Chapter 401: The King of Selling Dramas Becomes the King of Buying Dramas: The Fourth Concubine and the Bed Companion

Late June, after multiple rounds of negotiations, Yan Li first softened his stance, then hardened it, and even turned a mole, finally securing Yang Lei.

Yang Lei withdrew her lawsuit; Wang Wei personally compensated her with $12 million in cash and a property in Shanghai.

At current exchange rates, the cash amounted to roughly 80 million RMB, and the property—formerly marital property from their divorce—had been awarded to Yang Lei, along with the remaining mortgage.

Yang Lei demanded Wang Wei pay off the mortgage, a modest sum of just a few million, bringing the total to around 85 million RMB.

In 2010, this sum was far from trivial—many billionaires would curse if forced to pay 85 million in a divorce settlement.

Wang Wei was deeply dissatisfied, but the board, led by Yan Li, gave him a stern rebuke.

Whether the 85 million was worth it was secondary; the point was, you caused the trouble, and now you’re being held hostage—for the sake of everyone’s interests, you must resolve it.

Moreover, from Wang Wei’s personal perspective, without paying 85 million, Tudou.com couldn’t go public, and his shares would be worthless.

But if he paid 85 million, though it would hurt, it would smoothly push the IPO forward, turning his shares into real gold and silver.

Can’t he even do the math?!

When Yan Li seized control of Tudou.com before, he’d only criticized; this time, seeing Wang Wei still dragging his feet over 85 million, he finally lost his temper.

“I’m worth tens of billions. I abandoned my home and family, spent every day smiling and coddling your ex-wife, cleaning up your messes, and I managed to negotiate this price against all odds.”

“Refuse? Do you think I won’t just take your shares as payment?”

Yan Li was genuinely angry. As he said, with his vast fortune, he spent more time soothing Yang Lei and her friends than he did seeing his own newborn son.

After finally settling the toughest issue—Yang Lei—Wang Wei suddenly refused to comply.

Yan Li’s scolding was already mild; if not for the board’s need to preserve appearances, he’d have thrown his teacup in Wang Wei’s face.

“Chairman Yan, please calm down.”

Several shareholders and executives rushed to intervene; Xiong, the head of IDG, looked equally furious.

“General Wang, everyone sees how hard Chairman Yan worked—such speed, such a low price—who else could have achieved this?”

Before this, everyone assumed it would take at least 100 million, maybe even 200 million—or a slice of equity.

No one expected Yan Li to secure it for 85 million, and in such a short time.

Frankly, shareholders were whispering whether Yan Li had used some irregular tactics.

Under these circumstances, Wang Wei’s behavior was a textbook case of ingratitude.

Several shareholders exchanged glances, suspecting Wang Wei was using this as an excuse to vent his anger over being stripped of power and to sabotage the company and its shareholders.

Xu, head of Today Capital, took a firm stance: “General Wang, I believe Chairman Yan’s negotiated price is entirely reasonable. If you refuse, I will recommend the board consider coercive measures.”

Personal debt issues preventing the company’s IPO constitute serious harm to corporate interests; internal measures—including forced share transfer or even shareholder expulsion—are permissible.

Of course, such actions are sensitive and complex, especially against a major shareholder like Wang Wei—it won’t be easy.

But if the board united against him, they had plenty of ways to make Wang Wei suffer.

Wang Wei realized he’d stirred up widespread anger and dared not argue, only saying:

“I don’t mean anything else—I just don’t have the cash.”

As previously mentioned, Wang Wei’s net worth was almost entirely tied to his Tudou.com shares; Tudou had been losing money, paid no dividends, and he’d been sustaining operations with personal savings and his salary as chairman and CEO.

Now that he’d resigned from Tudou, his income was gone—he truly couldn’t afford 85 million.

“I’ve already negotiated this with her: you can pay 20 million upfront and cover the property mortgage; the rest will be paid within six months after the IPO.”

Yan Li said, knowing Wang Wei had no cash—he’d arranged an installment plan with Yang Lei.

“I can’t even afford 20 million.”

Wang Wei replied. Yan Li didn’t even want to respond—he’d originally planned to lend Wang Wei the money if he was short, but now he wanted nothing to do with him.

Xiong of IDG sighed: “I’ll lend you the money.”

