Chapter 177: Unity of Man and Drama

Zhu Guangli chuckled. Of course it was certain. But his laughter wasn’t due to that—it was because of what came next. Xiao Ran continued to scroll through the details and was immediately stunned when he saw the guests planned for the show’s premiere.
The guests they intended to invite were none other than Xiao Ran and Lin Qingxia. Xiao Ran was taken aback for a moment before bursting into laughter. “You guys really have guts—thinking of me for this.”
Zhu Guangli laughed heartily. Having worked at the company for some time, he knew Xiao Ran wasn’t the kind to be aloof and understood that under normal circumstances, Xiao Ran preferred to treat others as friends. If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t dare have such an idea.
Xiao Ran thought carefully. On the list of the first batch of guests for the show’s launch were also Fa Ge and Liu Hua. After a brief consideration, he realized this would create a significant media impact. Unfortunately, Xiao Ran didn’t want to be played around, nor did Lin Qingxia. So, he shook his head gently. “Qingxia and I won’t be participating. Replace us with two others!”
Zhu Guangli immediately expressed his disappointment. If Xiao Ran and Lin Qingxia agreed to participate, the ratings for that episode would definitely be outstanding. Anyway, he was full of confidence in the show—confidence that, of course, came from the backing of Shadow.
As for my guess, they would likely bring in someone developing in Taiwan, the future “King of Cinema.” After all, ATV had launched a Mandarin channel and needed such hosts. Regarding the artists, Xiao Ran had long set a rule that they must learn Mandarin; those who couldn’t speak Mandarin were basically excluded from the list of promising talents.
Most other programs didn’t pose much of a problem—the key lay in TV dramas. Xiao Ran had long thought about what it would be like to gather all the film actors in Hong Kong to star in a TV drama or movie. Even if the production was terrible, it would still be considered a classic.
However, this wasn’t an easy task. First, the cost would be enormous. Xiao Ran even bet that if all the top actors in Hong Kong were brought together, the production cost could exceed 100 million. Second, their schedules often didn’t align.
If such a project were to be made, “Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils” or “The Legend of the Condor Heroes” would be excellent themes. Thinking of the Tang Dynasty, Xiao Ran had an idea: why not start training a few actors now who would be perfect for the role, shooting a bit each year until it’s completed in ten years?
It was a bit absurd, and Xiao Ran found it amusing. But the idea could be applied to movies, like “Infernal Affairs.” With that thought, he had an idea: if Liu Hua and Leung Chao-wai played his younger self now, and then “Infernal Affairs” were made ten years later, it would add a truly authentic sense of passage of time.
Wei Jiahui was waiting patiently outside the office, not quite understanding why Xiao Ran had brought him here. The quality of his movie “Peace Hotel” was already sufficient, and with the marketing department’s help, it had achieved decent box office results—over 20 million. After all, it was during Fa Ge’s peak popularity, so any movie he starred in would do well at the box office.

He was somewhat skeptical about whether Xiao Ran intended to have him return to work in television. To be honest, he wasn’t uninterested in television work. But switching from filmmaking to television seemed like a step backward. As he was thinking this, Zhu Guangli opened the door and waved at him.

When Wei Jiahui came in, Xiao Ran stood up from Zhu Guangli’s chair and went over to the sofa, staring quietly at the gold-medal-winning producer. His mind was in chaos—he really didn’t want to hand Wei Jiahui over to ATV, but without him, ATV would surely find it difficult to surpass TVB in terms of dramas.

How could he persuade Wei Jiahui? It was truly a headache. Just then, the perceptive Wei Jiahui seemed to see through Xiao Ran’s intentions and said with a light smile, “Brother Ran, you want me to come to ATV to work on dramas, right?”

Xiao Ran let out a sigh. He didn’t want to push his half-mentor into trouble, even though ATV wasn’t exactly a pit of danger. “You know, competing with TVB now is a hassle. So, I believe you can help ATV do very well in terms of dramas!”

“No problem, but I’ll stay at most for three years. What do you think?” Wei Jiahui smiled secretly. In fact, he felt he wasn’t up to the task while directing *Peace Hotel*. He thought it was necessary for him to hone his skills, otherwise why would he propose this on his own?

