Chapter 39: Conquest: Establishing Authority, the Siblings

Yan Li and Jiang Shan only had this one scene together, and after filming, they had no further interaction.

He had assumed they’d never cross paths again, but Jiang Shan held a good impression of him and, a few days later, organized a dinner for the main cast of “Conquest,” specifically inviting him.

From his sources, Yan Li learned she didn’t find him attractive.

She simply thought he was sweet-talking and smooth, with decent acting, so she admired and took care of him a bit—and thus happily came along for the meal.

He had no interest in eating off Jiang Shan’s money, but he was willing to call her sister.

After all, Jiang Shan had extensive connections in the industry.

Her father and she were both generations of performers; her father had once served as head of the literature and planning departments at Beijing Film Studio, involved in countless early films and TV dramas, leaving behind a web of favors everywhere.

Moreover, Jiang Shan herself was a student of the Central Academy of Drama’s 1987 class; Chen Xiaoyi and director Feng Xiaogang’s wife, Xu Fan, were her close friends, while Hu Jun and He Bing were her classmates.

While filming “Guo Ba Yan,” Jiang Shan met director Zhao Baogang, and the male lead, Wang Zhiwen, became her close male friend.

Many renowned directors—including Huang Jianxin, Guo Baochang, and Zheng Xiaolong—had collaborated with her.

Especially Huang Jianxin; Jiang Shan had worked with him on multiple projects and enjoyed an excellent relationship.

Yan Li didn’t expect Jiang Shan to treat him like a real younger brother, pouring her heart out to recommend and promote him—just helping him make a connection or say a few good words would be enough.

The dinner venue was a restaurant not far from the hotel.

Director Gao Qunshu didn’t come; his presence at such gatherings tended to dampen the mood. Still, many other main cast members arrived, totaling over a dozen.

Wu Tian’s storyline was separate, so Yan Li had little interaction with most of the other leads.

Today, once everyone gathered, Yan Li became the most noticeable person in the room.

There was no way around it—the actors of “Conquest” were all more intimidating than the next, and even the police characters radiated authority, enough to silence crying children.

Compared to them, Yan Li’s handsomeness stood out several levels higher.

Even the female waitresses sneaked glances at him multiple times while serving dishes—likely stunned by his looks.

Then again, maybe they just didn’t recognize them as actors and pitied a fine young man going astray…

Jiang Shan unhesitatingly had Yan Li sit beside her; Liu Weiwei, who had been chatting with Sun Honglei, soon switched seats to sit next to Yan Li.

“That’s so unfair—you’ve got a good-looking guy here and you ditch us?”

Sun Honglei’s tone was a bit sour; he wasn’t interested in Liu, but this kind of favoritism was unacceptable.

Liu Weiwei and Sun Honglei were old acquaintances; they were both from Harbin, Heilongjiang. It was said Liu’s older brother and Sun had been high school classmates, so they’d known each other for years.

Sun Honglei’s casting in “Conquest” had been partly due to Liu Weiwei’s influence.

So Sun Honglei spoke his mind, and Liu Weiwei didn’t mind his remarks—instead, she teased him.

“In the drama you’re in charge of me, but outside, can’t I just look at a good-looking guy for a bit of eye candy?”

Yan Li didn’t want to offend Sun Honglei, so he joked about their on-screen conflict.

“If I’m to believe you, in the drama I get killed by Brother Honglei and his crew, and outside I have to sell my looks? That’s just bad luck.”

Bai Hongbiao, who played Han Yueping, Liu Huaqiang’s subordinate, chuckled: “You’ve got looks to sell—we rough guys can only stare helplessly.”

Binzi, who played Hu Dahai, another subordinate, rubbed his bald head, sighing with mock irony.

“It’s better to be handsome—you’re liked wherever you go.”

Zhang Rihui, who played Liu Huaqiang’s younger brother Liu Huawen, winked and grinned: “Not necessarily. Looks alone aren’t enough—you’ve got to be useful. A man’s most important asset isn’t his face.”

The remark was a bit risqué; most of the men in the room laughed heartily, feeling the truth of it.

For someone like Jiang Shan, at her age and in the industry, a few dirty jokes meant nothing—when the mood was right, she’d tell them herself, endlessly.

But behind the jokes, there was some subtle targeting of Yan Li; Jiang Shan frowned and fiercely defended her “brother.”

“You senior guys, why tease this young kid?”

Liu Weiwei added: “Exactly—a bunch of grown men, acting so childish.”

Yan Li: “...”

Two sisters, are you defending me or stoking the fire?

Yan Li could clearly sense the subtle exclusion and isolation directed at him, but he also saw that most had no real malice—just simple resentment toward a good-looking guy.

Under these circumstances, if Yan Li kept a low profile and smiled at everyone, no one would bother deliberately targeting him.

