Chapter 441: Wei Ming: Billionaire Achieved!

Seeing Qiu Degen’s wariness toward Run Run Shaw, Wei Ming smiled and asked, “Do you really think Sir Run Run intends to pay out a million? If he plays along, there are only two possibilities: either no one gets the million, or it’s claimed by one of his own people.”

Qiu Degen realized this made sense—himself already felt the pain, let alone Run Run Shaw; if ratings and advertising sponsorship didn’t meet a certain standard, each episode would be a loss.

Wei Ming added, “Moreover, my concept has been registered for global copyright. If TVB dares to openly imitate, I won’t just use legal means to protect my rights—I’ll fully side with ATV, and I have countless ideas and stories ready to bury TVB.”

Qiu Degen grew excited, even tempted to lure Run Run Shaw into copying—forcing Wei Ming to fully defect to his side would be priceless!

Qiu Degen: “I’ll return immediately to prepare the program based on your proposal.”

Wei Ming’s final reminder: “The question bank must be handled with care—difficulty levels, category distribution, distractor options—I’ve detailed all these points. The host must also serve an educational function, and above all, the question bank must be kept absolutely secret.”

Qiu Degen muttered, “I wonder if we can make it in time for the final episode of the New Talent Singing Awards.”

He was trying to force a direct clash. Wei Ming suggested, “No need to insist. The New Talent Singing Awards happens once a year, but One Millionaire can air weekly. You could produce a pilot episode with ATV staff and sponsors as participants, simulate a recording, and build hype for future sponsorship and contestant sign-ups.”

Qiu Degen thought this made sense—he’d discuss the details later with Li Zhuanglie and Xu Xiaoming.

The next day, Wei Ming finally completed editing and scoring the short film “The Witness.” He composed the score himself, adding tense electronic tones; including the closing credits, it was just eleven minutes long.

During this process, Zhang Shuping and Zhang Yimou were deeply shaken. They’d filmed half-blindly before, but now they roughly understood the story—though they still didn’t know how profoundly it would unsettle them.

That day, Great Wall Company held an internal screening. Besides the crew, Wei Ming, Li Zhi, Zhang Yimou, Feng Xiaoning, Zhang Shuping, Xu Jinjiang, and Xia Wenshi attended, along with Fu Qi and Shi Hui from Great Wall, director Zhang Xinyan from “Shaolin Temple,” Miss Xia Meng from Qingniao, and Liao Yiyuan from Xinlian Film.

The organization was currently preparing to merge the three left-wing studios into one new company—Great Wall, Phoenix, and Xinlian—tentatively named “Silver City.” Liao Yiyuan was the organization’s chosen first chairman.

The film opened with a snake biting its own tail—a fleeting shot—then cut to the female lead applying lipstick before a mirror, followed by a gunshot, white pigeons scattering, intercut with chaotic struggle scenes.

In just the first half-minute, the veteran filmmakers saw Wei Ming’s skill: rapid, sharp editing, as if cramming countless details into each second, crafting a hallucinatory, dangerous atmosphere.

After the second gunshot, the female lead curiously pulled back the curtain to see what had happened.

At first she didn’t notice the male lead—but her closing of the window startled him. The bespectacled man turned his head toward her; she stared at his blood-splattered body.

At that moment, Xu Jinjiang realized—he might truly have the potential to play a psychopath.

Then came the horrifying moment: the male lead looked down at the woman beneath him—she was the very female lead from across the way, even her smudged purple lipstick identical!

Seeing this, no one could fathom it—not even the two leads had expected it. Was this really not a continuity error?

Several veteran filmmakers shifted in their seats, realizing this film was no simple matter—they had to take it seriously.

Next came the escape and taxi chase. Sharp-eyed director Zhang Xinyan noticed that as the female lead left, a man lay behind her—his hairstyle resembled the killer’s.

On the taxi, she wanted to go to the police—but remembered her identity as a hidden dancer, abandoned the idea, and rushed back to her workplace to beg her boss for money to move.

Then came the short film’s second segment: the grotesque look of Da Sha alone was shocking. Many secretly glanced at Wei Ming, wondering if the young teacher frequented such places—this look was too authentic.

Coincidentally, the male lead was dragged in—and the stripper assigned by the boss was the female lead, now in a different costume, wearing a mask.

After recognizing him, she fled wildly, stole his pistol from his office drawer before leaving, and collided with him at the door.

Then came a tense chase that made palms sweat: the two seemed trapped in a loop, running back and forth on a footbridge, until the female lead darted into a residential building, slipped into an open room, and slammed the door shut.

Unbeknownst to her, it was the male lead’s home. He chased her there, turned the knob, and saw her holding the gun—he immediately began to explain.

