Chapter 2: The Clever Use of Information: Seeking Advantage and Avoiding Harm

Hengdian, Baozi Shop

Yu Yanli, quick to read the room, paid for both their breakfasts before Kou Zhanwen could even move.

Not much money—prices from the early 2000s were low; together, their meals didn’t exceed ten yuan.

Kou Zhanwen certainly wasn’t short of cash, but he greatly enjoyed Yu Yanli’s tact and attentiveness.

Moreover, during their earlier conversation, Yu Yanli kept addressing him as “Master Kou,” which flattered him deeply; his attitude toward Yu Yanli had noticeably warmed, and he even offered a few pieces of advice.

“Director Hu has a decent temper. The producer rarely shows up on set; the on-site and logistics work is mainly handled by the assistant director and the production supervisor. The whole crew is fairly quiet—just keep your distance from those Hong Kong and Taiwan folks; they cause trouble.”

“Thank you for the warning, Master Kou.”

Perhaps because of the daily intelligence system and constant training, Yu Yanli had grown far more sensitive to gathering, analyzing, and judging information.

Even without system intelligence, he could extract useful insights from fragments of others’ conversations.

Kou Zhanwen didn’t say much, but Yu Yanli sensed considerable information in his words.

First, he clarified who truly ran the set of “Heroes of Sui and Tang”—Yu Yanli, having worked on sets in Beijing, knew each crew operated differently.

Take the production supervisor, for example: in some crews, he was a real powerhouse—even the director had to watch his back, and every expense required his approval; in others, he was just a support staff member handling meals and transportation, and even junior staff dared to give him orders.

For a newcomer to a crew, learning the hierarchy right away was definitely a good thing.

Also, Kou Zhanwen’s last remark hinted that the “Heroes of Sui and Tang” set wasn’t particularly peaceful.

It seemed there might be underlying tensions between Hong Kong/Taiwan and mainland actors and crew members.

Yu Yanli was just a minor supporting actor—he dared not get involved in such conflicts, so he’d need to stay alert and retreat quickly if things turned sour.

At the set, Yu Yanli and Kou Zhanwen parted ways; the latter went to makeup, while Yu Yanli had to report to assistant director Wang Decai first.

Wang Decai, assistant director of “Heroes of Sui and Tang,” had handled part of the casting; Yu Yanli’s arrival at this crew was due largely to his intervention.

When he arrived at the agreed spot, Wang Decai hadn’t shown up yet, so Yu Yanli took the chance to help with minor tasks and casually probed for information.

If he could extract intelligence on his own, all the better; if not, he might still trigger the system and get a useful piece of intel.

Idle hands were idle hands—better to swing the stick three times, even if there were no dates on the tree!

While chatting merrily, someone patted Yu Yanli on the shoulder; he turned to see a short, fat man looking up at him, smiling.

“Brother Wang, you’re here.”

“Ahem, in the crew, call me Director Wang.”

Wang Decai was around thirty, slightly overweight, about 1.6 meters tall, with a simple, earnest look—but his sharp, rat-like eyes betrayed his shrewdness beneath the surface.

“Getting used to the set?”

Wang Decai had a good impression of Yu Yanli; the young man suited his taste, which was why he’d helped him get into the crew.

Yu Yanli was deeply grateful: “Thanks to your care, you even got me a private room.”

“Pfft, small thing.”

After some small talk, Wang Decai was about to take Yu Yanli to meet the director when his phone rang—it seemed there was a problem with equipment and he needed to check it.

Yu Yanli was quick to respond: “Go ahead, I’m not in a hurry.”

Previous intelligence indicated that Director Hu Mingkai had been in bad spirits yesterday due to illness; Yu Yanli had just been worrying that meeting him now might land him in trouble.

Now, perfect—he could play along, delay a bit, and maybe the director’s mood would improve by then.

“Alright.”

Perhaps the issue was urgent; Wang Decai didn’t hesitate. After a moment’s thought, he added: “Fine, don’t just stand around—go to makeup, get your look done. That way, the director can see your appearance right away. I’ll find you after I’m done.”

“Got it, you go ahead.”

This would help his meeting with the director, so Yu Yanli gladly agreed without complaint.

They parted. Yu Yanli asked someone for directions and headed to the makeup room—it wasn’t far, and he arrived quickly. He opened the door and saw only a few people inside.

That was normal: the morning shoot crew had started makeup as early as four or five a.m.; the peak time had passed. Those still in makeup now were actors with calls after ten a.m. or in the afternoon.

Yu Yanli glanced around and spotted a few idle makeup artists eating or reading magazines.

He remembered the morning intelligence about two makeup artists feuding over a man—better to steer clear.

As a newcomer, he didn’t dare ask names outright; he couldn’t tell which was Shasha and which was Wang Xiu. To be safe, he walked over to the only idle male makeup artist and explained his situation.

Upon hearing Wang Decai’s name, the male makeup artist sized Yu Yanli up.

“Alright, sit down.”

Yu Yanli took an empty seat. The makeup artist was professional—he didn’t rush to apply makeup but asked about Yu Yanli’s previous preferred styles, wanting to highlight his strengths.

As they conversed, a female makeup artist passed by them.

Facing the mirror, Yu Yanli clearly saw her deliberately bump into him—but before his makeup artist could speak, she turned the blame on him.

“Are you blind? Can’t you see I’m walking past?”

The male makeup artist blinked, then shot back: “You’re not just blind—you’re lame too. Walking into me on purpose? Looking for trouble.”

“You bastard, who are you calling?”

“You stinking hag—I’m calling you.”

