Chapter 110: This Is Not a Late-Night Script Discussion

Gu Cheng spent several days winning over Lei Jun and handling some miscellaneous tasks before swiftly flying to Tianjin to rejoin the crew filming “The Glittering World.”

The business back in Qiantang still needed some time to settle, so for now, he could only provide broad guidance. Staying too long wouldn’t do much good.

As a TV drama meant for young women’s entertainment, no matter how much Director Li tried to elevate it, “The Glittering World” could never reach the artistic heights of “Dream of the Red Chamber.”

After Gu Cheng vividly illustrated the initial “high-society relationship map” in his CARYY style, the entire production had no real difficulties—after all, even a fourteen-year-old girl like Liu Feifei could act in it.

Once Gu Cheng rejoined the team, everything proceeded smoothly. Over twenty days, they filmed more than a dozen episodes consecutively, and the shooting progress had already reached sixty percent.

The romantic scenes between Dong Jie and Gu Cheng grew increasingly natural, and the interactions among other supporting roles had been largely filled in during Gu Cheng’s brief hiatus from the crew. Director Li was generally pleased with the progress and results, though one lingering worry remained:

Liu Feifei, that little girl, completely lacked control over the emotional nuance in her scenes with Gu Cheng.

Originally, according to the low-difficulty script, Jin Langxi and Bai Xiuzhu were not established as a couple at the beginning; it was Bai Xiuzhu who was pettishly chasing him. Thus, Liu Feifei’s role was relatively simple—she just had to act like a spoiled princess, maintaining that expression throughout.

Later, to add depth to the scoundrel character, the script was changed so that the two started out as each other’s first loves. This naturally raised the acting difficulty most for Gu Cheng, but Liu Feifei was dragged into the mess as well; she could no longer rely solely on her spoiled-lady act.

The little girl had neither experienced love nor carefully observed it in others, making her performance painfully awkward:

She overacted from start to finish; during kissing scenes, she exerted too much force. Where tender affection was needed, her eyes glared like enemies. There was no discernible difference in emotion before and after the breakup. In other words, if a deaf-mute who couldn’t hear the dialogue watched the show, they certainly wouldn’t be able to tell the emotional state between Jin Langxi and Bai Xiuzhu.

Fortunately, Liu Feifei was a second-generation star with some backing, so Director Li didn’t dare reprimand her.

But the girl had a sense of shame herself. After several takes were rejected and delayed reshoots, she began to worry and would secretly seek advice from Sister Dong Jie whenever they had downtime.

“Sis Dong, isn’t love supposed to be expressed like this?”

“I always feel like Cheng’s looks at me in a way that makes me uneasy. Does he think I’m too young and immature?”

Dong Jie explained everything naturally as if speaking to a little girl. For things hard to articulate clearly, she gave a rough outline and left it for the girl to gradually understand on her own.

…

Time flew by, and it was already mid-December. The north was bitterly cold at this time. Aside from a few exterior scenes that still needed reshooting, the outdoor filming was complete. The final month would be filled with indoor scenes only.

Gu Cheng had already informed Director Li that he had business to handle at the end of the month and would have to leave before Christmas, returning after New Year’s, leaving less than half a month of shooting left.

One late night after wrapping up, Liu Feifei nervously tugged Dong Jie along to their rooms to eat. Recently, she had become Dong Jie’s little shadow. The closer Gu Cheng was to leaving the set, the more anxious she felt about not finishing her part on time.

Chewing on dry, stir-fried minced pork and green beans, Liu Feifei complained begrudgingly, “Sis Dong, are you and Cheng too deeply immersed in the roles? That’s why you’re so in sync? I heard that several of Cheng’s businesses are officially managed by his cousin, and they must have been close since childhood.

And I heard his cousin is only a year younger than you and looks about as pretty. Could it be that he’s projecting his cousin onto you, which is why you’re so invested? I’m doomed—I don’t have the figure or the looks, and every time I act opposite him, I don’t feel any spark at all.”

