Chapter Forty-Six: The Desire to Leave

“Mr. Wang, let me be frank with you.” Gu Zhi shook his head gently and said in a soft voice, “I’ve already finished writing the script for my next film. I just discussed the project with China Film today—San Ye is very supportive, and China Film has already decided to produce it. If all goes as planned, I’ll probably be working with them for the long run. With San Ye supporting me like this, I can’t exactly turn a blind eye to his kindness, can I?”

As soon as he finished, Wang Zhonglei clenched his right fist and slapped it into his left palm, his face twisted in pain and deep disappointment.

“We’ll still have chances to work together in the future. Huayi’s resources are far greater than mine—I’m just a newcomer. If I want to establish myself in this industry, there’s no way around relying on a pillar like you,” Gu Zhi continued. “Director Feng, what do you think?”

Feng Xiaogang, unfazed, simply raised his glass and took a deep draught, then spoke in his usual forthright manner: “Business may not have worked out, but friendship remains. You’re still young, little brother Gu—the road ahead is long. I’m sure our paths will cross again. Come on, let’s drink!”

They drank for a while longer. After offering a few words of apology to these two titans, Gu Zhi excused himself and left the restaurant.

He truly couldn’t handle any more alcohol; otherwise, he’d end up drunk and unable to make it home, putting others through the trouble.

Inside the private room, only Feng Xiaogang and Wang Zhonglei remained. They set down their wine glasses, ordered a pot of hot tea from the waiter, and switched to tea.

Their faces were flushed and they reeked of alcohol, outwardly appearing the perfect image of drunkenness. Yet their minds were razor sharp.

“Is this Gu Zhi really as talented as you say? Both of us came here in person, and he still turned us down. He’s really not giving us much respect,” Wang Zhonglei said angrily, draining his cup of tea in one gulp and slamming it onto the table.

He’d been at the top for a long time—anyone working in the entertainment industry across the mainland, Hong Kong, and Taiwan would show respect to the Wang brothers. And yet, tonight, a minor—barely an adult—had refused him. He hadn’t shown it earlier, but inwardly he was fuming.

“Right now, ‘Butterfly Effect’ has already pulled nearly ten million ahead of ‘A Sigh’ at the box office. If it weren’t for ‘Life or Death Decision’ this year, this film would be the undisputed box office champion,” Feng Xiaogang said, blowing gently on his tea before continuing, “A group of newcomers, plus Han Sanping. If making a film like this were that easy, what would be left for companies like ours in the film industry?”

“The director was Gu Zhi’s choice, the actors were his picks, he wrote the entire script himself, and even invested over a million of his own money. He’s the thread tying the whole film together—much more important than the rookie director. Without him, there wouldn’t be a ‘Butterfly Effect’ at all.”

With that, Feng Xiaogang took another sip of tea to moisten his throat.

Wang Zhonglei couldn’t wait for him to finish and retorted, “So what? He just got lucky and made a single film. Who knows if his next one will work out? With our status, there’s no need for us to chase after him at this stage.”

After all, he was just a screenwriter. With Gu Zhi’s limited capital, Wang Zhonglei hardly saw him as worth his attention.

Feng Xiaogang set down his teacup and grinned at Wang Zhonglei, his protruding front teeth making the smile quite menacing.

“He’s already begun his second film, hasn’t he? Meanwhile, our ‘Big Shot’ is still in negotiations—the screenwriters haven’t even polished the script yet. And in all this time, he’s finished his screenplay, China Film has invested, and Han Sanping clearly has high hopes for the kid.

“With that kind of writing speed, he’s probably already mapped out the whole arc of the film. Just imagine how many stories he must have in reserve?”

Feng Xiaogang paused, his thick fingers tapping the table three times, deliberately.

“Don’t forget, he’s already published three novels—ready-made stories, right there. All three have ranked among the nation’s bestsellers, and he owns the rights. If they’re adapted into films, how many fans do you think would support them? I’ve heard that people in Hong Kong are already interested in buying the rights to ‘No Hard Road’.”

“We’re not short of good directors or actors in the mainland film industry. What we lack are great screenwriters—sometimes not even one emerges in years. Now, at last, we’ve got a promising talent…”

Feng Xiaogang turned and fixed Wang Zhonglei with a deep, searching look before abruptly changing the subject.

“Mr. Wang, the Hong Kong film industry is in decline. The mainland box office market will only get bigger with each passing year. If Huayi seizes this opportunity, becoming number one in the mainland film scene won’t be hard.”

“But if the entire company relies on me alone as director, that’s no way to go on. If I leave one day, what happens to Huayi?”

The words hit Wang Zhonglei like a thunderclap. His hand shook, spilling his tea.

Feng Xiaogang leaving Huayi?

Even the fleeting thought sent a cold sweat down Wang Zhonglei’s back.

“Xiaogang, you’re joking, right?” Wang Zhonglei’s tone was uncertain, his gaze locked on Feng Xiaogang’s eyes as though searching for hidden meaning.

Feng Xiaogang’s stare did not waver. The two men sat in silence, eyes locked, for a long moment.

At last, Feng Xiaogang looked away and slowly shook his head.

“I’m speaking hypothetically. Even though Wang Jinghua has joined the company and signed a slew of artists, giving us an extra layer of protection, wouldn’t another layer be even better?”

“This kid Gu Zhi has a bright future. The company should do everything it can to win him over. Even if we can’t, making friends with him is still worthwhile.”

Hearing Feng Xiaogang’s reassurance, Wang Zhonglei wiped the sweat from his brow and instantly felt much lighter.

At the same time, he resolved privately to focus more on developing Wang Jinghua’s talent management division. Huayi relying solely on Feng Xiaogang was far too risky.

“You’re right. We’ll have people reach out to him more often in the future.”

“Now, let’s talk about ‘Big Shot.’ Guo You is still our choice for the leading man, but who should play the female lead? Should we pick someone from the mainland or Hong Kong? Sister Jinghua just signed Rosamund Kwan in Hong Kong and seems keen to promote her. Do you think she’s suitable?”

…

The next day, Han Sanping called Gu Zhi early in the morning, urging him to come to China Film at once—he had something important to discuss.

Gu Zhi guessed immediately that they’d found a director. He quickly saved his draft, shut down the computer, donned a mask and hat to cover his face, and caught a cab to China Film.

Upon entering Han Sanping’s office, he saw neither the director he’d expected nor Liu Qi—only Han Sanping himself, seated at his desk, holding an A4 sheet of paper and nodding happily, a broad smile on his face.

“San Ye, you didn’t call me here about the director? What’s the good news that has you so pleased?”

“Ha, you’re finally here. Here—take a look at this.”

Han Sanping beamed as he handed over the thin sheet of paper. His joy made him almost unrecognizable from his usual stern self.

Gu Zhi took it, puzzled. When he glanced at the front, he saw three words written boldly at the top:

Invitation Letter