Chapter 370: Fan Xiaopang Storms the Set, Confronts Dong Xuan, Clashes with Xu Qing

Night, set of "Let's Shoot the Bullet"

Yan Li had his makeup retouched while rehearsing lines with Jiang Wen and others.

Jiang Wen gestured wildly, reciting lines from the script; the absurdity of the character shift made Yan Li burst into laughter.

When he first joined the cast, Yan Li’s scenes were mostly focused on Old Man Huang’s solo moments, with only limited interactions with Jiang Wen and the others.

Yan Li’s attitude was simply to do his job—no half-heartedness, just normal acting, no extra drive.

Only after the Hongmen Banquet scene, where he, Jiang Wen, and Ge Daye engaged in intense exchanges, did Yan Li’s mindset shift.

Jiang Wen shot the Hongmen Banquet scene with exceptional care—it took eight full days to film.

Don’t think this scene is long—it’s barely over ten minutes, centered on just a few actors, no scene changes needed, so normally it should be quick.

But Jiang Wen obsessed over every detail, fine-tuned the rhythm, determined to nail this scene.

Even though Jiang Wen dragged things out, neither Ge Daye nor Yan Li showed any annoyance.

On one hand, Jiang Wen kept the atmosphere lively—the set was never dull.

He talked, joked, Yan Li was skilled at socializing, Ge Daye was quick-witted; when waiting for their cues or discussing scenes, they sat around bantering, growing more and more animated, sometimes continuing long after wrap.

This wasn’t slacking off—it was syncing their rhythms, building chemistry.

In such high-intensity confrontational scenes, individual performance was secondary; team coordination was crucial.

On the other hand, all of them were having a blast.

Yan Li’s career wasn’t short, but he’d only experienced true satisfaction a handful of times.

Previous thrills came from aligning with the role—acting in sync with the character—or from standout plot moments where he could fully unleash.

The Hongmen Banquet in "Let's Shoot the Bullet" was different—it was pure, unadulterated enjoyment in acting.

Several top-tier actors, one table, facing each other, trading lines blade-to-blade, brimming with tension.

Yan Li couldn’t say how Jiang Wen and Ge Daye felt, but for him, this was his first time locking horns with two acting giants—he was truly, genuinely thrilled.

Once he got that high, Yan Li became more invested in every scene, arriving each day with full energy, improving with every take, growing more addicted.

Yan Li was enjoying himself, Ge Daye was too, and Jiang Wen worked hard to keep them in that zone; the entire crew’s shooting became smoother, especially their trio scenes, which drew constant admiration from everyone on set.

“Alright, everyone ready? Thunder’s coming.”

Lights flashed wildly; shadows flickered in the lightning, figures slowly approaching as Jiang Wen’s deep, powerful voice rang out.

“Hu Wan is the bandit. The bandit is Hu Wan.”

“…”

Huang Silang sent men disguised as bandits to kill Zhang Mazi, but they were all killed in return, their bodies branded as bandits—leaving Huang himself under suspicion of collusion, utterly on the defensive.

Jiang Wen stared unflinchingly at Yan Li, gun pointed at him: “You’re pointing a gun at me? You want to fight me?”

Yan Li’s face was filled with murderous intent, his eyes flickering; as lightning flashed, he suddenly spun his gun and fired several shots at Hu Wan on the ground, then roared angrily.

“See that? This is the fate of bandits—even if he were my own father, he’d die.”

“He deserves to die.”

Yan Li fired two more shots, glared at Jiang Wen, teeth clenched: “Soon.”

Jiang Wen took off his hat and pressed harder, using Hu Wan’s death to force Old Man Huang to pay for the bandit suppression; Huang feigned compliance, promising a surprise in three days—but gave no concrete answer. Jiang Wen pressed further, dragging the indecisive Ge Daye into the conflict.

“Translate it. What does ‘surprise’ mean?”

