Chapter 116: The Dragon Soars Across the Four Seas

As soon as the headlights turned on, Xiao Ran and the other two saw a young man drenched like a drowned rat approaching them. Yang Guang and Monkey exchanged glances—they hadn’t expected to have work to do right after taking on this role. Glancing at Xiao Ran, they thought, “This guy must have quite a few enemies!”
Xiao Ran didn’t know what Yang Guang and Monkey were thinking. But he recognized the man approaching—it was the same young man who had been dealt with by Ghost King Dong at the incense hall the previous night. The young man approached firmly, and just as Yang Guang and Monkey were about to act, he crouched down and disappeared from in front of the car.
Yang Guang and Monkey were slightly startled. Monkey quickly opened the car door and jumped out swiftly. Yang Guang used his body to block the front, preventing any surprise attacks with bullets. Xiao Ran was extremely surprised—he hadn’t expected these two new bodyguards to be so coordinated and skilled.
Suddenly, Xiao Ran remembered the movie *Bodyguards of Zhongnanhai*. He felt like he was the person being protected in that movie, while Yang Guang and Monkey were the bodyguards, Li Zhengyang. This absurd thought made him burst into laughter, drawing Yang Guang’s curious gaze as he watched this guy remain calm amidst the “crisis.”
Although he didn’t know why the young man had come, Xiao Ran didn’t think he was there to kill him. He nodded at Yang Guang and said with a smile, “It’s okay, I know him!” Then he took the umbrella from Yang Guang, got out of the car, and went to the front. There, he saw the young man kneeling in front of the car, his head held high with pride, while Monkey, drenched and annoyed, stared at him intently.
Seeing Xiao Ran finally get out of the car, the young man became excited. He said in a deep voice, “Give me three million, and my life belongs to you!”
Xiao Ran was shocked. What did that mean? He went over to the young man, crouched down slightly, and said gently, “Tell me why.”
“I need three million to send my mother to the U.S. for treatment!” The young man didn’t reject Xiao Ran’s kindness; a warm feeling spread through his heart—no one had ever been so good to him. “Give me three million, and my life belongs to you!”
Xiao Ran was stunned. He hadn’t expected the young man to be so filial. Thinking of his own parents from his “dreams” and then recalling how rarely he visited his real parents, his nose stung. “What would I do with your life? Get up—I’ll give you three million!”
The young man showed surprise and delight. Xiao Ran nodded firmly. He could no longer show filial piety to his parents in his dreams, but perhaps this way he could ease some of his guilt.
“Don’t leave yet!” Ignoring his status, Xiao Ran helped the young man stand up. After saying something to Yang Guang and Monkey, he turned to the young man and said, “You’ve been in the rain for a long time. Go check if everything’s okay first!”
At the hospital, Xiao Ran learned everything about the young man. His name was Lin Yongmai, and people in the underworld called him Ah Mai. Not long ago, his mother fell seriously ill and needed a kidney transplant. To raise money, he collected debts from the gang but kept them for himself instead of turning them in. He also beat and injured a brother who tried to stop him, which is why Ghost King Dong punished him according to gang rules.

