Chapter 329: Big Meeting Inside a Small Meeting, Hulao Pass, Bottoming Out Jingdong

“What’s this ‘New Yi’an’? Sounds like some Hong Kong gang.”

Yan Li looked at the news outside and couldn’t help but complain.

But it’s understandable—after the merger, Yi’an Cinema Chain vanished entirely, leaving only the Yi’an brand; the new company, Yi’an Entertainment, had some changes from the original Yi’an Film, so adding ‘New’ made it easier to distinguish.

No need to overthink it—it’s just a transitional term; once Yi’an Entertainment stabilizes, the ‘New’ will naturally disappear.

Merging two companies isn’t just about swapping a signboard—there’s a lot to do.

Yan Li brought both sides to agreement, reached consensus on key points, and passed the hardest hurdle.

Then came negotiating terms, drafting contracts, and handling procedures—after this step, the merger was officially complete.

What remained was integration: the two companies and their departments jockeying for power and influence.

Every advantage has a downside; the merger’s overall direction and corporate interests were undeniably positive, but internal friction and bickering were unavoidable.

For example, originally Yi’an Film produced movies and handled distribution through Yi’an Cinema Chain.

When the two companies cooperated under normal rules, it was at most strategic cooperation, with some preferential treatment.

Now it became a conflict between two departments or two business units—who leads, how do they coordinate, how are profits and performance split? All became problems.

So the new company needed long-term integration and adjustment; for cases like this, they had to devise rules that served corporate interests and were acceptable to both sides.

This would take a long time.

Even basic integration, clarifying systems and processes, would take months; full fusion might not be achieved in one or two years.

Yan Li had long prepared for this—this was how things were when companies grew large.

Not to mention merging two companies—even if he started a cinema chain from scratch, the fighting would still happen.

Didn’t Yi’an Film and the Distribution Department used to be scheming and restless, factionless and chaotic?

Conflict meant they all wanted to improve; no conflict would be worse—it meant they had no ambition for the company or their careers, just a bunch of people giving up, and the company would be doomed.

Yan Li couldn’t stop the fighting, but he could use various means to reduce its intensity, minimize internal waste, and turn it into healthy competition for the company’s benefit.

Whether it was Yi’an Film or Yi’an Cinema Chain, Yan Li was the most influential founder.

Put plainly, all the executives and employees of both companies were his subordinates; Yan Li was confident he could hold the line.

Don’t underestimate this—many company mergers involve big swallowing small or uncontrollable suspicion chains leading to fierce internal strife.

But as founder of both companies, all employees trusted Yan Li; some even saw him as judge and protector, allowing him to control the situation and complete integration smoothly and at low cost.

Right now, both companies were still in negotiations, but it was merely a battle over interests and influence—the merger was unstoppable.

So Yan Li directly convened a joint meeting of both companies’ senior executives to lay out the integration plan.

It was somewhat poignant—the offices of Yi’an Film and Yi’an Cinema Chain happened to be directly above and below each other; now that they were merging, it was incredibly convenient, no need to move, just minor adjustments and a new sign.

Although Boss Yan repeatedly claimed he originally placed them together just for his own convenience, to make it easier to negotiate with property management.

But now many suspected that even back when both companies moved in, Yan Li had already been planning the merger.

At the very least, he had the idea—if it failed, it was convenient for his work; if it succeeded, upstairs and downstairs became one company.

What a sneaky bastard!

Specific implementation didn’t require Boss Yan’s concern—he had dedicated personnel to devise and execute plans; his job was just to chant slogans and beat the drum.

That meant showing his stance, more bluntly: painting a picture + saying the ugly truth upfront.

After the merger, everyone gets a feast—I eat the meat, you drink the broth.

Anyone who pretends to comply but secretly sabotages him shouldn’t expect mercy—he’d show no pity and forget old ties.

After the big meeting came the small meetings; the merger couldn’t be hidden from core executives—all of them knew the score and had already aligned their thinking.

Yan Li demanded they actively supervise and pay close attention to the merger.

Ordinary executives and middle managers might suffer losses in authority or benefits due to the merger, but core executives were highly likely to receive some original shares; the merger favored listing, so everyone could earn more—thus their loyalties had to be firmly on the right side.

Finally, Yan Li kept the HR Director behind to discuss recruiting a CEO or deputy CEO skilled in capital operations.

At this stage, with both companies merging, only Yan Li could hold things together; but after rough integration, planning for an IPO would begin.

Yan Li was inexperienced in this area, so he needed someone to steer the ship and drive Yi’an’s listing.

Money and original shares were easy; the key was real ability.

Yan Li pursued two paths: instructing HR to search, while also using his system to cast a wide net.

The latter required luck, but its value was high, and it could cooperate with HR for review and selection.

Many talents at Yi’an and Weibo had been dug up by Yan Li through his system.

To some extent, the HR Director was just a puppet; the intelligence system was Yan Li’s true [HR].

…

After finishing his business, Yan Li checked his phone for various social invitations and chose “overtime.”

For this past period, he hadn’t been in Beijing due to Hong Kong filming; returning twice for the success of “Painted Skin” and the Yi’an merger, coinciding with the financial crisis and bankruptcy rumors, too many people wanted to talk to him.

