Fu Zhao tried to smooth things over. “Hey, don’t say that. Which has the bigger audience—TV or movies? You aimed too high by starting with movies, without a solid foundation. That’s why things blew up so badly this time…”
Even the most patient person would explode by now. Su Shengbai slammed his hand on the table. “Fu, ever since I joined this company, they’ve been taking 70% of my income, and this is how you treat me?!”
Fu Zhao flinched at the sound of his hand hitting the table, his smile fading. He glanced up at Su Shengbai, a flash of impatience in his eyes. “I’m offering you work, and you’re not satisfied?”
“This is television!!!”
“The only movie roles coming your way are villains, each more disgusting and evil than the last. If you want to get typecast, fine by me.”
“So help me fix this mess!!”
The conversation came to a standstill. Su Shengbai stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
It was the first time he had lost his temper in the company, and the first time Fu Zhao had been yelled at by the usually mild-mannered Su Shengbai. Fu Zhao took off his glasses and wiped the spit off the lenses, silent for a moment before letting out a cold chuckle.
“Doesn’t know his place.”
If Su Shengbai had any leverage, that would be one thing. But where did his confidence come from? Sure, he had been popular when Cao Dingkun was around. All those titles—*Clean-Cut Prince*, *Movie Prince*—were given to him back then. But now? Did he really think he was still riding that wave of success?
The offers for roles had been drying up. Where were the piles of scripts that used to flood in? Even TV show offers were dwindling. The few movie roles he was offered were all despicable characters. And while Su Shengbai was refusing these offers, Fu Zhao was losing out on his own income as well. Giving up potentially lucrative movie roles to avoid future trouble, only to have Su Shengbai throw a tantrum, was just too much.
What an ungrateful brat.
Reflecting on the scandal, Fu Zhao wasn’t as worried as before. He had been in a panic earlier, thinking the company wasn’t going to step in. He had even considered going directly to talk to Jiang Changfeng about it.
But Jiang’s assistant had privately asked him if he understood the saying, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
At the root of it all, Su Shengbai was just too restless. Even if this scandal got resolved, there would be more in the future. Universal Entertainment was a massive company; they didn’t need an almost washed-up “Clean-Cut Prince.” If the effort didn’t match the return, Jiang wouldn’t make a losing investment.
Looking back, perhaps their high-end approach had been the wrong strategy. So far, Su Shengbai had only been the face of a soda campaign. And when that contract expired, the company had replaced him with a new talent.
Fu Zhao thought about the other name that had been in the news—Luo Ding. In contrast to Su Shengbai’s storm of bad press, Luo Ding had created a whirlwind of attention with just a few words.
Luo Ding was now one of the hottest stars in the entertainment industry. It had been years since anyone had exploded in popularity like he did. And his fame wasn’t just a flash in the pan. His reputation had been steadily climbing for over a year now, with no sign of fans losing interest.
It was such a pity. Universal Entertainment had lacked the vision to sign both Su Shengbai and Luo Ding back when they were part of the same group. Instead, they had only focused on Su Shengbai, treating him like a treasure. If Luo Ding had been under Fu Zhao’s management, Fu would be hailed as a gold-star manager by now.
What a waste. Such a waste.
****
Every industry has its own major event—soccer fans have the World Cup, chefs have cooking festivals, and for the entertainment world, the Golden Lion Awards hold the same level of prestige.
Held once every ten years, the Golden Lion Awards were backed by a large trust fund established by the founder at an international bank. The interest accumulated over the decade became the funding for each festival. A gathering of ten years’ worth of exceptional films, shining stars brought together for a dazzling event. Every edition had a faultless jury, and even being judged alongside such classics was an honor for filmmakers.
In China, the film industry had only really developed in the past few decades, so this award was still somewhat unfamiliar. Only a few truly understood its significance. Most people simply knew that it was one of the most prestigious international awards, a global honor.
Duan Xiubo hadn’t been acting for even ten years yet, so this was his first encounter with the Golden Lion Awards. Luo Ding, on the other hand, had been nominated in a previous life. At the time, he was still a fairly inexperienced newcomer, and when he returned to China, he was nearly overwhelmed by the wave of praise that followed him.
He hadn’t even won the award, just a nomination, but it was still touted as a major achievement.
The power of the Golden Lion was undeniable.
China’s filmmakers, after years of preparation, were eager for the opportunity. Everyone wanted to win glory for the country. National pride could also lead to immense wealth, making the temptation enough to drive anyone crazy.
There were rumors that a Chinese winner was almost inevitable this year. In recent years, the domestic film industry had developed too rapidly. Even though some wanted to protect the local market, under the absolute fairness and impartiality promised by the Golden Lion Awards, domestic films might indeed stand out.
And this speculation wasn’t entirely baseless.
A decade’s worth of films might seem overwhelming, but the industry had advanced in leaps and bounds. The Golden Lion’s selection process was entirely based on the merit of the film itself, without any external biases. Every year, the nominated films were newer ones, with older films rarely winning.
Public sentiment often leaned toward nostalgia, criticizing the modern film industry for being shallow, but in reality, the progress was undeniable. When those in power clung to their memories of the past, the present was often overlooked. But the next generation, and the one after that, would likely continue to revere the past. This cycle of voices would never truly end.
Each year’s nominees were often from recent years. If the filmmakers had passed away or disappeared, their nominations were automatically withdrawn. In practice, the process wasn’t as harsh as people imagined.
Looking at the domestic scene, many Chinese actors who might be linked to the Golden Lion Awards were soon listed and discussed.
Duan Xiubo was naturally at the forefront. If anyone could win a nomination or an award, it would undoubtedly be him. Since his debut, almost no one had criticized him. As the most successful Chinese actor in Hollywood, both his works and reputation were unparalleled. In recent years, any outstanding film he starred in was enough to make him stand tall.
