Chapter 128: Three Principles: Loyalty, Loyalty, and Damn It, Loyalty!

Yan Li’s personal, embodied comfort still had a strong effect; Qin Lan’s mood improved considerably.

Being scolded means you acted well—you should be proud!

Filming was still ongoing in Jiangsu Province; Yan Li couldn’t stay long, so after spending two days with her, he left Beijing and returned to his hometown.

Spring Festival was coming soon, and the crew had a pile of tasks—Yan Li, as producer, was the boss and couldn’t abandon everyone to go home for the holiday.

So he could only squeeze in a day or two to visit his parents, then wait until filming wrapped up.

Before this, during calls with his parents, he’d learned that their restaurant’s business had boomed thanks to the braised meat.

But seeing the actual scene at his family’s restaurant upon returning home still surprised him.

It was barely four in the afternoon—theoretically the quietest time for a restaurant—yet nearly every table was full.

Zhang Hong, seeing her son’s astonishment, explained to Yan Li: they only made so much braised meat each day; sales started in the morning and were usually gone by evening, so those arriving at dinner might not get any.

This was only because they imposed limits—each table couldn’t buy too much—or they’d run out by afternoon.

“Then why limit it? Just sell wholesale.”

Yan Li thought his parents worked too hard from dawn to dusk, serving customers—just wholesale the braised meat, sell it out, then close up.

“Your dad loves running a restaurant; braised meat is the specialty, and there are plenty of regulars who come for the other dishes too.”

“As long as the braised meat’s well-braised, slicing and seasoning it’s no trouble—they eat the braised meat here, add a few other dishes and drinks, and we make more profit.”

“The limit is mainly to avoid conflict—some buying too much, others getting none. We’re neighbors, kinfolk—we have to look out for each other.”

“….”

Yan Li understood: he thought his parents were tired and wholesale would be easier; they thought being tired was fine, as long as they earned more.

As for why they didn’t expand production or open branches to earn even more—

It was due to too many concerns: too busy, market saturation, high risk—they dared not try.

In short, Yan Li’s parents were rural small-restaurant owners with limited vision and courage.

To them, if business was good, they’d just work harder, run the shop honestly, and earn a little more within their understanding—that was enough.

Yan Li thought about it, and didn’t try to persuade them.

His parents were nearly fifty, had run that small restaurant for years, had little education—this mindset was fixed; no need to force change.

If they truly expanded—opened branches or a processing plant—they’d be anxious, sleepless, and end up making things worse.

He, as the son, would handle the earning; his parents just keeping the shop, having something to do daily—that was fine.

Of course, the small restaurant was exhausting; Yan Li planned to convince his parents to hire more staff to ease their burden.

Otherwise, if they got sick from overwork, who’d help raise the grandchildren later?

Yan Li, who knew his parents’ nature well, knew other arguments were useless—this one worked: Zhang Hong and Old Yan, no matter how frugal or neglectful of their health, would move heaven and earth at the mention of grandchildren.

Learning her son would leave in just a couple days, Zhang Hong made the bold decision to close for one day.

This was rare—restaurants are a grind; closing a day risks losing customers, so unless it was New Year or terrible weather, Yan Li’s family never closed.

Now they closed for Yan Li—not just because they valued him, but because the braised meat was so good they had no shortage of repeat customers, and could afford to be Renxing .

After closing up and eating dinner with his parents, Yan Li started calling people the next day.

This trip home, besides visiting his parents, he also wanted to bring some people back to the crew.

As he’d said before, film crews were complex, with many hidden rules.

Yan Li was young, lacked industry clout; even if he understood the work and had authority on set, some people still didn’t take him seriously.

They wouldn’t openly defy him, but they’d half-ass things or pull small tricks.

Of course, if Yan Li wanted, with his status and position, he could easily dismantle and co-opt them, then kick out the troublemakers.

But this incident taught Yan Li a lesson.

Power flows upward—being isolated doesn’t work, especially in a crew full of Jianghu spirit: just a dozen strong young men standing there, no need for him to speak a word—no one would dare ignore him.

Also, Yan Li now had some money and cared more about safety.

Crime was rampant; criminals targeted the wealthy—robberies, theft, kidnappings, and so on; bringing a few men along made him look tougher when traveling.

Last year, Yan Li had started researching this, made some contacts and selections, and had already called ahead.

So when Yan Li left his hometown, he took nineteen young men with him—all physically strong, so much so that airport police questioned them twice.

These nineteen young men included Yan Li’s relatives, childhood friends, classmates, and acquaintances.

Among them, a few were worth mentioning.

Yan Xin, Yan Li’s cousin, twenty-one, had just returned from mandatory military service this autumn; originally working at a factory in Dao City with his classmates, now he came to join his cousin.

