Chapter 368: Ren Yingying Plays Solo, National Day Box Office War Begins, Ice and Ice

Feng Xiaogang finished his cameo and left with deep resentment.

Xu Qing ignored him, and he couldn’t afford to provoke Yan Li, so he left with resentment.

It has to be said that Xu Qing using Yan Li as a shield was incredibly fitting.

Even Jiang Wen, Ge Daye, and others may have liked her, but they wouldn’t necessarily risk offending Feng Xiaogang, who was currently at the height of his influence.

Even if they were willing, they couldn’t intimidate Feng—if he truly brazenly acted like a bully and kept harassing Xu Qing, no one would dare openly break ties.

Only Yan Li didn’t care whether he offended Feng Xiaogang; in fact, he was happy to see him humiliated.

And Feng Xiaogang, having suffered at Yan Li’s hands before, dared not persist or act like a thug—otherwise, if Yan Li flew into one of his rages and pointed at his nose to curse him, Feng the Great Director’s face would be utterly destroyed.

So, during this cameo stint in Let’s Shoot the Bullet, he didn’t even brush against the goddess’s side, was humiliated by Yan Li several times, and didn’t suffer a hypertensive episode—considering his resilience, that was already impressive.

Although Feng Xiaogang had left, Xu Qing, using her “big sister-little brother” routine and adding a new “repaying a favor” buff, grew even more fond of lingering near Yan Li.

But this older sister knew how to play hard to get.

She gave out sweet treats and benefits generously, but at critical moments, she’d revert to the “I’m not that kind of sister” act.

The meaning wasn’t hard to guess: Xu Qing was past forty, and Yan Li didn’t lack women—unless she played some games to slow things down, she feared he’d get what he wanted and then grow bored.

Also, despite being over forty, due to her family, personality, and background, she still carried traces of a young girl’s mindset.

That was precisely what made her ageless and uniquely charming: she possessed both the mature allure of years of experience and the romantic innocence of youth.

So Xu Qing thoroughly enjoyed this ambiguous, flirtatious atmosphere with Yan Li, the top-tier man—it made her feel young again.

Xu Qing was willing to play hard to get, so Yan Li played along, treating it as entertainment with a little sweetness on the side.

Even if he lost out on age, he accepted it—after all, since childhood, his family had taught him that losing is fortune.

Set on the set of Let’s Shoot the Bullet, the trailer

Since filming had settled into a rhythm, Yan Li had acquired another trailer, modified into a mobile office, to handle work on-site.

By finishing work during breaks, he could return home more relaxed and have time for personal matters.

This trailer wasn’t the one from The Three Kingdoms; though modified, it was outdated and still had many shortcomings.

Polite term? Mobile office. Unpolite term? Mobile shed.

Previously, with tight finances, Yan Li had put up with it—but now, with a large sum of cash in hand, he wouldn’t endure hardship anymore.

So, drawing on his experience from The Three Kingdoms, Yan Li made new demands and commissioned a custom trailer.

The new trailer was larger and more luxurious.

Besides a dedicated luxury desk and executive chair, it featured a separate sleeping area and bathroom, with advanced climate control, ventilation, lighting systems, smart operation, top-tier soundproofing, and household/office amenities like a refrigerator, coffee machine, printer, and LCD monitor.

To put it simply, many bosses’ offices didn’t have better conditions than Yan Li’s trailer.

Yan Li sat at his desk, reviewing relevant documents.

In late September, the National Day holiday release window was approaching; preliminary promotion for The Message needed to begin.

Unlike the previous The Painted Skin, where Yan Li had held authority—he was the lead, and both Bing were female leads; under Yan Li’s mediation, their rivalry had been muted.

But this time, with Yan Li absent, Sun Honglei, Liu Huohua, and others lacked sufficient weight and dared not challenge Bing for the spotlight.

So during the promotional period, regarding ranking and related benefits, Bing began causing trouble.

The production team couldn’t afford to offend either of them, so they escalated the issue to Yan Li for intimidation and suppression.

“Knew these two women weren’t good people.”

This was somewhat expected by Yan Li—after all, Bing had always been at odds, and in a dual-lead film, the top-billed actor certainly gained more benefits; even if they didn’t fight, their teams wouldn’t be able to hold back.

Still, though they quarreled, they knew their limits—they didn’t sabotage the production. Yan Li calmed and scolded them a bit, and the issue wasn’t serious.

Also, Yan Li reviewed Weibo’s newly launched WeSound report; with Weibo’s massive traffic and celebrity promotion, registration numbers were quite impressive.

Meanwhile, Weibo and WeSound were actively collaborating, deepening integration of the music section, attracting and activating music-loving users.