To be blunt, they were all minor actors—older and more experienced, perhaps, but with no real nerve to act superior to Yan Li.

On the contrary, Yan Li was young, with excellent all-around qualities—he might become famous any day. Anyone with half a brain wouldn’t dare offend him lightly.

Even just now, it was just group hype, disguised as jokes, and the moment passed with laughter.

But with Jiang Shan and Liu Weiwei speaking up, it was now framed as everyone ganging up on Yan Li—scolding and pushing him—and that wouldn’t sit well with them.

Jiang Shan was the biggest name on set—unapproachable!

Liu Weiwei had a murky relationship with director Gao Qunshu—also someone impossible to approach!

That left only Yan Li as the target. A few dared not pick a fight with him, but now that he’d drawn “public anger,” it didn’t matter anymore.

With Liu and Jiang present, things were fine—but once they returned to the set, Yan Li’s isolation and exclusion would only intensify.

…

Afterward, the dinner atmosphere noticeably dipped; even attempts to liven things up had little effect.

Yan Li watched coldly until halfway through the meal, then stood up, grabbed two bottles of beer, and walked straight to Zhang Rihui, the one who’d told the risqué joke.

Jiang Shan and Liu Weiwei had spoken up for him—whether they helped or not, they meant well, so he had to accept it and not let them lose face.

But Yan Li wouldn’t back down either. He was usually kind to others, but he wasn’t without temper.

Once, in college, someone had his eye on Dong Xuan—he went straight to their door and beat them up.

Now they were treating him like a soft target—he’d take the initiative and knock a few teeth out.

Zhang Rihui and the others were taken aback by Yan Li’s sudden approach, looking confused.

“What’s up?”

Yan Li poured himself a glass of beer, then said: “Just now, you said a man’s most important asset isn’t his face—I agree and I don’t agree.”

“If a man in this society loses his dignity, he’s no longer a man.”

Without waiting for their reactions, Yan Li raised his glass toward Zhang Rihui.

“I’m young and clumsy with words—please forgive any offense. I toast you—first drink, then I’ll explain.”

Yan Li lifted his cup—about 200 milliliters—and drained it in one gulp, then silently stared at the man.

Zhang Rihui frowned, raised his glass, and drank along; Yan Li immediately poured another.

“My words were harsh—another toast.”

Zhang Rihui caught on, pressing his cup down: “You trying to get me drunk?”

“Ah.”

Yan Li shook his head: “Not trying to get you drunk—just toasting. We’re all men who value dignity, and you’re a senior—surely you’ll give me face.”

The words sounded polite, but the meaning was clear. Others hadn’t expected this young kid to be so bold—coming over to challenge them to a drinking contest.

Some disliked it, thinking Yan Li was arrogant and disrespectful to seniors.

Others approved—responding to provocation on the spot showed guts; they were colleagues, not enemies, and settling it over drinks was fair.

But regardless of opinion, most were eager to watch the spectacle and egged Zhang Rihui on.

“Old Zhang, he’s toasting you—don’t refuse.”

“Don’t chicken out—don’t drink and you lose face.”

“Drink with him—what’s there to fear from a greenhorn?”

“...”

Yan Li’s words and stance had already put Zhang Rihui on the spot; with the crowd egging him on, Zhang had no choice but to accept.

He downed his drink, glared at Yan Li, and growled: “Come on.”

“Bold! I’ll toast you again.”

Yan Li drank another; Zhang Rihui followed immediately. Yan Li poured again; Zhang followed again.

Yan Li had initially said a few polite words, but now he said nothing—just drank. When the cup wasn’t enough, he went straight for the bottle.

One bottle, two bottles, three bottles…

Zhang Rihui had decent tolerance—he held out until the eighth bottle, then staggered out of the private room to vomit in the restroom.

Yan Li followed him to the restroom—but only to urinate. Afterward, he returned to the room, grabbed two more bottles, and approached Bai Hongbiao.

“Teacher Bai, I’d like to toast you a few rounds.”

Bai Hongbiao had watched Yan Li down multiple bottles and literally drink Zhang Rihui into vomiting—he felt fear.

“Yan Li, I was just joking—I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know. I’m just toasting—no other intent. Drink as much as you can.”

Bai Hongbiao’s words were harmless, but Yan Li had already started—he didn’t care about excuses. Once he opened his mouth, he’d knock them down.

This wasn’t just about saving face—it was about establishing authority, making an example of one to warn the rest, showing them he wasn’t to be trifled with.

Better to kill the wrong one than let one slip.

Bai Hongbiao had no choice but to drink along. His tolerance was far weaker—he gave up after three and a half bottles.

“I give up, okay? I really can’t drink anymore.”

Yan Li didn’t force him—he took the bottle and went to Binzi, who had been waiting, grinning widely.

“Brother, I’ve got a big stomach for liquor.”

