After Transmigrated as a Black-Hearted Entertainment Boss [Transmigration] - Chapter 12

Su Jiqiu was a bit bewildered by the sudden low-pressure aura emanating from Gu Nan. Left with no choice, he stood on one side of the Taoli Entertainment entrance while Gu Nan stood on the other, both acting like a pair of dutiful stone guardian lions.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before Zhang Ling pulled up in a multi-purpose vehicle (MPV). “Sorry for the wait. Get in.”

Su Jiqiu hesitated. “We’re taking the van to buy groceries?”

Zhang Ling didn’t see the issue. “Yeah. Didn’t we say we’re buying enough for several days? The company only has the artist vans left; we’ll just have to make do.”

“Isn’t it a bit too conspicuous…” Su Jiqiu muttered as he pulled open the sliding door to the back seat.

“A multi-million dollar Cullinan can go grocery shopping, so what’s so flashy about a van worth a few hundred thousand?” Zhang Ling laughed. “Gu Nan? Get in, what are you dazing for?”

Gu Nan glanced at Su Jiqiu in the second row, then directly opened the front passenger door and sat down next to Zhang Ling.

This move left Su Jiqiu staring in shock.

Gu Nan was a great guy—gentle, powerful, steady, and reliable—but true to his cold exterior, he was genuinely difficult to get close to. Moreover, he hated physical contact and always subconsciously maintained his distance from others.

Having lived under the same roof for a year, Su Jiqiu had never seen him put an arm around anyone’s shoulder, let alone choose to sit right next to someone who was essentially a stranger when other options were available!

Zhang Ling also thought Gu Nan’s behavior was a bit odd, but she didn’t take it to heart. Who would object to having a handsome guy sit next to them? Once Gu Nan buckled his seatbelt, she stepped on the gas and headed toward the industrial park gates.

“What do you guys want for dinner? Let’s make a list. But let me say this upfront: my cooking is average, so don’t pick anything too complicated.”

Su Jiqiu was still reeling from the shock when he heard Gu Nan’s deep, resonant voice. “Sister Zhang, has Young CEO Tao been very busy lately?”

“Huh?” Surprised by the question, Zhang Ling glanced at him before answering, “Yeah. He’s been busy screening projects lately. If he’s not in the office watching films and dramas, he’s out having tea or dinner with people from the company’s former production department. He’s definitely busy.”

Su Jiqiu, still seemingly dazed by Gu Nan’s series of abnormal actions, repeated blankly, “Eating and having tea…”

Thinking Su Jiqiu was being sarcastic about Tao Zui, Zhang Ling’s expression darkened. “Do you think screening projects is easy? China produces over a thousand film and TV works a year. Ninety percent fail miserably, nine percent barely break even, and only one percent actually turn a profit.”

“Young CEO Tao is new to this; he has no connections and isn’t familiar with the domestic industry, so he has to do extra homework. Rebuilding a network and studying the styles of current directors and screenwriters—none of that is simple. And ultimately, he’s doing this for you. You should know better than anyone how much a ‘trash’ film can hurt an actor’s career.”

Gu Nan was slightly stunned. “You mean… he’s been this busy choosing projects for us?”

“What else? He’s looking at his tablet so much he’s about to vomit. Do you think he actually enjoys it? You know the quality of domestic dramas—they’re basically ‘carving flowers out of manure.'” Zhang Ling shook her head, her expression suggesting she felt the effort was wasted on them.

“I-I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… I just… I’m sorry…” Su Jiqiu was defenseless. In the end, he could only bite his lip and bow his head in apology.

Seeing Su Jiqiu’s guilty look in the rearview mirror, Zhang Ling sighed. “I’m not blaming you. I just hope you understand his intentions. He’s not like the old CEO Tao; he genuinely has your best interests at heart.”

“I know! I… I wasn’t… I just…” Su Jiqiu was nearly in tears from anxiety.

“He wasn’t mocking Young CEO Tao,” Gu Nan suddenly interjected to explain for Su Jiqiu. “He was spacing out just now; he was just subconsciously repeating what you said.”

“Really?” Zhang Ling checked the mirror again. “Then I misunderstood. Sorry about that, Xiao Qiu.”

“N-no…” Su Jiqiu breathed a sigh of relief, waving his hands hurriedly.

“But that habit of yours is quite rare. How did you develop it?” With the misunderstanding cleared, Zhang Ling’s tone lightened as she teased him.

Su Jiqiu adjusted his glasses, looking a bit embarrassed. “I developed it when I was a kid… The elders in my family talked a lot… and the rules were strict. I developed that habit as a disguise, so when they were lecturing me, they wouldn’t know I was daydreaming.”

“So if you add a few nods or small gestures, your elders must think you’re being very serious?” Zhang Ling asked curiously.

“Mm.” Su Jiqiu nodded shyly.

Zhang Ling burst out laughing. “I really couldn’t tell you were such a little clever-clogs!”

Su Jiqiu pursed his lips and smiled, casting a grateful glance at Gu Nan, only to find the other man resting his right elbow on the window frame, chin in hand, staring at the street scenery outside. Because of the angle, he could only see a profile that was no longer tense.

He’s in a good mood again? Why???

Su Jiqiu was completely baffled, but Gu Nan was indeed feeling fine. As the wet market came into view, a familiar voice seemed to ring in his ears—

“Don’t worry. If ‘Bone’ is gone, then it’s gone. Papa will find you a better one!”

