Chapter 358: The Entrepreneur Best at Building Personal Branding: Maybach

Weibo, Chairman’s Office

The executive who contacted Sina reported to Yan Li: “Three hundred fifty million U.S. dollars in cash, plus fifteen percent of Weibo’s shares.”

Yan Li didn’t even look up: “What did you say?”

The executive replied: “I just walked out with my team.”

“Good. You did right.”

Yan Li scoffed: “No one demands this absurdly.”

He was concerned about Tencent and Sina teaming up, but only as a concern—not enough to bleed himself dry for a fool’s bargain.

Fifteen percent of Weibo’s shares are worth billions; three hundred fifty million U.S. dollars is over two billion RMB—and it’s cash.

Sina, a defeated army, is desperate for money.

Blogging is half-dead, Microblogging is lukewarm; though large in scale, its potential is extremely low.

Even with Tencent’s influence pushing the price up slightly, Yan Li’s internal valuation was only one to two hundred million U.S. dollars.

As for the shares Sina craved, Yan Li wouldn’t give them much—definitely not over three percent, and ideally none at all.

“Tell Sina I want to see their sincerity, not fantasy.”

Yan Li knew Sina wanted to threaten him with Tencent, but he wasn’t truly worried.

Sina and Weibo’s cooperation has one key advantage: Weibo doesn’t need Sina’s help—it’s purely a defensive acquisition.

So Sina can hand over all this business to Weibo, offer minimal coordination, and redirect its funds and resources toward new ventures.

But if Sina partners with Tencent, Tencent will demand massive resources and manpower from Sina; only together can they challenge Weibo.

That forces Sina to remain stuck in this Weibo battle, unable to focus on new business—and effectively becomes Tencent’s employee.

That’s why Sina prefers selling Blog and Microblog to Weibo: working for Tencent is worse than continuing to fight Weibo.

Sina believes Weibo must buy Microblog to guard against Tencent; Weibo, in turn, holds Sina’s leverage—selling to Weibo better serves Sina’s strategic interests.

This is a psychological game—who can hold out longer?

For Yan Li, who has an intelligence system, he naturally has more composure here.

Yan Li even has a contingency plan: with the mobile era arriving, Tencent has too many problems—it may not acquire Microblog at all, and even if it does, it may not fight Weibo to the death.

Precisely because of these reasons, Yan Li wasn’t as desperate as Sina imagined, nor willing to compromise at any cost—he was unusually strong, almost saying, “Sell if you want, otherwise get lost.”

The executive asked: “Should we target Microblog and Blog to pressure them into negotiating?”

“Yes.”

Yan Li nodded: the more pressure Sina feels, the more eager it becomes to sell; the worse Microblog and Blog perform, the lower the price.

“Remember, your first goal in negotiations isn’t to buy Microblog and Blog—it’s to prevent Sina from selling to Tencent. Drag it out as long as possible.”

The longer you drag it, the more Sina will crack—and Tencent will also face internal problems.

If Tencent decides to abandon the Weibo battle or cut investment, you might not need to buy at all.

After discussing Sina, Yan Li turned to Weibo’s reports.

Iron must be forged from within: whether Sina or Tencent, the key is Weibo’s own growth—if Weibo is strong, everything else is smoke and mirrors.

Weibo’s mobile development is decent, but user growth isn’t particularly impressive.

This isn’t Weibo’s fault—it’s because smartphones haven’t yet exploded in adoption; hardware lags, software must wait.

In the meantime, Weibo must maximize its influence and partner with phone manufacturers to secure terminal access, ensuring new smartphone owners activate Weibo Mobile first.

As closing time neared, Yan Li’s phone buzzed nonstop with messages and calls.

Most were invitations to banquets, followed by dating requests; those he wasn’t close to or who lacked clout messaged him, others called directly.

“Director Hu, I really can’t drink—uh, health reasons—next time.”

“Director Wang, I can’t make it—I’ll send our deputy general manager instead; please look after him, thank you, thank you.”

“I won’t be coming tonight—you go to bed early.”

“...”

When Yan Li left work, replying to messages and calls alone took at least ten minutes; sometimes, he’d be chatting the whole way.

At the parking lot, the driver was waiting. Yan Li said: “To the set of ‘Double Embroidery.’”

Dong Xuan had been showing off to his parents these past few days—he needed to make his presence felt too.

When Yan Li arrived, the set hadn’t wrapped; “Double Embroidery” is a modern drama with many night scenes.

Today’s shoot: the second female lead, Tong Yaya, faces career setbacks and drinks to drown her sorrows; her love interest, Zhou Yiwei, comforts her and discovers a different side to this cheerful girl.

