Chapter 98: Wandering the World, How Can One Avoid Getting Wounded?
Kingsoft Software is a seasoned company, having been established for thirteen years. Though it seems unremarkable now, during the internet winter of 2001, its brand was even more prominent than the three giants of BAT.
Gu Cheng only needed an antivirus team and its achievements; therefore, acquiring Kingsoft outright was neither necessary nor feasible. His plan was to lure Lei Jun with a generous offer, grant him some equity, and assemble a team.
This matter required careful planning. After discussing his intentions with his cousin, Gu Cheng set it aside temporarily and ceased to focus on it.
Spending money brought momentary pleasure, but once spent, it was time to seek steady cash cows.
Back in Qiantang, Gu Cheng intended to spend a few days surveying the market for investable online games, films, TV dramas, and artists — anything worthy of support. These were the genuine cash cows.
Though making a profit seemed mundane, burdened by Sun Zhengyi’s heavy convertible bond constraints, even the most mundane tasks had to be undertaken. Otherwise, forty percent of the company’s shares would fall into the hands of Japanese investors three years from now.
Unfortunately, premium assets like “Legend” and “Meteor Garden” were not treasures one could find every year. Talented artists like Zhou Jielun were also not born annually.
Moreover, Gu Cheng had traveled back forty years into the past. He could not possibly remember every opportunity of the 2000s in detail like protagonists of reincarnation novels. For premier and near-premier opportunities, he had to rely on his own observation and analysis.
After several days of searching, no promising prospects emerged, but trouble did.
One day, while reviewing investment opportunities compiled by Liu Shuqin, Gao Dasong—now content director at Dingdang Network—called with grim news.
Gu Cheng answered, and Gao Dasong immediately said, “Two bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Huh?” Gu Cheng was speechless. “They’re both bad. Why bother with order? Has something happened to Dingdang Network?”
“No, Dingdang’s fine. The trouble is at the General Administration. Looks like you’ve been so busy you’ve neglected the film and television circle.”
Gu Cheng retorted, “I’ve been paying attention, looking for investment opportunities every day.”
Gao Dasong said, “I mean you haven’t been paying attention to what’s already airing—‘Meteor Garden’ has been banned at an E-level by the General Administration.”
It took Gu Cheng a moment to process before grasping what Gao was telling him.
The General Administration classifies bans on TV dramas from A to E—five levels, with A the most severe and E the mildest. An A-level ban means permanent prohibition and eradication of all traces of the show; E-level is the lightest, not publicly announced, just an internal directive for temporary suspension pending review.
“Meteor Garden” had just encountered the mildest, E-level ban.
“Huh? Why?” Gu Cheng was stunned.
“Why? Haven’t the months of ‘capital’s obsession with money worship and its harmful effects’ caused enough damage already? Haven’t you seen how rampant the imitation of campus romance, money worship, and cliquishness has become?”
Gu Cheng blushed. “I know those are isolated incidents... I mean, why so suddenly? Why now?”
In the original timeline, “Meteor Garden” was quietly pulled off the air after only five or six episodes of its rerun, causing provincial stations that purchased rerun rights to waste their money.
Now, with more than 50% Chinese capital invested, and the show not emphasizing the “campus gang” concept as heavily, the authorities tolerated it until seven provincial satellite stations finished airing their reruns. Only then was an internal order issued to stop further broadcasts.
What puzzled Gu Cheng was why, at this particular moment, the ban was triggered.
On the other end, Gao sighed and revealed a secret: “Initially, the higher-ups considered a soft approach, bringing in another relatively positive romantic drama to dilute public attention on ‘Meteor Garden.’ So mid-last month, CCTV imported another Qiong Yao masterpiece from Taiwan, ‘Romance in the Rain.’ But after a month and a half, ‘Romance in the Rain’ failed to suppress ‘Meteor Garden’s’ ratings or the escalating trend of campus imitation. The higher-ups had no choice but to crack down hard.”
Gu Cheng found the reasoning somewhat unbelievable at first, but then logical.
Such tactics were common in democratic countries—when a politician’s scandal broke, numerous other scandals or entertainment gossip would be released simultaneously to dilute public focus.
The authorities’ high hopes for “Romance in the Rain” were not unfounded: “Meteor Garden’s” ultimate average ratings approached 20%. Looking back, the last show to surpass it was “My Fair Princess” three years prior, breaking 25%. Both “Romance in the Rain” and “My Fair Princess” were Qiong Yao’s classic tragic romances, even borrowing the three most popular stars—Zhao Wei, Lin Xinru, and Su Youpeng—from “My Fair Princess.”
