Chapter 93: Yan Li: Water Lily, Whoosh Whoosh Whoosh Whoosh Whoosh

The next morning

Yan Li opened his eyes to see Qin Lan leaning over him, watching—surprised.

“Up so early today?”

“You’re the one who slept late—it’s already past nine.”

Yan Li glanced at the wall clock in the bedroom—it was true—and sighed.

“Probably exhausted from last night.”

Qin Lan remembered yesterday’s events, her cheeks flushing, and scolded: “Nonsense—you just got lazy and couldn’t get out of bed.”

“Fair enough.”

Yan Li nodded. Normally he rose early to exercise, but now he couldn’t leave the apartment or even go downstairs, so he’d lost the habit.

Still, he needed to move—morning exercise was a good habit.

Watching Yan Li start fidgeting again, Qin Lan sighed helplessly: “Do you ever think of anything else?”

“Stuck inside, no work today—what else should I think about?”

…

After finishing their exercise and lingering a while longer, they got up just in time for lunch.

Qin Lan couldn’t cook, and couldn’t go out to buy food, so unless Yan Li ate instant noodles every day, he had to cook himself.

But he actually enjoyed it a little.

Mostly because Qin Lan gave him such strong emotional value—each time she gazed at him with adoring, happy eyes, raved about how delicious the food was, and took care of all the cleanup, including washing the dishes—so he no longer found cooking a bother.

“Check if anything’s missing?”

After eating, Qin Lan handed Yan Li a sheet of paper covered in scribbles, asking for his additions.

Yan Li had prepared ahead and stockpiled some supplies, but hadn’t expected lockdown—he still lacked a few essentials.

Still, the neighborhood wasn’t abandoned; daily deliveries of vegetables and daily necessities were provided, and for special needs, residents could pay staff to buy items for them.

Yan Li scanned Qin Lan’s list—it was mostly fine—but he spotted one omission and picked up a pen to add it.

Qin Lan leaned over to peek, stammering: “Don’t we already have that at home?”

When this man moved in, he’d had ulterior motives—he’d stockpiled plenty of things, which Qin Lan had secretly seen. The quantities were substantial.

“Who knows when lockdown ends? What we have at home might not be enough—better safe than sorry.”

Saying this, Yan Li smirked: “By the way, should we add a few extra sets of sheets? Save you the washing…”

Before he finished, Qin Lan clamped her hand over his mouth, furious and flustered: “Don’t you dare mention that.”

Yan Li nodded, put down the pen. Qin Lan shot him a warning glance before releasing his mouth.

The moment he was free, he struck back—humming last year’s new song, “Blue Lotus.”

“Water lily, whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh~”

After singing, he ignored Qin Lan’s furious flailing, slipped into the bedroom, locked the door—avoiding pursuit and buying time to chat with Dong Xuan.

Keeping a second phone hidden was hard, but hiding the SIM card was easy. Though receiving calls was inconvenient, making calls wouldn’t expose him.

Yan Li had already planned his explanation: since Dong Xuan couldn’t leave campus, he’d tell her the truth.

We’re under lockdown!

Because rules were strict and communication with the outside was limited, he’d say he could only call every two days to report safety and so on.

That part was true—but they hadn’t banned calls; they’d just warned people not to spread rumors and cause public panic.

Dong Xuan grew deeply worried for Yan Li; he spent a long time reassuring her before she calmed down.

Then Yan Li sent a text to Huang Shengyi, making up a flimsy excuse to ask her not to call—only text, and he’d reply when he saw it.

Next, he swapped the SIM card back in and dialed Liang Guanhua’s number.

“Hello, Teacher Liang… Look, do you have Qian Yanqiu’s contact? No no no—not for filming—I need to reach him about something else…”

Ever since learning Liang Guanhua’s “Wu Chao Mystery” was actually “Detective Di Renjie,” he’d been fixated on the drama.

“Detective Di Renjie” had cast Liang Guanhua as the middle-aged or elderly Di Renjie—Yan Li couldn’t play that role, nor could he steal Liang’s part.

The character similar to Zhan Zhao was already promised by Qian Yanqiu to his old classmate and close friend—Yan Li couldn’t snatch that either.

But Yan Li wasn’t that eager to act in the drama—he was more interested in the project itself.

According to monthly intelligence, the drama’s budget was low—under ten million yuan.

Yet its performance was outstanding: it aired well on CCTV, later aired on multiple satellite channels, and ranked among the top for reruns among that year’s new dramas.

After profiting from “Conquest,” Yan Li favored low-budget, high-return dramas.

But unlike “Conquest,” “Detective Di Renjie” wasn’t some floating venture—it was clearly a CCTV production, as stated in the intelligence.

Backed by that giant tree, he couldn’t just waltz in and grab a share.

Still, Yan Li kept a good attitude: if there’s a date, hit it three times; if there’s no date, hit it three times anyway. Best case: invest. Worst case: land the distribution rights.

