Chapter 126: The Popularity of The Seven Fairies: Qin Lan

【Daily Info X: In the small group of Dong Xuan, Jiang Xin, and Yang Xue, Jiang Xin, who rose to fame through The Legend of the Condor Heroes, looks down on Yang Xue, thinking she has no fame and isn’t worthy to hang out with them… Dong Xuan and Yang Xue, both from Beijing Film Academy and compatible in personality, are closer to each other…】

Set, makeup room

Jiang Xin affectionately fed a snack to Yang Xue: “How’s it? Delicious, right?”

Yang Xue nodded: “Should we save some for Dong Xuan?”

“We can buy more later—you can have it all, sweetheart.”

Jiang Xin hugged Yang Xue and asked with a smile; Yang Xue pressed her cheek against Jiang Xin’s: “Yes, yes, yes—we’re the best.”

…

【Daily Info X: Hu Siyan quietly told Liu Xiaoqing bad things about Dong Xuan, souring her impression of Dong Xuan; meanwhile, she still harbors designs on Yan Li, hoping to see how Dong Xuan will boast once she loses Yan Li…】

On set, waiting for cue

Yan Li, who had shot a night scene yesterday and risen early today for makeup and behind-the-scenes work, stole a moment to nap in a corner.

Dong Xuan, fearing he’d get cold, borrowed a military overcoat—temporarily unused—and draped it over him.

Hu Siyan launched into praise mode: “Sister Xuan is so virtuous—no wonder General Yan likes you so much.”

Dong Xuan glanced at her, smiled politely: “You flatter me.”

“Flattery? I think you two are made for each other—we’re all waiting to drink your wedding wine.”

…

【Daily Info X: Fan Bingbing, cast as the Fifth Fairy—the Heavenly Court’s most beautiful woman—has been given extra lines and plot points by Yan Li emphasizing her beauty, causing subtle resentment among the other fairy actresses, who feel Yan Li is exaggerating and forcing her promotion…】

【Daily Info X: Fan Bingbing, cast as the top beauty in The Seven Fairies, originally felt some pressure, but after arriving on set and surveying the cast, her confidence soared…】

Dance rehearsal room

Hu Siyan, gazing at Fan Xiaopang’s naturally radiant beauty despite no makeup, spoke with envy.

“Bingbing, how do you even grow up so gorgeous?”

Li Lin nodded: “Yeah, your skin and figure are perfect—if I were a man, I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”

Dong Xuan smiled: “I’ve noticed Zhou Yiwei, Gao Xin, and Wu Yue all sneak glances at you—they’re completely smitten.”

Yang Xue added: “What’s your secret for staying so flawless? Share it with us.”

“It’s just natural beauty.”

Jiang Xin sighed: “No wonder General Yan has such good taste—he cast you as the Fifth Fairy. Perfect fit.”

“You’re just teasing me.”

Fan Xiaopang feigned surrender: “I’m not that beautiful—Third Sister (Dong Xuan) is fairer, First Sister (Li Lin) has better poise, Fourth, Sixth, and Seventh (Jiang, Yang, Hu) all have their own advantages. With you all, I feel inferior.”

…

Honestly, Yan Li, combining system intel with watching the seven fairies bond daily—sisterly affection, genuine warmth—was more entertaining than palace intrigue dramas.

Three women make a drama; six women? Full-blown theater!

Zhou Yiwei, Wu Yue, and the others keep trying to get close—once they do, those women will gang up and treat them like fools.

Yan Li, who understood the situation, avoided getting near these women.

He called it avoiding suspicion—giving Dong Xuan face, boosting her dignity, and calming her nerves.

This made Dong Xuan secretly tender and indulgent toward him, giving him whatever he wanted.

Yan Li’s open affection and favoritism toward Dong Xuan also raised his reputation among the other girls—some saw him as an ideal boyfriend.

Some admired him purely; some developed mild affection; others grew more determined to steal him away and replace Dong Xuan.

Of course, some saw through his true nature.

For instance, Fan Xiaopang—who had personally witnessed Yan Li’s two silver locks and stacks of embroidery in Yunnan—held deep prejudice against him; no matter how kind he was to Dong Xuan, Fan Xiaopang suspected it was all a scheming man’s seduction tactic.

But these people’s thoughts meant nothing to Yan Li.

No desire, no weakness!

