Chapter Seventy-Four: From Kui One (Combined)

From employee to shareholder, the transformation of status allowed Zhou Miao, the salted fish stuck to the pan, to flip over just a little. He proactively browsed through the mountain of business invitations piling up on his desk, and after only glancing at a few, Zhou Miao couldn’t help but sigh—how easily celebrities earn money.

Major fashion brands were eager to provide Zhou Miao with everyday outfits, charging not a penny. Moreover, every time Zhou Miao walked out wearing their clothes, he’d receive an additional eighty thousand yuan as a promotional fee. This was the legendary private attire promotion: brands pay celebrities to wear their clothes, and the outfit then becomes the “celebrity’s style,” prompting fans to buy it in droves.

This sort of small-scale endorsement deal had become fashionable in recent years, but Zhou Miao dismissed it outright. With that spare time, he’d rather take on a formal clothing endorsement.

He continued flipping through the documents; the next dozens were all business performance invitations, which had already been preliminarily filtered. Many offers for wealthy women’s birthday parties and the like had been tossed aside by Gu Zhiyin. Now, his performance fee had soared to at least three million per show, placing him among the top tier of all celebrity artists.

Zhou Miao didn’t like doing business performances, but the offers were simply too generous. To invite him to sing just a couple of songs, some bosses directly quoted an astronomical price of five million. He set aside those few five-million offers, instructing Gu Zhiyin to decline all the others.

“Hm?” Zhou Miao’s face suddenly took on a strange expression as he spotted an intriguing invitation.

The sender claimed to be a director, hoping Zhou Miao could compose a theme song for his new film, offering a fee of 1.5 million. For Zhou Miao’s current status, this price was almost laughable.

What amused Zhou Miao was that, according to the information provided, the director’s new film was a martial arts animated movie, in production for seven years, with a total budget of only eighty million. Every detail exuded an air of poverty.

A film produced over seven years was certainly a difficult birth. The longer a film’s production, the more money it burns, yet this director stretched eighty million over seven years and still hadn’t exhausted it, even squeezing out another 1.5 million to invite him to write a song. Truly a master of financial management.

But Zhou Miao merely found it interesting; 1.5 million was far too low. Creating a theme song required much more effort than a business performance—it simply wasn’t worthwhile.

“Decline it.”

...

In a dim office, a scruffy middle-aged man lay fast asleep atop his desk. Next to the computer, several stacked instant noodle cups attracted hovering flies, filling the room with an unpleasant odor.

“Ding~” The phone screen lit up, showing a new email in the inbox.

The sound stirred him slightly. He opened his bloodshot eyes, grimacing as he flexed his numb arm. Opening his phone’s email, he read: “Dear Director Cong Kuiyi, we regret to inform you that due to the artist’s busy schedule, we are unable to cooperate with you…”

“Ah…” Cong Kuiyi sighed helplessly. Though he’d been mentally prepared, being rejected still brought a wave of exhaustion.

Seven years. His new film, “Flying Sword Chasing the Moon,” had been in production for seven years! He had no idea how he’d survived those years, stretching every penny, barely making it to completion, only to be stuck on the theme song.

He’d invited numerous renowned musicians, but was dissatisfied with all their drafts. After rejecting so many, he’d angered the circle and landed on the blacklist.

Fortunately, his senior from the Beijing Film Academy, Zhang Yichuan, pointed him in the right direction. Being blacklisted didn’t matter—there was someone who’d definitely take the job, with guaranteed quality. The only problem was the price.

Zhang Yichuan hadn’t mentioned the name, but Cong Kuiyi knew who he meant: Rainbow Records, Zhou Miao, the hottest singer-songwriter of the moment.

Previously, Zhou Miao had written the eponymous theme song for Zhang Yichuan’s “Huo Yuanjia,” which became an industry benchmark. Which director wouldn’t want Zhou Miao to write a theme song for their film now?

Unfortunately, since “Huo Yuanjia,” Zhou Miao hadn’t accepted any such invitations.

The problem was, after scraping together every last cent, Cong Kuiyi could only manage 1.5 million. When he sent the invitation, he felt embarrassed himself.