“Now you’re in the enemy’s camp but still thinking of Han. You’ll keep your salary from *Shadow*, and your pay here will be increased too!” Xiao Ran relaxed, glad to have solved a problem, and joked, “You might not know, but Ah Li is willing to pay a high price to get you!”

“Not bad. As someone recommended by Hong Kong’s top screenwriter, what reason do I have to refuse?” Li Guangli pretended to look frustrated. Both Xiao Ran and Wei Jiahui laughed.

ATV was doing quite well. Zeng Zhiwei, who had been lured there by Xiao Ran’s persuasion, performed well, and ratings for *Super Award Host* immediately became the highest in Hong Kong. This was mainly due to effective promotion, and also because actors like Stephen Chow were well-known superstars—after all, fame has its appeal. *Award Host* continued to enjoy high ratings, making it easy to recruit some stars from *Shadow*.

For a while, everything revolved around this show. Other variety shows that followed also performed well, especially those broadcast on the Mandarin channel, which attracted a significant audience in Southeast Asia.

Wei Jiahui lived up to Xiao Ran’s trust. The success of dramas like *Unforgiving Love* quickly made him one of Hong Kong’s renowned gold-medal producers. With Xiao Ran’s “creativity,” Wei Jiahui quickly trained several talented apprentices at ATV, all of whom became key figures there.

By mid-June, most of the scenes for “Unfinished Love” had been filmed, with only the final scene where the lead characters finally meet left unfinished. It was precisely this last scene that posed difficulties. Chen Kexin discussed it for a while with the art director, then consulted the special effects team to exchange ideas and concepts with the crew members. He also instructed the action director on the height and angle for the wire-swinging sequence in that final scene, while the cinematographer spent a long time discussing with Chen Kexin to decide on the camera angles to use.

Xiao Ran also discussed with Lin Qingxia how to shoot the final scene. After much deliberation, they agreed to interpret it by having the characters overlap. At the assistant director’s command, Xiao Ran looked at Lin Qingxia, who was surrounded by a beam of light. Every inch of her skin appeared exceptionally fair and delicate under that light, breathtakingly beautiful, as if imbued with a sense of holiness.

Xiao Ran was completely stunned. Staring at Lin Qingxia’s perfect figure, he felt as though his heart was splitting apart, completely forgetting that they were acting. He couldn’t imagine whether he would have the courage to go on living if Lin Qingxia left him.

The feeling of his heart breaking spread throughout his body. Neither Xiao Ran nor Lin Qingxia spoke, nor did Luo Lan, who was standing nearby. They just gazed at each other, as if the whole world consisted only of the other person, their eyes filled with nothing but each other’s presence.

Xiao Ran slowly stepped toward Lin Qingxia, bathed in the white light. Both of them had sorrowful and inexplicably tragic expressions. Their eyes communicated silently as Xiao Ran approached her step by step, getting ever closer.

“What are they doing?” The cameraman was confused, but Chen Kexin, overwhelmed with excitement, shouted at him, “Look at the camera! Don’t look around! This is exactly the effect I want!”

That’s right! Chen Kexin felt as though his blood was about to boil. This was exactly what he wanted—a scene he had always desired but never been able to achieve. While he was excited, Lin Qingxia was being lifted higher and higher by the wire. Xiao Ran felt his heart sinking as his angel left him.

From above, Lin Qingxia saw Xiao Ran’s despairing expression. If she had realized it was acting, she would likely have broken free from the wire and jumped down immediately. Unfortunately, she too had completely forgotten they were acting. Sometimes, when emotions align, actors can deliver brilliant performances—this is one of the reasons why many inexperienced young actors can shine.

With Chen Kexin’s almost shouting “CUT,” Xiao Ran and Lin Qingxia still couldn’t break free from their roles. They continued to stare at each other, either looking down or up. Without a word, their lingering gazes communicated endlessly, like pages of tragic stories unfolding before everyone’s eyes.

It wasn’t until the stuntmen released Lin Qingxia that they suddenly remembered they were acting. As if afraid she might vanish right before their eyes, they hugged each other tightly. Xiao Ran closed his eyes slightly, unable to resist the urge to cry.

