Chapter 388

Late February, Yan Li’s YanYe Capital reached an agreement with Xiaomi, acquiring 10% of Xiaomi’s shares through a combination of capital and resources.

Boss Lei was still quite energized; Yan Li’s involvement brought not just resources and funding, but also considerable confidence to him and his team.

At this time, Boss Lei had decent seniority and reputation, but his personal wealth was far from impressive.

Even his seniority leaned more toward Kingsoft; although Shunwei Capital, which he led, performed well, its investments in Vancl, UC, and D Wanwang (YY) were all minor internet players still in their rise.

So, Boss Lei’s fame currently outweighed his actual strength—he was not yet considered a major player.

Smartphones were a Fengkou , but the risks were high; Xiaomi’s accumulated resources were limited, and Boss Lei himself had doubts. Having a business genius like Yan Li, known for his sharp vision, betting on him was a significant encouragement.

Even using Yan Li’s name for fundraising or motivating employees yielded excellent results.

Boss Lei immediately announced the news on Weibo, generating some momentum for Xiaomi.

Yan Li saw this and paid it no mind—he knew perfectly well what Xiaomi was built on.

Xiaomi generously gave him 10% of the shares; it was purely because of his personal halo and the various resources he controlled, which benefited Xiaomi’s marketing.

At Xiaomi’s peak market value, even if Yan Li kept only half his shares, he’d be worth nearly a hundred billion.

This money wasn’t free—he had to deliver, and this aligned perfectly with Boss Lei’s interests.

As for whether he’d get dragged into backlash by Xiaomi’s failures—he’d already pocketed tens of billions; a little criticism meant nothing.

Look at JD.com, Weibo, Ganji, Tudou, and the entertainment circle—any of the things Yan Li invested in or ran didn’t escape criticism?

As always: if you want to make money, don’t be too proud!

Besides, Xiaomi had its own boss—Boss Lei was even more eager than JD’s Liu to show himself off, tightly binding himself to the company as its primary spokesperson and face of responsibility.

Right now, during the startup phase, it’s natural to stay close to Yan Li; but once they reach a certain point, for various reasons, they’ll sever ties with him, erasing or redefining his connection to their company.

At that point, Yan Li would simply be a shareholder or supporter of JD and Xiaomi.

The relationship couldn’t be fully severed, but when trouble came, he wouldn’t bear the biggest blame.

Tudou was a perfect example.

After Wang Wei consciously downplayed Tudou’s public link to Yan Li and stepped into the spotlight himself, whenever Tudou faced scandals, it was Wang Wei who got blamed—not Yan Li.

Yan Li even encouraged Boss Lei to be more active on Weibo—bringing some heat to the platform; if he could even get into a public argument or challenge someone to a duel, that’d be ideal.

Compared to Yan and Lei, the outside world had zero interest in Yan Li’s investment in Xiaomi.

Xiaomi had just been founded; many people didn’t even know what the company did, and Yan Li wasn’t investing in a company for the first time.

Thus, aside from a few of Boss Lei’s fans hyping up “a powerful alliance” and some of Yan Li’s followers paying attention, there was no major buzz.

Even sharp-eyed players in the business world mostly viewed it as entertainment.

Outside, there were Apple, Nokia, and Samsung; inside, there were established players like Lenovo, ZTE, and Coolpad.

Smartphones were a Fengkou , but also a brutal, bloody red sea, and with high industry barriers, it was strange anyone would expect much from a newcomer like Boss Lei.

Some mocked Boss Lei for overreaching, and took perverse pleasure in Yan Li’s rare misstep.

Yan Li had certainly lost money on investments before—anyone in investment who never lost wasn’t human, but a god of wealth incarnate.

But Yan Li’s investments were conservative; he rarely lost big, mostly sticking to angel rounds, throwing away a few million at most, rarely exceeding tens of millions.

Investments over tens of millions had failed too, but he always managed to recover some capital through share withdrawal, asset sales, or transfers.

As for investments above a hundred million, Yan Li had never missed yet.

His multiple-round investments in JD.com, Tudou, Ganji, and others were all profitable, even hugely so—this was why he was seen as having excellent vision.

The exact amount Yan Li invested in Xiaomi was unknown, but rumors claimed he held a two-digit percentage stake.

Boss Lei was at least a known figure—he wouldn’t sell so many shares for just a few million. Yan Li’s investment was surely at least in the tens of millions.

The smartphone industry burned cash rapidly; to preserve as much equity as possible, any follow-on round could easily cost tens of millions—or even over a billion.

In that case, Yan Li might actually suffer a major setback with Boss Lei.

Business World’s Jiang Wen!

As one of Yan Li’s rare failures, Jiang Wen broke out of obscurity, gaining minor fame even in business circles, even becoming a descriptive term.

When this nickname spread, Yan Li and Boss Lei hadn’t even done anything—Jiang Wen was furious.

Killing someone is just a matter of cutting off their head; plenty of directors had lost money—why keep kicking the corpse?

Jiang Wen, already determined to redeem himself, threw himself even harder into “Let’s Make a Movie.”

This film couldn’t afford to lose—if it did, he’d be permanently nailed to the wall of shame.

…

Liming Pavilion, private room

Yan Li poured tea for Boss Zhang: “Boss Zhang, these are just jokes—please don’t feel any pressure.”

Previously, when Boss Zhang had extricated himself from Xin Hua, Yan Li had offered considerable help; Yi’an was powerful and closely tied to China Film Group.

Naturally, Boss Zhang’s new project began seeking collaboration with Yan Li.