Ge Daye feigned ignorance: “Why translate? It’s already said—”

Jiang Wen raised his voice, demanding clear positions from both Ge Daye and Huang Silang.

“I told you to translate it for me—what exactly does ‘surprise’ mean?”

Ge Daye kept pretending: “No need to translate—it’s just ‘surprise.’”

Yan Li, annoyed, pointed at Jiang Wen: “Don’t you even understand what ‘surprise’ means?”

Jiang Wen remained unmoved: “Translate it. What does ‘surprise’ mean?”

Ge Daye still tried to dodge: “Surprise…”

“Then translate it for me—what the hell is ‘surprise’…”

As Jiang Wen’s voice grew louder, the tension thickened; Ge Daye finally cracked under pressure and chose a side, turning to Yan Li.

“What the hell is ‘surprise’?”

Seeing this, Yan Li dropped all pretense, smiling coldly as he spoke:

“Surprise means—in three days, I’ll pay you one million eight hundred thousand to go out and wipe out the bandits. Bring me back my leg. Understood?”

Ge Daye nodded: “That’s the surprise.”

Jiang Wen continued: “Translate it.”

“…”

“Cut.”

The assistant director called out; Jiang Wen rushed to the monitor and launched into praise: “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

Ge Daye and Yan Li didn’t look—they’d rehearsed this scene countless times, shot it yesterday, and today was the second official take; every pause, rhythm, and performance was flawless. They had full confidence.

Sure enough, Jiang Wen watched and declared it passed.

Producer Ma Ke was thrilled—he’d been on set these past few days watching the three of them go at it, convinced "Let's Shoot the Bullet" would be a hit. Just these scenes alone were worth the ticket price.

He somehow got a bottle of champagne and poured glasses for Yan Li and the others.

“Come on, come on—'The Message' broke 250 million at the box office. Let’s toast.”

After each poured half a glass, Yan Li raised his glass to speak—then suddenly remembered something and turned to Ge Daye.

“Ge Lao Ye, high.”

Ge Daye played along, smiling as he lowered his glass to clink: “Oh, Yan Lao Ye.”

Yan Li turned to Jiang Wen, clinked his glass: “Director hard.”

Jiang Wen grinned, exchanged a glance with Ge Daye, and together with Ma Ke, they all shouted in unison, just like during the Hongmen Banquet scene: “Yan Lao Ye is both high and hard.”

“Hahaha.”

…

Mid-October, the Golden Rooster Awards announced: Princess Zhou won Best Actress for "Li Mi’s Guess."

Before this, Princess Zhou had already won the Golden Horse and Golden Bauhinia for "If. Love." Now, with the Golden Rooster, she became the first actress in Chinese-language cinema to win all three major awards.

Meanwhile, the double-bing duo lost out for "Painted Skin," dimming the spotlight on Fan Xiaopang, who had just become the first female actor in China to surpass 1 billion in cumulative box office thanks to "The Message."

Fan Xiaopang was mocked by many of Princess Zhou’s fans: Li Bingbing only had two Popular Audience Awards, while Fan Xiaopang had zero major film awards.

The double-bing fans weren’t gentle either—they ruthlessly attacked Princess Zhou’s box office numbers.

"Dawn 1949" had grossed less than 130 million—decent for a domestic film this year, but pitiful compared to the double-bing’s numbers.

Princess Zhou had starred in many films, but only "The Banquet" and "Dawn 1949" had crossed 100 million—she was the epitome of artistic merit over commercial appeal.

The fans of the Four Dan and Double Bing were hardened veterans—they knew exactly how to stab right in the heart.

The double-bing fans joined forces and gradually gained the upper hand.

On one hand, they were numerous; on the other, "The Message" had excellent reviews and the double-bing delivered outstanding performances—everyone assumed they’d win some awards.

Princess Zhou’s award record was impeccable, but trying to win back ground in box office and commercial appeal was no easy task.

Her strength made her, and her strength also broke her.

Once Princess Zhou’s image was locked as a “triple-gold actress,” major commercial films stopped hiring her—a fatal blow for a top star.