Yan Li said nothing—downed a whole bottle. Binzi gave a thumbs-up and followed suit.

Binzi wasn’t boasting—he could truly drink. Yan Li matched him longest; each had consumed nearly two cases, and they’d visited the restroom multiple times.

In the end, Yan Li edged ahead—Binzi couldn’t hold out and vomited right there in the private room.

After all that drinking, Yan Li himself was at his limit.

He was still sober, but his stomach couldn’t take it; he and Binzi spent the next two rounds grinding it out, each waiting for the other to break first.

Yan Li turned to look at the last one, Sun Honglei, and was about to speak when the latter, without a word, downed a bottle himself.

“Yan Li, I give up. I was an idiot before—let’s call it a day.”

Yan Li stared at him, baffled: “I never meant to toast you. I just wanted to ask what time it was.”

Sun Honglei: “...”

Yan Li smiled. He knew the man was offering him a graceful exit.

But he wasn’t stupid. Dragging his exhausted body into a prolonged feud with Sun Honglei served no purpose. If the other wanted to drink, he wouldn’t. He’d let him win, call it a day, and save his anger for when he’d recovered—then he’d show up at his door with liquor.

Today, Yan Li had misjudged things—he hadn’t expected Binzi to be such a heavy drinker. By the end, he had no choice but to push through.

If he’d known, he’d have just picked a target he disliked and started a fight outright.

Or set up a trap using the information network—something more vicious: dig up private details and leak them on the set and on Tianya Forum to ruin his reputation.

Too young, still!

…

Yan Li felt he’d played too roughly, but the effect of establishing authority was real—he instantly made a name for himself on the set of Conquest.

He alone drank over two cases of spleen liquor, knocked down three big men, and forced Sun Honglei to back down.

Whether they liked Yan Li or not, everyone had to admit—he was a ruthless one!

This also caused Yan Li’s popularity on the Conquest set to rise sharply.

Sometimes, Yan Li found it both amusing and exasperating.

When he smiled and welcomed them, they thought he was a pretty boy with no good intentions. But when he flipped out and made several people vomit, many suddenly found him refreshing.

Even those who’d drunk with him—except Zhang Rihui, who still ignored him—changed their attitude completely.

Bai Hongbiao greeted Yan Li with a smile. Sun Honglei called him brother. Binzi, meanwhile, kept finding excuses to drink with him—so often that Zhou Yiwei grew a little jealous.

But the one who troubled Yan Li most was Jiang Shan.

That night, after the drinking contest, this sister had somehow imagined something in her head—her impression of him had subtly shifted. She now thought this younger brother was both warm and wild.

As a result, Yan Li had started avoiding her these past days, determined to wait until her feelings reverted back.

————

Yan Li finally got the chance he’d longed for—to act opposite Sun Honglei.

Unlike his humble demeanor at the drinking table, Sun Honglei radiated dominance on set, amplified by his character’s traits, making him intensely aggressive. Yan Li wasn’t crushed, but he still struggled to keep up.

After filming that scene, Yan Li watched the playback multiple times, combined with his own insights, and went back to pull Zhou Yiwei aside to dissect it piece by piece.

Among their dorm mates, Zhang Songwen ranked first in all class acting courses; Yan Li ranked second.

They were good friends privately, but had some differences in acting approach.

Zhang Songwen was a true method actor—he built a character from within, then used techniques to portray it.

But Yan Li wasn’t fond of that approach.

Especially with Zhang Songwen, Yan Li felt he overemphasized technique at the cost of essence. Yan Li himself leaned more toward the experiential school—or, more accurately, the pragmatic school.

When acting, he prioritized digging into the character’s essence, blending it with his own self, striving for unity between actor and role, yet he didn’t reject performance techniques outright.

In short—he used whatever method worked best, without rigid constraints.

Lin Jiachuan stood with Yan Li; Zhou Yiwei favored Zhang Songwen’s method school but also tried Yan Li’s approach.

Yan Li dragged Zhou Yiwei into study sessions, savoring every detail, until he finally picked up a bottle and went straight to Sun Honglei for advice.

The latter didn’t hold back—he shared plenty of his own experience and insights.

They acted together a few more times. Through serious study, learning, and the pressure of competing against a high-caliber actor, Yan Li’s progress became visibly clear.

This prompted Yan Li to seek out Gao Qunshu again, asking to reshoot the scene—only to be firmly refused.

Their scene took place in a luxury hotel suite, which was expensive to rent. The Conquest set was tight on funds and simply couldn’t afford to refine it further.

Yan Li felt disappointed and could only throw himself into the remaining scenes with even greater effort.

But Wu Tian’s scenes were severely limited. Before long, it was time to wrap up…

————

PS: This chapter is 4000+ words—nearly equal to two regular chapters. Consider it my apology for yesterday’s blunder, and a humble request for monthly votes.

(End of Chapter)