But this new project involved some bold choices, and its box office prospects were uncertain; he feared Yan Li might issue directives, so he used Jiang Wen’s scandal as a test.

Yan Li understood his meaning and reiterated: “Boss Zhang, I won’t lie—saying I won’t interfere at all and leave everything to you? I can’t do that, and you wouldn’t believe me.”

“But our company will recommend actors and offer related suggestions; however, we respect your rights as director. We can discuss everything slowly—if you truly can’t compromise, in artistic matters, you will always have final say.”

Yan Li’s words were practical: Yi’an spent money to invest—it couldn’t let Boss Zhang do whatever he wanted, and it wouldn’t surrender its rightful interests.

But Yi’an wouldn’t force Boss Zhang; it aimed to reach mutual agreement and find a balanced compromise.

If no agreement could be reached, the director would still have final authority over filming.

This condition wasn’t exceptional, but it wasn’t harsh either—every director inevitably faced outside influence.

Even Feng Xiaogang, who had been elevated by Huayi, couldn’t ignore Huayi’s interests.

Boss Zhang could accept it; having suffered under Boss Zhang’s pressure before, he found Yi’an’s attitude gentle and its terms relatively relaxed.

After sipping tea, Boss Zhang began discussing casting for “Love in a Pomegranate Tree” with Yan Li.

Since the news broke after the New Year that he’d direct this film, rumors had never stopped—many popular young actors and actresses wanted to join, including some of Yi’an’s artists.

Boss Zhang wasn’t satisfied—he wanted newcomers.

Yan Li wasn’t surprised; Boss Zhang was famous for preferring newcomers, believing they had spirit, were blank slates to be freely painted on, and had launched a string of “Mou Girls.”

He considered: “Love in a Pomegranate Tree” had low investment, and its subject matter was inherently limited—even with stars, a massive box office hit was unlikely.

Using newcomers could not only launch talent and save costs, but also leave a good impression on Boss Zhang.

Yan Li understood: Boss Zhang had just escaped the wolf’s den and was tense, terrified of jumping into another tiger’s lair.

So Yan Li deliberately used “Love in a Pomegranate Tree” to soothe him, making him feel Yi’an was far superior to Xin Hua, deepening their cooperation.

“No problem—the casting is entirely up to you, Boss Zhang.”

With Yan Li’s approval, Boss Zhang sighed in relief; with Yan Li’s backing, he could be firmer in his stance—this was precisely why he’d come to consult Yan Li; otherwise, all the pleas and favors might have overwhelmed him.

“Boss Zhang, when you say ‘newcomer,’ do you mean a complete amateur who’s never acted before, or someone who’s acted but has no fame, to be discovered and polished?”

Yan Li thought for a moment and asked again. Boss Zhang considered: “Ideally a complete amateur, but the latter is acceptable too.”

Someone who’s never acted is truly a blank slate, but they might not know how to act at all.

Conversely, those with some basic training were often easier to mold—many past “Mou Girls” were recruited from art academies.

Yan Li nodded; this expanded the pool significantly—Yi’an could now select promising talents to submit, and whoever was chosen would be signed directly.

For the leads of “Love in a Pomegranate Tree,” Yan Li didn’t greedily seek both—he’d be satisfied if at least one was signed by Yi’an.

Compared to “Love in a Pomegranate Tree,” Yan Li was far more interested in “The Flowers of War.”

Rumors about this film had circulated since Boss Zhang directed the Olympic opening ceremony; many had followed it, Yan Li included—he wanted Yi’an to lead this film.

In response to Yan Li’s probe, Boss Zhang didn’t refuse, but also didn’t commit—he said he’d first shoot “Love in a Pomegranate Tree,” then consider the next project.

After “Three Musketeers,” his reputation was ruined—he needed a film to restore it.

This was also a major reason Boss Zhang chose to shoot “Love in a Pomegranate Tree” first—he feared audiences would reject “The Flowers of War” outright if he started with it, killing the film before it even began.

Yan Li didn’t press further; now that Boss Zhang was half-tied to Yi’an, he wasn’t worried he’d escape.

After finishing tea, Yan Li returned to Xinghewan by car—he’d been visiting often since Fan Xiaopang returned from his hometown for the New Year.

Upon entering, he saw his cheap brother-in-law Fan Chengcheng watching cartoons on TV, while Fan Xiaopang whispered with Yang Tianzhen and a staff member in the dining room.

“Chairman.”

Seeing Yan Li, Yang Tianzhen and the others stood up to greet him; Yan Li smiled.

Privately, Yang Tianzhen sometimes called him “brother-in-law” when the mood struck, but mostly she used his title—especially when others were present.

“What are you discussing?”

Yan Li pulled up a chair and sat down; Yang Tianzhen promptly handed him a glass of water.

Fan Xiaopang arranged a pile of photos: “We’re picking out outfits for the Cannes Film Festival.”

“Isn’t Cannes in May?”

“We need to pick them early to get custom tailoring, fittings, and alterations—starting one or two months ahead is normal.”

Fan Xiaopang explained; Yan Li was speechless: “It’s just Cannes—it’s not even the main competition, you’re not winning any awards, why so eager?”

Previously, Fan Xiaopang had picked similar outfits, but never this early—she’d started preparing over two months ago.

In Yan Li’s memory, last time she was certain to win at the Golden Horse Awards, she’d started only half a month ahead—maybe even less.

Fan Xiaopang rolled her eyes at him: “You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand? Walk the red carpet, boost your status, export for domestic resale.”

Who was Yan Li? He understood Fan Xiaopang’s game perfectly.