The impact in Lin Qingxia’s heart was even more powerful, forcing tears to flow down Xiao Ran’s shoulders uncontrollably. Xiao Ran took several deep breaths to dispel the overwhelming sorrow in his heart, then barely suppressing his urge to cry, he gently comforted her: “We’ll never be separated. No one can force us apart—not even God!”
As that day approached, Xiao Ran grew increasingly nervous. This matter was far from trivial; if handled poorly, the Shadow’s advance inland might be delayed for years. He had worked hard to secure interview rights and sent a team of reporters to document everything as it happened. That moment finally arrived, and nothing changed—what was meant to happen still happened.
Fortunately, what shouldn’t have happened didn’t occur, especially that most terrifying scene. Simply put, those days saw some tense events, but certain things that could have sparked outrage in Western countries disappeared. (I dare not write more—let’s stop here. Don’t ask why it changed; I can’t write it.)
In any case, Xiao Ran breathed a sigh of relief—the worst hadn’t happened. Hong Kong only experienced slight unrest, no large-scale capital exodus, and even stock market fluctuations were minimal.
Meanwhile, “Mom, Love Me Once Again” was released on the mainland, achieving massive box office success. It was a success in itself, clearly giving Xiao Ran an insight: a film that failed in one place might not fail elsewhere.
By July, preparations for the Shadow New Talent Competition, hosted by Tianlai and Mingxing with the support of ATV, were complete, and it began in mid-month. The promotion for this competition was quite effective. Although not many people signed up, ATV estimated decent viewership.
The preliminary and semi-final rounds were not broadcast live. Only those who made it to the finals were professionally groomed before appearing on stage. This avoided the embarrassment of people later realizing someone’s appearance wasn’t as good as expected! The first edition had little impact and modest results, but Xiao Ran didn’t care—what mattered was ensuring continuity.
Also in July, Xiao Ran personally met Jiang Zhi. Jiang Zhi looked radiant, making him seem several years younger. After receiving the coffee from An Yuxuan and seeing her leave the room, he said with a laugh, “President Xiao, thanks to your reminder, my superiors asked me to greet you and express our gratitude.”
“It’s nothing. We’re all Chinese—there’s no need for thanks!” Xiao Ran smiled faintly, though inwardly he was suffering. Jiang Zhi’s visit was clearly to question how he had guessed all this. How could he answer? “Now that things have stabilized, that’s all that matters!”
“Still, we’re curious—how did you guess it?” Jiang Zhi’s smile faded, leaving him staring at Xiao Ran with a sharp gaze. “Don’t tell me you dreamed it!”

Xiao Ran wasn’t surprised at all to learn that Jiang Zhi knew what he had said to Guan Xin. His mind raced quickly. This reason, or rather excuse, had already been thought of by him, but he believed it couldn’t be convincing: “It’s simple. After appreciating ‘Choice,’ I realized the situation was similar, and since you guys weren’t making any moves, I was worried things might go wrong and affect my business!”
Jiang Zhi was truly relieved, thanks to Xiao Ran’s deliberately said last sentence. In any case, this matter wasn’t easy to handle. Jiang Zhi was well aware that those in authority hadn’t intended to find any explanation; they just wanted to figure out Xiao Ran, who seemed to be well-understood but actually still held many secrets.
It now seemed that Xiao Ran had no ambitions, at least no political ambitions—just a businessman. Reaching this conclusion quickly, Jiang Zhi felt pleased: “Why would it affect your business?”
“That’s the secret of the business world!” Xiao Ran smiled mysteriously on purpose; actually, he didn’t want to bring this up anymore. Suddenly, he thought of something and said quietly, “Last time, the mainland planned to send people here to learn. I think now is the time!”
It indeed was the right time. Since that hadn’t happened, Xiao Ran didn’t have to worry that these trainees might make outsiders suspect that Shadow was close to the mainland. Jiang Zhi clearly knew about this. After pondering for a moment, he stood up and waved, saying, “You know that those in authority originally intended to make Hong Kong a base for Chinese-language movies, especially with the booming Hong Kong films in recent years!”
“So, I think there shouldn’t be much of a problem. As long as Shadow can secure as many as possible, we’ll give you that many!” Jiang Zhi’s face lit up with joy. If Hong Kong could become a base for Chinese-language movies, then Silver City would surely benefit as well.
After discussing some more matters related to movies with Jiang Zhi, he left. But before going, he suddenly said to Xiao Ran with a smile, “Huang Qun asked me to tell you he thanks you!”