They hurled insults back and forth, then started shoving each other. Yu Yanli quickly joined others to pull them apart, silently frowning.

Is the makeup team this chaotic? Fighting every day?!

Soon, a makeup team supervisor arrived and took the two quarreling staff away. Yu Yanli was assigned a new makeup artist.

Unable to resist, Yu Yanli asked: “Teacher, does your team have someone named Wang Xiu?”

The makeup artist gave him a strange look: “The one who just did your makeup was Wang Xiu.”

Yu Yanli: “…”

This damn system still had flaws—it showed names but no photos or gender labels.

How was he supposed to know Wang Xiu, the one feuding with Shasha, was a man?

And worst of all, the guy had a little beard—light stubble—and looked more manly than he did…

About an hour later, after makeup and costume were done, Yu Yanli contacted Wang Decai and headed to their meeting spot.

Just as he stepped out of the makeup room, he ran into Wang Xiu, who had just finished resolving the issue and was in a chatty mood.

“You look sharp, handsome. Sorry earlier—I’ll do your makeup next time.”

“No problem, thanks, sis… uh, bro.”

Yu Yanli was still young and inexperienced; he didn’t dare chat too long with this person, laughed awkwardly, and hurried off.

…

About ten minutes later, under Wang Decai’s introduction, Yu Yanli met Hu Mingkai, director of “Heroes of Sui and Tang.”

Director Hu was now considered a respected name in the industry, best known for the hit drama “Young Bao Qingtian” from two years ago.

Yu Yanli’s strategy of avoiding trouble was still sound.

According to Wang Decai, Hu Mingkai had scolded the crew team when he first arrived; if Yu Yanli and the others had shown up then, they might’ve been caught in the crossfire.

Now, perhaps he’d vented his anger or felt better physically, his mood wasn’t terrible—just not great. Otherwise, Wang Decai wouldn’t have dared bring Yu Yanli over.

“Director, this is the actor playing Yuwen Chengdu—Yu Yanli.”

Wang Decai stepped forward with a bright smile. Hu Mingkai wore thick-framed glasses and looked unremarkable.

The kid looks good!

Thick eyebrows, large eyes, sharp features, a rugged face, a masculine aura—clearly full of manliness.

Even more rare: not only was he handsome, he was tall—at least 1.8 meters—with a strong, athletic build: broad shoulders, narrow waist, powerful legs, muscular yet agile, with clean, defined lines—a perfect body for costumes.

Now dressed as an ancient general, perhaps the makeup artist thought Yu Yanli looked too young and youthful, so he added a short beard. The whole look radiated toughness, efficiency, bravery, and strength—he clearly wasn’t an ordinary man.

Hu Mingkai felt a pang of regret inside—he’d seen this actor too late. Such a talent was wasted on a villainous role like Yuwen Chengdu.

But there was no choice: other major roles were already cast or filled; replacing actors now was impossible.

There were still some minor roles open, but those were worse than playing Yuwen Chengdu.

He flipped casually through Yu Yanli’s resume, then looked up, slightly surprised.

“Beijing Film Academy? And you trained in martial arts?”

Yu Yanli explained: “I attended a local martial arts school back home, then got into the vocational class at Beijing Film Academy.”

“What styles do you know?”

Hu Mingkai grew interested—he was a Hong Kong director who’d made the “Wong Fei-hung” series and had a soft spot for martial artists.

As for whether he was from Beijing Film Academy’s vocational or undergraduate program, he didn’t care or understand.

“I know the basics—mainly trained in Sanda, wrestling is fine too. I’m best with weapons: spear and broadsword.”

Yu Yanli didn’t exaggerate. While it helped to embellish a resume during auditions, Yuwen Chengdu had fight scenes.

If he blew it and the director assigned him a high-difficulty fight sequence, losing face wasn’t the worst—losing the role would be disastrous.

Also, Wang Decai had warned him: Hu Mingkai was old-school, disliked flashy or arrogant people, and preferred quiet, humble behavior.

So since meeting the director, Yu Yanli had remained humble and reserved, speaking as modestly as possible.

Besides, truthfully, Yu Yanli wasn’t much of a martial artist.

His martial arts school was a small local one, with no famous masters and mediocre skill level—and he’d only studied for a few years.

So he never really thought of himself as a martial artist; if his resume hadn’t listed martial arts training as a plus, he wouldn’t have mentioned it at all.

Fortunately, Hu Mingkai didn’t care how skilled he was: “Can you handle fight scenes?”

“Yes.”

Yu Yanli was confident about this. At Beijing Film Academy, his teachers had recognized his martial arts background as an advantage and encouraged him to revive his training—so he’d practiced consistently for the past two years.

Later, while auditioning in Beijing, he’d watched many fight scenes being filmed and even worked as a stunt double—he was confident he could handle normal fight sequences.

“Then stay and give it a try. Ask Old Wang for details.”

Hu Mingkai didn’t ask him to perform a scene or demonstrate any routines—he asked two questions and made the decision on the spot.

Don’t think it’s exaggerated—back in the early 2000s, the film and TV industry was still in a wild growth phase, with few rules or formalities.

If the director likes you and says you can do it, you can do it!

There are plenty of amateurs who can’t act but still fill roles; Yan Li, at least, is a trained actor, and back then, the Beijing Film Academy’s reputation still carried real weight.

Besides, Wang Decai’s face is in this—he brought you to the director, and the director won’t easily turn you down.

If you’re truly beyond help, then the director just misjudged you—swap you out for another actor; it’s just a supporting role.

Hengdian lacks everything, but never lacks actors ready to fill roles…

(End of Chapter)