Chapter 101: New Project

Side Hall

Chen Baoguo, portraying Emperor Wu of Han, his eyes filled with tears, looked at the corpse of Huo Qubing on the bed with profound grief and disbelief.

He suppressed his emotions to the extreme, dared not linger, and stumbled slightly as he stepped out of the hall, gazing afar at the starry sky, watching dark clouds obscure the full moon, remaining silent for a long time.

“Cut! That’s a wrap.”

Hu Mei called out, and Yan Li, lying on the bed, sat up—his scene was simple: just lie still, even without showing his face, only a close-up of his hand.

In the drama, Huo Qubing’s death was based on the widely circulated theory that he died of plague, so numerous pus-filled blisters were applied to his body as subtle hints.

Too many pus blisters on the face would be too horrifying, potentially scaring children and elderly viewers, and would also damage Huo Qubing’s image, so only a hand close-up was used.

Originally, Yan Li could have been replaced by a stand-in since his face wasn’t shown, but out of principle to see things through properly, he still came to play the corpse.

Speaking of which, this is already Yan Li’s fourth death on screen, and his fourth legitimate acting role.

Twice killed, once suicide, once died of illness!

His deaths are growing gentler—this time even the male lead weeps for him, and the funeral scenes and narration afterward are also decent, unlike his previous roles, where he just died and vanished.

After confirming no reshoots were needed, Yan Li jumped down, took out tissues to wipe the makeup off his hands—all those pus blisters felt disgusting.

Lin Jiachuan came over to help Yan Li; he was still wearing the white mourning robe—he had just portrayed Huo Qubing’s deputy general who delivered the news of death to Emperor Wu.

This was Han Xiaojun’s arrangement: to give Lin Jiachuan more screen time and also to “see Yan Li off,” making his death feel more dignified.

Yan Li couldn’t quite describe Han Xiaojun’s maneuvering, but he was undoubtedly a “talent.”

After cleaning off the blisters, Yan Li went to greet Hu Mei and Chen Baoguo.

With today’s scene finished, his shooting in Hengdian was wrapped; next, he’d wait for notice to go shoot on the grasslands, likely in September, barring any surprises.

He’d probably still see Director Hu Mei, but Chen Baoguo? Unlikely.

Although Chen Baoguo was too busy to socialize outside work, he had still given Yan Li acting guidance during filming, and Yan Li held him in high regard.

Besides, his status speaks for itself—building ties couldn’t hurt; there might be future collaborations.

Afterwards, Yan Li greeted several other familiar colleagues and friends.

As before, many actors and crew members would still be seen on the grasslands—like Lu Shuming, Ren Zhong, Han Xiaoping—but others, like Lin Jing, he wouldn’t.

Learning Yan Li was leaving Hengdian, Lin Jing unexpectedly took the initiative to invite him to dinner as a farewell—but Yan Li politely declined.

“Sorry, I’ve got an old friend to meet—we made plans earlier.”

Since he’d decided not to entangle himself, and they were about to part ways, he wouldn’t play games of mixed signals—better to be direct and clear.

Besides, Yan Li wasn’t lying to Lin Jing—he really had a prior engagement; he’d also just turned down an invitation to dinner from Ren Zhong.

…

“Brother Wang.”

Yan Li laughed heartily and embraced Wang Decai, a short, stout man.

Wang Decai, assistant director of “Heroes of Sui and Tang,” was the first senior who lifted Yan Li into the industry and had repeatedly helped him connect with contacts.

Yan Li was deeply grateful to Old Wang and had long wanted to get together.

But Wang Decai had been busy outside the capital for nearly a year, rarely returning to Beijing, and Yan Li had his own affairs—he couldn’t spare time—so they only met now in Hengdian.

“Not bad! I always saw your potential. Just over a year apart, and you’ve become a boss already.”

Wang Decai was also moved—he knew Yan Li’s origins; before approaching Li Xing, Yan Li had first come to him.

He never imagined the young actor he once supported had suddenly become a film company boss, with a successful drama under his belt—clearly taking on the aura of a new elite in the industry.

Though due to face and other reasons, Wang Decai had temporarily declined Yan Li’s invitation to join his team.

But his attitude remained ambiguous—even when Yan Li mentioned he needed people and projects, Wang Decai actively helped by making introductions and recommendations.

Yan Li, with his intelligence system in hand, understood perfectly.

Wang Decai couldn’t bring himself to directly defect, so he was thinking of bringing in some people and a project—then joining naturally, gaining immediate credit and catching Yan Li’s attention, securing a good position in the new project.

Old foxes are old foxes!

After some small talk, Wang Decai introduced the people he brought along.

“This is my friend, Chen Yongge—action director of ‘Little Li Feidao,’ ‘Swallow Li San,’ and ‘The Knight of the Sword,’ now working with us on Wang Xinmin’s ‘Liancheng Jue’ in Hengdian.”

“Director Chen, honored to meet you.”

Yan Li’s eyes lit up; he stepped forward and shook Chen Yongge’s hand—he hadn’t heard his name, but he’d seen his work.

The fight scenes in ‘Swallow Li San’ and ‘The Knight of the Sword’ were brilliant, especially the bamboo forest battle in ‘The Knight of the Sword’—a classic.

Talent!

Absolute talent!

