Chapter 263: Two Portrayals of King Zhou, Then a New General Recruited

The Fengshen Bang 2 production team

Since the story centers on King Wu's campaign against the Shang, and due to script revisions, the Shang Dynasty's scenes were significantly condensed.

Yu Yanli's role lasted about twenty to thirty days—short filming time, not many lines, but fragmented.

As the Shang's supreme ruler and main antagonist, whenever Jiang Ziya's forces advanced, he had to appear, furious and shocked, then set up the next obstacle.

So on his first day, Yu Yanli changed into six outfits, shot in three locations, and heard a string of bad news.

"Jiang Ziya has broken through Sishui Pass? What did Han Rong even do?"

"Issue orders: Jiepai Pass and all surrounding fortresses must fully support the Jie Sect immortals' Zhuxian Array."

"You fool! You told me Zhang Kui and Gao Lanying were invincible—Huang Feihu died in their hands—how did they lose Tong Pass?"

"What? Yuan Hong lost too?"

"..."

These scenes were scattered throughout the entire series, which was manageable—but if performed all in one day, it was like a total collapse, worse than a living Kai Shen.

The director still had some skill; though this arrangement was slightly inconvenient, it was perfect for actors to immerse themselves in the role.

Yu Yanli barely slipped into character, and his blood pressure already rose.

There was no choice—it was all bad news, watching his kingdom crumble before his eyes. The feeling was unimaginable, especially since Yu Yanli himself was a businessman who built an empire—he had deeper emotional resonance than most actors.

From initial shock and annoyance, to mid-stage fury and agitation, to later quiet despair and hopelessness.

He absorbed the entire tone of King Zhou's arc in one go; the crew and actors now understood the direction, and could simply follow the script from there.

Yu Yanli savored it, and couldn't help sighing in a break: "This new director is a good choice."

The director of Fengshen Bang Part One, Jin Guozhao, was from Taiwan. He clashed badly with Yongle, so they replaced him for Part Two.

The new director was picked by Yongle, but also approved by Yi An—Yu Yanli thought he'd seen his file before.

"Jiang..."

"Jiang Jiajun."

Fan Xiaopang named him; Yu Yanli nodded—he was from Xiangjiang, experienced, having directed Liu Tianwang's The Twelve Young Men of Miaojie and several Hong Kong crime dramas early in his career.

In the early 2000s, he moved north, focusing mainly on TV dramas; his signature work was the Lin Xinru and Lu Yi drama Man Cai Nu Mao.

He wasn't famous, but had notable works, solid ability, and respectable experience.

Such Hong Kong and Taiwan directors were common in the industry—they were the backbone of TV production, with neither low nor high ceilings; they'd take big-budget projects if offered, but also accepted low-budget or quantity-driven shows when idle.

"What's up? You interested in him?"

Fan Xiaopang knew Yu Yanli—he never mentioned someone or something without reason. This meant Jiang's director had caught his eye.

"He's got some talent, but no rush—I'll watch more."

Yi An was growing fast, but its talent accumulation hadn't kept pace, especially for directors and producers who could stand alone—there were simply too few.

Fortunately, for TV dramas, Yi An favored the producer-centered model: planning, scripts, costumes, makeup, and actors were all arranged by the company, greatly reducing and sharing the director's authority.

The advantage was stability—a reliably high floor.

The downside was also stability—it stifled creativity. Yi An's recent results were solid, but their hits were pure luck.

But then again, this was normal for the film and TV industry—how many hits could there be? Just maintaining a solid floor was impressive.

Yu Yanli personally believed this approach was right, but during this time, it would be better to recruit capable talent.

Any business or project must adapt—adjust when the time comes, change when needed.

If someone proved capable enough, Yu Yanli could make exceptions and grant them authority.

Even if they became brilliant enough, Yu Yanli himself would gladly serve as their assistant.

Fan Xiaopang volunteered: "Shall I set up a ladder for you?"

If Yu Yanli directly recruited him, there'd be little room for maneuver—better if Fan Xiaopang acted as intermediary, keeping options open.

Of course, she had her own motives—if Jiang Jiajun climbed onto Yu Yanli's back through her, he might not become her man, but he'd owe her a favor.

Fan Xiaopang was arrogant, but not foolish. Dong Qin had been recruiting people all over the company—she couldn't do nothing, she just didn't care about ordinary people.

Only a director like Jiang Jiajun—who might earn Yu Yanli's attention and one day stand alone—was worth her effort.

"Do as you like."

Yu Yanli didn't care. As he always said, he dealt with too many people to personally court each one.

The women around him acted as emissaries of favor—on the surface, they formed factions, but their roots all came from him; ultimately, they were still his people.

Anyone too foolish to understand hierarchy wasn't worth his attention.