Compared to other music players, WeSound’s key advantage, beyond listening and Weibo traffic, was its ability to build social attributes via Weibo.

For example: sharing songs on Weibo, discussing them with netizens, viewing related follow dynamics, seeing what songs celebrities listened to or recommended, and so on.

Using music to build interest-based communities enriched Weibo’s user ecosystem and increased stickiness.

In short, Weibo didn’t make WeSound merely a player—it made it a tightly bound, dependent music business segment.

Record sales were fading; portable players were obsolete; listening to music online—or via mobile phones—was gradually becoming mainstream.

At this moment, music players were like old radio stations and music charts—likely becoming the strategic battleground for pop music.

Whoever seized this key territory first might not monopolize the entire market, but could carve out a solid share.

Yan Li thought for a moment and issued relevant directives.

First, continue exploring the “music + social” path—leveraging Weibo’s strengths while also feeding back to Weibo.

Second, increase high-quality content to attract users.

Current pop music was dominated by Hong Kong and Taiwan singers—more accurately, by Taiwan singers.

But with the internet’s growth, mainland China had also produced talented online singers; however, these people were still largely overlooked.

WeSound could seize this opportunity to sign them—enriching platform content while also promoting a noble slogan: supporting mainland new-generation singers.

Simultaneously, using WeSound + Weibo + Yi’an’s low-cost, low-risk star-making investments, landing even one was profit; if they hit one or two high-popularity artists, it’d be pure bliss.

Third, acquire legitimate music copyrights.

Just as film copyrights would increasingly be formalized, so too would music.

In fact, compared to internet-era film, music—due to its simple medium—was easier to spread and had long been pirated online, contributing to the decline of record sales.

Until now, some music companies had gradually begun taking internet music copyrights seriously, but the market remained chaotic.

At this moment, WeSound could opportunistically acquire song copyrights or permanent authorizations from singers and companies at low prices.

Even if WeSound ultimately failed, these copyrights could still be sold for a decent price.

After handling some miscellaneous tasks and making two calls, Yan Li checked the time—there was still a while before his next scene; he decided to watch a drama.

At that moment, the trailer door suddenly knocked, then opened, and Xu Qing stepped in wearing a qipao.

Yan Li was speechless—this older sister was growing increasingly brazen.

Generally, female stars still cared about public perception regarding such matters.

Except for Fan Xiaopang, who openly flaunted it, others—whether pretending ignorance or being cautious—would conceal things in public, at least keeping it discreet.

But Xu Qing, perhaps because her scandals never ceased, didn’t care what rumors spread about her and Yan Li.

Beyond the “big sister-little brother” facade, she never concealed her closeness to Yan Li—even when hearing gossip from the crew, she carried on as if nothing.

Xu Qing had visited Yan Li’s trailer often enough that even nearby bodyguards and assistants no longer announced her—she could knock and enter freely.

“Busy?”

Xu Qing glided gracefully to Yan Li’s side, leaning against his desk: “You’re filming and working—aren’t you exhausted?”

“Can’t help it—I need to eat.”

Yan Li stood up, stretched, and since the trailer had air conditioning, he’d removed his costume, wearing only an undershirt, revealing faint muscle contours.

Xu Qing’s eyes lit up; she reached out to touch him—through the fabric wasn’t enough, so she slipped her hand inside.

“Big sister, you do this every day—I feel like you’re taking advantage of me.”

Yan Li complained, but Xu Qing didn’t care: “You’re my little brother—what’s wrong with me touching you? Touch me back.”

Just touching was meaningless!

Yan Li sat back down, wrapped his arm around her slender waist, and pulled her onto his lap: “Sis, I’m leaving the set in a couple days.”

Xu Qing froze: “Why?”

“National Day window—I need to check things out. I asked Jiang Wen for a few days off.”

“Then go. I’m not leaving.”

Xu Qing had few scenes; to finish, she’d need only a few concentrated days besides a few remaining shots—but she wasn’t in a hurry, lingering lazily around the set every day.

Whether someone had spoken up or Jiang Wen was showing favor, her scenes were arranged more sparsely, allowing her to stay naturally.

“I don’t believe you—what if you lie to me?”

Yan Li pressed his head against Xu Qing’s chest, mumbling: “I don’t believe you.”

“I… I won’t lie.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Yan Li’s meaning was simple: verbal promises weren’t enough—there needed to be a verbal promise.

In plain terms, the previous sweet treats weren’t enough—he wanted more.

Xu Qing was used to this—though she played hard to get, the real power always lay with Yan Li.

Yan Li played along with her, but every few days, his appetite grew larger; she had to slowly concede, satisfying and even indulging him.