Yes, distribution rights could be profitable too.

Here’s the thing: normal TV drama distribution wasn’t like how Yan Li had distributed “Conquest”—buying the rights first, then selling to TV stations.

That approach carried too much risk.

It meant guaranteeing the producer’s losses—if the drama didn’t sell, you were stuck with it.

So unless you were extremely confident in a drama’s profitability, most distribution companies avoided this model.

At this time, most distribution companies acted more like film and TV intermediaries.

Major studios and top-tier productions didn’t need them—they had their own distribution channels, and TV stations, distributors, and advertisers often came begging for collaboration.

But most small-to-medium studios, or indie producers and directors who’d gathered funding for small crews, had zero independent distribution capability.

Go to TV stations? They’d ignore you. Even if you sold it, you’d get a terrible price.

That’s when distribution companies stepped in.

These companies often had their own TV station connections and channels, using networks to help sell dramas and taking a cut of the profits.

The exact profit depended on the arrangement.

Some operated on a guaranteed minimum, similar to Yan Li’s deal with Gao Qunshu.

But the rights stayed with the producer; the distributor paid nothing upfront, only agreed on a guaranteed price.

Say five million yuan: if the drama didn’t sell for five million within a set time, the distributor took only a tiny fee—or nothing at all. But if it sold for more, the producer kept five million, and the distributor kept the surplus.

Yan Li had originally planned to do exactly this when distributing “Conquest.”

But Old Gao was desperate to repay debts and feared the drama would flop completely, leaving it unsellable—he just wanted to sell the rights outright, avoiding any risk of poor distribution.

So with his system and knowledge of the future, Yan Li took a big gamble.

Guaranteed minimum deals carried relatively high risk, so distributors generally preferred revenue sharing.

No matter how much it sold for, the distributor took a fixed percentage—usually 10% to 20%, though exceptions existed depending on the project.

This way, profit or loss fell entirely on the producer; the distributor took only a small cut, earning more with more effort—mutually beneficial cooperation.

Yan Li had already built some connections through distributing “Conquest” and gained minor industry recognition.

Combined with his intelligence system, he was perfectly suited for distribution.

At 15% share, if a drama sold for twenty million, he’d earn three million. A few projects a year meant easy annual earnings of ten million.

And nearly all pure profit—public relations costs went through official accounts; the only real expenses were maintaining relationships.

Still, Yan Li felt the returns were too small—drinking broth was nothing compared to eating meat.

And he was too dependent, stuck between TV stations and producers, passive and reactive.

There was also risk: what if a TV station official got caught up in scandal and started naming names? No “industry secret” could wash that clean—even if Yan Li was careful, no evidence found, the scandal alone would be unbearable.

So Yan Li preferred film and TV investment/production plus distribution—higher returns, longer-term stability.

Of course, he was still in the startup phase—no suitable investment projects yet. Taking on distribution work to earn small profits, build connections, and raise his industry reputation wasn’t a bad choice.

Yan Li didn’t just plan to contact “Detective Di Renjie.”

He also wanted to try “The Treasure Basin,” “The Lucky Pig,” and “Snow Goddess Dragon”—projects he’d already touched or understood.

Especially “Snow Goddess Dragon”—this drama was certified as a hit by the monthly intelligence system.

Plus, its production team had low costs and limited connections—chances of securing a deal and profit potential were both high.

As for the distribution rights to “Emperor Wu of Han,” Yan Li never considered it.

This level of project was already snapped up by TV stations, and the producer was China Film Group—a giant with far superior channels than Yan Li’s.

…

Liang Guanhua gave Yan Li Qian Yanqiu’s contact without hesitation; Yan Li immediately called.

Qian Yanqiu was interested when he heard Yan Li wanted to invest.

As a director, he naturally wanted more funding—but he couldn’t decide; he could only help connect Yan Li with CCTV’s responsible personnel.

But times were unusual—hard to arrange meetings—so they’d first see how things went, and if needed, talk by phone.

Having made contact and knowing there was a chance, Yan Li wasn’t in a rush.

Profitable projects were everywhere; with money, you could invest in any; with ability, you could manage any—no need to beg for cooperation.

Meanwhile, Yan Li needed time to use the system to gather more information.

With the intelligence system, his greatest advantage was knowing both himself and his opponent—then winning every battle.

He put away his phone, guessing the water—no, Qin Lan—had calmed down.

Yan Li opened the door and stepped out. Sure enough, Qin Lan was washing sheets in the bathroom. She rolled her eyes at him, splashed water to shoo him away—but didn’t rage like before.

Seeing Qin Lan playing with water, Yan Li wanted to tease her some more—but feared she’d truly snap.

After all, their relationship had just broken through; she was still shy, some things still too awkward to face—better not provoke her. Time would soften things.

(End of chapter)