Aside from a few niche brands that favored uniqueness and high-end appeal, most commercial brands prioritized influence and reach.

An artist’s poor commercial performance was effectively equivalent to being unpopular or having fans with low spending power.

As previously stated, stars were commodities, especially in today’s increasingly commercialized society.

Without commercial clout, the best outcome was transitioning into an artist, earning steady paychecks; the worst was fading into obscurity, making way for newcomers.

With achievements, fame, and seniority, one’s status in the industry wouldn’t drop—but neither would one earn big money.

Look at past popular female stars.

For example, Pan Hong, who won two Golden Roosters; Gui Yarei, who won two Golden Horses; Hui Yinghong, who won two Golden Bauhinias.

Piles of awards, everyone knew them, directors and producers called them “Teacher”—yet they often ended up playing mothers in TV dramas, their pay and real status known only to themselves.

Princess Zhou was currently hot—her popularity and fame were unquestioned, no immediate worries.

But she wasn’t young anymore; in a few years, if her popularity dropped, she might not handle the fall.

Those who are hot fight desperately to stay hot; those who were once hot fight even harder to return.

Being a dazzling, universally admired superstar is addictive.

So Princess Zhou was visibly pushing hard to land more commercial films, boosting her box office record and personal influence.

"Detective Dee: The Mystery of the Phantom Flame," produced by Huayi Brothers and directed by Xu Laoguai, was her target.

Originally, Huayi favored her—Li Bingbing had divided loyalties, others were below her caliber; Princess Zhou was the ideal choice.

But after "Dawn 1949" flopped against "The Message," Huayi began to shift.

As Huayi prepared for its IPO, its future projects and stock price were directly tied to box office performance—Li Bingbing’s loyalty was secondary; box office came first.

Li Bingbing had divided loyalties, but she’d proven her box office draw.

The double-bing were currently on fire—investors and audiences alike backed her.

Besides, Li Bingbing was already planning to leave, and Princess Zhou had never signaled any intention to stay.

In fact, due to stocks, profits, and personal ties, Li Bingbing still had some future collaborations with Huayi—though she was closer to Yi’an.

Princess Zhou preferred operating as an independent artist, and she’d been flirting with figures in Hong Kong’s industry.

Given all this, Huayi’s balance began to tip.

Now Li Xue was aggressively lobbying Xu Laoguai, Wang Zhonglei, and others to snatch "Detective Dee: The Mystery of the Phantom Flame"—Princess Zhou naturally refused to surrender it, and the two teams clashed fiercely.

The heated arguments between Shuang Bing and Prince Zhou’s fans were partly due to both sides competing for roles.

In comparison, Fan Xiaopang wasn’t really a main participant in these fights, because she was busy making money.

With Feng Sheng becoming a massive hit and earning her the title of Billion-Dollar Actress, any female star would have seized the spotlight—let alone Fan Xiaopang, known for her influence and commercial appeal.

Almost immediately after the Feng Sheng promotional tour ended, Fan Xiaopang entered the busy phase of reaping its benefits.

Three international premium brands approached her, intending to make her their first-ever spokesperson for the Chinese and even Asian markets.

Not only were the brands prestigious in quality, but the quantity was also substantial, spanning from luxury goods to everyday consumer products.

According to insiders, just in October, over thirty advertising and endorsement deals came her way; if all were secured, the total advertising fees could approach a hundred million.

But this was merely hypothetical—by this stage, Fan Xiaopang couldn’t just chase quantity; she had to screen every brand and ad with strict thresholds.

Compared to taking endorsements, Fan Xiaopang’s team was now more obsessed with raising her value, using this momentum to significantly increase her worth.

If she could land a single-brand endorsement worth tens of millions, it would be both profitable and effortless.

Not only was her commercial value rising, but her film fee was too; although Fan Xiaopang now almost never accepted roles outside Yi’an, the market rate still had to be calculated—it was a reflection of her commercial worth.