After arranging legal teams to sign contracts and withdraw the lawsuit, Wang Wei temporarily left the room. The board members exchanged glances; the atmosphere grew strange.

Whether Wang Wei was truly stingy or using this to retaliate, his actions had lost him credibility and raised fears of uncontrollable risk.

Previously, when they joined Yan Li to seize power, some shareholders had sided with Yan Li out of self-interest but still felt sympathy and guilt toward Wang Wei.

Now, Wang Wei’s behavior had drastically reduced their positive perception of him—even those who still felt some sympathy now leaned toward pushing him out to protect the company and their own interests.

“After the IPO, I hope the board can unify its stance and maintain sufficient cohesion.”

Yan Li spoke with clear implication. Xu of Today Capital nodded: “I agree.”

“I have no objections.”

“Fine.”

“It’s all for the company.”

“...”

This signaled the board had reached consensus: after the IPO, they would deal with Wang Wei.

Either kick him out outright, or dilute his shares to drastically reduce his threat—no one could feel secure with a major shareholder hostile to the board.

…

With Yang Lei settled, Tudou.com had shed a heavy burden and could now re-charge toward its IPO.

In fact, Tudou’s IPO process had continued throughout this period; though slowed by the delay, the resolution came quickly enough to remain within manageable limits.

Currently, Tudou.com still led Youku in IPO progress, but the gap had narrowed considerably.

This disappointed some Tudou shareholders and executives, but Yan Li remained calm.

He’d long prepared for a direct clash with Youku.

According to future intelligence, Tudou’s downfall stemmed from timing—some believed whoever went public first would win outright, but this view was incomplete and unobjective.

Tudou’s IPO delays were a key reason, but not the only one.

Before the IPO, Youku already surpassed Tudou in functionality, strategy, and technology—it was already the de facto industry leader.

Tudou’s rush to go public was an attempt to find a shortcut to overtake Youku.

But Youku went public first, secured massive capital and broad support, and leveraged its existing lead to surge ahead—while Tudou struggled to complete its IPO, Youku built an absolute advantage.

At the time, the video website market was still undeveloped, and capital markets favored winner-takes-all; Youku, as the clear #1, left Tudou doomed.

Tudou’s stock plummeted after listing; within half a year, it went from a fierce two-horse race to a market cap merely a fraction of Youku’s.

Even so, Tudou wasn’t finished—it remained #2 in the industry, with a market cap of several billion.

What truly killed Tudou was the entry of major internet giants: Baidu launched iQiyi, Tencent launched Tencent Video, and LeTV emerged as a disruptive force.

Before these powerful, well-funded giants, Youku and Tudou—once the industry’s two titans—faced immense pressure.

Youku, as the leader, had deeper reserves; Tudou, already weakened, couldn’t hold out—so both chose to merge for survival.

But Tudou was no match for Youku; after the merger, it was fully absorbed and vanished entirely.

This reveals a fundamental difference between Tudou and Youku.

Future intelligence indicated Tudou’s IPO came six months late—effectively eliminating it from the race.

But in reality, Youku’s IPO lagged Tudou’s by only a step or two—nowhere near the catastrophic state described in future intelligence.

Yan Li planned to upgrade hardware and revise strategy after Tudou’s IPO, but both required time and pain—giving Youku further opportunity to close the gap.

Thus, Tudou’s early IPO couldn’t directly crush Youku.

Both sides would have to fight—and it might be a long, grueling battle.

Yan Li’s three main priorities for Tudou were: first, secure the IPO; second, research hardware upgrades and strategic changes; third, secure content.

For video websites, content was paramount; with comparable infrastructure, whoever had better content held the greater advantage.

Here, Tudou had an edge thanks to Yi’an’s support, but Yan Li remained cautious.

Youku wasn’t stupid—if Tudou partnered with Yi’an, Youku would turn to other studios, raise prices, and spend heavily to buy dramas, trying to close the gap.

So Yan Li prepared two fronts: one, arrange for Yi’an to acquire popular rights; two, actively promote Tudou’s original web dramas.

The term “web drama” was known to Yan Li from future intelligence; under current censorship rules, web dramas held a significant advantage.

For example, suspense and supernatural themes were impossible on TV; even in films, they were only borderline.

But web dramas had no clear restrictions—as long as the content wasn’t excessively extreme, creators could boldly explore and attract niche audiences.