With Dong Xuan by his side, he had firmly decided not to chase after any crew members during The Seven Fairies—aside from filming, his private interactions were limited to the “Double Bing” publicity stunt; he didn’t care what they thought.

————

Outdoors

Yan Li was hoisted high by wires, flipped midair, eyes icy, spear thrust downward with brutal force.

“Good.”

Chen Yongge called out; Yan Li returned to his normal stance, slowly lowered by the wires—still attached—and immediately shot another scene: rising from the ground with spear in hand.

Mythological and wuxia dramas always require high-flying shots.

Special effects tech was still immature; such scenes could only be filmed practically with wire rigs—often requiring multiple takes, exhausting stamina, and carrying injury risks.

After over an hour on wires, Yan Li finally finished his solo shots, then began hoisting Dong Xuan.

Today’s scene: the Third Fairy steals the spirit stone guarded by Jin Zha, who descends to earth to hunt her; they battle.

As immortals, they fight across heaven and earth.

First shoot solo shots, then synchronized dual shots—though brief, filming was exhausting and tedious.

Dong Xuan’s solo shots were even more complicated than Yan Li’s: Yan Li’s Jin Zha wielded a spear—simple to choreograph with dummy moves.

But Dong Xuan’s Third Fairy used a yellow silk ribbon.

A yellow silk, choreographed like a soft whip, yet as a magical artifact, it could lengthen or shorten, harden or soften, flowing gracefully yet sharply, beautiful yet deadly.

Far harder to film than a spear—required multiple technical aids.

By lunch break, Dong Xuan hadn’t finished; her stamina paled beside Yan Li’s, and exhaustion showed clearly.

His own wife—he felt for her.

Especially after privately checking the pale skin on her waist, now bruised and purple from the harness—he felt sick. He wouldn’t even pull that tight himself.

“I’ll hire a female stunt double.”

Dong Xuan had a stunt double; Yan Li did too—when they couldn’t perform certain moves, the double wore the costume—this was a martial arts double.

But the female double Yan Li meant had broader duties.

For wire work: except for frontal shots requiring Dong Xuan’s face, all side, back, and combat shots could be done by the double—a role double.

“No way—everyone else does it themselves. If I use a double, what will people say?”

Dong Xuan shook her head like a rattle drum. Modern actors weren’t that pampered—they followed rules, preferred doing their own stunts, even took pride in it.

Using a martial double was unavoidable; using a role double smacked of laziness and arrogance.

Especially with The Seven Fairies—so many leads, and those more famous than her still spent hours on wires. If she slacked off with a double, she’d lose face.

Yan Li tried to persuade her a few times, failed—he had to settle for second best.

“Then if you can’t hold on, say so. Rest. Take it slow. No rush.”

Dong Xuan agreed verbally, but never actually stopped filming.

Everyone was pushing hard; she didn’t want to hold them back. Long breaks delayed progress, wasted time.

Yan Li had no choice—after wrap, he had someone buy ointment, then went to Dong Xuan’s room to rub and massage her.

“Next role, I’ll get you a drama part—save you the suffering.”

Yan Li gently massaged Dong Xuan’s slender waist—he adored her white skin. If any lasting marks remained, it’d be a tragedy.

“It’s just a few bruises—they’ll fade in two days.”

Dong Xuan didn’t mind; when she trained in dance, bruises and bumps were routine.

She actually enjoyed action scenes—wire work was tiring, but flying around was fun, and the final cut looked stunning.

After applying ointment and massage, Yan Li prepared to leave—he feared his rising desire might hurt her further.

But Dong Xuan stopped him: “Stay with me a while.”

“Don’t play with fire.”

Yan Li knew Dong Xuan saw his state—his spear stood tall, fiercer than when he’d chased her as Jin Zha that afternoon.

Dong Xuan blushed: “You’ve been on wires all day—you’re not tired?”

“Of course I’m tired.”

Yan Li said matter-of-factly: “That’s why I need to relax.”

“Your shamelessness keeps growing.”

Dong Xuan teased, yet reached out her small hand—stealing the moment, waiting patiently.

Yan Li watched, recalling university days—soon after they became a couple, he’d tried daily to take her to cheap motels, but she remained reserved.

Eventually, after relentless coaxing, in a small grove near Beijing Film Academy, she half-relented, half-gave in.