Below him, various industry veterans were also nominated, sparking debates. Some argued their acting was terrible, others said they were overrated, and still others pointed to their lack of international fame. Personal attacks were common as well.
Among the younger stars, Luo Ding’s inclusion was both surprising and expected. His appearance was like a crane standing among chickens, bright and eye-catching, but also like a target, drawing the most attacks.
Since his debut, all the negative rumors about him had mostly flipped, but people didn’t need a reason to hate. The Golden Lion had limited spots, and everyone in the industry was vying for these opportunities. Internal strife had to be dealt with before competing with outsiders.
Some questioned why Luo Ding deserved to be on the potential nominee list. These people were often the most vocal, spewing out all of Luo Ding’s so-called dark history while conveniently ignoring the evidence that disproved it. Judging by their tactics, it was clear they were hired trolls.
There were even fake Luo Ding fans, stirring up hatred in various fan circles, sowing discord. This was the hardest issue to deal with. Luckily, Gu Yaxing had experience with this sort of thing, and from their methods, he quickly identified which studio was behind it. A quick payment to the right people solved the problem, though they couldn’t uncover who had hired the trolls in the first place. Still, it gave them some peace of mind.
Both Luo Ding and Gu Yaxing knew that the masterminds behind this weren’t just one or two people. With the prize so close, the donkey that was closest to the carrot would become the target of everyone else’s ire.
It wasn’t just the newcomers. Even the veterans were unnerved by his rise and did everything they could to suppress him.
But Luo Ding wasn’t worried. He knew more about the Golden Lion Awards than most in the industry. Having been nominated once, his instincts could tell him a lot about the organizers. Public opinion was never part of their consideration. One year, the Best Supporting Actor nominee had even been a disgraced actor who had been convicted of rape. Though he didn’t attend the ceremony, it showed the award’s inclusiveness.
Let them hate. He wasn’t even sure he’d be nominated, but with *Assassin*, a film tailor-made for awards, his chances were undoubtedly higher.
However, he also guessed that *Assassin* wouldn’t do well at the box office. To chase awards, many commercially appealing elements had been removed. The film was primarily a showcase for the actors, with barely any romance. A group of tragic characters bound by fate might win over the judges, but not necessarily the audience.
This was the classic trade-off. For instance, *Supermodel* was doing great at the box office, and Tang Rui had submitted it for the Golden Lion, but her real focus was still on her older, more artistic films. She had no real hopes for *Supermodel*.
The *Blade Warrior* trilogy was likely all about the director and the two different male leads, with maybe a nod to the post-production team.
Watching all the attacks being hurled at him, Luo Ding felt at peace. Filming for *Assassin* was nearing its end, but post-production and editing would take until at least late April. The Golden Lion’s submissions closed in July or August, and the selection process had already started behind the scenes. The judges probably had a good idea of which films would be entered.
The ceremony would be held at the end of the year, leaving plenty of time to review any new films that hadn’t been released yet. The external noise didn’t affect the organizers’ pace. No matter how fierce the criticism got, Luo Ding didn’t let it bother him.
It was just jealousy, plain and simple. If the people hurling insults could be identified in real life, their vicious expressions might scare off more than a few.
How sad must these people be, unable to match the success of those they envied? They convinced themselves that others’ success was due to unfair external factors, deluding themselves into thinking the world had wronged them.
As they exhausted themselves coming up with malicious words to vent their frustrations, Luo Ding was busy completing the work that would push him to even greater heights.
The final scene of *Assassin* was particularly… meaningful. Jia Da, tired of the endless, bleak life of an assassin, dreamed of running away with Jia Qi, a female assassin. But before they could act, Jia Er discovered their plan. Fearful of making the wrong choice, Jia Er secretly reported them to their leader.
Jia Da was a highly skilled assassin with an almost perfect mission completion rate. Jia Qi, in comparison, was deemed less valuable and was chosen as the sacrificial lamb.
Jia Qi died, Jia Da survived, and Jia Er, who knew too much, was also killed by their leader. Jia Da never learned the true reason for Jia Qi’s death.
He survived, but as time passed, he stopped taking on missions and chose not to leave the assassin camp. Instead, he became the new leader.
Cold, harsh, and emotionless, just like those before him.
Having been tormented his whole life, he used his experience to torment the next generation of assassins who harbored dreams of love.
After wrapping up *Assassin*, Luo Ding remained deeply immersed in the role of Jia Da, unable to shake it off. Not even the wrap party could lift his spirits. The atmosphere on set had been tense from the start, and the wrap party was an unusually quiet affair that left a strong impression on many.
Even the usual troublemakers were silent, eating quietly. At the main table, the people exchanged glances but avoided looking at the head of the table. There, Xu Zhen sat in a wheelchair, eating small spoonfuls of sticky rice porridge. He couldn’t touch any of the dishes on the table.
At one point, Xu Zhen lifted his head, his gaze falling on Luo Ding across the table. Luo Ding seemed lost in thought, his brow slightly furrowed, nibbling on lotus root since he couldn’t eat anything spicy due to his singing.
Yuan Bing toasted him, and Luo Ding took a small sip of beer, immediately wrinkling his face in distaste. He licked his lips and leaned over to complain in a hushed voice, pointing at his cup with a look of disdain.
The more Xu Zhen watched, the more dazed he became. His mind wandered, and by the end, he didn’t even have the strength to sigh.
Cao Dingkun loved lotus root and hated beer. When he was deep in thought, his brows would furrow gently.
Was it really because they were so similar, or was it just his memories playing tricks on him?
Xu Zhen didn’t know anymore.
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