Annoyed by the constant interruptions, he ignored them all, stayed put to monitor a few companies’ operations, then returned to Hengdian.

Arriving at his office, Yan Li turned on his computer and scrolled through Weibo to see how the outside world viewed the Yi’an merger.

As expected, this move delivered a massive blow to the bankruptcy rumors about Yan Li.

Someone had roughly estimated that after the merger, the combined valuation had jumped from billions; Yan Li held a large share, and his personal fortune surged.

He wasn’t bankrupt—he was richer than ever!

But some held opposing views, like former Southern Metropolis Daily reporter Pang Yidian—this guy was a staunch supporter of the “Yan Li Bankruptcy Theory.”

This bastard had once been a partner of Yi’an, taking money to write articles for them, but he constantly delayed submissions and broke promises, until Yi’an, fed up, terminated the partnership.

Now, this shameless Pang Yidian had developed a grudge against Yi’an and Yan Li.

Since Pang Yidian had once been somewhat famous on his blog, he later joined Sina Microblog’s rival, Sina Weke.

The rumors about Yan Li’s bankruptcy had been amplified by him and a few other so-called big V’s on blogs, Weke, and Tianya.

Later, Weibo supported several counter-voices to clarify Yan Li’s position, partly to clear his name, but mostly to reclaim traffic.

Because Weibo had more users and wider reach, it even forced some of them to register on Weibo, shifting the main battlefield there.

Now, seeing the bankruptcy theory suffer a major blow, Pang Yidian reappeared to spout nonsense again.

He posted seven or eight Weibo messages, arguing from multiple angles that Yi’an’s merger was precisely Yan Li’s death throes.

Yan Li was trying to prove he wasn’t bankrupt, but the merger of the two companies didn’t help his financial situation—it was a burden.

Originally, Yi’an Film was profitable, Yi’an Cinema Chain was losing money; after merging, Yi’an’s profits flowed directly into Yi’an Cinema Chain.

Yan Li lost a crucial cash pool.

The film industry was notoriously high-risk; if they lost money one day, funds would be tied up by the cinema chain, Yi’an’s cash flow would snap, and the whole thing could collapse.

This was a terrible move, a stupid move—Yan Li had lost his composure; the glorious birth of New Yi’an was merely the beginning of the building’s fall.

Once Yi’an fell, Weibo would be next.

If Yan Li were smart, he’d sell Weibo now and salvage something for his wife’s dowry; otherwise, they’d both plunge into the abyss together.

Watching this guy jump around, seeing his supporters in the comments, Yan Li was utterly speechless.

A man with a bottle half-full, sloshing around—how could so many believe him?

But it was understandable—this was the era of Yi Lin, Zhi Yin, and street-market “antiques”; people believed even that the air in America tasted sweet.

Not to mention 2008—based on fragments of future intelligence Yan Li had seen, even ten years later, there were still plenty who believed rumors and conspiracy theories; every platform had its group of Storytellers and their followers.

Yan Li didn’t retaliate against Pang Yidian—any platform needed more than just positive accounts; it needed some clowns and trash bins, as the future would call them, electronic pets.

This Pang Yidian seemed like a decent candidate.

Later, give him some traffic, wait for the right moment to humiliate him, make him black but famous, and provide entertainment for Weibo users.

Yan Li ignored Pang Yidian and browsed Weibo.

Whenever he had time, he scrolled Weibo almost daily, and every ten days or so, he thoroughly combed through everything to experience Weibo’s changes.

By now, Weibo had passed its initial explosive growth phase and entered a steady, steady-state growth period.

Attracting new users mattered, but more important was keeping users active and willing to spend more time on Weibo.

Besides Sina Weke, NetEase and Sohu’s microblogs had also launched; Fanfou received investment and expansion; the half-dead QQ Microblog began revamping, adding features close to Weibo to attract celebrities.

Earlier clashes with Weke were just a trial; now the real Weibo war had officially begun.

Weibo had deployed its ultimate weapon: the Hot Search List.

The effect was good, but the time was still short—it hadn’t yet generated sufficient influence and needed time to accumulate and ferment.

In addition, Weibo rolled out endless activities and features, striving to maintain its lead; the rest was fighting other platforms, burning cash and resources.

Those who could hold on, held on; those who couldn’t, got the hell out.

In Yan Li’s view, NetEase and Sohu weren’t serious about the Weibo war—they realized they couldn’t quickly grow and surpass Weibo.

Given Weibo’s nature, being second or third didn’t matter much.

Now, both were gambling, hoping to snatch a share in the chaos, so they still supported their own platforms, but due to poor prospects, their investments were restrained.

Sina was slightly better—they entered earlier and had a bit more hope, so they gritted their teeth and stuck with it.

Fanfou was special—an independent platform, dependent on its future prospects and backing from its investors.

If prospects were strong, someone might challenge Yan Li; if not, it’d be abandoned as cannon fodder—a high ceiling, low floor existence.

And QQ was the most special!

Because of QQ’s strength and Weibo’s future, Yan Li had been most wary of QQ from the start—even more than Sina.

Yet now, nearly a year after Weibo’s launch, QQ’s performance had shocked him.