Yan Li’s father’s generation had three brothers, named after [Sea River River]; Yan Li’s generation had four brothers, named after the Confucian virtues [Benevolence, Righteousness, Propriety, Wisdom, Faithfulness].

But “Yan Ren” was too ambiguous, so the eldest cousin was named Yan Yi, Yan Li was second, Yan Zhi third, and Yan Xin the youngest.

The four cousins were close in age, grew up playing together, and had strong bonds.

When Yan Li returned home to “recruit soldiers,” his first thought was his cousins.

But the eldest cousin, Yan Yi, was married with young children; now he and Yan Li’s uncle ran a trucking business together, taking turns driving—life was good, and he couldn’t abandon family and business to follow Yan Li.

The third cousin, Yan Zhi, was the only one in the Yan family with a bachelor’s degree—and he studied medicine.

He was currently attending university in Quancheng, reportedly preparing for graduate school; Yan Li couldn’t ask his cousin to drop out and join his crew—his uncle and aunt would kill him.

So only Yan Xin, the unremarkable cousin with no burdens, eagerly followed Yan Li to seek his fortune.

Besides Yan Xin, the other person Yan Li trusted most was Wu Maowen.

He was Yan Li’s childhood friend from the same village; they’d played together since pissing in the mud, through preschool, elementary, and middle school—nearly inseparable—until Wu Maowen dropped out of middle school to work, when they saw less of each other, but remained best brothers.

Whenever Yan Li was away, his parents relied on Wu Maowen to run errands and help out.

So their bond was extremely strong; last year Yan Li had wanted Wu Maowen to join him, but Wu’s father had been ill and needed care.

Now his father’s health had improved, and after spending heavily on treatment, Wu decided to follow Yan Li for work.

Wu Maowen was reserved, steady, quiet, and deeply loyal; Yan Li planned to make him his driver.

Also, there were the brothers Tian Yuan and Tian Ye—Yan Li’s classmates from martial arts school.

The elder was simple and honest, but exceptionally tough; the younger was sharp and clever, with a ruthless streak; back in martial arts school, among Yan Li’s little group, they were the vanguard and strategist.

Both had no steady jobs back home and just wandered the streets.

Yan Li recruited them because he knew them well, and knew they were fearless and willing to fight.

These days, doing business required a few rough types—if everyone was law-abiding, you’d get bullied.

The rest were unremarkable; Yan Li would assign them later, following three principles—

Loyalty, loyalty, and damn it, loyalty!

There were plenty of outsiders, but these guys hadn’t made it back home, were mediocre in ability; Yan Li didn’t expect them to help much—he just needed them to obey, to do whatever he said, and stay firmly by his side.

…

Yan Li brought this group back to the crew, causing some commotion.

As Yan Li said, twenty-plus strong young men standing there carried serious weight.

Yan Li didn’t let them just eat for free—crew work, logistics, or background roles, anything was fine, as long as they weren’t idle; besides the crew’s pay, he’d give them extra subsidies.

“Bro, all these people answer to you?”

Compared to the crew’s commotion, Yan Xin and the others were even more stunned.

They knew Yan Li was doing well—he’d said he ran a business and had a crew.

But hearing was one thing; seeing a crew of hundreds, bustling with operations they didn’t understand, people bowing and greeting Yan Li respectfully—this group stared at him with shock, confusion, excitement, and a touch of unfamiliarity.

Was this really the mischievous, troublemaking Yan Li they knew?!

“Ahem.”

Yan Li squinted, slowly pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled a slow puff.

“Relax now? Work hard—I’ll get each of you a house and a wife.”

“Yeah yeah yeah.”

Everyone nodded excitedly, surrounding Yan Li with questions; he answered patiently.

Wealth without returning home is like wearing brocade in the dark!

Similarly, showing these childhood friends his achievements and feeling their awe and admiration brought him great joy—Yan Li was a common man, and thoroughly enjoyed this pleasure.

“Hey bro, isn’t that Fan Bingbing?”

“That woman in green looks familiar—I’ve seen her on TV.”

“Is that Goddess Dragon next to her? She’s my favorite!”

Yan Li glanced at the young man pointing at Dong Xuan, and patted his shoulder.

“Pick someone else to like—she’s your sister-in-law.”

“Huh?”

Meanwhile, Dong Xuan and the others had noticed Yan Li’s group; Yan Li waved, and Dong Xuan walked over herself; he introduced them.

“This is Yan Xin, my cousin; Wu Maowen, my closest brother; Tian Yuan, Tian Ye…”

Dong Xuan brushed her hair back and said gently: “Now we’re family; traveling far is hard—anything you need, talk to your brother or me.”

“Alright, go back—I’ll take them out to eat and get them settled.”

“Mm, drink less alcohol.”