As expected, he was rejected. Thinking it over, Cong Kuiyi called Zhang Yichuan to borrow some money. The theme song had to be settled—the investors were nearly losing their minds.

After hearing his story, Zhang Yichuan clicked his tongue, “Brother, it’s not about money anymore. I didn’t realize you were struggling this much, but your 1.5 million offer really broke the rules. Artists don’t go backward. Last year I invited him for 5 million—that price was already high for him at the time.”

“But over the past year, his popularity has increased tenfold or more. If I invited him now, even 5 million would be a token price.”

“He’s not like other producers—others rely on writing songs for a living, but Zhou Miao now earns three to five million for a performance lasting only a few dozen minutes. To write you a theme song, which is time-consuming and exhausting, for just 1.5 million?”

After Zhang Yichuan’s explanation, Cong Kuiyi suddenly understood why Zhou Miao hadn’t accepted theme song jobs since.

How much can one earn making music, compared to the ease of business performances?

“So what should I do now? Should I apologize to him?”

Zhang Yichuan thought for a moment, “How about this: I’ll arrange a dinner with him, and we’ll talk face-to-face.”

“Alright, I’ll trouble you then.”

“Stop with the formalities!”

Zhou Miao was rather surprised when Zhang Yichuan called; did the old friend have a new film? He hadn’t heard anything.

Still, Zhou Miao went to the dinner. Despite their age difference, the two got along well.

That evening, Zhou Miao entered the reserved private room, only to find that besides Zhang Yichuan, there was another middle-aged man of similar age.

“Well, the superstar is here! Take a seat!” Zhang Yichuan hurriedly invited Zhou Miao to sit.

“Let me introduce: Cong Kuiyi, also a director, my junior from Beijing Film Academy. We’ve known each other for years.”

Hearing the name Cong Kuiyi, Zhou Miao immediately understood—wasn’t this the financial management master who’d offered him 1.5 million for a song?

Zhou Miao’s expression didn’t change; he smiled and shook hands, “Director Cong, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Not at all, I barely make a living,” Cong Kuiyi replied with a bitter smile.

After Zhou Miao arrived, the dishes were gradually served. The three chatted as they ate. Since they were all acquaintances, Zhang Yichuan didn’t beat around the bush.

“Brother, to be honest, I suggested he invite you to write a song. He’s picky and got blacklisted by your circle, so I told him to come to you.”

“But I didn’t expect him to be in such dire straits, offering you just 1.5 million. Brother, don’t take it amiss—it’s all he could manage, and even that took real effort.”

Cong Kuiyi, a bit embarrassed, raised his glass, “Mr. Zhou, my apologies. I’ll drink as punishment.”

With that, he downed a glass of white liquor, grimacing as the burn wrinkled his entire face.

This made Zhou Miao feel a bit embarrassed himself. “You’re overthinking it—I really didn’t mind. It’s nothing. And don’t call me Mr. Zhou, I’m just a singer, not any kind of teacher. Call me Xiao Zhou.”

The three drank together, and the atmosphere gradually became friendly. During the conversation, Zhang Yichuan kept mentioning Cong Kuiyi’s new film, “Flying Sword Chasing the Moon,” praising it as a rare masterpiece, unparalleled in the world.

However, Zhou Miao was well aware of the situation with domestic animated films: there were occasional gems, but overall, the quality lagged behind foreign productions, and most didn’t even recoup their costs.

Though this film had been in production for seven years, that didn’t necessarily mean it would be good.

A film’s quality depends on too many factors—visuals, effects, plot, and so forth. Many things can’t be refined purely through time.

After much preamble, Zhang Yichuan finally got to the point, “Brother, if you’re not busy lately, could you help write a song? Name your price—anything beyond what he can afford, I’ll cover.”

Zhou Miao hesitated, “Can I see the script first?”

Hearing this, Cong Kuiyi felt hopeful. He quickly took out the script from his bag and handed it over, along with a notebook.

“This is a rough-cut trailer. Take a look—you can trust the quality.”