Yu Yanli wasn't particularly focused on Jiang Jiajun.

Film directors were one thing, but truly valuable TV directors were few and far between.

Jiang Jiajun had some ability, but wasn't extraordinary. With Yu Yanli's current status in the industry, there were plenty of directors at his level eager to cling to his coat-tails.

Fan Xiaopang cared more.

One reason was that it was a good chance to recruit talent; another was that Yu Yanli had previously asked her if she'd consider moving behind the scenes.

This "behind the scenes" didn't mean switching careers—it meant elevating her status and influence.

As previously mentioned, actresses at the Four Dan and Two Bing level were becoming increasingly rare in TV dramas. Fan Xiaopang continued producing profitable dramas for Yi An—she deserved proper rewards and recognition.

At the very least, she should carry the title of producer or supervisor.

From merely being a blood source for profit, she'd become involved in behind-the-scenes operations and project management—transforming from actress to executive, with real benefits secured. Media and fans wouldn't think Yu Yanli was mistreating her, and she wouldn't feel slighted.

Yu Yanli had arranged this in advance—showing his attitude and preventing others from stirring up gossip or division.

Fan Xiaopang was genuinely interested in behind-the-scenes work. She'd long had her own ambitions and wasn't satisfied being just an actress.

Yu Yanli offered her an opportunity and paved the way—she naturally wanted to try.

But she needed her own team to accomplish this. She'd arrived at the Fengshen Bang 2 set even earlier than Yu Yanli, knew Jiang Jiajun better, and thought his skills were solid—he could be a potential collaborator.

Fan Xiaopang acted swiftly—within two days, she found an opportunity to probe Jiang Jiajun's intentions.

"Director Jiang has long admired you, Boss Yan."

Fan Xiaopang smiled—Jiang Jiajun was eager to join Yi An.

As previously noted, directors like Jiang Jiajun had solid foundations and ability, but weren't yet famous. Their project opportunities often depended on luck—having a steady patron and boss was a very reliable option.

Yu Yanli had a decent reputation in the industry. Though strict and demanding, he was generous with money.

Hong Kong director Ju Jueliang had followed Yi An, directed several Gu Long dramas, earned a fortune, and become the current representative director of wuxia TV—truly gaining both fame and fortune.

"How about I arrange a dinner?" Fan Xiaopang pressed. Yu Yanli told her to calm down: "Chasing isn't business. The initiative is mine, not his—why rush?"

"Stretch it out. The harder the connection, the more valuable it proves—then he'll work harder, and your favor will mean more."

Fan Xiaopang nodded: "You're cunning, but aren't you afraid of stretching too far? Too much is worse than too little."

"Then it means no connection. Yi An doesn't lack a director."

Yu Yanli had full confidence in Yi An—without Jiang Jiajun, there were plenty of other Jias.

In this world, good horses are common—but mentors, especially mentors willing to nurture them, are rare.

The arrogance of big companies isn't always good, but it's not entirely bad either. Often, the higher the threshold, the more people value it.

Though Yu Yanli told her to stretch it out, Fan Xiaopang, eager to recruit, still laid some groundwork.

Yu Yanli clearly noticed Jiang Jiajun now actively sought to draw closer and impress him.

This wasn't a bad thing—it let Yu Yanli observe his abilities more carefully and consider how much authority and support to grant him.

The inner palace, the harem

Fan Xiaopang lay in bed, pale, barely breathing; Yu Yanli sat beside her in black royal robes.

According to the plot, in the previous installment, Daji suffered severe injury—her soul scattered, the nine-tailed fox badly wounded and fled back to Chaoge, still unconscious. Had it not been for the protection of the two Xuan Yuan spirits and Shen Gongbao, she might have revealed her true form.

"Master of the State, the Empress has taken the immortal medicine you sought, yet shows no improvement. I require your explanation."

Yu Yanli stared coldly at the actor playing Shen Gongbao, who looked awkward and humiliated, yet dared not retaliate.

In the drama, Shen Gongbao needed King Zhou to defeat Jiang Ziya, so he still showed respect to the king.

More importantly, he couldn't touch King Zhou.

The setting was that King Zhou's imperial destiny was not yet exhausted—he was protected by the Purple Microcosm True Yuan. Yang Jian once tried to assassinate him, but failed utterly, even sustaining counter-injuries. Even Daji had only won him over gradually through her innate seduction and her unparalleled beauty.

So King Zhou was immune to powerful immortals like Shen Gongbao. Normally, he might show some respect—but with Daji gravely wounded, his anxiety and fury left Shen Gongbao with nothing but blame.

"Your Majesty, the Empress's injury is extraordinary..."

Shen Gongbao tilted his head in his signature pose, then launched into a long explanation of Daji's condition.