So Yan Li moved the mouse, opened Zhang Dahu’s version of The Smiling, Proud Wanderer, and found the clip where Xu Qing portrayed Ren Yingying.

On screen, Ren Yingying and Linghu Chong played flute and guqin in perfect harmony—but Yan Li didn’t understand instruments, so he had Xu Qing play solo.

————

Two days later, Yan Li left the Let’s Shoot the Bullet set to attend The Message’s premiere.

Before this, The Founding of a Republic had already been released in mid-September.

This film featured a star-studded cast, strong backing from China Film Group, and even institutional and official group viewings as a tribute film—no need to compete directly with The Message and others during the National Day holiday.

And The Founding of a Republic’s performance was outstanding: before the National Day holiday, its box office had already exceeded 250 million RMB.

Considering a small surge during the holiday, over 300 million was certain, and it had strong potential to break the mainland box office record.

Yet beneath its booming box office, The Founding of a Republic’s reception and reviews were less than ideal.

Those who disliked propaganda criticized its propaganda; those who supported propaganda complained the film focused too much on democratic factions, getting the priorities backward.

In short: right-wingers thought it too left, left-wingers thought it not left enough!

Meanwhile, the massive use of celebrity bombardment for promotion was debated as commercial fraud, and various stars’ performances and nationalities were criticized.

Of course, there was no shortage of praise, especially from mainstream media, which offered considerable acclaim.

Most audiences also gave it some recognition; while the film’s plot wasn’t particularly brilliant, it wasn’t dull either, and had its own highlights—plus, the star-studded cast truly shone, making the ticket price worthwhile just for them.

For a tribute blockbuster, high box office, wide influence, and decent word-of-mouth, with no major sensitive missteps, achieving all this already counts as success.

Both China Film Group and Han Sanye were quite satisfied and had already begun planning the post-National Day victory banquet.

For this premiere of *The Message*, Han Sanye came in person to show support.

Notably, the day before, Huayi’s *Dawn 1949* also held its premiere, but China Film Group’s representative was its number two.

Han Sanye could have easily treated both sides equally, but whether to show his regard for Yi An or to thank Yan Li for his help on *The Founding of a Nation*, this time he clearly took sides.

It wasn’t just about showing up at the premiere—he also took a side in theater scheduling.

*The Message* and *Dawn 1949* were both released in the National Day slot, with only a one-day gap between their openings—direct, head-to-head competition, blade to blade.

Although Wanda had become the industry leader, China Film Group held stakes and broad influence across multiple theater chains, and with its unique status, it remained the undisputed powerhouse of the exhibition sector.

China Film Group’s backing of *The Message* directly resulted in its screening share being 15% higher than *Dawn 1949*.

Note that this 15% advantage was achieved even though *The Founding of a Nation* still occupied a significant portion of screens.

As a result, from the very start, *Dawn 1949* found itself on the defensive.

The premiere of *The Message* began at 10 a.m.; after arriving, Yan Li’s first move was to go to another theater to watch *Dawn 1949*.

Since this was a direct competition and *Dawn 1949* was independently distributed by Huayi, Yi An had no involvement, so Yan Li had not seen the finished film.

Although he had read online reviews and audience feedback from the first day, without watching the film himself, Yan Li still felt he lacked a direct understanding of this rival.

Fan Xiaopang, Li Bingbing, and others were preparing for the red carpet; those accompanying Yan Li to watch the movie were Deng Chao, Wang Ou, and others who had come to show support.

Among them, Wang Ou had already seen it once and offered his evaluation: “Not bad.”

The film began with Huang Xiaoming playing the villain, immediately establishing the theme: assassination and sabotage.

Yan Li glanced at Deng Chao: “See? Progress isn’t just yours.”

Roles in *The Righteous Path of Humanity* and *Let’s Bullet* had greatly honed Deng Chao’s acting, and his professional level had visibly improved.

This shift had subtly changed his mindset, and when Huang Xiaoming appeared in *Dawn 1949*, Deng Chao immediately felt the pressure.

In past performances, Huang Xiaoming’s acting was overly conspicuous—he always seemed to be performing, pulling viewers out of the story.

Only a few roles suited him well enough to let him shine, but even then, he tended to put on airs, coming across as pretentious.

His later portrayal of Yang Guo in *The Legend of the Condor Heroes*, Xu Wenchang in *New Shanghai Bund*, and the sniper in *The Gunman*, released in April, were all like this.

But in *Dawn 1949*, though the villain still carried a hint of pretension, it was handled naturally.

His appearance also broke new ground: abandoning his usual good looks, he became unkempt and rough, his demeanor and personality a volatile mix of anger and gloom—two entirely opposite traits that he somehow blended well.