Dong Jie’s face flushed crimson, as if about to bleed from embarrassment. “You little brat, I’ll shut you up! I’m so loyal, teaching you every day, and you blame me for everything.”

As she spoke, she seemed unsatisfied and stuffed a large piece of sweet and sour pork from her lunchbox into Liu Feifei’s mouth. “Good food and dishes can’t shut you up, so at least eat up and ruin my diet for me!”

Liu Feifei was small and weak, struggling briefly before biting down, then spitting the meat back into the box after Dong Jie let go, her cherry lips gasping softly, blocked by the food.

After feeding Liu Feifei the piece of meat, Dong Jie calmed down and resumed her “big sister” role, gently counseling, “Your thoughts are pure nonsense. It’s true Cheng has a close cousin, but the girl he truly likes is definitely younger than him—so if you can’t act the romantic scenes well, it’s definitely not his fault, it’s your acting skills.”

“Huh? Do you know some insider info? Tell me, big sister, the more I understand Cheng, the easier it is for me to get into character.” Liu Feifei clung to Dong Jie like sticky candy, ignoring her food altogether.

Girls are naturally gossipy creatures, no matter their age. Even if barely grown, they know how to pry into others’ secrets.

Dong Jie’s expression darkened ever so slightly before returning to normal. Looking around to ensure no one was nearby, she leaned close to Liu Feifei’s ear and whispered, “Last month, when we were filming that flower field scene in Kumamoto, after wrapping up, Cheng was approached by a Japanese girl. They looked very familiar with each other. I’ve never seen Cheng so relaxed and at ease around another girl.”

Liu Feifei’s eyes widened. “You’re so sure just from a glance?”

Dong Jie smirked in quiet satisfaction. “You little girl don’t understand—it’s a woman’s intuition. You’ll know when you grow up.”

Liu Feifei rolled her eyes but seemed to accept this. She pressed further, “What happened next? Do you know who that Japanese girl was?”

A faintly mocking smile appeared on Dong Jie’s lips. “Of course I know—shows you don’t pay attention to industry news, otherwise you could have guessed.”

Liu Feifei defended herself, “I do keep up with entertainment news.”

Dong Jie shot back, “But definitely not Japanese entertainment news!”

Liu Feifei pouted, unconvinced. “Well, why would we Chinese care about Japanese news?”

Dong Jie stood and pulled a rolled magazine from her bag, tossing it to Liu Feifei.

It was all in Japanese, so Liu Feifei couldn’t understand, only recognizing the English title “Friday.”

“Friday? That’s a pretty famous entertainment magazine, right? Sis, tell me about it—I can’t read it.”

Dong Jie casually flipped to a folded page and pointed to a news item. “This story: Ai Hui Records secured overseas sales rights for Cheng’s albums under Chengpin Audio. Rumor has it the deal is based on guaranteed sales and even buys exclusively at domestic retail prices. Ai Hui hopes this will be a chance to challenge Johnny & Associates’ dominance in male singers.

After the collaboration launched, Cheng’s album ‘Meteor Shower’ sold 40,000 copies on day one, 110,000 in the first week—pretty incredible, right? Over the decades, among Asian foreign artists in Japan, only BEYOND among men, and Ouyang Feifei, Winnie Wong, and Kwon Bo-ah among women, have achieved such success.”

(Note: Teresa Teng didn’t quite reach this level. Although she won awards and was very popular across Asia, her sales on the Japanese charts weren’t outstanding. Western artists like Mariah Carey, Michael Jackson, and Celine Dion have sold several times more than these four in Japan.)

Japan’s record prices are much higher than other Asian countries, so even though Gu Cheng wholesales to Ai Hui at domestic prices, Ai Hui still profits after adding channel fees—sometimes more than with Japanese artists.

A domestic CD costing 20 yuan is just about 300 yen, which can’t even buy a single there. Meanwhile, Japanese singles usually cost 600–800 yen, albums 1200–1300 yen, and compilations often 1800–2000 yen.

