong—known as the producer-in-chief of Romance of the Three Kingdoms and Water Margin—few actors dared act up in his productions.

“By the way,”

Wang Weiguo added after letting go of his hand: “The first payment will be deposited into your bank account within three working days. Just focus on studying the script during this time, and remember to attend martial arts training on time.”

“If you have any difficulties, call me.”

“Thank you.”

Li Luo thanked him again, earnestly.

After seeing the three off, he flipped through the contract in his hands, grinning with a row of bright white teeth.

As long as it wasn’t finalized, his heart stayed suspended.

Now it was written in black and white,

and real money had been put down—he finally had security.

Playing a major role like Lin Pingzhi meant his payment structure differed from extras: ordinary extras got paid daily, on-set extras monthly, while main actors received payments in installments.

According to the contract,

Xiao Ao Jianghu would pay ten percent of the total as a deposit within three days of signing.

On the first day of shooting, when half the scenes were completed, and on the final day of filming,

they’d pay thirty percent each time.

Just three more days, and he’d have 4,650 yuan in hand—a fortune that would greatly ease his current financial hardship.

By six in the evening,

Li Luo rubbed his dry eyes and closed the thick script.

A breeze blew in through the window, rustling the pages of Xiao Ao Jianghu; he reached out to press them down and wrote “resentment” on the notebook beside him.

Weak foundation? Work harder.

Thoroughly reading the script and novel, and building a character profile for Lin Pingzhi, would help him understand and embody the role.

He tossed the pencil aside and shook his head with a wry smile.

He never expected that, over twenty years later, he’d be buried in books again.

But he felt no resistance—he’d chosen this path, so he had to find a way to do it well; if he only glared, scowled, and rattled off lines like “1-2-3-4-5-6-7,” he wouldn’t even feel comfortable taking the pay.

In the time before shooting began, he not only needed to understand the character,

but also planned to memorize all his own lines and those of his co-stars, preparing for every possible scenario.

He patted his empty stomach.

He grabbed his room card and headed out—the crew’s benefits were excellent, with buffet meals served at the hotel for every meal, making mealtime his happiest moment, though he’d received no rewards yet.

“Bang.”

He slammed the door shut with a muffled thud.

“Ah~”

The noise startled a girl in the hallway, and her room card slipped from her hand.

“Sorry,”

Li Luo hurried forward and bent down to pick it up.

As he looked up, his eyebrows lifted—the girl’s delicate face was flushed, her eyes darting toward him in fluster.

Her gaze was incredibly clear.

Like a mountain stream gently flowing.