Similarly, gangster and martial arts themes, impossible to air on TV, could thrive as web dramas.

Avoid overtly sensitive topics or end with a conclusion aligned with mainstream values, and you could still produce compelling content.

With proper cost control, a web drama or season could be produced for just a few million—even a couple million—far cheaper than buying existing dramas.

Moreover, original web dramas could build Tudou’s brand image as “content is king,” cultivate loyal fans, enhance user engagement, and unlock greater monetization potential.

In a way, this merged Tudou’s earlier UGC model with its long-form video rights.

But the content creators shifted from users to Tudou itself—what’s known as OGC (professional-generated content).

This move carried risk—it might not succeed—but if it did, it would become Tudou’s new flagship and new story.

To play this card well, Yan Li personally took on the role of Tudou’s Chief Content Officer, directly overseeing both rights acquisition and web drama production.

He also transferred numerous talents from Yi’an—some part-time, others full-time—to deepen Tudou’s content capabilities.

Remember, Yan Li barely managed any specific operations at Yi’an; his taking the Chief Content Officer role at Tudou showed his extreme seriousness.

After assuming control of content, Yan Li’s first priority was Yi’an’s summer drama lineup.

“The Beauty’s Heart Strategy,” “Double Embroidery,” “Iron Pear Blossom,” and others.

These major Yi’an co-produced projects, barring unforeseen issues, would all be secured by Tudou.

But Yan Li’s real focus was on dramas not produced or distributed by Yi’an.

Acquiring a few strong projects was secondary; the key was to prevent Youku or other competitors from gaining an advantage.

Honestly, when Yan Li first reviewed the pile of TV drama files, he nearly lost his composure.

Yan Li had built his career on distribution, once earning the title “King of Drama Sales”—universally recognized as the industry’s most formidable drama seller.

Yet now, time had turned him into a buyer.

This shift in identity stirred deep emotions within Yan Li.

But he quickly adjusted himself—from distributor to platform, from seller to buyer—indicating that Yan Li’s career was on an upward trajectory, undoubtedly a good thing.

Back when he was a contractor, even with his system, Yan Li still endured no small amount of hardship; now he could finally enjoy the privilege of being the client.

Moreover, turning from a seller of dramas to a buyer actually carried significant advantages.

Yan Li knew every trick used by production teams in distribution and sales—he had not only used them all, but had long since moved beyond them.

For Yan Li, back then as a distributor, he had stretched every possible angle to inflate prices and highlight strengths; now, as a buyer, he stretched every possible angle to find flaws and drive prices down.

As a distributor, Yan Li became the King of Selling Films; as a buyer, he could become the King of Buying Films.

Not an exaggeration—when several Tudou.com production teams invited to discuss collaboration heard that Yan Li was the one deciding which dramas to purchase, they nearly burst into tears.

Anyone in the television industry knew Yan Li—he was the idol countless peers worshipped most.

Even this minor role within the film and television industry had acquired a touch of legend because of Yan Li’s existence and resume.

When insiders heard someone had handled drama distribution, they automatically respected them, assuming the person was shrewd, capable, and destined for great things—making career moves and finding partners far easier.

Now, the idol he most admired had become his most stern and ruthless opponent—what was there left to play?

Tudou.com’s drama acquisition department, having previously dealt with Yi’an under fixed rules and never personally witnessed the capability of Yi’an’s distribution team, lacked understanding of Yan Li’s background and thought these people were exaggerating.

When they submitted the negotiated contracts to Yan Li, he frowned and slashed the average price by another 20–30%.

At the time, Tudou.com’s acquisition team thought Yan Li was ruthless.

Because they had already been intimidated by Yan Li, their bids were far lower than usual; slashing them further risked collapsing the deals.

But under Yan Li’s insistence, they returned the contracts to the production teams and renegotiated with unwavering determination.

Although two teams ultimately walked away, the majority, realizing Tudou.com’s firm stance and their own concessions shrinking further, grumbled and complained but still signed the contracts.

Later, Tudou.com staff learned that Yan Li’s prices had been precisely set just below their psychological thresholds and near their bottom lines.

The ones who left were the same—they simply couldn’t accept it, thinking they might get better luck at Youku or other platforms.

But doing so meant vastly greater time, effort, and risk.