But there was no actual explanation—the short had almost no dialogue. The rapid editing and strange visual style left no breathing room; eyes stayed glued to the screen.

She ignored his words. During their struggle, the opening scene reappeared—the same flickering cuts.

This time, the female lead stood upright; the male lead lay dead in a pool of blood.

The blood-splattered female lead tilted her head upward—her posture identical to the male lead’s at the start.

Then came the masterstroke: suddenly, she heard a door closing. She turned her head—and saw a bare-chested man shutting the door across from her. She looked down: he was identical to the man in the blood.

The final frame froze on the female lead’s expression—shocked, yet tinged with menace.

At that moment, several audience members sat with slightly open mouths, speechless. They’d intended to applaud—but now forgot entirely.

Of course—before films like “Groundhog Day” or “Triangle,” encountering “The Witness” in this narrative form was profoundly jarring.

Especially Li Zhi: what the hell? How is this never-ending?

Zhang Yimou recalled the film’s first shot—the ouroboros. Now the film itself had completed the loop.

First to applaud was Xu Jinjiang: “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Far beyond my expectations—even better than I could’ve imagined!”

Under Xu Jinjiang’s lead, everyone clapped. Though questions lingered, the awe was genuine.

Liao Yiyuan suggested: “Could we watch it again? I didn’t get enough.”

Zhang Xinyan agreed: “I want to see it again too—it’s quite inspiring.”

Fu Qi: “Fine, let’s play it again.”

But Wei Ming didn’t watch the second screening—he cooled off outside.

In his past life, though he’d influenced directors as a producer and deeply participated in some film and TV shoots, this was his first time creating under the official title of director.

Though he’d only filmed for half a month, working from dawn till dusk, it was more exhausting than writing. Crucially, he’d still written articles before bed each night—and hadn’t neglected bonding with A Min. He was almost ridiculously diligent.

Over ten minutes later, people began emerging. Xia Meng was first to grasp Wei Ming’s hand: “With this film, I’m certain Sister Yu Lan won’t have any reservations.”

Liao Yiyuan also shook Wei Ming’s hand: “Young Master Wei, your artistic sensitivity is extraordinary. Too bad the mainland offers little room for you to shine. Our three studios are merging soon—have you considered moving to Hong Kong?”

Wei Ming laughed: “Perhaps we can collaborate in the future—exchange resources between the two sides.”

Silver City was a Hong Kong company; it often enjoyed special privileges filming on the mainland. Wei Ming had no intention of joining—but sometimes, he could leverage it.

Zhang Xinyan shook Wei Ming’s hand: “I feel truly old now. The younger generation is formidable.”

“You’re still in your prime. I’m still waiting to see you team up with Li Lianjie again.”

“Haha, Central China is developing a script—probably ready to shoot next year.” Zhang Xinyan was already preparing “Little Shaolin Boys.”

Fu Qi and Shi Hui emerged. Fu Qi praised: “This short film possesses extraordinary artistic merit and exploratory significance.”

Shi Hui nodded: “It deserves to be seen by more people.”

Wei Ming said: “After returning, I’ll inquire with the Venice Film Festival to see if they’ll accept this film.”

Such radically innovative shorts can only travel the festival circuit.

Yet everyone wanted to know the deeper meaning of this film. The ending was undeniably shocking, raising goosebumps—but why?

Wei Ming smiled and declined: “Explaining such a film robs it of its power. Every viewer should form their own interpretation—as long as it’s internally consistent.”

Afterwards, Wei Ming gave Zhang Yimou and each of them 1,000 Hong Kong dollars. The earlier payment was for living expenses.

“Now the short is finished. Use this money to buy something in Hong Kong, sightsee, or exchange it for foreign exchange certificates. Wait a few more days—I’ll join TVB for one program, then leave.”

Finally, Li Zhi got into Wei Ming’s car. They’d agreed to have dinner together after this busy stretch.

Though Wei Ming knew he might face temptation, Li Zhi had been an outstanding partner over the past half-month.

So he owed her this courtesy—he had to accept this dinner, even if it cost him something.

She chose Wei Lingling’s home as the venue—and had already prepared the dishes before leaving.

During her time serving Wei Lingling, her fastest improvement, besides English, was in cooking.

In under an hour, she served four dishes and one soup, plus a bottle of red wine.

Yet tonight, beyond her slightly lower neckline, Li Zhi didn’t bring up romantic matters—only professional production topics.

When the conversation flowed well, they toasted.

Perhaps she knew Wei Ming’s weak alcohol tolerance, hoping to get him drunk before making advances.

But she got no chance—just as they were enjoying their drinks, Wei Lingling returned from across the ocean.

“Miss Wei!” Li Zhi immediately stood up.