Chapter 396

Said he was accompanying Fan Xiaopang to the Cannes Film Festival, but in reality, Yan Li never went to Cannes.

He spent a week touring Paris with Fan Xiaopang, then went to England to watch football.

It’s May now, near the end of the season; Yan Li missed the Champions League final, but he could still catch a few live matches.

Yan Li never expected that watching a match would land him on the news.

It started when a Sina Sports reporter spotted him at the stadium.

Probably thinking the story of Yan Li watching a game lacked heat, they fabricated a news piece claiming he planned to buy an English Premier League club.

After this snippet was reposted on Weibo, the official Weibo Sports account even carried it, followed by analytical articles evaluating which clubs might be suitable for purchase.

That was a big deal!

Weibo is Yan Li’s company; by not debunking the rumor and instead appearing to endorse it, many saw it as proof he truly intended to buy a team.

So the rumor spread not just among domestic fans, but also caught the attention of British media.

Yan Li still had some influence in Europe and America, and his information wasn’t hard to find.

Soon, Britain’s Sun newspaper ran a report, naming this Chinese billionaire interested in entering English football as having a net worth of roughly 4 billion pounds.

He was China’s most famous and youngest billionaire, a globally renowned new money magnate.

In China, he primarily operated in entertainment and the internet, owning China’s—and arguably Asia’s—largest entertainment company, valued at over 2.5 billion pounds, having founded China’s version of Facebook and being the largest shareholder of China’s YouTube (Tudou), seen as a top contender to become China’s next richest man.

Handsome, young, and wealthy, with an extremely rich love life, his playboy reputation spread across Asia.

He had rumors linking him to famous Chinese actresses like , , , and others, nicknamed “The Captain Who Conquered Ice” and “The Great Cannon Yan.”

A football fanatic and loyal supporter of the Premier League, he was suspected of being a Manchester United fan; according to Chinese media, he had long wished to take ownership of a football club to fulfill his dream.

Liverpool and West Ham, both burdened with massive debts, might be his top choices.

Championship powerhouses Leeds United, Leicester City, and Blackburn had long been rumored for sale and could also be linked to this young Chinese billionaire.

The Sun’s report further confirmed the story, and when it returned to China, it immediately trended nationwide.

By the time Yan Li, still abroad and slow to react, realized how big it had become, domestic fans were already fantasizing about a dream team of Mourinho + Messi + Ronaldo.

“Great, now they’re adding Messi and Ronaldo? They really don’t value money at all. Besides, even if I could get them, they’d fight in the same team.”

Yan Li was speechless—he’d already called Weibo to find out what happened.

To be fair, this was partly his own fault.

Yan Li did have a passing thought about buying a club just for fun; occasionally over meals with Weibo executives or trainees, he’d chat about football and throw out a few boasts.

But Yan Li forgot about it after boasting—his subordinates took it seriously, some even pushing the rumor to flatter their boss and elevate his image, which eventually spiraled into this mess.

Yan Li thought about it, chose not to deny it, but also didn’t confirm it.

He did have a real inclination to buy a club, but it wasn’t something you just bought on a whim, and clubs weren’t cheap.

Even a mid-to-lower-tier Premier League club cost nearly 100 million pounds, roughly 1 billion RMB; Championship clubs were cheaper, but still required hundreds of millions in RMB.

Beyond that, most clubs carried external debts; purchasing ownership meant assuming those debts.

Of course, those debts often became the bargaining chip in negotiations.

For example, Liverpool’s acquisition price a few years ago was nearly 500 million pounds, but now it might be had for 300 million, provided the buyer took on over 200 million in debt.

The total price still looked high, but there were strategies for repaying debt; if the buyer had capital and operated well, they could gain considerable advantage through the process.

Even if the seller knew, they had no choice—crushed by debt, they could only sell at a low price.

Moreover, after a club changed hands, new owners typically spent money to signal their commitment and win over fans—a further expense.

So even buying just a Championship club, all costs combined, would run into hundreds of millions.

To Yan Li, this wasn’t a huge sum, but it wasn’t trivial either.

And Yan Li didn’t buy a club just for fun; owning a famous football club brought benefits to both his personal assets and certain companies—such as asset allocation, financial investment, and corporate development support.

Regardless of motive, acquiring overseas assets, especially publicly prominent ones, benefited entrepreneurs.

Moreover, with capital going global and diversification being the current trend, relevant authorities were actively promoting the development of the sports industry; Yan Li’s move precisely aligned with policy.

But precisely because of this, he couldn’t just buy any random club.

Forget elite giants—minimum, it needed some influence and recognition, with decent prospects and performance, so he needed to do some research and investigation.

If no suitable option existed, he might as well wait; it wasn’t a necessity, better to pass than force it.

Under these circumstances, silence was best—avoiding any embarrassing reversal, and without heat, the crowd chasing the trend would naturally lose interest.

Compared to Yan Li’s unconfirmed rumor, which only sparked minor buzz in sports circles, Fan Xiaopang, still in France, had truly gone viral.

On the Cannes red carpet, she wore a dragon-robe-style gown that stole the spotlight and made her an instant sensation.

