Chapter 96: Outstanding Patrons: The Lives of Two Women at Beijing Film Academy

It was June, and the SARS situation had been somewhat controlled and was improving.

Due to SARS, the television market was thriving, and all TV stations were engaged in fierce competition.

Because of the market environment, there were no absolute losers—every TV station’s relevant data showed clear growth.

Yet at the same time, a few winners reaped the greatest benefits.

For example, *Conquest*.

Jinmen TV’s premiere of *Conquest* ended with an average viewership rating exceeding 5.5 and a peak rating surpassing 10, ranking as high as second in its time slot.

This data was Jinmen TV’s highest-rated drama of the year, and even when including last year, it remained the highest.

This meant *Conquest* was likely to claim Jinmen TV’s 2003 annual viewership championship.

Having tasted success, Jinmen TV seamlessly arranged a repeat broadcast of *Conquest* in the afternoon slot, just one day after the premiere.

Although *Conquest*’s ratings during this repeat were lower than its prime-time premiere, its performance in the same time slot was noticeably better.

Not only did it remain in the top three since its debut, it also secured three consecutive days as the number one in its time slot.

Jinmen TV’s management was overjoyed—they had tied for first place with CCTV and several top-tier satellite channels, even in the afternoon slot, and felt thoroughly satisfied.

During a media television interview, Jinmen TV openly stated they planned to rebroadcast *Conquest* in the midnight slot after the current midnight drama ended.

This panicked Hebei TV, which angrily accused Jinmen of violating the code of conduct.

As a result, Hebei TV, originally scheduled to air *Conquest* in mid-June, moved its premiere forward, launching the drama in prime time just days before the end of May.

Coincidentally, *Conquest*’s main competitor this time was *Jade Guanyin*, which was wildly popular on local channels and, due to SARS, had been directly upgraded to satellite broadcast by Beijing TV to snatch viewership.

Perhaps because it was a repeat, *Conquest* didn’t perform as strongly as on Jinmen TV’s premiere and was firmly outperformed by *Jade Guanyin*.

But its stable top-five ranking and multiple entries into the top three still left Hebei TV, usually ranked low, quite satisfied.

Before the prime-time run of *Conquest* even finished, Hebei TV arranged a repeat—directly in the secondary prime-time slot.

This led to Hebei TV broadcasting four consecutive episodes of *Conquest* throughout the entire evening.

Viewers finished the finale and immediately started the second run from the beginning.

Their eating habits were even worse than Jinmen TV’s!

Hebei TV didn’t care—they were happy because *Conquest* was popular, their reports looked good, their leaders had achievements, and the station was making money.

As a poor station that usually only got scraps, they’d finally tasted meat—why worry about manners? Fill their bellies first.

Yet the consecutive repeats by both satellite stations, though somewhat exhausting *Conquest*’s potential, also made the drama a huge sensation.

Media outlets compiled a list of dramas that had been popular during the SARS period.

*Conquest* ranked third, behind only *The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber* and *The Golden Powder Family*, with *Jade Guanyin* coming after it.

Then came *Da Zhai Men 2*, *The Pink Lady*, and *The Divine Doctor Xi Laile*, which had premiered earlier in the year and been rebroadcast multiple times.

Notably, *The Legend of the Condor Heroes*, which Yan Li had previously tried to piggyback on, had its satellite broadcast delayed for various reasons and missed this surge in popularity.

No one knew whether Hu Ziba regretted it or was relieved.

Despite the aggressive tactics of Jinmen and Hebei TV, *Conquest*’s outstanding performance still attracted several satellite channels interested in acquiring rights.

Among them, Beijing TV offered the most sincere bid.

Perhaps they had witnessed the frenzy in Jinmen and Hebei and wanted a share, or perhaps they aimed to combine *Conquest* with *Jade Guanyin*—two hit crime dramas—to build a brand and compete for market share.

Either way, Beijing TV’s offer was high—6.2 million yuan, nearly matching the combined bids of Jinmen and Hebei TV.

But this price came with conditions!

Beijing TV required Yan Li to sell the satellite broadcast rights to only one more station within three months—in other words, pay them to reduce competition.

Originally, Beijing TV had wanted to buy *Conquest*’s first-run broadcast rights outright and prevent Yan Li from selling to anyone else.

But Yan Li’s price had scared them off, so they settled on this clause.

Yan Li agreed.

As previously mentioned, the market was limited—during the same period, a single drama could air on at most three to four satellite stations.

Otherwise, viewership would scatter, and resources would be wasted.

After Beijing, Jinmen, and Hebei TV secured *Conquest*’s rights, most of the drama’s profits had already been divided.