After that, their relationship surged forward—in barely half a month, Yan Li had lured her into a motel near campus.

Recalling it, Yan Li couldn’t help feeling smug.

He still remembered once, returning to campus with Dong Xuan in the morning, encountering one of her male classmates—the heartbroken look on his face.

“By the way, what was that guy’s name?”

“Chen Yilin. Speaking of him—he was a discharged PLA soldier who got into school. I worried he’d beat you up.”

Now looking back, Dong Xuan understood why none of her male classmates liked Yan Li.

Sometimes he was truly annoying—always provoking and showing off to the guys who liked her. He escaped a beating only because he was tall, strong, and had many friends.

After much effort, Dong Xuan’s hand ached—Yan Li finally sheathed his spear.

They cuddled on the sofa, chatting about the set—mostly Dong Xuan spoke, Yan Li listened.

Though Yan Li had the info system, he didn’t know everything—and hearing Dong Xuan retell the fairies’ stories from her own perspective added unique flavor.

After chatting a while, Dong Xuan remembered something, turned on the TV, and switched to Hunan TV.

“Why are you watching TV?”

“The ‘My Fair Princess 3’ is on air—lots of people in the group are watching it.”

Their production team still had several connections to ‘My Fair Princess 3.’

For example, Fan Xiaopang had previously acted in the first two installments, and Huang Yi’s breakthrough role in ‘Wedded to the Right Man After a Wrong Match’ was co-starring with Li Lin, who rose to fame alongside her.

Liu Tao, who appeared in ‘My Fair Princess 3,’ had previously played A Zhu in ‘Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils’ and was also acquainted with Jiang Xin.

Moreover, this drama is currently extremely popular, dominating the number-one spot for January 2004, even overshadowing CCTV’s New Year blockbuster.

As a result, many people on the set started binge-watching it.

Those with TVs watched in their own rooms; those without went to others’ rooms to borrow the TV. In their spare time, nearly everyone discussed the plot.

“Alright, watch it yourself—I don’t like this drama. I’m going back to sleep.”

When Yan Li heard Dong Xuan mention ‘My Fair Princess 3,’ he felt uneasy and tried to slip away, but Dong Xuan grabbed him.

“It’s still early—just watch a bit with me.”

Dong Xuan thought watching alone was boring; having someone there made it easier to discuss the plot. She insisted Yan Li join her, and he had no choice but to comply.

Then they saw Qin Lan’s familiar face—soft and innocent as she pleaded with the Fifth Prince and Xiao Yanzi, then turned around to stab them in the back before the Empress Dowager.

Tsk tsk~

Yan Li knew Qin Lan played Zhihua, the villain in ‘My Fair Princess 3,’ and had heard some plot details from her.

But witnessing Zhihua’s outwardly understanding demeanor masking her ruthless schemes—tricking Xiao Yanzi into silent suffering and sowing discord with the Fifth Prince—still made him sigh.

Playing it like this? She’s going to get roasted!

Sure enough, Dong Xuan, fully immersed in the drama, launched a sharp critique of Zhihua.

“Zhihua is so evil—worse than the previous Empress! Constantly stirring up trouble behind the scenes. If I were Xiao Yanzi, I’d tear her mouth apart—see how she dares to pretend anymore.”

“...”

Yan Li stayed silent, picked up his water cup, and took a tactical sip.

Dong Xuan didn’t let him off the hook: “Watch more carefully—so you don’t get tricked by some scheming woman.”

Yan Li nodded vaguely: “Mm.”

After the episode ended and the commercial break began, Dong Xuan calmed down slightly and shifted her attention elsewhere.

“Ziwei and Xiao Yanzi aren’t as pretty as the original actresses. Qing’er is still better. This actress playing Zhihua is quite beautiful and acts well—I’ve never heard of her before.”

Yan Li replied offhandedly: “Probably a newcomer.”

“I think so too.”

Dong Xuan felt a pang of regret: “If only I’d known her earlier—I could’ve gotten her to join our cast. With ‘My Fair Princess 3’ this popular, her fame would’ve skyrocketed—and our production would’ve benefited.”

Yan Li: “...”

Whether they’d profit or not was debatable, but if Qin Lan really joined the ‘Seven Fairies’ production, the drama wouldn’t be about scheming—it’d be like a meteor colliding with Earth...