“The Case Files of Dali Temple? It hasn’t started filming yet?” Tao Zui paused mid-drink, his expression becoming subtle.

“Far from it!” Yao Qiang, who used to work at Taoli Entertainment and was now a variety show director at Fangyuan Culture, waved his hand. “It’s a film industry winter. Even S-rank dramas can’t get off the ground, let alone an A-rank one. If you can’t get ‘traffic’ actors, you can’t get investment. The platforms lost so much money during the pandemic that they aren’t willing to throw cash into a void anymore… It’s a pity. Such a good original script, and it’s about to die in the cradle.”

“Yeah…” Tao Zui echoed, but his mind was racing at high speed.

If he remembered correctly, The Case Files of Dali Temple was the very idol drama that propelled Qin Shuang to “traffic star” status.

The original novel didn’t describe this drama in detail. The reason he remembered it was that every time the author wrote about fan wars, Qin Shuang’s fans would use his historical costume looks from this drama to insult Gu Nan’s appearance.

In the original plot, Gu Nan had stayed in the world of film ever since his first movie, Day and Night. Historical films were rare to begin with, and even when they existed, the styling was realistic—nowhere near as exquisite or beautiful as an idol drama.

Qin Shuang’s fans relied on that specific tactic to forcibly label Gu Nan an “ugly man” or a “plastic surgery monster.”

If that face of Gu Nan’s is considered ugly, then there isn’t a single handsome man in the entertainment industry!

An image suddenly flashed in Tao Zui’s mind: Gu Nan observing him “sneaky as a cat,” then lowering his eyes in thought.

In those moments, his narrow double-eyelid fold would show, following the line of his beautiful phoenix eyes as they flew upward, tracing a tempting curve…

Ahem. That’s not the point.

Tao Zui violently reigned in his straying thoughts and focused on The Case Files of Dali Temple.

Qin Shuang had become an artist under Xincan due to some unknown change and had even snatched Gu Nan’s role in Day and Night. Could this be why Dali Temple couldn’t start filming? But Yao Qiang said it was a funding issue…

Tao Zui took a sip of alcohol, searching for relevant plot points in his memory.

He only remembered that Qin Shuang became a hit after this drama aired, and his promotion to film star happened a year later. As for when this web drama specifically started filming, he had only deduced it was this spring or summer based on the production cycle.

But according to Yao Qiang, Dali Temple was having trouble even getting approved, let alone starting production…

Tao Zui pondered for a moment, drained his glass, and picked up the bottle to pour more for himself and Yao Qiang. “From your tone, you still want to direct dramas?”

Yao Qiang tapped the table with his fingers and didn’t deny it. “I studied it, after all. It’s my ‘original intention.'”

“Then why not fight for it? Since you think so highly of that script and don’t have a project on hand.” Tao Zui raised his glass to clink with Yao Qiang’s, speaking as if they were just making small talk.

“It doesn’t matter if I think it’s good; the question is whether the company and the platform think so,” Yao Qiang sipped his drink, his voice turning somber. “The market is bad now. Everyone has gotten smarter. Platform funding is hard to get approved, and companies don’t dare to front the money without a guarantee, fearing it won’t sell. Even if it does sell, if it doesn’t perform well, they’ll hold back the final payment until you’re ready to jump off a building. Advertisers are even craftier—unless it’s a big ‘traffic’ drama, they invest episode by episode. If the data dips even slightly, they pull out immediately, and the final payment just vanishes.”

He held up his glass and let out a long sigh. “It’s hard!”

“It definitely is,” Tao Zui nodded in agreement, but his tone shifted in the next second. “But because of the industry winter, everyone should spend their money more wisely. S-rank dramas require huge investments, so breaking even is naturally difficult. By contrast, A-rank dramas have lower costs. As long as the script holds up, isn’t it easier to profit by ‘betting small to win big’?”

“That’s true…” Yao Qiang mused, sipping his drink.

Seeing him waver, Tao Zui pressed on. “Instead of exhausting yourself trying to assemble a massive production only to lose everything, it’s better to invest in an A-rank drama with potential. Audiences aren’t fools who just watch whatever you give them anymore. If the quality is high, word-of-mouth will do the promotion for you.”

“Yeah…” Yao Qiang stopped halfway through his nod and turned to look at Tao Zui suspiciously. “Why do I feel like you’re a bit too focused on this?”

Tao Zui didn’t hide it. He sighed. “You know Taoli’s current situation, Brother Qiang. The artists and agents have all run off. If I don’t want to shut down, I have to push a few newcomers out. Hearing you praise the script for Dali Temple, I just got a little idea.”

Yao Qiang snorted. “I was wondering why you were lobbying me so hard. And you just believe me because I said the script is good?”

Tao Zui smiled slightly. “I’ve seen your past works. I trust your eye.”

Yao Qiang: “…Flattery won’t work. It’s not up to me whether the drama can start.”

Tao Zui raised his glass. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Yao Qiang didn’t speak. He looked at Tao Zui’s glass for a long time before finally raising his own to clink it.

As they were leaving, Yao Qiang, half-drunk, said, “Let’s be clear—I can’t guarantee the drama will start, and I can’t guarantee I’ll use your person.”

“Man proposes, God disposes. I understand that,” Tao Zui smiled nonchalantly. “But I believe that if you give me a chance for fair competition, you will definitely choose my person.”

Yao Qiang chuckled. “Isn’t that a bit too much confidence?”

Tao Zui wagged a finger. “It’s not confidence; it’s a fact. My person… is a star destined to shine.”