Unless Yan Li dumped it at rock-bottom prices, few other stations would be interested.

But if he dumped it cheaply, he’d alienate the three northern stations—unless he planned to quit the business entirely, he’d never do such a foolish thing.

Thus, although Beijing TV’s clause was restrictive, it posed little problem—Yan Li couldn’t even find buyers if he wanted to sell more.

In fact, Yan Li even used Beijing TV’s clause as a tool to raise prices.

When negotiating with the last TV station, he clearly stated this was the final opportunity to acquire *Conquest*’s first-run broadcast rights—any future deals would be for second-run rights, three months later, when only scraps would remain.

Hunger marketing—highest bidder wins!

Combined with the system’s market probing, Yan Li successfully sold *Conquest* to Chongqing TV for 5.3 million yuan.

Three of the four direct-controlled municipalities had partnered—too bad Shanghai TV, with its large resources and audience mismatched to *Conquest*’s style, wasn’t interested; otherwise, Yan Li might have swept all the direct-controlled markets.

6.2 million + 5.3 million, plus the previous 7.2 million from the two satellite stations and DVD rights, totaled 18.7 million yuan.

Even after accounting for PR and tax expenses, Yan Li was now a genuine millionaire.

Not to mention *Conquest* could still earn revenue from second- and third-run broadcasts and local channels—though prices would plummet, he’d still bring in several million more.

One drama, *Conquest*, had brought Yan Li at least 20 million yuan in profit.

“You really need a windfall.”

After calculating the numbers, Yan Li was deeply moved—how long would it take to accumulate such wealth through acting, stock trading, or running small businesses?

Then Yan Li began allocating the 20 million yuan he had already received and would soon receive.

Two million yuan for buying a house and a car, for daily living.

Five million yuan for stock trading and opening internet cafes, with specific operations to be adjusted based on market conditions and returns.

The remaining 13 million yuan, Yan Li planned to invest entirely into Yi’an Film & Television—1 million yuan for company operations, the remaining 12 million for investing in film and television projects.

Of course, 12 million yuan could barely support one or two productions—funding was tight, and risks were high.

But Yan Li had no intention of monopolizing everything.

In this era, no film company relied solely on its own funds to invest in productions—like Yan Li, they lacked capital and faced too much risk, so they all sought outside investors.

The advantage of the film industry was its prestige—there were endless rich patrons eager to dabble.

Once he charmed them properly, offered them benefits, and used their money to produce dramas, the film company took the lion’s share, while the patrons received a small cut.

Even then, the patrons would thank him.

Because there were plenty of immoral bastards who used film production as a cover, simply to swindle investors’ money.

They’d hastily assemble a crew, hire two stars, turn on the cameras, shoot something flashy, spend money like water—but the final product was garbage.

Don’t ask them about it—they’d say, “You don’t understand art.” Check the accounts? Everything was perfectly documented, no flaws whatsoever.

In the end, the drama couldn’t be sold and gathered dust in a warehouse—the investors had no recourse but to accept their bad luck.

Yan Li still had some integrity—he didn’t plan to swindle anyone, let alone do so with such heartless cruelty; he aimed for mutual benefit.

He’d eat meat, and others would eat meat too—though he’d eat the most.

Yan Li already had a clear target, one provided by the system—

Coal bosses!

Monthly intelligence revealed that in the coming years, coal bosses with vast idle cash would flood into the entertainment industry, waving their money around.

These coal bosses treated money like paper—they spent extravagantly, and except for chasing actresses or promoting mistresses to act, they rarely interfered in production. Even if they lost money, they wouldn’t dwell on it; if things went well, they’d invest again.

Good heavens!

Such an outstanding patron—damn it, Yan Li was so moved he nearly drooled.

He’d long wanted to connect with these coal bosses, but lacked leverage—now, with *Conquest* as his calling card and a modest fortune of his own, he could start building relationships.

As long as he could befriend a few patrons and raise funds, projects wouldn’t be a problem—even if he couldn’t find suitable investors, he could organize his own deals.

In this circle, everything was scarce—except scripts and directors and actors desperate to rise.

————

In mid-June, the SARS situation in Beijing further eased, nearing full reopening.

The Nongguangli community where Yan Li and Qin Lan lived had finally lifted restrictions—though they still couldn’t roam freely, they could apply for short outings.

After being cooped up for nearly two months, Yan Li went out alone.

Beidian was still under lockdown, so he couldn’t meet them, but he could send supplies—he bought four packages of food and essentials, sending three to Dong Xuan and one to Huang Shengyi.

Because Yan Li had slipped the security guard two packs of good cigarettes, they gave the supplies a cursory check and delivered them in batches to the two women.

