NABC Chapter 81 This is what fairness is all about.
Chapter 81 This is what fairness is all about.
The legal department's emails are at the very top of the inbox.
Zeng Hao clicked on it and slid directly to Appendix 3, the coverage terms.
Just two short sentences.
The first sentence states that the review conclusions are not binding opinions on the content, style, or final version of the music.
Secondly, the production team cannot use the audition results to force artists to change songs or versions.
With just those two sentences, the program team's "friendly negotiation" statement was completely blocked.
There was absolutely no room for maneuver.
Zeng Hao forwarded the message to Wu Lianluo.
The postscript was only one sentence: Finalize this version and have the production team confirm it.
Xu Wen, carrying a water cup, slipped past the doorway and peeked at the screen from the side.
Zeng Hao casually turned the screen halfway towards her so she could see it more easily.
After scanning the two lines of text, Xu Wen looked up and his face showed complete understanding.
"You didn't change anything, you just wiped out everything they added."
"right."
Xu Wen placed the water glass on the counter and nodded vigorously.
"Okay, I understand. I'm just worried they'll pretend they don't know."
"Just wait for a reply."
Xu Wen's lips twitched, and he swallowed back the retort that was about to come out.
He turned and tiptoed out of the office.
Everyone in the industry knows the ins and outs of auditing.
The proper procedure is that the program team has a content group that reviews the songs and provides written feedback.
One category is broadcasting regulations that cross red lines, which must be changed.
Another type is the director's personal aesthetic, which is purely arbitrary and whether or not to make changes depends entirely on the artist.
In practice, the two opinions are always mixed up.
A report is handed to you, and no one can tell which sentences are hard requirements and which are just empty suggestions.
This is the most sinister part of the "advice".
Zeng Hao had the legal department add clauses that clearly defined the boundaries.
The production team can offer suggestions, but the artists can ignore them.
Ignoring it doesn't prevent you from appearing on the show; that's what fair cooperation means.
Zeng Hao carefully stored the legal documents and picked up another document.
Wu Lianluo's reply will not be available until the afternoon at the earliest.
The production team remained silent for an hour and twenty minutes.
It wasn't Zeng Hao who calculated it; it was Xu Wen who timed it with a watch.
She would peek out every now and then.
On the third probe, Wu Lianluo's message finally popped up.
Xu Wenxian saw this and rushed in excitedly, holding his phone.
"It's done, they've agreed!"
Zeng Hao took the phone, glanced at it, and handed it back to give instructions.
"Have Wu handle the signing process. The first payment will be made according to the contract, and the final payment will remain untouched."
"no problem."
Xu Wen took the phone, walked to the door, and then turned back.
He couldn't help but joke, "The production team held back for over an hour before giving in."
How long did it take you to finish this document?
Zeng Hao tapped the desktop with his fingertips and turned to the next page of the document.
He ignored her completely, not responding to a single word.
Xu Wen counted on his fingers for a long time.
He muttered a complaint that no one could hear, then pushed open the door and went out.
Xue Zhijian's cooperation line started with "a condition" when Wu Lianlu first brought it back.
The contract has been negotiated twice before it was finally finalized.
The production team always felt they had a winning hand.
Looking back, I didn't gain any real benefits at all.
The moment the contract was signed, Xue Zhijian no longer needed to understand the intricacies of the backstage process.
He only cares about one thing—his own songs, and no one can change them.
From the program team's perspective, this was just a normal hearing.
In Xue Zhijian's case, it's the company that upholds the bottom line for the artists' creative work.
For Zeng Hao, it's about protecting the asset value stipulated in the contract.
The three parties are not on the same page at all.
Zeng Hao didn't even bother to offer a single explanation.
I'm too lazy to waste another drop of my breath.
...
The post-production editing room is in a small building next to the photography studio.
The soundproofing is much worse than that of a photography studio.
Staff members often push equipment carts through the corridor.
The rubber wheels rolled over the floor, the dull thud echoing throughout the corridor.
Zhang Linghe paused at the entrance of the computer room.
He pushed open the door and went inside.
Peng Bingzheng was huddled in front of the monitor, not even turning his head.
He simply pointed to the empty chair next to him: "Sit down, we'll start later."
The server room lights were dimly lit.