“Wow! Cheng is amazing! I never saw him put much effort into songwriting or singing, but he easily outshines so many others.” Liu Feifei was full of admiration, her cheeks glowing with excitement. “But how does this relate to the ‘scandal’ you mentioned earlier?”

“Keep reading, silly!” Dong Jie’s face turned stern as she flipped the page and pointed to a large photo. “Cheng got this deal because last month, at Kwon Bo-ah’s first solo concert, he appeared as a guest backstage and sang two songs, causing a huge reaction. That’s how Ai Hui Records got hooked. I looked her up online afterward—that’s the girl I saw. She’s only fifteen, just a few months older than you. So if you think Cheng isn’t interested in petite young girls and that’s why he doesn’t connect with you in scenes, I don’t buy it!”

Liu Feifei’s last psychological comfort was ruthlessly shattered by Dong Jie’s revelation. She instantly felt discouraged.

She could either admit her acting skills were lacking, or admit that Cheng wasn’t uninterested in lolis in general, just in her.

“Sigh, looks like we need to have a serious talk,” Liu Feifei said, feeling dejected, unaware her last bites of food had gone cold as she poured them out and stood to return to her room.

Dong Jie didn’t stop her, preparing to rest herself.

…

The night was deep, and Liu Feifei, troubled and restless, wandered the hotel corridor until she unconsciously found herself outside Gu Cheng’s door.

She saw bright light shining through the gap, indicating he wasn’t asleep. She hesitated, then knocked softly. After several seconds, someone opened the door.

“Feifei? Why are you still up so late? We have filming tomorrow.”

Liu Feifei bit her lip. “Aren’t you up too, Cheng? I wanted to talk about the script. Teacher Li keeps criticizing me, and I can’t sleep.”

Gu Cheng rubbed his hands and explained helplessly, “But I’m busy…”

“Still busy at midnight?” Liu Feifei peeked inside. His laptop was open, filled with several office programs and web pages.

“I just got an investor’s funds, so I bought a literature website and am converting it into a paid site. I’m writing a book as a flagship work to guide the site’s philosophy, and to build some status in the industry.”

Liu Feifei felt overwhelmed by his imagination. “Huh? You still have energy to write web novels? Like those messy online romance stories?”

Gu Cheng didn’t think he was revealing any trade secrets and casually explained, “Not a novel—more like a theoretical work on internet business. But I plan to make it interesting, mixing in some business war biography elements.”

Undoubtedly, Gu Cheng was so busy because Sun Zhengyi’s second investment had just come through. His cousin had helped buy the PhantomJIAN Literature Alliance site a few days ago.

But what he intended was far beyond turning Phantom-Jian into a low-tier site like some Chinese web novel platform.

If he was going to do it, he aimed to surpass even Amazon.

Therefore, the “Long Tail Theory” by Wired’s editor-in-chief Chris Anderson, later hailed as “Amazon’s development bible,” was something he would distill and adapt, removing the dross and shaping it into a business war biography to serve his purposes.

Writing a book wouldn’t bring much prestige; Gu Cheng didn’t care about prestige itself. He wanted it to guide his team in content industry operations over the next several years, to treat this theory as gospel. Much like Ma Feng indoctrinating Alibaba’s people with values.

Of course, Gu Cheng would never stoop to quoting any word of the other Chris Anderson, just as Ma Teng wouldn’t plagiarize a single line of code from software he copied.

Ideas aren’t protected by law, after all.

Liu Feifei, of course, couldn’t grasp all these twists and turns. Nervously twisting her hands, she sat on the sofa in Gu Cheng’s room and timidly said, “You keep working. When you finish, I’ll take a few minutes of your time.”

Gu Cheng, disrupted, had lost his train of thought and sighed, pouring two cups of strong tea to keep awake—one for himself and one for Liu Feifei.

“Don’t make a habit of coming to a guy’s room to talk scripts so late. I know you mean no harm, but outsiders won’t think that way.”