With the box-office successes of Chi Bi, Hua Pi, and Feng Sheng, her role in the latter two was clearly pivotal; combined with her Billion-Dollar Actress title, her team pushed her film fee to eight million.

This price carried some self-inflation.

Since she didn’t take outside roles, setting a higher price made sense; the actual market rate widely recognized for her was around five to six and a half million.

Don’t think that’s low—in this era, film fees haven’t skyrocketed yet; many top-tier stars still earn only in the tens of millions.

At 6.5 million, Fan Xiaopang was among the top three female actresses; only Zhang Ziyi and Gong Li ranked above her.

But those two earned internationally, with various accolades and so-called global market advantages, inevitably inflating their value.

In comparison, the other members of the Four Dan and Two Bing had film fees mostly between one and two million, except Li Bingbing, whose fee surged to around five million.

The other three earned between one and two million each.

Rumors claimed Xiao Yanzi earned two million for Mai Tian, Xu Caiyu earned over a million for Xin Su Shi Jian, and Prince Zhou earned 1.2 million for Po Xiao 1949—but the latter may have been an internal rate.

In terms of film fees, the Four Dan and Two Bing were now gradually pulling apart.

As for TV drama fees, since most of the Four Dan and Two Bing didn’t do TV, only Fan Xiaopang had a quoted rate: 250,000 per episode—the highest among female actresses.

TV drama fees had been rising these past two years, but most popular stars still earned around 100,000 per episode.

Only major stars like Sun Honglei, Jiang Xin, Deng Chao, Wang Baoqiang, and Hu Ge—who had exploded in popularity and held high status—could break this limit, yet rarely exceeded 200,000 per episode.

Whether Fan Xiaopang’s price was worth it wasn’t the point; the key was she couldn’t be hired—even at 350,000 per episode, no one could get her.

For films, Fan Xiaopang still accepted outside scripts; if suitable, she’d consider starring.

For TV dramas, Fan Xiaopang treated them primarily as projects leveraging her influence and Yi’an to make money.

After Yi’an’s restructuring, the company was no longer solely Yan Li’s; Fan Xiaopang’s personal interests and Yan Li’s were now distinct from the company’s, and many collaborations became more formalized.

Cash payouts, investment ratios, profit-sharing terms—all had to be clearly negotiated; not to gain undue advantage, but at least not to be disadvantaged.

Guangdong Province, Shenzhen

Having finally completed her latest commercial engagement, Fan Xiaopang sat in the chauffeured car, scrolling through her phone and looking at Yang Tianzhen.

“Tianzhen, look at this big V—he says I could earn over a hundred million this year and might top the Forbes Celebrity List.”

Yang Tianzhen glanced a few times, then shook her head regretfully.

“Feng Sheng came out too late—if it had released in summer, there’d have been more time, and its impact would’ve fermented better; maybe we could’ve pushed for the top.”

“You’re being too optimistic.”

Fan Xiaopang shook her head—earning over a hundred million annually was truly a chasm for artists at this stage.

Not to mention Forbes Celebrity List counted only entertainment earnings, excluding investments and other income.

That raised the bar even higher; among Chinese-language actors, only Cheng Long and Li Lianjie had achieved this—and even they were inconsistent.

Fan Xiaopang’s related income had risen yearly, but she still had a long way to go before hitting a hundred million annually.

Earlier, Yan Li and Li Bingbing had mentioned that Fan Xiaopang’s estimated annual advertising income this year was around forty million.

At that time, Feng Sheng hadn’t been factored in as a variable.

Now that Feng Sheng had exploded and Fan Xiaopang was in the spotlight, her advertising income would certainly surge again—but don’t expect it to double.

Not even next year could she guarantee her entertainment income would break a hundred million.

Seeing this, Yang Tianzhen smiled: “Sis, you need to change your mindset. Why obsess over the Celebrity List? Your goal should be the Rich List.”

“You’re flattering me too much.”