Chapter 119: Ah, Director Yan Is Teaching His Lines Again

November 13, 2003, was Yan Li’s twenty-third birthday.

But he didn’t stay in Jingcheng to celebrate; instead, he came to Dunhuang to visit the set of “Detective Di Renjie.”

There was no choice—Dong Xuan and Qin Lan were both in Jingcheng, each wanting to throw him a birthday party, and Yan Li couldn’t split himself in two, so he had to hide.

Still, hiding or not, he didn’t skip out on birthday gifts.

He even used the excuse of having to travel for work on his birthday as a reason to strive for their better future, which moved Dong and Qin deeply, and they half-heartedly let him secure plenty of new favors.

On the way out of Jingcheng, Yan Li still had a little nostalgic aftertaste.

Dunhuang Ancient City, the main filming location for “Detective Di Renjie,” also had some scenes shot at Hengdian.

It was Yan Li’s first time here—he found it quite distinctive; though much smaller in scale than Hengdian, it blended in plenty of northwest frontier aesthetics, with architecture and layout exuding a rugged and cold solemnity.

Perfect for ancient frontier military dramas or related wuxia themes—the film “New Dragon Gate Inn,” starring Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung, had filmed here.

Before joining the crew, Yan Li had the guide driver take him on a tour, snapping photos with his camera.

Maybe someday he’d have a similar project—he’d already gathered some scouting material for comparison.

Then Yan Li directly joined the set, arriving just as filming was underway; he didn’t announce himself, simply standing quietly to watch.

They were shooting Peng Dan’s scene, opposite Zhu Yanping, who played Wu Song in the Shandong version of “Water Margin”—also Yan Li’s fellow townsman, a typical Shandong giant.

But Yan Li had heard this man had retired; he didn’t know how Qian Yanqiu had talked him into it.

While Zhu Yanping got only a cursory glance, Yan Li’s main attention was fixed on Peng Dan.

You could tell the difference in directorial skill at a glance.

Back when they made “The Treasure Basin,” Yan Li had complained that even though they’d hired Peng Dan, the makeup and costume design didn’t highlight her strengths.

But Qian Yanqiu, the director of “Detective Di Renjie,” knew exactly what he was doing—putting her in a low-cut ancient costume, that was the real eye-catcher, brimming with ratings potential.

That salary was worth every penny!

Soon, the scene finished, and Qian Yanqiu’s loud voice rang out: “Move to the next set, next scene!”

As he was shouting, someone pointed toward Yan Li; Qian Yanqiu glanced over, immediately stood up, and came forward to greet him.

“Director Yan, what brings you here?”

Yan Li shook his hand and smiled: “I came to visit the set, and incidentally learn from Director Qian’s advanced experience.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

Qian Yanqiu grinned broadly: “If anyone’s learning, it should be us learning from you—I’ve heard your new project is huge, while ours is just small-time.”

“….”

After a bit of mutual flattery, Li Xing arrived in a hurry, having heard the news.

Unlike Qian Yanqiu, Li Xing knew Yan Li was coming to visit the set—he just didn’t know the exact date.

How to put it? When you’re studying or working, you hate these surprise inspections.

But once you become the inspector, the boss, you quickly grow to love the feeling.

Yan Li had tried it twice—he liked it, the results were good, and it did let him see real conditions.

He had an intelligence system, but it didn’t report every tiny detail; the randomness and volume of reports were beyond his control, and reading reports was nothing like personally inspecting.

So when he had time, Yan Li preferred to come in person—it gave him a more direct understanding of the crew.

“Director Qian, keep working. Let Li Xing accompany me.”

Qian Yanqiu had work to do, and he wasn’t Yan Li’s subordinate; Yan Li didn’t hold him back.

“Alright, Li Producer, show Director Yan around. Director Yan, I’ll host a dinner tonight to welcome you.”

Qian Yanqiu arranged the evening banquet, then returned to filming. Yan Li greeted Peng Dan, then listened to Li Xing’s detailed report.

Yan Li already knew part of “Detective Di Renjie”’s situation from his system.

Li Xing had also called or emailed him before; now, face-to-face, answering questions as they came, Yan Li gained a more detailed and comprehensive understanding of the crew.

The “Detective Di Renjie” production team was still very professional, with serious attitudes, and no major financial irregularities on the books.

Progress wasn’t slow—if all went well, they’d wrap before long after the Spring Festival.

Internally, the crew was essentially Qian Yanqiu’s personal fiefdom; most actors and staff were his people, Li Xing had little influence and couldn’t interfere with production, only overseeing finances.

Besides Li Xing, there was a CCTV producer who had visited a few times, but after realizing he couldn’t make his voice heard, he stopped coming.