But it was fine not to check; after checking, even the sunlight and monkeys were amazed and thought, “This kid is really ruthless.” Yesterday, A Mei knelt on nails until his knees were almost pierced by them, and in addition, he was stabbed a few times due to family rules. Yet after just a simple bandage, he managed to endure it all—truly remarkable.
When Xiao Ran asked why A Mei came to him for money, A Mei’s reply made him realize that wealth really shouldn’t be shown off. Although he hadn’t shown much wealth yesterday, his claim of ten million made A Mei understand that Xiao Ran was wealthy and had some strange connections with the underworld, so he came to him.
After writing a check for A Mei, Xiao Ran smiled and handed it to him, saying, “Keep your life for yourself or for your mother—just don’t give it to me! I don’t want to be responsible for someone else’s life!”
A Mei said nothing, just stared at Xiao Ran silently, his determined gaze making it hard for Xiao Ran to look away. In the days that followed, A Mei would find Xiao Ran without saying a word and simply follow him wherever he went, leaving Xiao Ran extremely frustrated. After trying to drive him away several times without success, Xiao Ran reluctantly accepted A Mei, but asked him not to follow him.
That night, Ghost King Dong called to tell Xiao Ran that Wang Yu was dead. Wang Yu had been betrayed by one of his subordinates, and Xiao Ran, in full trust, asked Ghost King Dong to give that ten million to the guy. Thus, the whole matter was quietly resolved…
Life went on quite peacefully. On December 1st, the newly renovated Xinbao Cinema Chain, which had cost twenty million, finally started operating. After coordinating with Xinyi City, both sides revised their contract slightly, making some changes to the profit split. After all, with Xiao Ran’s cinema chain joining in, the earnings from The Phantom’s movies at Golden Princess Cinema would surely be affected.
It should be noted that a cinema doesn’t just refer to a single independent theater. In such a large theater, there are actually several screening halls. In other words, the traditional theater model was overturned to allow for more detailed categorization of screenings to meet the needs of different audiences.
Currently, in Hong Kong, only Xinbao has fully multi-hall screening. Among others, Golden Princess and Cathay also have relatively many halls, while Shaw and Wing Ka basically don’t. This shows the decision-makers’ wrong direction.
Actually, not many movies are released around this time each year, and their quality isn’t particularly good. This period is strange—it’s somewhat close to Chinese New Year but also far from other release windows; in short, it’s a slow season.
At this time, Wang Jing’s new film, after shooting three versions of “Chasing Girls in Luxury,” was released. It was called “Supreme Power,” starring Tan Yongling and Lam Kwan-hin. The plot was actually based on Xiao Ran’s memory of “Supreme Power,” except that the male lead was changed from Liu Hua to Lam Kwan-hin, a young handsome actor once heavily promoted by Wang Jing.
It was complete chaos! After cursing under his breath, Xiao Ran watched the film, which was actually well-made. Strictly speaking, it was one of the few tragic films among Wang Jing’s works. This made Xiao Ran frustrated—he hadn’t remembered this film at all.

However, this was also due to his own decision not to make a sequel to the gambling film. In fact, several gambling-themed films had been released during this period, but none of them posed any real threat; only Wang Jing’s film was truly outstanding. Xiao Ran originally planned to release “The Gambling Sage” in December, but after seeing this situation, he hesitated.

“The Supreme King” had a pretty good reputation, except that the character played by Lin Junxian, the fastest player in Asia, lacked any distinct personality and was far inferior to Liu Hua’s version. If “The Gambling Sage” were to compete with “The Supreme King,” it would likely lose in terms of reputation. Moreover, judging from the trends, both films were bound to be successful at the box office, and more follow-up films would probably emerge soon after.

But if the release was postponed, there might not be any good scheduling options left. Even though it could be released during the Spring Festival season on his own studio’s platforms, 28 theaters would definitely not be enough to fully showcase “The Gambling Sage’s” potential. For a film that doesn’t rely on reputation to succeed, it needs to create a sensation in a short time to achieve the highest possible box office earnings.

After some thought, Xiao Ran finally decided to release “The Gambling Sage” in seven days, otherwise the marketing funds invested earlier would be wasted. Most importantly, Xiao Ran felt that there shouldn’t be any theoretical problems with this approach.

“The God of Gambling,” “The Gambling Sage,” and “The Gambling Hero” were planned to be made into a series, becoming one of the flagship projects of Shadow Company. This was Xiao Ran’s plan; in fact, even before writing the scripts, he had already asked Liu Zhenwei to consider sequels.

Four days later, the preview screenings delighted countless audiences, earning an excellent reputation among them. Coupled with the marketing efforts of the marketing department, the box office revenue on the day of the official release a week later nearly reached two million, breaking the previous record set by “Prison Storm” for a regular-day (i.e., non-holiday) opening.

On that day, everyone in the company couldn’t stop smiling at the sight of Xing Zai, just like in “The Gambling Sage of Shanghai.” This time, even fools could see that he had become famous. Of course, how long that fame would last depended on luck.

The film indeed caused a huge impact, but it didn’t stir much of a sensation in the arts community, as it was primarily a comedy rather than a film with depth. Every time Liu Zhenwei thought about this, he felt regretful.

However, due to the rating system, “The Gambling Sage” was classified as a Category 2 film, meaning its target audience was relatively more niche compared to Category 1 films. As a result, its box office revenue didn’t exceed 40 million, staying at 38 million.

Speaking of the rating system, Xiao Ran found it amusing. Hong Kong’s official rating system and film censorship regulations were supposed to be introduced next year, but because of him, they were released a full year ahead of schedule. Still, this didn’t matter; it didn’t hinder Shadow Company’s expansion.

