Chapter 59: The Desperate Situation of the Beidian Roommates

“Hua-jie, see you later.”

Yan Li saw Wang Jinghua into the car; she still seemed reluctant and took one last chance to press her case.

“Xiao Yan, go home and think it over again. If you don’t want to be an agent, we can start by signing artists first—my terms are definitely the best in Beijing.”

“Got it, I’ll think it over. Drive safely.”

Yan Li nodded, exchanged a greeting with Tong Dawei, and watched the two leave in the car.

On the way

Tong Dawei finally couldn’t hold back his curiosity: “Hua-jie, why did you suddenly think of making Yan Li your agent—and even assign me to him?”

“Because he’s capable.”

Wang Jinghua rubbed her tired eyes, sighing: “This kid talked with me for so long—outwardly respectful, but every word was perfectly guarded. I revealed everything, yet still couldn’t fully read his intentions.”

“Before, I thought you and others might’ve exaggerated. Now that I’ve dealt with him, I know he truly lives up to the reputation.”

Tong Dawei nodded in agreement: “Now that you mention it, I also think Yan Li is sharp-minded.”

When he accidentally met Boss Shi, most newcomers would’ve jumped at the chance to flatter and cling to such a big shot in the industry—but Yan Li distanced himself after just a brief encounter.

Looking back now, Tong Dawei suspected Yan Li had sized up Boss Shi’s situation almost immediately.

Not only is he sharp-minded, his eyes are piercing!

The more Tong Dawei thought about it, the more he realized Yan Li truly had skills—and since they were already on good personal terms, working together wouldn’t be bad.

“Then Hua-jie, I’ll try to convince him for you later.”

“Mm.”

Wang Jinghua nodded, but didn’t hold much hope—she hadn’t succeeded, so Tong Dawei had even less chance.

After this encounter, she sensed Yan Li was firm in his decisions, not someone who changed his mind easily.

Too young, too impulsive, too confident!

In this world, talent alone isn’t enough to rise to the top. Fine—let him hit a wall first, then I’ll extend my olive branch again. But by then, the conditions won’t be what they are now.

————

Back at Jimenli Community, only Lin Jiachuan was home; Zhang Songwen and Zhou Weiwei had been called out by a production team for auditions.

Yan Li drank some water and asked curiously: “Jiachuan, why didn’t you go to the audition with them?”

“I submitted my resume—they didn’t take me.”

Lin Jiachuan’s tone was disappointed; Yan Li had already suspected as much, but still frowned upon hearing it.

This time he returned to Beijing, the dorm mates reunited, and over drinks and reminiscing, without long-distance call charges holding them back, they all shared detailed updates on their lives since graduation.

Only then did Yan Li realize that, over the past half-year, while he had steadily progressed, the others had all struggled.

Zhou Weiwei was relatively better—he lived at home, saved on expenses, occasionally got some allowance, so his life wasn’t comfortable, but far from desperate.

Zhang Songwen and Lin Jiachuan were far worse!

Neither had family in Beijing, and both were too embarrassed to ask their parents for money after graduation, so they had to support themselves.

But trying to make it in Beijing was never easy.

Rent, transportation, food, clothing, and miscellaneous expenses—even if they scrimped and saved, they still needed several hundred yuan a month, sometimes exceeding a thousand; if they were even slightly careless, thousands vanished like playmoney.

Zhang and Lin had earned some money working behind the scenes on a production team in Lian City for several months.

But after returning to Beijing, they hadn’t found any decent work, and gradually their income couldn’t cover expenses. If they kept going like this, they’d barely make it through the next rent cycle.

Before Yan Li returned, Zhang Songwen had considered returning to Beijing Film Academy to apply for a teaching assistant position—he’d been class president and student union chair, so he had some connections.

As a teaching assistant, he’d earn a monthly subsidy of a thousand or so yuan, gain a stable income, and the title would sound respectable, making it easier to network and find roles.

Lin Jiachuan had fewer connections and weaker academic performance than Zhang Songwen, so becoming a teaching assistant at Beijing Film Academy was unlikely—he could only take odd jobs here and there.

Seeing how pitiful his brothers were, Yan Li couldn’t just stand by.

He wasn’t powerful enough to directly refer them to productions.

He needed the right opportunity—and these were hard-won connections; using them for minor roles felt wasteful.

So Yan Li quietly used his intelligence network to gather scattered information on suitable productions and roles, then encouraged Zhou, Zhang, and Lin to apply themselves.

Even if they didn’t succeed, it was at least targeted—far better than their previous approach of randomly stumbling around like blind cats chasing dead rats.

