Chapter 17: Zhou Yi Company, Scumbag Villains, and Monthly Intelligence

Hengdian, outskirts

Yan Li, in costume, found a shady spot and held a large fan while watching Nie Yuan and the others film the cavalry charge scene.

Today’s shoot was an exterior scene: Li Rongrong was to be executed, while Qin Qiong and the others stormed the execution ground.

The scene wasn’t long, but with action and crowd shots, it was surprisingly troublesome to film.

For instance, the sequence where Luo Cheng, Shan Xiongxin, and others rode toward the execution ground had to be filmed multiple times.

Any issue with speed, formation disorder, incomplete movements, or camera framing required a retake.

The actors playing Luo Cheng, Cheng Yaojin, and Shan Xiongxin could all ride horses, but only Nie Yuan, as Luo Cheng, could wield weapons and charge at full gallop—the other two used stunt doubles.

Yan Li had always thought his horsemanship was mediocre, but only now, during filming, did he realize he had a real talent for it.

He learned quickly and rode well!

He was now among the top riders on “Heroes of the Sui and Tang,” one of the few actors who didn’t need stunt doubles for horse scenes; once, when the crew lacked doubles, he even masked his face and doubled as one of the Eighteen Riders of Yanyun.

Finally, the charge sequence was finished; the crew reset the set, and Nie Yuan and the other actors got a break.

Nie Yuan walked over, clutching his long spear, snatched Yan Li’s fan, and fanned himself furiously—his face was drenched in sweat, but he dared not wipe it for fear of smudging his makeup.

“This damn weather is unbearably hot.”

“It’s almost July—of course it’s hot.”

Yan Li didn’t mind losing his fan; he simply took a sip from his water cup. After fanning for a while, Nie Yuan finally cooled down enough to make conversation.

“How did your chat with Zhou Yi go the other day?”

“How do you know about that?”

Yan Li froze—he’d previously dined with a producer from Zhou Yi Company through Wang Decai’s connection.

Logically, no one should’ve known—could Nie Yuan have his own intelligence network?

“Hai Bing told me—he knows that producer, and the guy even asked him about you.”

Yan Li suddenly remembered: Hai Bing had starred as Shen Lang in Zhou Yi’s “Wulin Wai Shi”—they must’ve been familiar with each other.

“So, what did Zhou Yi say?”

Nie Yuan pressed, treating Yan Li as a friend and hoping his friend would advance further.

At this stage, Zhou Yi—known for “Wulin Wai Shi” and “Love Through Time”—was a reputable company; if Yan Li could align with them, it would greatly benefit his career.

“It’s complicated.”

Yan Li sighed—he’d wanted to latch onto Zhou Yi, but though the dinner went well, further intelligence revealed the alliance wasn’t as easy as it seemed.

Intelligence showed Zhou Yi had several contracted actors: Yu Bo, Yang Junyi, and recently, Zhang Jin.

These actors were either military veterans or had trained in martial arts since childhood; they weren’t bad-looking and perfectly fit Zhou Yi’s preferred style, earning heavy support from upper management.

Yan Li happened to resemble them in appearance, which was why the producer had taken interest in him.

This company loved actors who were rugged, masculine, and had martial arts backgrounds!

But if Yan Li joined Zhou Yi, internal competition would be fierce—he’d have to fight those guys for resources, and given their powerful backers, it might even involve corporate power struggles.

Yan Li wasn’t afraid of competition—he had confidence in himself, not to mention his system—but he was sick of this backstabbing, scheming lifestyle.

With his system, he didn’t doubt he’d find roles; thus, he had little interest in joining any company.

Especially one like this, where internal competition was fierce and relationships among colleagues were tense and oppressive—he had even less desire to go there.

“Going solo isn’t easy.”

Nie Yuan thought Yan Li was being naive—the film industry wasn’t easy to navigate; without connections or a company, newcomers couldn’t even take a single step forward.

“Let’s see—I might start my own company someday. I hate being micromanaged. Being the boss is far more comfortable.”

Yan Li didn’t argue; he joked instead. Nie Yuan laughed and teased:

“Alright, when I’m broke someday, hope you’ll take me in, Boss Yan.”

“No problem.”

————

Soon after, Nie Yuan was called away to rehearse fight choreography; Yan Li was summoned by the director to film his scene with Li Rongrong.

Tong Lei, in a stained white prison robe, her back bearing a wooden execution placard, her face and hair slightly dirty, a white cloth stuffed in her mouth, knelt on the execution platform.

Yan Li strode up to her, stood before her, and sighed with feigned regret: “What a pity—you were just getting fun, and now you’re to be beheaded.”

He crouched, gripped her chin, and sneered: “I’ll never forget your pitiful, intoxicating cries—they still excite me.”

“If you beg me now, I might let you live a few more nights.”

As he delivered the lines, Yan Li cursed the screenwriter in his mind—could you at least consider an actor’s dignity when writing this crap?

Tong Lei glared at him, spat out the cloth, and hissed:

“Monster.”

Yan Li flew into a rage, stood up, and slapped her hard—Tong Lei cried out and collapsed, the motion dramatic but actually making no contact.

Behind the monitor, director Hu Mingkai frowned and shouted through the megaphone: “Rongrong’s emotion is insufficient—Wen Chengdu, be more cruel. One more take.”

Yan Li gave a thumbs-up, then spoke to Tong Lei: “Your energy’s too strong. Li Rongrong should be weak now—desperate, broken, exhausted. That contrast makes the villain even more vile.”

After being held for days in line for execution, she’d barely have strength to speak.

Just now, she’d shouted like a righteous martyr, ready to leap up and fight Wen Chengdu—it felt completely off.

Tong Lei was still a newcomer, humble in attitude.

Plus, Yan Li had taken care of her these past days—he’d even taken drinks for her—and his acting seemed more mature and thoughtful, so she listened to him.

“Alright, brother, I get it.”

They reshot. Tong Lei’s demeanor was now clearly frail and weak, her entire presence sorrowful and pitiful, making Yan Li’s villainy stand out even more.

After filming this scene, the director was satisfied; Tong Lei was pleased with the praise, but Yan Li felt happiness mixed with melancholy.

Playing Wen Chengdu in this drama—if you do it poorly, you vanish into obscurity; if you do it well, you become universally hated.

Yan Li already imagined how, after the drama aired, countless viewers would point at his screen image and call him a scumbag…

…

After work that night, Nie Yuan invited Yan Li to a street-side grill in Hengdian to drink and watch the World Cup final.

Yan Li was genuinely interested in the match—he’d placed bets on the outcome, and the result would determine whether his train ticket back to Beijing was a seated or sleeper ticket.

At exactly seven p.m., the match began. Brazil defeated Germany 2–0, with Ronaldo scoring twice, claiming their fifth World Cup trophy.

Yan Li was thrilled—he’d won both bets; now he could sleep in a sleeper berth on the train back to Beijing.

He called Qin Lan to tell her the news; she’d placed larger bets and now had enough for an airplane ticket.

Qin Lan was delighted and wanted to come out to meet him, but Yan Li politely declined.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Qin Lan—he had something important to do.

Today was June 30th—not only the World Cup final, but also the end of June, meaning that at midnight, the monthly [Monthly Intelligence] report would be released…

(End of Chapter)