Chapter 42: The Local Power Broker Agent Who Knows How to Get Things Done: Yan Li

Li Peng, from Taiwan Province, was a notable figure in Taiwan’s film and television industry, having participated in the production of multiple films and TV dramas.

After the year 2000, film and television teams from Hong Kong and Taiwan flocked northward, and Li Peng followed the trend.

However, unlike the melancholy romantic dramas he had previously produced, upon arriving on the mainland, Li Peng set his sights on the emerging hot genre of wuxia dramas.

Coincidentally, he held the rights to an existing wuxia novel—The Cold Moon, Lone Star Sword.

This novel had some fame in Taiwan, having been adapted into a film of the same name in the 1970s and remade as a TV drama in the 1980s.

Li Peng himself was one of the directors of the TV drama The Cold Moon, Lone Star Sword, and the lead actor at the time was “The Roaring Master,” Ma Jingtao.

With this successful precedent, Li Peng hired a screenwriter and penned a new script.

The story’s setting remained largely unchanged, but the plot was significantly revised, and many characters were renamed—such as the female lead changing from “Bai Qiushuang” to “Lady Shangguan Yan,” and the second male lead shifting from “Qin Bin” to “Ouyang Mingri,” making the overall narrative more aligned with current market tastes and audience preferences.

Once the script was finalized, Li Peng contacted various channels and secured funding, gradually assembling the crew, and was preparing to begin shooting on a chosen date.

The originally agreed-upon female lead, Xiao Qiang, suddenly called to say she wouldn’t be acting.

This news was a thunderclap for Li Peng and the entire crew.

Li Peng personally flew to meet Xiao Qiang, but she remained firm and he failed to persuade her.

Frustrated, Li Peng vented his anger, vowing he’d rather use newcomers than established stars.

On a friend’s advice, Li Peng and his team came to Beijing.

They planned to first visit several art universities; if no suitable candidates were found, they’d expand their search to the group of aspiring actors in Beijing.

Beijing was currently the mainland’s film and television center, teeming with countless young actors hungry for fame—surely they could find a promising talent.

…

In the hotel room, Li Peng, along with his assistant and assistant director, were discussing how to contact art schools when his phone suddenly rang.

Li Peng didn’t think twice about the unknown number and answered directly: “Hello?”

“Hello, may I ask if this is Mr. Li from Zhonglu Film and Television?”

“This is I. Who are you?”

“Mr. Li, hello. My name is Yan Li. I currently handle small intermediary jobs in the industry and also work as an agent. I heard you’re looking for actors and wanted to offer my assistance.”

Li Peng frowned: “How do you know I’m looking for actors?”

He’d only just arrived in Beijing—his plans hadn’t been made public yet!

The other side paused, then replied casually: “To be honest, I have a few friends in Shanghai who happened to hear about you, so I came forward to recommend myself.”

Li Peng then understood—his crew hadn’t just come to Beijing; they’d also sent a team to Shanghai earlier, and someone must have passed the information along.

Still, he was a veteran of the industry, having seen plenty of shady dealings.

He was naturally wary of strangers who approached him out of the blue, so he ignored the call.

“Sorry, we don’t need help.”

The man named Yan Li remained undeterred, continuing gently: “Mr. Li, don’t misunderstand—I mean no harm. You’re strangers in Beijing and could use a local contact.”

“I don’t have other skills, just good connections and up-to-date information.”

“I know people at Beijing Film Academy, Central Academy of Drama, PLA Art Academy, Communication University of China—all the major schools—and I’m friends with several key intermediaries among Beijing’s aspiring actors. If you need help, I can make the connections.”

“Don’t worry—I won’t ask for anything upfront. If nothing comes of it, we still part as friends, and there’ll always be future opportunities to work together.”

“… ”

Li Peng was beginning to consider it.

This man had found out about him in Beijing so quickly—he must indeed be well-connected.

His tone was so confident, as if he held considerable sway in Beijing.

Their crew had limited connections in the city; having such a well-connected local contact would make things much easier.

He hadn’t promised anything yet—worst case, he could pay a small intermediary fee or offer two minor supporting roles to placate him, then keep him hooked with future projects.

Li Peng was a seasoned veteran—he quickly weighed the pros and cons and decided to meet the man.

After all, they were a small crew with no reputation or clout in the industry—there was little chance a dangerous criminal would come after them for money or murder.