Dong Xuan understood Yan Li’s nature—she was obedient and virtuous, gave him full face, leaving Yan Xin and the others utterly stunned.

That was a TV star—acting like a meek wife in front of Yan Li—the impact was huge.

Yan Li felt it was enough; too much more and they wouldn’t sleep tonight. He invited Lin Jiachuan, Zhou Yiwei, and a few crew members who always followed him, to go out for dinner.

All were insiders; they needed to sync up and help each other later.

Between drinking and joking, he painted many pies—and gained full loyalty.

They were all young men in their early twenties, full of brotherhood but lacking experience.

A longtime older brother who grew up with you brought you out from your hometown, treated you to good food and drink, arranged a job for you, and promised to help you make money and settle down in the big city—those feelings made you want to sell your soul to him…

————

After returning to the set of “Happy Seven Fairies” for two days, the people he brought along had mostly found positions.

Besides Lin Jiachuan, he now had another quiet man, Wu Maowen.

Aside from Dong Xuan, his bedmate, the other actors paid little attention; they cared more about how to spend the New Year.

During the Spring Festival, the crew did not take a break, and neither did the actors nor staff leave the set.

This was already commonplace in the film and television industry; anyone who hadn’t spent a New Year on set wasn’t considered a true insider.

But there were customs to observing the New Year—crew benefits or short holidays were topics everyone cared about.

Yan Li also took this seriously.

During the New Year, everyone was far from home, still grinding away at work; if not handled well, morale would crumble, shooting would suffer, and while poor progress and quality were minor issues, any major mishap could be disastrous.

There were precedents for this in the industry!

If the crew mistreated people or failed to address emotional tensions, internal resentment would build up.

Actors and crew would strike, sabotage equipment and props, fight, spark conflicts—light cases halted production; severe ones could kill the entire project.

So after discussing with Wang Decai and others, they decided not to be stingy.

Yan Li gritted his teeth, scraped together some funds specifically for Spring Festival benefits and bonuses, and granted two days off on New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.

Don’t complain it’s little—most sets operated this way; very few offered more than three days off, and some still worked on New Year’s Day.

One set staying at the same hotel as “Happy Seven Fairies” did exactly that.

They didn’t stop work a single day, only ending slightly earlier on New Year’s Eve to allow time for reunion dinner and the Spring Festival Gala.

Originally, many on the “Happy Seven Fairies” crew complained about the short holiday, but after hearing about the neighboring set’s treatment, their attitude instantly balanced out.

Yan Li, being cunning, learned of this and began using his intelligence network to gather information on the Spring Festival plans of several other sets.

Then, leveraging his strengths to exploit others’ weaknesses, he arranged for his people to spread rumors: comparing dishes with Set A, bonuses with Set B, holidays with Set C.

Instantly, the entire “Happy Seven Fairies” crew was filled with joy, and Yan Li became the benevolent boss, praised by everyone.

January 21, 2004, New Year’s Eve

Yan Li not only ordered a reunion dinner from the hotel, but cooked himself—a pot of braised meat that was immediately snatched up.

Fan Xiaopang gnawed on a pig’s trotter, staring at Yan Li in amazement: “Didn’t know you were such a good cook.”

“You’ve got no idea what else I can do.”

Yan Li frowned at Fan Xiaopang: “Eat less. I swear you’ve gained weight since joining the crew.”

“Nonsense.”

Fan Xiaopang nearly jumped up: “How could I get fat? I never gain weight no matter what I eat.”

Even so, his chewing slowed, hesitating, unwilling to stop but unable to resist the taste, glaring at Yan Li with bitter resentment.

“Celebrating the New Year and you’re just making everyone miserable.”

Yan Li ignored her, picked up two pieces of meat, and gave them to Dong Xuan: “Rarely braised this way—eat more.”

Fan Xiaopang’s eyes widened slightly: “Aren’t you afraid she’ll get fat too?”

“I don’t care.”

Fan Xiaopang was a hired actor; for the sake of the show’s quality, Yan Li had to monitor his physique.

Dong Xuan was his girlfriend—whether she gained or lost weight didn’t matter; Yan Li was this “strictly professional.”

Seeing Fan Xiaopang humiliated, those at the table like Hu Siyan and Pan Yueming snickered, but Yan Li scolded them too.

Actors have low body baselines; even a few extra pounds show clearly, so during the New Year, they absolutely couldn’t overeat.

Still, aside from Jiang Xin and Wu Yue, who had special circumstances and could only watch longingly, everyone else ate plenty—even fighting over the last bites.

Because of Yan Li’s “blow,” Fan Xiaopang felt guilty and ate less.

Afterwards, he regretted it, pushing Yan Li to braise more meat the next day, and got support from others.

But Yan Li refused. He cooked because he felt like it during the holiday, not to be turned into a chef.