Various specific tasks were handled by the production supervisor; Li Xing occasionally lent a hand.

There were also some minor or major conflicts and internal gossip, but nothing that affected the big picture.

“That’s enough.”

Yan Li nodded—he didn’t have high expectations; he didn’t think throwing money in meant he could strut around the set and boss people around.

His goal was to make money!

As long as the books were clean, the crew was serious, didn’t drag their feet or cut corners, didn’t mistreat his people or the actors he recommended, and didn’t involve any crimes that could drag him down—

Everything else didn’t matter. Yan Li didn’t care and didn’t want to get involved.

“Old Li. You’ve done well.”

Yan Li patted Li Xing’s shoulder, offering strong encouragement, and promised that when “Detective Di Renjie” aired and made money, he wouldn’t let him down.

“By the way, the company recently invested in another drama—a contemporary subject. You’ll handle it as producer too.”

“Understood. Watch my performance.”

Li Xing felt energized—he’d made the right move backing Director Yan; Yan Li truly gave opportunities.

In just a few months, he’d become producer on two dramas—only regrettable was that neither was a company-led project, so his actual authority was limited.

But Director Yan had said the company was still growing, he was young, he needed to train and accumulate experience—someday soon, he’d be entrusted to lead a project independently.

After sketching out this future, Yan Li thought of how Hua Jie had handled Li and Fan’s emotional tactics.

He stamped his foot, blew into his hands: “It’s cold here. You’ve worked hard—wear more clothes, don’t catch a chill.”

“It’s fine. Only the outdoor shoots are cold; the hotel has heating.”

“Still, be careful. The New Year’s coming—working away for a year isn’t easy. You’ve got to get back healthy to celebrate.”

Li Xing bit his lip: “Ah.”

Yan Li was a man—he didn’t say overly sentimental things. He thought a moment, then decided he’d just buy them clothes and send them.

Hmm, no—better to buy them first, then mail them.

Money is a reward, but gifts are sentiment!

In ancient times, rewards weren’t just cash—you also treated people to wine and meat. Splitting one coin into two uses—eating and receiving—deepened bonds and doubled loyalty.

…

That night, the “Detective Di Renjie” crew threw a welcome dinner for Yan Li.

Besides director Qian Yanqiu, Liang Guanhua as Di Renjie, Zhang Zijian as Li Yuanfang, Peng Dan and Zhu Yanping whom Yan Li had met before, there was also a young actor Yan Li found vaguely familiar, and Jiang Xin.

Yes, Jiang Xin was also an actor in “Detective Di Renjie.”

Since he’d interviewed her, Yan Li knew a bit about her background—she was currently under contract with Beijing Zhongshi Film & Television.

The company was a subsidiary of CCTV, involved in the production and distribution of many films and TV dramas.

For example, “The Legend of the Condor Heroes” had this company’s fingerprints behind it—that’s why Jiang Xin got the role of Mu Wanqing.

“Detective Di Renjie” was a CCTV production, so Jiang Xin benefited and landed the female lead in one of its story arcs.

Jiang Xin was also surprised to see Yan Li.

She knew he was the producer of “Happy Ever After: Seven Fairies,” but didn’t know he’d invested in “Detective Di Renjie.”

Now she was tied to two of his projects—originally just here for the free meal, she had no choice but to raise her cup and toast.

Yan Li returned the gesture, drinking his glass dry, studying Jiang Xin—graceful, tall, and increasingly pleasing to him.

Jiang Xin felt uneasy under his gaze.

She didn’t understand why, during her audition, Yan Li had treated her normally, but now his attitude had changed so drastically.

Only when Yan Li brought up Mu Wanqing from “The Legend of the Condor Heroes” did she slowly realize.

Right—“The Legend of the Condor Heroes” was about to air!

Though Mu Wanqing wasn’t the main heroine, she had plenty of screen time—her visibility would rise, directly benefiting “Happy Ever After: Seven Fairies.” No wonder Yan Li was pleased with her.

Besides giving Jiang Xin special attention, Yan Li treated all other actors with courtesy.

Especially Liang Guanhua—their personal relationship was very good.

After “Detective Di Renjie” wrapped, Liang Guanhua’s next project would be joining “Happy Ever After: Seven Fairies” as the Barefoot Immortal.

As for the young male actor Yan Li found familiar, he finally recognized him.

Zhao Zhigang, who played Di Chun, Di Renjie’s steward!

He had no fame in the industry; Yan Li recognized him because he was a 2000 undergraduate from Beijing Film Academy—same class as Dong Xuan and Guan Yue.

Yan Li had run into him many times when visiting Dong Xuan, but Zhao Zhigang was unremarkable, so he didn’t leave an impression.