He played it safe, refusing to meet at the hotel, and instead took his assistant to a café.

Soon after, a rugged young man in a shirt and dress pants entered and approached them.

“Mr. Li, hello. I’m Yan Li, the one who just called you.”

Li Peng was surprised—Yan Li was young, yes, but his appearance was excellent; he could easily pass for an actor himself. Why was he doing this job?

“Just trying to make a living.”

Yan Li gave a brief explanation—he’d once been an actor too, but hadn’t gotten far, so now he took on behind-the-scenes work part-time.

This was common in the industry, and Li Peng quickly accepted it.

Still, he felt a bit sorry—mainland China was overflowing with talent, and someone with such potential wasn’t even getting roles—it was truly a waste.

Yan Li didn’t know Li Peng was pitying him. He ordered a glass of water and began chatting to build rapport.

…

Since obtaining the information, Yan Li had been thinking about how to connect with the Snow Goddess Dragon crew and get Dong Xuan cast as the female lead.

He didn’t want Dong Xuan to submit her resume herself—it was too risky, and he feared the crew might be treacherous and she’d be mistreated.

So Yan Li decided to investigate first—to see if the crew was trustworthy, and if so, personally help elevate Dong Xuan to the role.

After gathering some intelligence, he directly contacted Li Peng.

The reason he pretended to be an intermediary and agent was simple: as an actor, he’d be at a natural disadvantage when dealing with producers and easily distrusted.

Change his identity, and many things would fall into place effortlessly.

For example, claiming to be a local contact in Beijing carried little weight if he said he was an actor—but as an intermediary and agent, his credibility soared.

As Li Peng listened to Yan Li speak at length about Beijing’s entertainment industry rules and insider information, his trust in him increased by another third.

This man was truly a well-connected local power broker!

They quickly agreed to visit Beijing Film Academy first. Li Peng relaxed, and even offered a small favor.

“You can send me your artists’ profiles—if any are suitable, we’ll give them priority consideration.”

“Thank you, Mr. Li. If it’s convenient, I’ll bring them directly.”

Yan Li had been waiting for this. With Li Peng’s approval, he made a phone call.

Soon after, Dong Xuan entered the café, her hair in a ponytail, wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans.

“Mr. Li, this is my artist, Dong Xuan—a third-year student at Beijing Film Academy. She has an excellent appearance and demeanor, a dance background, and her martial arts movements are graceful.”

Li Peng looked at Dong Xuan beside Yan Li and was slightly astonished.

Her look and aura were exactly like his vision of Lady Shangguan Yan!

Yan Li saw Li Peng’s surprised expression and quietly lifted his glass to drink.

How could she not look like that?!

Her expression, demeanor, even her clothing choices—all had been meticulously adjusted by Yan Li based on system intelligence and Li Peng’s ideal requirements for the female lead.

But Li Peng was a shrewd old hand—he wouldn’t reveal too much. He quickly masked his emotions and offered a standard compliment.

“She’s acceptable. We’ll consider her.”

“Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Li.”

Yan Li wasn’t discouraged—he never expected Li Peng to immediately agree to cast Dong Xuan as the female lead.

Come on—this was the lead role in a formal production, and Snow Goddess Dragon’s plot centered entirely on the female lead.

Such a crucial role couldn’t possibly be decided so easily!

Yan Li’s move was to give Dong Xuan a head start—to plant her firmly in Li Peng’s mind as the standard for the female lead from the very beginning.

Later, whenever Li Peng saw other actresses, he’d inevitably compare them to Dong Xuan.

Not to mention that future intelligence showed Dong Xuan was originally the intended female lead for Snow Goddess Dragon—and now Yan Li had crafted a “Lady Shangguan Yan” precisely to Li Peng’s specifications.

Under these circumstances, the outcome of comparing Dong Xuan with unprepared actresses was obvious.

If nothing went wrong, the more Li Peng compared, the more his impression of Dong Xuan would deepen until he felt she was irreplaceable.

If something did go wrong, no matter—wasn’t Yan Li right beside him?

He’d tailor his approach to please Li Peng, build rapport, and use the system to monitor his real-time thoughts, filling gaps and ensuring nothing was left to chance.

“… ”

Yan Li once thought he might have chosen the wrong career.

If he switched to being an agent, all the Wang Jings, Chang Jihongs, and Li Xiaowans would have to step aside…

(End of Chapter)