Chapter 455

Wei Ming got Wei Anping excited, and they kept chatting until very late, even after Lu Xiaoyan and the two kids had fallen asleep.

Only then did Wei Anping learn that his nephew planned to donate funds to build primary schools in both the Sichuan filming location and his grandmother’s village, to be named “Springtime Primary School” in memory of “The Spring of the Sheep Herding Class.”

These preparations would begin during the final stages of filming, and it wouldn’t be a one-time donation—future donations by Wei Ming would continue under the same name, and he intended to pour unlimited resources into this initiative.

Wei Anping sighed again, struck by his nephew’s extraordinary vision and courage: “But your two songs—‘Where Is Spring?’ and ‘On the Field of Hope’—the latter seems to have greater impact; ‘Hope Primary School’ might be just as good.”

Wei Ming waved his hand: “Nah, leave that name for the state. I’m just one person—I do what I can, nothing more.”

He felt that bearing the name “Hope Primary School” would burden him with the educational mission of all impoverished children in China—he still wanted to enjoy life.

“Uncle, this Peking University scholarship needs a fair and responsible leader. You know I’m away 300 days a year—next year I might even go to America with Xiao Hong—so I’m entrusting this scholarship to you.”

Wei Anping didn’t refuse his nephew’s trust; after thinking it over, he realized he was the most suitable candidate—he would take the role without hesitation.

“A million yuan? Who knows how many Peking University students will thank you.”

Wei Ming: “A million is just the start. It seems like a lot now, but I’ll keep adding more—eventually, I want this scholarship to cover the entire country.”

Right now, bank interest alone is enough, but when interest rates drop, I’ll need financial tools to ensure the scholarship remains generous—Wei Ming even considered, once the Shanghai Stock Exchange opens, setting aside a dedicated fund for this purpose.

I’ll tell Xiao Hong later—she’ll gladly manage such a meaningful charitable fund.

Since this was a million-yuan matter—last year, even Wei Anping’s Production Management Division hadn’t earned that much—the next day, Wei Anping and Wei Ming met with Peking University’s president, secretary, and other senior leaders.

President Zhang Longxiang gripped Wei Ming’s hand, deeply moved: “Young Teacher Wei, truly, heroes emerge young—I don’t even know what to say. On behalf of all Peking University students, thank you!”

Next came the details of the donation, but Wei Ming was returning to Sichuan to film soon, and Peking University was about to close for vacation, so they agreed to officially establish the Wei Ming Scholarship after the semester resumed—until then, the news would remain confidential.

The scholarship’s name posed no issue for the president or secretary; compared to the tangible million-yuan donation, requesting a name was perfectly reasonable.

Now that reform and opening-up were underway, minds must open too, Secretary Xiang chuckled: “Isn’t that new hotel being built in Yanjing called the Pak Cheung Lung Hotel?”

Vice President Wang added: “Jiaotong University has a Pak Cheung Lung Library too—it’s perfectly normal.”

What, you want me to donate a library too? I’ll consider that once I’ve hit my first small goal.

Donating a building wasn’t out of the question—Peking University’s teaching buildings were indeed shabby; Wei Ming had visited many foreign universities and saw massive gaps in both software and hardware.

Because of this uncredited million yuan, several university leaders personally treated Wei Ming to lunch in the cafeteria, where the head chef prepared several premium dishes; other staff, seeing this, assumed it was about the Mao Dun Literature Prize and wondered: Is the award that powerful?

It was powerful indeed—but still not as powerful as a million yuan.

Wei Ming was leaving the day after tomorrow; tomorrow he wanted to fully devote himself to his two girlfriends, so in the afternoon he went back to CCTV to finish everything he needed to do on this trip.

As general consultant for “Journey to the West,” he wanted to ask if there were any production difficulties and how many episodes of “Journey to the West” Chinese audiences could expect to see during this year’s Spring Festival.

Normally, TV series air only after full completion, but “Journey to the West” was too costly and difficult to produce, and had nationwide attention—so CCTV hoped to air completed episodes each Spring Festival, essentially beginning post-production as soon as each episode’s footage was shot.

Wei Ming had already prepared the opening theme song for them.

When Wei Ming arrived, the “Journey to the West” crew was shooting exterior scenes along the coast near Lianyungang—he learned this from Director Wang Fulin.

Lianyungang meant they were filming the Flower-Fruit Mountain scenes; the first episode should be complete, but beyond that, it was uncertain—because the crew followed Wei Ming’s advice and shot by location rather than episode-by-episode, so despite filming for another half year, they had no finished episode yet.

“Director Wang, how’s the ‘Dream of the Red Chamber’ crew’s preparation going?”

Hearing Wei Ming’s concern, Wang Fulin felt embarrassed: “The script hasn’t been written yet.”

“What? Not written, or not finished?”

It turned out it hadn’t been written at all—because no one had yet decided who would write it, what approach to take, or who would serve as script consultant; they had to wait until the Redology circle settled the dispute.

At that moment, Wang Fulin truly envied Director Yang Jie—“Journey to the West” was so straightforward, with Wei Ming as such a reliable consultant.