Wang Decai pointed to another woman wearing glasses: “This is Miss Fei Yingli, our screenwriter for ‘Liancheng Jue.’”

Yan Li knew nothing about her—just politely shook her hand.

Wang Decai then introduced Yan Li to Chen Yongge: “Old Chen, Miss Fei, this is Yan Zong, the one I told you about. Don’t let his youth fool you—he’s got serious ability and strength. You know ‘Conquest,’ right? Yan Zong single-handedly produced that project—a few million budget turned into this year’s biggest dark horse.”

Chen Yongge had a rugged appearance and wasn’t talkative, speaking with a faint Xi’an accent.

“Director Yan, I’m Chen Yongge. Please guide me.”

Fei Yingli, though a writer, wasn’t particularly chatty either—but she was far better than Chen Yongge’s silent demeanor.

“I’ve watched ‘Conquest.’ The plot was fantastic! Oh, I just realized why you looked familiar—you played Wu Tian, didn’t you? You were excellent.”

Yan Li smiled—he didn’t believe Old Wang had brought these two to him without mentioning his background.

For him, flattery was pleasant, but what mattered was the project and ability.

Profitability came first—everything else came second!

After sitting down, with Wang Decai facilitating, everyone became slightly more familiar and turned to serious matters.

“Director Yan, here’s the project’s specific situation.”

Chen Yongge was silent, Fei Yingli wasn’t skilled at this—so Wang Decai, as the connector, represented them both and smoothly shifted his address to “Director Yan.”

Yan Li had already learned about it through his system before arriving; now, with Wang Decai’s explanation and a few exchanges, he understood most of it.

This project was a script written by Fei Yingli.

A mythological drama about the Seven Fairies, titled “Joyful Heaven, Happy Earth: Seven Fairies.”

After the script was roughly complete, Fei Yingli discussed it with Chen Yongge, who became very interested and agreed to help secure investment and serve as director.

Between them, they had some connections in the industry and found an advertising company to officially launch the project.

But the advertising company invested little—far from enough for smooth production.

So the project was put on hold, pending completion of “Liancheng Jue,” after which they’d seek other investors.

Wang Decai was close with Chen Yongge and had been asked to help find investors.

Originally, Wang Decai hadn’t taken it seriously—until Yan Li approached him, then he remembered this project, studied it carefully, realized it had potential, and convinced Chen and Fei to bring “Joyful Heaven, Happy Earth: Seven Fairies” to Yan Li.

“Can I see the script?”

Yan Li asked—of course, no problem; they were counting on his investment, so they wouldn’t withhold the script.

Of course, they didn’t give him the full script—nearly forty episodes, impossible to read in one sitting—so Yan Li received the plot summary, character profiles, and selling points.

For the Seven Fairies, Yan Li’s strongest impression was the story of Dong Yong and the Seventh Fairy’s celestial romance; the Seven Fairies also appeared in “Journey to the West.”

“Joyful Heaven, Happy Earth: Seven Fairies” draws from the celestial romance tale.

But besides the Seventh Fairy and Dong Yong, each of the other six fairies was given her own romantic subplot.

“Ensemble?”

Yan Li frowned slightly—seven romantic arcs, wouldn’t that be too messy and scattered? But as he read further, his brow gradually relaxed.

The screenwriter was clever—precisely targeting the female market, aiming for total coverage.

Seven couples, covering classic tragic love, age-gap romance, bickering lovers, marriage-before-love, love-hate relationships, soulmates, love triangles, and more romantic tropes.

Diverse emotional projections—there’s bound to be something every viewer loves!

Character designs were vivid and multidimensional, with plenty of comedic elements to offset the heavier romantic arcs, also attracting teenage and child audiences.

Mythological dramas still held strong appeal for children.

They happened to be the core viewers—if this segment could be captured, the drama was guaranteed success.

Yan Li was relatively optimistic about the project, but it had challenges—the investment wouldn’t be low.

Costume dramas were already expensive; as a mythological drama, it required elaborate sets and visual effects, so costs would rise further.

The seven couples would mostly feature newcomers and unknown actors—star-studded cast was unaffordable, but he couldn’t go without any stars—needed at least one or two big names to anchor it, plus several familiar veteran supporting actors, so actor fees wouldn’t be small.

Yan Li preliminarily estimated the budget would be at least 15 million, especially for effects—he had no experience with this and didn’t know market rates.

This investment was beyond what Yan Li could handle alone.

Either bring in partners, or find a deep-pocketed backer—and Yan Li also wanted to see if his system could trigger relevant monthly intelligence to understand the future prospects.

He didn’t ignore projects without future data—but with intelligence backing, he felt more secure.

Closing the script, Yan Li faced Wang Decai and the others’ expectant gazes and didn’t respond immediately—he said he needed time to study and consider.

Wang Decai and the others felt slightly disappointed, but they understood.

A multi-million investment wasn’t decided lightly—months were fast; many took one or two years to make up their minds.

After parting, on the way back, Yan Li reread the script for “Joyful Heaven, Happy Earth: Seven Fairies.”

Suddenly he remembered something—if he invested in this drama, he’d definitely need to promote someone from his own circle.

Huang Shengyi aside, Qin Lan and Dong Xuan couldn’t both star—something would go wrong.

Choose one—whom?

————

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(End of Chapter)