In the drama, Daji's injury was concealed—Shen Gongbao falsely claimed it was caused by Jiang Ziya's demonic arts.

But regardless of the cause, healing her was difficult. If other strategies failed, the Shang Dynasty's national fortune and King Zhou's own Purple Microcosm True Yuan could be used to sustain her life.

But this would severely damage the state's destiny and King Zhou himself.

"If I do nothing, what will happen to the Empress?"

"At best, she remains as she is. At worst..."

Shen Gongbao made a face of unbearable sorrow. Yu Yanli looked at Fan Xiaopang, his eyes uncertain—he gently loosened his grip on her hand, then clenched it again, then loosened, then clenched.

In the original script, the obsessed King Zhou would immediately decide to save her.

But during filming, Yu Yanli and Jiang Jiajun discussed adding a scene of King Zhou's inner turmoil.

Because this version of King Zhou wasn't a pure idiot—he was seduced and corrupted, yet still capable of thought.

A direct decision to save her would feel thin. Adding this moment of hesitation would deepen the character and elevate the love between King Zhou and Daji.

Compared to an instant choice, the more hesitation, deliberation, and struggle, the more it proved King Zhou valued beauty over his empire.

"Director Jiang, how would you shoot this hesitation?"

Yu Yanli casually tested Jiang Jiajun—neither lowering the king's dignity nor failing to convey his inner conflict and resolve.

Jiang Jiajun thought for a moment: "What if we have them sit silently in the grand hall for a day and night? We can convey this through the weather, the candles, and the supporting characters' dialogue."

"Hmm, or we could have them sitting beside Daji's bed, or alternate between two scenes to show King Zhou's inner turmoil."

Yu Yanli glanced at Fan Xiaopang: "What do you think?"

The latter nodded: "Good."

"Then let's shoot it that way."

Yu Yanli was reasonably satisfied with Jiang Jiajun's response. There were only so many shooting formulas; the key was having ideas that could actually be executed.

Those in content creation sometimes need just a spark of inspiration. Those who mechanically follow scripts and drift through life in a daze will never rise above mediocrity.

Perhaps Jiang Jiajun vaguely sensed Yu Yanli was testing him, because after finishing this scene, he approached Yu Yanli again to suggest adding more material.

"What kind of scene are you adding?"

Yu Yanli gave no clear answer—he could have added scenes himself long ago. If he wanted to turn The Investiture of the Gods into The Chronicle of King Zhou, he wouldn't need Jiang Jiajun doing him a favor.

Jiang Jiajun understood this well: adding scenes that don't fit just increases the boss's workload—it's like flattering a horse and getting kicked.

But he wasn't adding them randomly; he had a plot-driven intention.

In The Investiture of the Gods 2's plot, King Zhou and Daji become outright villains who bring ruin to the nation, but one thing remains: they truly love each other.

Jiang Jiajun felt this aspect deserved development, but since both actors had limited schedules, any added scenes had to hit the critical points.

In the original script, King Zhou only discovers Daji's true identity late in the story, tacitly accepting it until his deathbed confession.

Jiang Jiajun thought it could be moved earlier—when King Zhou rescues Daji, he could detect her true form through the Purple Microcosmic Primordial Energy.

King Zhou had hesitated and regretted it, but after saving her, Daji—who already harbored affection for him—devoted herself entirely to him, only bringing ruin to the nation due to various constraints. Seeing her sincerity, King Zhou gradually let go of his reservations.

Just as King Zhou's prolonged hesitation in saving her makes his act more precious, the earlier he learns Daji's true identity, the heavier their bond becomes, and the greater the impact of his final confession.

Yu Yanli thought Jiang Jiajun's idea had potential, but wasn't sure if it might go too far.

Still, it was just one scene and a few added performance details—he could shoot it first and decide whether to keep it during editing.

This happened all the time in film and television.

Save one take, archive one take, perform normally, perform in some specific style—some insane directors made actors perform dozens or even hundreds of takes, then picked one, a fragment, or sometimes none at all.

After several rounds of probing, Yu Yanli had gained some understanding of Jiang Jiajun.

He showed good respect for the original material; Yu Yanli had spoken with him, and he had specifically read The Investiture of the Gods, habitually preserving the original's structural backbone during filming.

He had strong character-building skills, preferring to start from emotional arcs, emphasizing details to make characters three-dimensional.

He valued practical sets, favored special effects for action scenes, gave solid performance guidance, and excelled at communicating with young actors.

But he wasn't without flaws: low innovation, easily swayed, susceptible to outside influence, slightly lax in work ethic, and not particularly demanding of production quality.

Overall, a typical Hong Kong director with noticeable biases—worth recruiting, and with a bit more pressure, he could be brought into the fold.

————

ps: (0/49000)

(End of Chapter)