Chapter Sixty-Seven: Considering the Company's Future

Early the next morning, Chen Ling arrived at the company. Having been away filming for over fifty days, he hadn’t set foot in the office once, and a mountain of matters awaited his attention. He also had a few tasks to entrust to Zhao Qian.

That morning, Chen Ling first tackled several urgent affairs—primarily reviewing and signing off on some accounts. The box office revenue from "Love Lost in Thirty-three Days" had all been settled, including previous copyright fees. The film’s online streaming rights had also been sold to Youku, though the price left much to be desired; rampant piracy at this time made it difficult to fetch good prices for authorized films and dramas. In fact, television series often sold for higher prices to websites than films did.

A few other expenditures required his signature, such as office renovations and purchasing vehicles. There was also the matter of acquiring copyrights, a task he had previously assigned to Zhao Qian. As someone who had traversed time with a clear memory, Chen Ling knew exactly which novels’ rights were worth buying. With copyrights still inexpensive, it made sense to stockpile as many as possible. He had even given Zhao Qian a list to purchase from. Reviewing the list now, he saw that most copyrights had been acquired; those that hadn’t were carefully annotated with reasons. Her attention to detail pleased him.

The outlay for these copyrights was modest and within budget, so he thought it was time to comb through his memory again and make another list. He also checked the documents Jack had mailed from across the ocean; finding no issues, he resolved to move forward with registering his script.

By the time he finished all this, it was already afternoon. Chen Ling had lunch in his office.

...

After lunch, Chen Ling, his mind reinvigorated by a brief nap, called out, “Qian, if you’re not busy, please come to my office.”

Soon, Zhao Qian arrived.

“There are a few matters I need you to handle. First, from now on, you can sign off on expenditures under one million on your own.”

Having worked with her for so long, Chen Ling realized it was necessary to delegate some authority. He had come to know his subordinate well: in terms of competence, Zhao Qian was merely adequate, far from exceptional. But she was obedient, loyal, and executed tasks with remarkable efficiency. For Chen Ling, that was more than sufficient. Even if Chen Zhixi joined the company in the future, Chen Ling would not let him replace Zhao Qian. Leaving aside the matter of checks and balances, Zhao Qian’s loyalty alone put her above Chen Zhixi. She was self-aware enough to know that leaving Chen Ling would not improve her prospects, so she supported him unconditionally. When faced with any company matter, her first concern was always whether it might harm the company’s or Chen Ling’s interests.

As for Chen Zhixi, people with ambition often have their own agendas—Chen Ling wasn’t sure he’d be able to control him. To Chen Ling, being a celebrity and running a company were two entirely different things. Anyone could become a star with the right backing, but running a company was another matter. The lesson of his previous entrepreneurial failure was still fresh in his mind. This truth would become increasingly evident in a few years, once celebrities began setting up studios and companies en masse—the most famous example being Jiaxing.

Yang Mi, as one of Jiaxing’s founders and major shareholders, had rendered invaluable service during their high-stakes bet. Without her tireless efforts, the company could never have succeeded. To win the wager, Yang Mi paid a steep price: her days were a blur of non-stop work, finishing one shoot in the morning and rushing to another crew in the afternoon, often surviving on IV drips. Such a grueling schedule left her no time to be selective with scripts or to improve her craft, resulting in a decline in her acting and reputation. Her husband’s affair was even exposed online by the paparazzi, making her a public cuckold—an unbearable humiliation for someone so proud. Burdened with the company’s wager, she didn’t even dare respond, enduring it in silence. In the end, her marriage collapsed, and even custody of her child was lost. She’d thought sacrificing so much would guarantee her a place at the top of the entertainment world, but Jiaxing failed to go public, and she was eventually ousted by her former manager, now the company’s boss.

In summary, Yang Mi’s rise was fueled by her indomitable spirit, but so was her downfall. Most crucially, she never truly controlled Jiaxing, so the ultimate spoils went to the manager who’d always remained in the shadows. Such a brutal lesson must not be forgotten. If Chen Ling’s company was to grow, equity would eventually have to be shared, otherwise talents like Chen Zhixi could not be retained. But no matter what, absolute control over the company must always remain with him. That was the inviolable bottom line.

...

“Second,” Chen Ling continued, “get in touch with the crew from ‘Breakup Buddies’ and, if possible, sign them all to the company. That way, I won’t need to assemble a new team for every film I make.”

Seasoned directors always have their own crews. After working together for a long time, the crew understands the director’s style and is far more effective than a newly assembled team. Of course, there are downsides—a crew is an expensive asset to maintain. A director can’t always be filming, but the company still needs to pay the crew even during downtime. Small companies can rarely afford such a luxury.

Several members of this crew had already collaborated with Chen Ling during “Love Lost in Thirty-three Days,” all experienced upperclassmen who worked seamlessly with him. If Chen Ling ever reached the level of a Zhang Yimou, his team would be known as the “Director Chen Ling’s Official Crew.”

Likewise, the cinematographer, screenwriter, and others could bear the title “Chen Ling’s Official”—a mark that would make others take notice and offer higher pay when they took on outside projects. Of course, this only held true if Chen Ling had sufficient reputation and skill; otherwise, it would be a joke, and the so-called “official” designation would only be a source of embarrassment.

Chen Ling had already planned to sign the whole crew during filming and had discussed it with everyone. Having Zhao Qian handle the formalities and negotiate compensation was just part of the process—these were the sort of minor matters best delegated to subordinates.

“The third matter: my new film is slated for a New Year release. Online publicity can start now—coordinate this with Chen Zhixi.”

“Understood,” Zhao Qian replied.

She was a little surprised and puzzled by the decision to schedule the film for the New Year, but since Chen Ling had already made up his mind, she said nothing further. After working with him for so long, Zhao Qian had learned to read him: if he gave instructions while sitting in the sofa area of his office, it meant things were still up for discussion; but if he spoke while seated at his desk, as he was now, it meant his decisions were final and only needed to be executed.

“One more thing,” Chen Ling went on. “Find a real estate agent—I want to buy an apartment near the company, not too far from the school either. Around two hundred square meters, total price under five million, move-in ready. Make this a priority.”

Would you believe that Chen Ling was still living in a dormitory up to now? In fact, he hadn’t even gone back to campus the previous night. After so many days with the crew, returning to school felt strange, so he simply checked into a suite at a nearby hotel after dinner.

“And finally,” he said, glancing up to see Zhao Qian listening intently, “the company is bound to keep growing, and sooner or later we’ll need to move into talent management. Prepare a proposal, and after the New Year and art school entrance exams, we’ll sign a few artists to test the waters.”

Chen Ling still intended to break into talent management. He wasn’t concerned about whether future conflicts between artists and companies would escalate once fees rose in the coming years—at present, the artist management business was profitable. With so many production resources, letting them all slip away would be a waste.

“Understood, I’ll draft a feasible plan as soon as possible.”

Talent management was Zhao Qian’s area of expertise—she had plenty of authority on the subject. In her view, as the company expanded, it was only a matter of time before they entered this field, so Chen Ling’s instructions came as no surprise.