————

‘My Fair Princess 3’ was indeed wildly popular, sparking a binge-watching trend even within the ‘Seven Fairies’ production team.

Dong Xuan watched whenever she had time; many other actors also followed it and chatted about it during breaks.

Fan Xiaopang, who had appeared in ‘My Fair Princess,’ never joined their discussions.

This situation in the ‘Seven Fairies’ team was merely a microcosm of ‘My Fair Princess 3’’s nationwide craze—the drama had swept the entire country.

According to media reports, in Hunan Province, ‘My Fair Princess 3’ achieved a viewership rating of 15.9% and a market share of 33.4%; in the provincial capital, Xingcheng, the rating reached 11.9% with a market share as high as 28.15%.

Nationally, the average viewership exceeded 10%, peaking at 19.2%, with a market share peak of 41%.

In fact, before its satellite broadcast, ‘My Fair Princess 3’ had performed modestly on local channels, repeatedly facing cold reception and heavy criticism over its controversial plot.

Many media outlets even predicted its downfall, claiming the ‘My Fair Princess’ series would suffer an unprecedented Waterloo.

Strictly speaking, that wasn’t entirely wrong.

Even with its strong satellite performance, it still fell far short of the super-phenomenal popularity of the first two installments.

But the key was the accumulated legacy—the ‘My Fair Princess’ franchise had immense influence.

So even though most of the leads had changed, the plot quality had declined, controversies had multiplied, viewership had suffered a ‘Waterloo,’ and a host of negative factors weighed it down...

‘My Fair Princess 3’ still dominated the TV drama market by riding on its past glory, leaving no rival in its path.

As the drama surged in popularity, so did its leads.

Huang Yi, who played Xiao Yanzi, was widely criticized for not matching the original actress, yet her fame and exposure skyrocketed, propelling her to the status of a top rising star.

Ma Yi and Huang Yi were in similar situations, though not as popular as Huang Yi, she still gained recognition.

As the central villain Zhihua, Qin Lan also rose to fame.

According to Qin Lan’s phone calls to Yan Li, she was frequently recognized by passersby and viewers these days—only wearing a mask helped somewhat.

Though famous, Qin Lan had her own troubles: Zhihua was deeply hated.

Many viewers clenched their teeth at the mention of the character; online, she was constantly attacked, and the criticism even spilled over to Qin Lan herself—personal insults, real-life encounters where older women earnestly lectured her on how to be a good person.

This was one reason many actors now avoided villain roles.

A significant portion of the audience genuinely couldn’t distinguish acting from reality. If you played a villain too well, it could disrupt your real life.

Take the example of Rong Jiaomiao from ‘My Fair Princess’—because her performance was so convincing, people chased her down in the market to yell at her.

Qin Lan’s Zhihua had, in a way, replaced Rong Jiaomiao’s role from the first two installments—equally brilliant, equally despised.

Actors are human, and Qin Lan was a novice with little experience and an immature mindset.

With the internet just beginning to spread, few had experienced mass online attacks before—facing it suddenly, the psychological pressure was immense.

When Qin Lan called Yan Li, she only subtly hinted at her grievances and complaints, as if it weren’t a big deal.

But Yan Li, through his system, learned she had cried privately multiple times after reading the hateful comments online, and further traumatized by strangers confronting her with lectures, she had even reached the point of refusing to leave home.

Yan Li understood Qin Lan well.

Though she appeared bold and cheerful, inwardly she was soft and sensitive, hence she was forgiving and considerate of others’ feelings.

In short, Qin Lan was outwardly strong but inwardly fragile.

In contrast, Dong Xuan appeared gentle, seemingly naive and easygoing.

But in truth, she was outwardly soft but inwardly tough, with strong mental resilience and the courage to stand firm in critical moments.

So if Dong Xuan faced this, Yan Li wouldn’t worry much—but Qin Lan? He truly couldn’t help but be concerned.

Beijing, Guanghua Li

Qin Lan slumped listlessly on the sofa, listening to her agent Lü Jie drone on about a new script she’d lined up.

After half of it, Qin Lan couldn’t help asking: “Why is this role another villain like Zhihua?”

“It means you played it well—people think of you when they see this kind of character.”

Qin Lan: “...”

It was meant as praise, but it felt like an insult!