He planned to take her home, but her sister Dong Xuan called, came to pick her up, and misinterpreted Zhou Yiwei.

Hmm, clichéd.

Yan Li arrived on set without drawing attention, merely glancing at the barbecue stall scene. The producer, thinking he had criticism, immediately explained.

“Director Yan, this barbecue stall was chosen by Su Ling—Yaya herself. She just graduated college, doesn’t care about details; picking this spot adds contrast to Zhou Yiwei’s CEO character.”

Got it—abuse the tycoon trope.

Yan Li knew this formula: the ugly duckling falls for the tycoon, dragging the aloof tycoon down from his cloud—switching from red wine and steak to skewers and beer.

It makes the tycoon feel the ugly duckling is uniquely refreshing, stirring something strange in him; viewers enjoy the “humiliated” tycoon’s antics.

Yan Li wanted to mock this plot—it’s clearly copied from foreign “aristocrat” dramas.

How many years since reform and opening? Tycoons like Yan Li, who rose from nothing—who hasn’t eaten skewers? Even earlier, life was worse; steamed buns with pickled vegetables were common.

Even so-called “golden-spoon” second-generation heirs mostly suffered hardship as children.

He shook his head, didn’t argue—audiences loved it; if it was fake, let it be fake. He just asked: “Are the skewers props or real?”

“Real. The boss is making them.”

“Then give me some.”

The producer: “...”

He thought Yan Li was criticizing—turns out he was just hungry.

But then he had a flash of inspiration: “Director Yan, can you eat in the shot? Just act as an extra for our crew.”

You’re good at exploiting everyone!

Yan Li glanced at himself—he wore ordinary clothes, wouldn’t steal the lead actor’s spotlight—and nodded.

“Fine.”

Yan Li, the driver, and the producer set up a table; the vendor started grilling skewers.

By the time filming began, they’d already eaten half; watching Tong Yaya cry while Zhou Yiwei stood helplessly, Yan Li improvised a line.

“Buddy, don’t just stand there—step up.”

As he spoke, he made a gesture of pulling someone close, signaling Zhou Yiwei to move in.

Zhou Yiwei reacted quickly: “We’re just friends.”

Yan Li nodded, then urged again: “So go ahead.”

Zhou Yiwei: “...”

Tong Yaya burst out laughing, then apologized. Yan Li was speechless: “You laughed well—don’t stop, keep acting.”

This girl clearly had little acting experience; laughing out of character wasn’t a problem—she was playing a carefree personality; following the role, teasing Zhou Yiwei or bantering with Yan Li as a bystander both fit the character.

Still understandable: some actors improvise freely, others stick rigidly to the script.

To some extent, Yan Li’s behavior as this “extra” who ignored his background role and added lines was disrupting the set.

Normally, the director would’ve screamed already; now he was shouting through a megaphone.

“Director Yan’s addition was brilliant! Yiwei, Yaya—be more flexible, everyone coordinate well.”

Tong Yaya was still nervous, so Yan Li coached her: “Laugh, scold, snap back—anything that fits the character.”

They rolled again; the beginning stayed the same, Tong Yaya looked up at Yan Li, who was egging them on.

“Why don’t you show him how it’s done?”

“Girl, you’ve got some fire.”

Yan Li didn’t mind, raised his cup: “My bad for butting in. Girl, I’ll drink to you—nothing’s insurmountable, lighten up.”

“Thank you, big brother.”

Tong Yaya raised her cup in return; Yan Li focused on eating, becoming a background figure.

Zhou Yiwei smoothly continued: “Actually, he’s not bad.”

Tong Yaya remained sharp: “Just talks too much.”

Then Tong Yaya and Zhou Yiwei continued filming; next came Dong Xuan’s scene, since the script required them to have been drinking for a long time—Tong Yaya was now thoroughly drunk.

So Yan Li and the others had to finish eating and exit the frame, carrying skewers outside the shot.

After Dong Xuan finished her scene, there was Zhou Yiwei’s solo moment; Dong Xuan came over and snatched a few skewers from Yan Li’s hand: “You’ve been eating nonstop—I’m starving just watching.”

Tong Yaya instinctively followed Dong Xuan, inseparable; Yan Li gave her a few skewers and advised:

“Next time, loosen up. React faster.”

Tong Yaya nodded seriously. Dong Xuan defended her friend: “Stop it—you teaching her acting? How many dramas have you even done?”

“Not counting cameos, I’ve done thirteen or fourteen—so what? Have you done more than me, Teacher Dong?”