The trailer lasted only a few dozen seconds. After watching, Zhou Miao nodded in approval. Judging from the visuals and effects shown in the trailer, the eighty million had indeed been spent wisely.

The characters were so finely rendered that even individual strands of hair were visible. The animation effects were stunning, fully comparable to major international productions.

“Martial arts films are almost nonexistent now. Why did you decide to make a martial arts animated movie?” Zhou Miao asked, curious.

Cong Kuiyi scratched his head, reminiscing, “Our generation grew up watching martial arts films. We have deep feelings for martial arts and action movies.”

“But I never thought that as we grew up, martial arts films would withdraw from the market. Now, no one likes them anymore, and people have almost forgotten that Chinese cinema even has this genre.”

At this point, Cong Kuiyi was full of emotion. “Nowadays, kids have never seen martial arts films—they don’t even know what they are. They only know Japan has Ultraman, America has superheroes.”

He took a helpless sip of liquor. “I really can’t accept that our unique Chinese cultural heritage is being eliminated like this. To me, the martial arts genre still has huge potential—good stories will always find an audience.”

“So I decided to make a martial arts film myself. As for why it’s animated, mainly because I graduated from the Animation Department at Beijing Film Academy and am familiar with this field. Also, animated films don’t run into casting issues if sequels are made.”

It was clear Cong Kuiyi had great confidence in his film; even before its release, he was already considering sequels.

Zhou Miao closed the script and said, “Alright, I’ll take the job. Next weekend, Director Cong, come to Rainbow Records for a sample. If you’re satisfied, we’ll talk price.”

Upon hearing this, Cong Kuiyi was overjoyed and toasted Zhou Miao again.

By the end of the dinner, Cong Kuiyi was thoroughly drunk, Zhang Yichuan’s face was flushed, but Zhou Miao, protecting his voice, had only sipped two beers and was perfectly composed.

After bidding farewell, Zhou Miao got into the nanny van, only to find Yang Xiaoya staring at her phone with a look of impending doom.

“What’s got you so serious?” Zhou Miao asked curiously.

“Hui Yuan just released a new album—it’s selling like crazy,” Yang Xiaoya handed over the phone.

Zhou Miao’s interest was piqued. Taking the phone, he saw that in less than half an hour since release, over a million copies had already been sold.

Despite Hui Yuan suffering two successive heavy blows from Zhou Miao, his foundation remained, and his popularity hadn’t faded much.

This time, Hui Yuan was ambitious, aiming to break the sales record for digital albums Zhou Miao had just set.

For promotion, he’d been appearing on variety shows like a madman, trying every possible means to publicize his album.

His fans were also in full force—a monthly salary of three thousand, five hundred left for food, and the rest all spent supporting their idol.

Out of curiosity, Zhou Miao contributed one sale to Hui Yuan. But after purchasing, when he opened the album, he found that out of ten songs, eight were grayed out—not only were their titles missing, but they couldn’t be played.

“What’s going on?” Zhou Miao was baffled. Why was the album released unfinished?

Yang Xiaoya seemed unfazed. “This is common now. Many singers release the album for sale before it’s finished, then add the songs later.”

Zhou Miao hadn’t bought digital albums in ages, so this was a first for him. He was stunned—was this even allowed?

Release an album with only two songs, and owe the rest?

Looking at the comments, the fans had no objection at all, as if nothing was amiss.

Yang Xiaoya was a bit exasperated, “These crazy fans must be nuts—maxing out their credit cards just to buy the album, not caring about daily life?”

Compared to Yang Xiaoya’s anxiety—worried Zhou Miao’s sales record might be surpassed—Zhou Miao himself was calm, utterly unruffled.

“Don’t worry. In the short term, his sales are indeed impressive, but that’s mainly because most fans rush to buy at the first moment. Give it a few days—the songs are average, and the album won’t have much staying power.”

Zhou Miao felt sleepy, yawning—Hui Yuan’s two songs nearly put him to sleep. He wondered just how severe the insomnia must be among those fans who claimed they’d listen on repeat for a month.