The distribution department set up branches in Japan and South Korea, two key markets, to facilitate negotiations with theater distributors. Ge Wenqiu was quite capable; he managed to secure theater distribution rights in the Philippines without Wei Dongling’s help. In Malaysia and Singapore, Wei Dongling also secured the distribution rights after stepping in. The main gaps remained in Japan, South Korea, and Taiwan.

Meanwhile, at Wei Dongling’s suggestion, Xiao Ran separated the post-production department from the production team to form an independent department. Initially, Xiao Ran intended to support Jingyi Company, Hong Kong’s most capable post-production firm, but he soon realized it only had advantages in recording and subtitles, so he abandoned that idea. Although Xiao Ran knew these departments would eventually need to be separated for greater professionalism, it was clearly not the right time yet. As it stands, Shadow Company has essentially developed into a comprehensive film studio on par with Cathay. Simply put, backed by financial resources, Shadow can now handle everything from production to release and distribution independently, forming a complete pipeline. Nevertheless, Xiao Ran will eventually split these departments off. If listed companies require three consecutive years of profitability, Xiao Ran will surely find a way to go public immediately to raise funds for further expansion. What ruined Hong Kong cinema? There were piracy issues and other factors, but one of the most important reasons was the lack of long-term vision to develop appropriate strategies. In Hong Kong alone, Cathay was undoubtedly the largest film empire, yet it still failed due to insufficient long-term planning. A long time ago, when Wei Dongling didn’t understand cinema, he thought a film relied solely on box office revenue. But now he knows better than anyone that box office income is not the entire source of revenue. Take “The God of Gamblers” as an example: its online expenses (i.e., actors’ and directors’ salaries) were low, so most of the money was spent on offline expenses (i.e., technical costs). The investment for this film was only three million, but expenses went far beyond that—marketing costs alone amounted to eight hundred thousand, with an overall investment of four million. The box office revenue reached 38 million, and after splitting with theaters, 22 million was left. This alone was enough to cover all costs, yet the profits kept coming. Distribution alone could generate at least 60 million, plus profits from selling VHS tapes locally and through distributors in Southeast Asia. Since VCRs weren’t widely popular in Asia at the time, revenue from this source was relatively low. However, the cost of producing VHS tapes was low, with profits of at least half, meaning there was at least 10 million in profits. If you think that’s the end of the profits, you’re greatly mistaken. Broadcasting on TV was another source of income. Of course, TVB and ATV couldn’t pay very much. Yet, the price TVB paid for the broadcasting rights was 800,000 per time, and that was even after TVB pressed for a lower price. Selling broadcasting rights to Taiwan and Japan, calculated at a lower rate, also generated significant ongoing income. And the profits didn’t stop there—the copyright to this film was another major source of income, similar to how Hollywood studios can use their film libraries as collateral at banks. In total, this film could earn Shadow Company hundreds of millions of Hong Kong dollars.

Thinking of this figure, Xiao Ran found it extremely strange. In terms of total earnings, it certainly couldn’t compare to Hollywood blockbusters. But when it came to profit margins, this figure ranked first in the world. However, he couldn’t understand how, with such a way of making money, Jiahe should theoretically be able to develop extremely fast. Moreover, any other film company that managed to produce a hit like this would have ample funds for development. Upon further reflection, he was filled with emotion—it seemed everyone was only focused on risking small amounts for big gains, no wonder the number of Hong Kong films produced exceeded 200 in those years. The money made shouldn’t just sit idle in pockets; it should be reinvested to make more money (in fact, Hong Kong’s gang problems were far worse than described in books, but as I’ve said, this book will try to minimize coverage of gangs, so it’s written less about them). It’s a pity that too many filmmakers are only interested in making quick money by taking shortcuts, resulting in… he didn’t even want to think about it. Fortunately, with Phantom’s support, as long as they secured the Southeast Asian market and also got access to the mainland market, everything would be fine. He would no longer worry about following trends in the future—after all, with such a large market, there was no need to fear reckless actions. Besides, if he could control the distribution rights in Southeast Asia, he wouldn’t release even mediocre films. Then we’d see if those fools would still dare to make movies recklessly.
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Recommendation: A new work by Tang Jia Sanshao, a renowned author from Qidian, titled “Only I Am the Immortal,” http://www.feiku.com/showbook.asp?bl_id=40717