Honestly, among Dong Xuan’s male classmates, the only one Yan Li remembered clearly was Cui Peng—good-looking, so he worried he might get poached; the rest he barely noticed.

Even those who’d clashed with him before—now if he saw them, he’d have to pause to recall their names.

Yan Li asked around and found Zhao Zhigang was doing quite well.

Qian Yanqiu admired him—he wasn’t just acting, he was also serving as assistant director.

Originally, if Zhao had been struggling, Yan Li would’ve asked Li Xing to look out for him out of respect for Dong Xuan; since he was doing fine, no need.

He wasn’t his classmate, no real connection—he didn’t care to meddle.

————

Yan Li stayed at the “Detective Di Renjie” set for two days.

Qian Yanqiu wanted him to make a cameo, but Yan Li refused, saying he had no time.

It wasn’t an excuse—he was truly busy, juggling progress on “Happy Ever After: Seven Fairies” while personally handling the satellite broadcast negotiations for “Snow Goddess Dragon.”

Because the premiere ratings of this drama weren’t particularly strong, it raised the difficulty of negotiating with the second satellite TV station.

Yan Li stuck firmly to his price of no less than six million, so they could only wait and negotiate slowly.

After five days of continuous social engagements and three meetings, the contract was finally signed—Market Director Xiao Guan threw up once before it was settled.

For the six-million-yuan contract, the distribution split was 15%, nearly a million yuan.

After deducting the sales team’s commission and taxes, Yan Li ended up with only a few hundred thousand, barely enough to afford a single apartment in Beijing.

“What’s the point of life, really?”

Yan Li sat sideways on the office sofa, sighing softly; Wang Ou knelt neatly behind him, silent, silently massaging his shoulders.

Although they hadn’t signed Yi An, Wang Ou maintained the right mindset, treating herself as a company employee.

Especially when Yan Li was around, she frequently came over and even took over some of Hu Ya’s secretarial duties.

Hu Ya was somewhat displeased but didn’t confront her, mainly because their roles were different.

Her role as secretary was primarily to assist Yan Li with work and handle minor tasks—essentially a work assistant.

Wang Ou leaned more toward being a personal assistant: fetching tea, carrying bags, relieving fatigue—focused entirely on intimate service.

Honestly, with Wang Ou doing this, Yan Li finally understood why many bosses liked having beautiful female secretaries or assistants around.

It was truly different from rough, masculine types like Lin Jiachuan!

Leaning back, enjoying the warmth and softness, Yan Li closed his eyes and asked.

“How’s your line memorization going?”

Wang Ou’s hands paused, nervously replying: “I just got the script a few days ago—I haven’t memorized it well yet.”

“That won’t do.”

Yan Li frowned: “I recommended you for the female lead—I took pressure for you. If you mess up, I’ll look foolish too. Remember, your main job is acting; mastering your craft is your foundation.”

“I’ll definitely study hard after this.”

Wang Ou truly valued the female lead role, but her eagerness to please Yan Li had made her lean toward flattery; now that he’d reprimanded her, she immediately pledged herself.

Yan Li’s expression softened. Even though Wang Ou was beautiful, he wasn’t short of women at home—he had other ways to enjoy himself.

Wang Ou had good looks and personality; Yan Li was counting on her to make money—he couldn’t let priorities get reversed.

Seeing Yan Li hadn’t exploded, Wang Ou exhaled in relief, her slender, pale fingers rhythmically pressing his neck and shoulders. As she moved, her upper body leaned forward, helping him relax his back.

The past few days, Yan Li had been busy with socializing and negotiations; Wang Ou hadn’t dared to disturb him. Now that the contract was settled, she figured he might finally have time.

A thought crossed her mind. Her hands kept working, but her face drew closer, her voice soft and sweet, tinged with a touch of pleading.

“Director Yan, I’ve done so few dramas—I’m not good at memorizing lines. You’re a trained actor. Could you teach me?”

Yan Li turned his head, glancing at Wang Ou, who stared at him expectantly. He recalled the soft, supple pressure of her back moments ago, then nodded slightly.

“Fine, I’ll give you some pointers.”

Wang Ou beamed, reaching for her phone to book a “classroom” at the hotel—but Yan Li stopped her.

“Why spend money? Just go to your place.”

“My place?”

Wang Ou froze, stammering: “But I share an apartment with someone.”

Yan Li paused. Aside from the 5,000+ he’d given her last time, he’d occasionally tossed her some extra cash when he was in a good mood—he’d assumed she’d moved out. But then a sly smile crept across his face.

“That’s fine. With someone else around, you’ll study harder…”

(End of Chapter)