International media and the fashion world praised Fan Xiaopang’s dragon robe highly, calling it a standout expression of Eastern aesthetics.

A renowned European fashion editor rated it the best dressed of the entire Cannes festival, declaring Fan Xiaopang had ruled the red carpet.

AFP also reported, emphasizing how eye-catching her appearance was, describing it as beautiful, stylish, and elegant.

It also sparked heated debate among Chinese netizens and media.

Many supported her, saying she was showcasing the splendor of Eastern elegance, promoting Chinese culture, and bringing honor to China—no wonder she was Fan Xiaopang.

Some opposed her, claiming her move was too showy, deliberately stealing attention, and over-marketed.

Overall, however, the reception was overwhelmingly positive.

The reason was simple: the world respects power and status, and Fan Xiaopang had both.

If another lesser-known actress wore that dragon robe, it would be a monkey wearing a crown—ridiculous and humiliating.

But with Fan Xiaopang, it was different.

In the past two years, films like The Painted Skin, Red Cliff, and The Message had made her the first female actress in China to surpass 1 billion RMB in personal box office.

Her business prowess dwarfed all other actresses; in last year’s Forbes Celebrity 100, she dominated as the top-earning and most exposed female star.

Winning the Golden Horse Award filled her last gap; her two runner-ups and one win in the Weibo Goddess rankings proved her explosive popularity.

Meanwhile, her biggest rival, Zhang Ziyi, had stumbled, and Fan Xiaopang seized the moment, reaping massive gains, now clearly emerging as China’s most popular actress.

Last month, Yi’an’s IPO netted her hundreds of millions, making her a symbol of celebrity wealth, envied by countless others.

Today, Fan Xiaopang is the very embodiment of [beauty, confidence, powerful woman].

When she wore the dragon robe, most people accepted it easily—even felt it was deserved, like a red carpet coronation.

When Yan Li returned to France and met Fan Xiaopang again,

Fan Xiaopang, thanks to the dragon robe incident, had not only further solidified and spread her personal brand, but also begun moving toward expanding the image of Chinese actresses, exporting Chinese cultural elements, and positioning herself as a pioneer of Eastern aesthetics.

In elevating herself, she also subtly put another nail in the coffin of Zhang Ziyi, who was currently filming with Wang Mijing.

This woman had frequently appeared internationally in recent years, but her looks were conservative and monotonous; after years of effort, her impact and meaning paled beside Fan Xiaopang’s single red carpet walk.

Given Fan Xiaopang and Yang Tian’s style, not stepping on her would be strange—if not for fear of overdoing it, even Gong Li might not have escaped.

Yan Li specifically examined the dragon robe.

Since the Cannes Film Festival lasted multiple days and the red carpet wasn’t just one event, Fan Xiaopang brought several gowns—he hadn’t paid much attention to the dragon robe before.

“Pity, wouldn’t a Ming dynasty style have been better?”

Yan Li raised an objection; Fan Xiaopang shook her head: “This imperial yellow dragon robe—we understand it, foreigners understand it too. Simple and clear. Besides, a dragon robe isn’t a royal robe; it must balance beauty and impact.”

The dragon symbolizes power; one design intent was to show women could wield power—not just a queen ascending the throne.

If we used a Ming dynasty dragon robe, the elements and complexity would increase, and the style wouldn’t stand out as sharply.

Also, design-wise, it’s problematic: Qing dynasty dragon robes can be altered freely; if we based it on Hanfu, we’d face endless expert criticism.

Yan Li thought about it—he was right. This was primarily about showcasing Eastern culture; the dragon robe’s key features were the imperial yellow and the dragon, neither unique to the Qing. No need to overthink it.

“I’ve only seen photos. Let me see how it looks on you in person.”

Fan Xiaopang rolled her eyes—she knew exactly what this bastard was like; whether he wanted to look or use it was uncertain.

Still, she obediently changed into the dragon robe, fixed her hair, and tried to recreate the red carpet look.

Yan Li was thoroughly satisfied—he reached out to touch it.

Fan Xiaopang stepped aside.

“Just look. This is silk embroidery—it’s expensive.”

“How much did it cost? I’ll reimburse you.”

Yan Li had torn up more than a few high-end gowns; they were pricey, but the experience was unmatched.

This dragon robe, magnificent and imposing, was especially alluring—it made Yan Li’s blood boil.

He even thought Qing dragon robes were great—today would be a good day to deal with the Tartars.

Uh, wait—Qing emperors weren’t necessarily Tartars… never mind, let’s just strike down the great mountain of feudalism…

Fan Xiaopang, though he gained fame on the Cannes red carpet wearing the dragon robe, did not win any awards for his lead role in "Guanyin Mountain".

Although Fan Xiaopang went viral at Cannes with the dragon robe, her film The Guanyin Mountain won no awards.

But that was expected; she felt no great disappointment, gave a few interviews, then led her team back to Beijing.

Yan Li didn’t go with her—he had work to handle in Shanghai.

Exiting through the VIP lane, Fan Xiaopang encountered some of her fans.

[93] Her Cannes itinerary was relatively public, and flights from France to Beijing were limited, so some fans had come to meet her.