Dong Xuan was on the phone with Yan Li when Guan Yue took the large package from the guard and couldn’t help cheering.

“Supplies arrived! Long live Old Dong! Long live Yan Li!”

“Masks, disinfectant, chocolate, bread… shampoo, body wash—even sanitary napkins and underwear. Wait, what’s this?”

Guan Yue pulled out an unassuming box, thinking it was socks, and was about to open it when Dong Xuan hurriedly snatched it away.

“Give me that.”

“Oh, a little secret.”

Guan Yue smirked, and the two roommates teased, demanding to see what it was.

During the commotion, the box accidentally opened—inside was a plastic bag containing 20,000 yuan.

Guan Yue swiftly grabbed the money and shoved it into Dong Xuan’s hands: “What’s going on?”

Dong Xuan tucked the money away, her fair face glowing with sweetness: “He was worried the supplies weren’t enough, so he slipped in some cash—so I could buy anything else I needed from classmates.”

“Hmm, quite thoughtful.”

Guan Yue and the two roommates praised him aloud, but their tone and expressions were tinged with envy.

With the campus locked down for so long, supplies were rationed per person—basic food and necessities weren’t lacking, but inconveniences persisted; bartering was unreliable, so cash had become hard currency.

To be honest, Yan Li wasn’t the first to send things to the school, but no one else had sent so much, or been so generous.

At least Guan Yue and the others had never heard of anyone whose family or boyfriend had sent more than Yan Li.

Tong Dawei wasn’t in Jingcheng, so Guan Yue got nothing—compared to Yan Li, she was already making a mental list of grievances against someone.

“Hey, Old Dong, the dorm next door has a computer—why don’t we…?”

Dong Xuan quickly tucked the money into her chest: “Don’t even think about it. Yan Li worked hard for this money—he was locked up in that hotel before, who knows how much he suffered? As soon as he got out, he sent me all this. I’m keeping this money to pay him back.”

Guan Yue: “...”

She’d tell Yan Li about this later—otherwise, this dumb girl would hoard the money until she gave birth.

She’s always so clueless. Yan Li gives her money and she won’t spend it—does she want to attract a bunch of foxes to come steal it?

At that moment, Huang Shengyi in another dorm also discovered the envelope Yan Li had quietly slipped inside her package. She opened it, counted the bills, and was pleasantly surprised.

Five thousand yuan!

Senior Brother really came through!

Bian Xiaoxiao, who shared the dorm with her, flipped through the items Yan Li had sent and felt a pang of envy.

“Shengyi, your boyfriend is so good to you.”

“Oh, I just mentioned in a text message offhand, and he sent all this—and insisted on slipping me cash.”

Huang Shengyi casually flicked the bills in her hand, successfully drawing her roommates’ attention and envy, then tucked them away with a hint of pride.

One roommate, tired of Huang Shengyi’s showiness, deliberately said: “Shengyi, when are you going to bring us to meet your new boyfriend? Every time we ask, you dodge.”

Huang Shengyi immediately deflated: “He’s too busy. We’ll see when the chance comes.”

The roommate snorted: “Is he busy—or is he someone you can’t show off?”

Since breaking up with Jia Nailiang, Huang Shengyi claimed to have a new boyfriend—and her finances had improved dramatically.

But her behavior didn’t look like she was in love. She went on dates only every so often, rarely called or texted, and when asked about her new boyfriend, she stammered and gave no clear answers. They all guessed she was being kept by a wealthy man.

“You...”

Huang Shengyi couldn’t hold back her anger, but Bian Xiaoxiao stepped in to calm her.

She was the only one in the dorm who knew exactly who Huang Shengyi was seeing—and she genuinely believed Huang Shengyi’s choice wasn’t so bad.

Senior Brother Yan was young and handsome, generous with his money. Sure, he was a bit careless and unfaithful, but that didn’t really matter.

It was just a secret relationship. If she never got a chance to rise up, they could break up later. Given Senior Brother Yan’s status, Huang Shengyi wasn’t losing out—better than some girls at school who hooked up with old, ugly men, money spent so disgustingly.

“Xiaoxiao, you’re the only one who understands me.”

Huang Shengyi was deeply moved by Bian Xiaoxiao’s support, squeezing the money in her hand.

“I’ll take you shopping later. Ignore that shrew.”

Bian Xiaoxiao nodded with a smile. If Huang Shengyi was with Senior Brother Yan, the former had money but no company—Bian could tag along for meals, entertainment, and fun. When Huang Shengyi was with Jia Nailiang, Bian got at most some fruit or snacks.

She wholeheartedly supported Huang Shengyi being with Senior Brother Yan!

————

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(End of Chapter)