Still, actors—especially newcomers—tend to be typecast after a breakout role; industry perceptions lock them into similar characters, making typecasting inevitable.

Hence the proliferation of “villain specialists,” “soldier specialists,” “emperor specialists,” “police specialists,” “mother-in-law specialists,” “collaborator specialists,” and so on.

There’s no choice: non-famous actors without connections have no leverage. To eat, they must take any role offered.

The more they take such roles, the deeper the stereotype becomes, and fewer other roles come their way—so they’re stuck on one path.

Qin Lan entered acting mid-career and didn’t have lofty ambitions in the industry, so she didn’t mind playing similar roles.

But she truly despised Zhihua-type characters—any mention of “third party,” “scheming woman,” made her shake her head.

“I won’t take it.”

“You won’t take it again?”

Lü Jie grew anxious—Qin Lan had been obedient before, but since the SARS outbreak, she’d started rejecting scripts.

After SARS, the industry slowed down; fewer productions launched, and suitable roles were scarce. Plus, Qin Lan had to promote ‘My Fair Princess 3,’ which was vital, so Lü Jie let it slide.

Now that Qin Lan had finally become famous thanks to ‘My Fair Princess 3,’ this was the perfect time to climb higher—but she was still acting the same way.

“Miss Qin, if you don’t take roles, what will you eat? The company won’t be happy either. Do you think Prince Charming will ride a rainbow cloud to rescue you from your misery?”

Lü Jie glanced at the TV, where ‘A Chinese Odyssey’ was playing, and her tone turned slightly sarcastic.

When she came to Guanghua Li today and saw the apartment’s setup, she guessed Qin Lan was in love.

Lü Jie had suspected this before, but when she asked, Qin Lan flatly denied it.

Lü Jie couldn’t monitor her constantly—bluntly exposing it would damage their relationship. Besides, Qin Lan wasn’t famous yet, so no one paid attention. She chose to look the other way.

The company was the company; the agent was the agent.

Some agents always sided with the company, prioritizing corporate interests.

Others prioritized the artist, even breaking company rules to support them.

Lü Jie leaned toward the latter—she cared deeply for her artists. Besides, actors dating was common, impossible to control, so as long as no scandal erupted, she rarely interfered.

Of course, Qin Lan was no longer the same—she had fame, and more people were watching.

Lü Jie had come today partly to talk to her.

She didn’t want to break them up, but Qin Lan needed to be discreet and not let romance interfere with work.

But after this interaction, Lü Jie realized she’d been overly optimistic—Qin Lan’s situation was worse than she imagined, bordering on wanting to quit the industry.

Thinking this, Lü Jie suppressed her inner anxiety and spoke patiently.

“Girl, I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve been there—men are unreliable. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Qin Lan felt Lü Jie had misunderstood—she hadn’t thought of quitting, only felt low after being attacked for Zhihua and was especially resistant to similar roles.

But before she could explain, she heard Lü Jie belittling Yan Li—and immediately snapped back.

“Sis, he’s different.”

It's over!

Sister Lü flinched at these words—she’d heard them before from one of her female artists.

She’d dreamed of spending their lives together, growing old side by side, but after he used her to climb the ladder, he dumped her outright and took up with a female producer.

Qin Lan is now exactly like that artist: lost in love, unwilling to shoot films, and next she’ll be helping arrange resources for her man.

“...You have to listen to me. Don’t rely on men, or you’ll regret it.”

Sister Lü pleaded earnestly, but Qin Lan remained unmoved, repeating the same line over and over.

Those men are unreliable, but her man is different.

Sister Lü looked at Qin Lan as if she were an idiot, deciding she’d go pray to the Buddha later—how had she ended up with so many love-struck fools completely consumed by men?

Just then, someone knocked on the door. Qin Lan rose, puzzled, to open it.

Sister Lü sat on the sofa, sighing heavily, pondering how to persuade her again—when she suddenly heard Qin Lan scream.

Thinking something had happened, Sister Lü jumped up to check—and saw Qin Lan flinging herself into a man’s arms, arms wrapped around his neck, legs clasped around his waist, kissing fiercely.

Tsk~

With Qin Lan blocking her view, Sister Lü couldn’t make out his face, but from that broad, muscular frame, she could already guess part of why Qin Lan was so obsessed...

————

PS: Ten-thousand-character update, requesting monthly votes

(End of chapter)