Yan Li debuted in 2002; though he rarely played leads, he’d acted in many dramas—enough to outpace Dong Xuan easily.

She debuted later than Yan Li, was a Beijing Film Academy instructor, and wasn’t passionate about acting—her number of roles was the lowest among Fan, Qin, and Dong.

Dong Xuan fell silent; she didn’t think she’d done fewer dramas than Yan Li, but she couldn’t recall the exact numbers and lost the comparison, so she retorted:

“I’m a performance professor at Beijing Film Academy—teaching is my job, not yours.”

“Please. Don’t mislead students—how many of your students have real acting talent? Yang Mi signed with Yi’an, and the company had to hire her a separate acting coach.”

Yan Li’s remark hit hard—Dong Xuan nearly cracked. Compared to today’s part-time actors, teaching was now her main job; she couldn’t be told her acting was bad, but her teaching? That was fair game.

"Yang Mi was just too busy; she never attended many of my classes. Look at her classmates Jiao Junyan, Wang Renjun, Zhang Xiaofei, and a few from the class of '07—their acting is quite good."

Dong Xuan joined Beijing Film Academy right after graduating in 2004, starting as an assistant teacher, then becoming the official counselor for the class of '05—Yang Mi’s cohort.

In 2007, after three years as an assistant, Dong Xuan became a full-time teacher, primarily instructing the classes of '05 and '07, focusing on physical training and performance.

Yang Mi was a practitioner; she rarely attended school. When she was in her first and second years, Dong Xuan was only her counselor. After her third year, Yang Mi became even busier and truly didn’t attend many of Dong Xuan’s classes.

"Oh."

Yan Li nodded: "Alright then."

Dong Xuan: "..."

What does “alright then” mean? Yang Mi’s acting isn’t good—that’s not Dong Xuan’s fault.

Tong Yaya watched Yan Li and Dong Xuan bicker, smirking quietly. Yan Li gave her a curious glance.

"You’re about to wrap up—why aren’t you going to take off your makeup? What are you standing here for?"

Tong Yaya froze, instinctively glancing at Dong Xuan, who cleared her throat: "You’re staying at your hotel tonight. I’m going home."

Normally, Dong Xuan and Tong Yaya were inseparable—except when filming forced them apart, they ate, drank, played, and stayed together all the time.

It was like how Guan Yue used to be. After having a child, Guan Yue still stayed with Dong Xuan at school, but her private life no longer had the same freedom. Tong Yaya had essentially filled Guan’s place.

But this girl, for some reason, didn’t seem to have a boyfriend—and clearly wasn’t perceptive about such things.

If it were Guan Yue, seeing Yan Li arrive, she wouldn’t have hovered nearby at all—just said hello and left. But Tong Yaya kept lingering here, waiting until Dong Xuan finally spoke up and made her realize what was going on.

"This kid’s a bit slow-witted."

Yan Li remarked. Dong Xuan slapped him: "You’re only a few years older than her—why call her ‘this kid’?"

Tong Yaya was born in 1983, three years younger than Yan Li and four years younger than Dong Xuan—she was practically their peer. Dong Xuan got along well with her partly for this reason.

Yang Mi, born in 1986, was seven years younger than Dong Xuan—a gap equivalent to elementary, middle, or high school. Their topics and viewpoints often had a generational divide.

Dong Xuan didn’t remove her makeup. She told the director and producer she was leaving, then walked out with Yan Li.

Yan Li, accustomed to visiting sets and never coming empty-handed, had already eaten some skewers from the crew’s food cart. He then pulled out cash and paid the producer to treat the entire crew to late-night snacks.

Afterward, the two didn’t delay—they drove straight home.

Once inside, Dong Xuan kicked off her high heels and collapsed onto the sofa: "I shot over ten scenes today—I’m exhausted."

Ten scenes might not sound like much, but the workload was substantial, not to mention the constant rushing between locations, changing costumes, rehearsing, and preparing for the next shot—easily over ten hours of work.

That’s just her acting duties—she was also the producer of "Double Embroidery."

Though it was somewhat honorary, Dong Xuan didn’t just sit idle. Even if she didn’t intervene, the crew would still update her on key matters.

Come on—this woman had direct access to the boss. Who dared bypass her? If a misunderstanding happened, no one could shoulder the blame.

In contrast, Yan Li wasn’t tired at all.

In fact, because he’d recently declined many social obligations, he was almost idle. After reviewing the reports in the afternoon, he even had time to chat and watch an episode and a half of a TV drama.

If he hadn’t been so idle, he wouldn’t have had the inclination to make a cameo during a visit.

"Wife, you’ve worked hard."