Seeing Yan Li ignore them, the greedy Fan Xiaopang and Hu Siyan teamed up to ask Dong Xuan to plead for them; Jiang Xin couldn’t help but join in.

She’d nearly drooled watching the food, so desperately hoped Yan Li would braise a separate pot of beef or chicken just for them.

“Asking me won’t help.”

Dong Xuan cruelly revealed the truth: “Go ask Yiw ei and the others—Yan Li doesn’t cook once every few months. If he doesn’t want to, even if you prepare the ingredients and meat, he won’t lift a finger.”

As she spoke, Dong Xuan showed a hint of pity: “I suspect today he deliberately set a trap—to let you taste the sweetness, then keep you craving it forever.”

In the end, you’d beg him, only to be manipulated by threats and bribes…

That was Dong Xuan’s routine—these people probably suffered worse, never even getting the chance to be manipulated, only imagining it in memory.

“That’s so cruel?”

Fan Xiaopang muttered under her breath, glanced at Yan Li again, and nodded—yes, that’s exactly the kind of bastard he was.

“What?”

Yan Li was far away, noticed her suddenly looking at him, and asked. Fan Xiaopang smiled politely.

“Complimenting you on how kind-hearted you are.”

“Insulting me?”

Yan Li knew his own worth—praise him for being generous, sharp, or skilled at handling people, fine.

But praising him as “kind-hearted,” especially from Fan Xiaopang’s mouth? Nine times out of ten, it was sarcasm.

Fan Xiaopang: “...”

That’s exactly how he was—she described him perfectly!

After finishing the reunion dinner in the dining room, everyone returned to their rooms to watch the Spring Festival Gala.

Yan Li called Dong Xuan, Lin Jiachuan, Zhou Yiwei, Yan Xin, and others to his room—he had the largest room and biggest TV.

Then Dong Xuan, feeling it was all guys, invited Yang Xue and Jiang Xin, who were close to her; they in turn told their friends.

Thus, one told ten, ten told a hundred.

Eventually, over twenty people crammed into Yan Li’s room, eating, drinking, playing—making Yan Li deeply annoyed, deciding he’d sleep in Dong Xuan’s room instead.

He’d planned to calmly watch the Gala and enjoy the festive mood, but as soon as it started, his phone never stopped ringing—calls every few minutes.

By midnight, his fully charged phone had dropped to one-third battery.

At midnight, everyone exchanged New Year greetings; some went downstairs to set off firecrackers.

Yan Li handed out red envelopes he’d prepared himself—separate from the crew’s bonuses.

Fan Xiaopang, shameless, took two, then saw Dong Xuan had none, and urged her to ask for a bigger one.

Dong Xuan smiled shyly: “No need—I already got mine.”

When Yan Li returned to the set, he’d brought her a New Year gift; this was the Year of the Monkey, and he’d had a solid gold monkey crafted, the size of an egg, weighing about 1000 grams.

【Annual Intelligence X: China’s 20-Year Average Gold Price… 2004: 85 RMB/gram… 2013: 289 RMB/gram… 2020: 373 RMB/gram… 2020 peak price for gold jewelry exceeded 600 RMB/gram…】

Ever since seeing this annual intelligence, Yan Li had become especially fond of giving gold as gifts, especially to his women.

Valuable, beautiful, and held its worth!

Gold necklaces, rings, and bracelets had low weight, so solid ornaments were more cost-effective.

Give a gold monkey for the Year of the Monkey, a gold rooster for the Year of the Rooster, a gold dog for the Year of the Dog; if it’s Valentine’s Day or a birthday and you’re stuck, just make a solid gold heart—symbolizing heavy, lasting love.

“I actually prefer silver or diamonds—elegant. Gold always feels a bit vulgar, but since he insists on giving it, I just accept it.”

Hearing Dong Xuan’s words—pretending to complain while showing off—Fan Xiaopang’s newly acquired red envelopes suddenly lost their charm.

This bastard might be a playboy, but he really spent money!

Buying gold from a store cost more than the average price; two catties of gold alone would cost over 100,000 RMB.

For “Happy Seven Fairies,” she’d worked hard for months, earning 450,000 RMB in salary.

After taxes, studio cuts, and her own expenses, what remained in her pocket might not even buy two gold monkeys.

No envy, no envy—men can’t be trusted!

If I want gold, I’ll buy it myself—however much I want.

Fan Xiaopang forced herself into psychological balance, recalling the two silver locks and pile of embroidery she’d seen in Yunnan, gradually regaining calm.

Money mattered, but dignity and pride mattered more!

At that moment, Yan Li held up one last red envelope: “Last one—who wants it?”

“Me.”

Fan Xiaopang raised her hand extremely high…

(End of Chapter)