“Teacher Wei, are you interested in ‘Dream of the Red Chamber’?” Wang Fulin suddenly had an idea.

Wei Ming quickly waved his hands: “I hate too many women—three women make a drama, just hearing about it gives me a headache—I can’t imagine what life was like for Jia Baoyu.”

Wang Fulin shook his head; after all, he was young—though his works were mature, he still seemed naive, perhaps unaware of the charm of women.

That night, Wei Ming swept across the bed like a general conquering all.

Since none of them had other plans the next day, they stayed up all night—a complete release after their long separation and before parting again.

In the end, none of them remembered how they fell asleep; they didn’t wake until the sun was high.

Gong Ying scratched her messy hair: “Oh no, I just remembered something.”

Wei Ming lifted his head from Zhu Lin’s arms: “What?”

Gong Ying: “CCTV contacted me—they want me to host a program.”

Zhu Lin also woke up: “Your voice is excellent, but hosting seems like a waste of talent.”

“Not a permanent host—just a gala show, hosting with a few crosstalk performers,” Gong Ying said.

She had started as a stage announcer in the army, with clear diction and strong warmth; later, in the film industry, when she had no shooting duties, the studios would ask her to host internal events—hosting wasn’t hard for her; in the original timeline, she hosted this year’s Golden Rooster and Hundred Flowers Festival.

Wei Ming was still half-asleep when Gong Ying added: “And they said if I host, they’ll air a clip from ‘Under the Bridge’—great promotion.”

Wei Ming suddenly woke up: “Is this program called the Spring Festival Gala?”

Gong Ying shook her head: “I don’t know the name—just a Spring Festival gala.”

That must be it—Wei Ming remembered that in his past life, Liu Xiaoqing was one of the hosts of the first Spring Festival Gala; she was then filming “The Last Empress,” the top actress in mainland cinema, and the gala even aired a clip from “The Last Empress.”

Of course, she now had the strength to compete for top actress status, but Gong Ying was far more deserving—she had a nationwide blockbuster and dual Golden Rooster and Hundred Flowers Best Actress awards.

Add to that that Gong Ying was currently idle, so CCTV’s invitation to her made perfect sense.

Hearing this, Zhu Lin thought it was fine.

“So on New Year’s Eve we’ll see you on TV—it’ll be like you’re celebrating with us, though you won’t be with your family,” Zhu Lin stroked Xiao Xue’s head.

Gong Ying: “That’s fine—I’ve been used to it for years. But CCTV said I might have to perform too—what can I perform? You dance well, I can only sing, and I’m just an amateur.”

Zhu Lin: “Sing then—I think your version of ‘On the Field of Hope’ is great, better than mine.”

Wei Ming: “If you sing on stage, viewers won’t care what you sing—the atmosphere matters most. They say there are nearly thirty million TVs nationwide; on New Year’s Eve, viewership might break a hundred million—think of the impact.”

Gong Ying and Zhu Lin thought about it—it didn’t seem that impressive; their recent films each had hundreds of millions of viewers, and “Mother, Again I Love You” alone had earned over a hundred million at the box office.

Seeing they still didn’t grasp the Gala’s impact, Wei Ming said: “I’ll write you a new song, Sister Xue—something that could become a signature piece, so you’ll be a dual-star in both film and music.”

Zhu Lin: “What dual-star? I’ve only heard frogs are dual-species.”

“I feel like you’re insulting me,” Gong Ying immediately wrestled with Zhu Lin, making Wei Ming’s appetite surge—he was ready for breakfast.

No—lunch.

In the afternoon, Wei Ming stared blankly at a blank sheet of paper—what should he write? It had to fit the era’s spirit and be a sensation; the most popular song of the first Spring Festival Gala had been the banned “Love of the Hometown,” sung by Li Gu.

The new song for Xuejie couldn’t be worse than “Love of the Hometown.”

Xuejie’s vocal ability was above average but fell short of professional singers; in the army, she mainly sang revolutionary songs.

Revolutionary songs.

Got it!

This song had some vocal difficulty—still, he didn’t know how it compared to Li Gu’s.

So that day, Wei Ming took Gong Ying to visit Teacher Gu, asking her to teach Xuejie some simple yet professional singing techniques.

The next morning, Wei Ming first picked up Xi Zi at Uncle Anping’s house, then went to the airport to meet Pingping and Fangfang, brought by Mei Wenhua.

“These two kids don’t want to leave,” Mei Wenhua sighed. “They’re obsessed with ‘Black Cat Detective.’”

Wei Ming said: “Didn’t I buy you all the issues of ‘Fairy Tale King’?”

Pingping replied: “TV is better.” He wasn’t stupid.

Xiao Mei said: “Big Brother, maybe I should buy a TV for home.”

Wei Ming: “If I could buy one, I would’ve already—our village still has no electricity; your uncles’ factories only operate in town—they still use donkeys and mules in the village.”

Then they chatted about Xintiandi—Wei Ming praised Xiao Mei’s off-season discount campaign.