Under Yan Li’s guidance, Zhou Weiwei had already secured a small role, set to join next month; Zhang Songwen’s chances of landing an audition were steadily rising.

Previously, when Zhang and Lin had gone to auditions, they’d just hand in a resume and photo, then leave everything to fate—barely ever getting an interview.

Now, getting an audition meant they had a real chance to land a role—even if they didn’t get it, they’d leave an impression on casting directors, who might remember them for future roles.

Zhou Weiwei had broken through, Zhang Songwen was improving, but Lin Jiachuan still hadn’t opened any doors and had received the fewest audition opportunities.

Yan Li and the others had analyzed it together, and ultimately concluded it was because Lin Jiachuan was simply too… ordinary.

Among the four, Yan Li had the best appearance, Zhou Weiwei second, while Lin Jiachuan and Zhang Songwen were the worst.

But although Zhang Songwen looked plain, he was fair-skinned and carried a scholarly air; his acting was better, and he spoke Cantonese—enough to fit some roles.

Lin Jiachuan wasn’t bad in any area, but nothing stood out—he had no clear distinguishing traits.

That was a serious problem!

Yan Li had previously muttered that Zhang Weijian’s acting was overly distinctive—but mainly because he was lazy, formulaic, and trapped himself in repetitive roles, harming his long-term development.

Yet regarding the general idea of an actor having a strong personal style, Yan Li, though somewhat reserved, still held a positive view overall.

Because if an actor had no distinctive traits, audiences wouldn’t remember them—and they’d “die” even faster.

Lin Jiachuan’s misfortune lay precisely here: “ordinary” was being generous—really, he was just average, lacking competitiveness, so people often ignored him.

“Bro, do you think I’m just not cut out to be an actor?”

Lin Jiachuan, repeatedly discouraged, had lost confidence and even considered switching careers.

“Don’t say that.”

Yan Li put an arm around Lin Jiachuan and comforted him: “We all know your abilities—you just need an opportunity. Don’t rush, take it slow.”

As previously mentioned, the four brothers got along well, but there were differences in closeness—Zhou and Zhang were closest, while Yan Li and Lin Jiachuan were more intimate; otherwise, Dong Xuan wouldn’t have chosen him as a mole.

Now that Lin Jiachuan was struggling, Yan Li couldn’t just watch.

Opportunities were hard to come by right now—so first, solve the problem of food.

Yan Li paused, then offered Lin Jiachuan two options.

First: he’d lend him money, straightforward and clean.

Second: work for Yan Li, and he’d pay him a salary.

Yan Li had always wanted an assistant but hadn’t found a suitable person—he could let Lin Jiachuan start.

There was another option: Yan Li could get them involved in stocks.

But that was too risky—if they made money, fine; if they lost, it’d be a mess.

Since childhood, Yan Li had seen too many friends and relatives go into business together—from inseparable to violent fights, ending up as bitter enemies who never spoke again.

So he’d never lightly go into business with friends or family.

Especially not with stocks—too risky, and it might expose his “special” abilities.

Helping his brothers was fine, but he didn’t want to be their babysitter, nor risk himself.

“I choose the second.”

Lin Jiachuan’s choice didn’t surprise Yan Li—if he truly needed money, he didn’t need to borrow; he could just call home and beg.

His father was a professional screenwriter and writer—not rich, but easily able to cover food and lodging.

Working for Yan Li, though still a favor, meant he was earning his pay through labor—not taking handouts—and that would make him feel better.

Besides, Yan Li had said that once they joined a production, he’d recommend him for a role if an opportunity arose.

This had precedent in the industry—some actors had risen from behind the scenes to the front by serving as assistants or agents for celebrity friends.

This was exactly what Wang Jinghua had advised Yan Li—and now Yan Li was applying it to Lin Jiachuan.

Lin Jiachuan adapted quickly to his new role.

He noticed the water in front of him had turned cold, immediately replaced it with hot water, and dutifully massaged Yan Li’s shoulders.

Yan Li luxuriated in the massage, when Lin Jiachuan raised a new idea: “Bro, since you’re not joining any productions, I can’t just sit around all day—how about I help you sell braised meat?”

Previously, Yan Li and Zhou Weiwei had run a braised meat business; Lin and Zhang had known about it, and when they returned, they’d tasted it and been amazed.

But now that Yan Li was doing well with stocks, he looked down on the profits from selling braised meat on the street.

“You won’t be idle—tomorrow, come with me to the Administration for Industry and Commerce, help me run some paperwork.”

“Bro, you’re really starting a company?”

“Mm. Having a company makes things easier.”

(End of Chapter)