In another timeline, due to the scheduling of Taiwanese drama imports, “Romance in the Rain” did not directly compete with “Meteor Garden,” and with “Meteor Garden” cut short early, their ratings were roughly comparable. Now, “Meteor Garden” was aired twice without impediment and, bolstered by Gu Cheng’s far superior influence, the gap became apparent.
From mid-August to late September, the so-called “second hottest drama of the year” “Romance in the Rain” completed two reruns, never breaking 15% ratings and utterly failing to divert public attention.
The timing was unfortunate.
The General Administration finally panicked and issued the E-level ban on “Meteor Garden.”
After listening long enough, Gu Cheng finally digested the background of the first bad news.
“Enough explanation. Tell me the second one.”
Gao said, “The second is that those officials at the General Administration who initially opted for a ‘wait-and-see’ approach now feel they can’t justify it anymore. Banning ‘Meteor Garden’ isn’t enough. They want to produce a melodrama about ‘wealthy scions meeting tragic ends’ to brainwash those fangirls who idolize the bourgeois money worship.”
Gu Cheng was taken aback. “What does that have to do with me? If they make it, that’s their business.”
Gao, unafraid of stirring trouble, revealed the truth: “Of course it concerns you. Someone at the General Administration has quietly ordered that you play the male lead—to make you eat your own words. I’m just the messenger.”
Gu Cheng’s heart jolted. “Oh? Is that how they play it? What if I refuse?”
“If you refuse, you know what will happen to all films you invest in through Chengpin Audio-Visual when they go for approval,” Gao said helplessly. “Actually, the General Administration doesn’t really want to mess with you. It’s just that things are sensitive now; the top brass detest the phrase ‘bourgeois liberalization’ most of all. The Administration needs to show you’ve been ‘brought into the fold.’ After March next year, when the political climate changes, things might ease up.”
Gu Cheng was thoroughly exasperated! He had heard of being forced into marriage or gambling, but never of being coerced into acting!
Feeling embarrassed, he lowered his voice to plead, “Don’t you know I’m already a billionaire? Sun Zhengyi just gave me several hundred million in convertible bonds. Do you think acting in TV dramas suits me anymore?”
Gao bluntly pierced his pretense: “I only know you’re ‘underwater.’ Don’t think I’m not close with Lao Ma—Sun Zhengyi’s money is all lent to you. Whether you repay it with interest is another matter. And a few hundred million? Liu Dehua and Liang Chaowei each have billions. Do they stop acting? I advise you to cooperate.”
If not for owing Sun Zhengyi money and the urgent need for stable cash cows in the film and TV sector over the next two or three years, Gu Cheng would never allow himself to be manipulated.
“Fine, I’ll admit defeat. What’s the title? But I warn you, I’m busy. I might take leave anytime during filming.”
“The title is…” Gao said without hesitation, giving the title and contact details of the production team.
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A week before Gao’s call to Gu Cheng, a fierce debate unfolded at CCTV’s Film and Television Department in Beijing.
An experienced screenwriter and producer named Liu was handed a highly anticipated script titled “The Story of the Golden Powder Clan,” adapted from the renowned Republican-era author Zhang Henshui’s novel.
True to CCTV’s nature, it generally took a year or more to prepare a drama before filming. This production was no exception and was not yet at a critical stage demanding immediate broadcast.
However, since September, after “Romance in the Rain” was overshadowed by “Meteor Garden,” the weight on Liu’s shoulders suddenly increased. Minister Lin of the CCTV Film and Television Department personally summoned her.
Liu, puzzled and a little nervous, entered his office.
“Minister Lin, you wanted to see me?”
Looking up from paperwork, Lin gestured her to sit. “Let’s talk about ‘The Story of the Golden Powder Clan.’ How’s the preparation going?”
Liu considered, “The sets and decorations aren’t ready yet; we still need…”
Lin interrupted sharply, “Rush it. Filming must start within half a month. The General Administration and leadership have discussed it. ‘Romance in the Rain’ couldn’t suppress ‘Meteor Garden.’ Gu Cheng’s strange momentum is strong—”
Liu looked confused. “You mean...?”
“Change from suppression to assimilation. Bring Gu Cheng into the fold. Have him play Jin Wanxi. Emphasize that rich heirs are scoundrels who meet bad ends. Make Gu Cheng eat his own words and counteract the negative campus influence of the Huaze Lei character.”
Liu pondered for a moment and then understood.