Only the monitor emitted a cold, bluish-white light, dimming the surrounding light.
The technician huddled in a corner, the keyboard lights flashing intermittently.
They waited quietly, even their breathing was extremely soft.
Zhang Linghe sat up straight in the chair, his hands resting on his knees.
He lightly brushed his fingertips along the seam of his pants.
He knew exactly what he was supposed to do today.
Watch the rough cut of the first ten episodes that were just edited.
Peng Bing invited him over and asked him to go through it himself.
If you have any ideas, feel free to share them; if you don't have any opinions, that's fine too. The important thing is to let him know.
He had made up his mind before he came.
Just treat it like watching someone else's show, pick out the flaws and remember them, then discuss them in detail later.
The monitor lights up, and the opening credits flash by.
The first shot is of his face.
Zhang Linghe sat there, his face expressionless.
His eyes didn't blink, following the image intently.
He watched the first two episodes with remarkable composure.
You can clearly see the traces of your "acting".
Which part was deliberately forced, and which part was overly emotional?
Everything is crystal clear.
Peng Bing's editing skills are very solid.
They cut out all the scenes where he was in poor condition, leaving only the best parts.
The overall smoothness was even better than he had expected.
In the fourth episode, there's a scene on the city wall.
His fellow actor left the stage, leaving him alone on the city wall.
As soon as he finished speaking, his next action was to turn around and leave.
But the camera captured the moment just before he turned around.
At that time, he had no idea that the camera was still recording.
I thought we'd call it a day once the dialogue ended.
Standing by the city gate, my mind was filled with thoughts of positioning for the next match.
His expression was relaxed and his eyes drifted aimlessly into the distance.
His gaze was unfocused, as if he was harboring thoughts, yet unsure of who he was waiting for.
The editors actually kept that half-second clip exactly in the final cut.
Zhang Linghe stared at the monitor, without moving.
The fingers resting on his knees clenched suddenly, then quickly released.
He was completely unaware of that half-second while filming.
Now, magnified on the screen, it reveals something that's hard to define.
It's intangible, yet it's firmly planted there.
Peng Bing remained silent the entire time.
He waited for the scene to change before slowly speaking.
"Did you know the camera was still filming in that half-second?"
"I don't know," Zhang Linghe answered crisply, without the slightest hesitation.
"I knew it." Peng Bing leaned back in his chair, his tone confident.
That's why I kept it.
He paused, then added, "The camera doesn't lie, you know?"
Zhang Linghe didn't rush to reply; his gaze remained fixed on the screen.
I pondered that sentence twice in my mind.
"A feigned emotion can be easily seen through by the camera."
Peng Bing didn't wait for his response and continued speaking.
"You weren't faking it for that half second, so it was real."
Zhang Linghe's lips twitched, but he didn't smile.
I went over that sentence in my mind several times.
When they first started filming this movie, he and Peng Bing were rehearsing their lines.
I always feel like something's missing after I finish speaking.
Peng Bing simply told him to start filming and not to overthink it.
The shoot lasted for two months, and some things slowly grew out.
He didn't realize it himself, but the camera caught him red-handed.
This matter is quite mysterious, he thought to himself.
It wasn't practiced, it wasn't taught.
It just popped up on its own while I was taking pictures.
"For the later episodes, should I stop watching at a certain episode, or watch them all?"
If you want to see it all, then take your time.
Peng Bing got up to get a water glass.
"I'm going out to take this call. The tech guy will handle the camera control for you."
Peng Bing walked to the door and pushed it open.
The light from the corridor suddenly rushed in, only to be cut off again with the sound of the door closing.
The server room was plunged back into darkness.
Zhang Linghe continued to stare at the screen as the image jumped to the next frame.
That was his first scene with Bai Lu.
Bai Lu is facing away from the camera, her shoulders are slender and neat.
Her profile features cool, soft lines, giving her an aloof yet clean and elegant aura.
He faced the camera, and the two of them only had one line.
He spoke so softly that I doubted the microphone had picked up the recording.
In the final cut, that line is clearly stated.
With a slightly hoarse tone, the sound recording is so clean that there's nothing to criticize.
He watched the play quietly.
As soon as the event ended, Peng Bing pushed open the door and came back.
He sat down in a chair and asked, "What are your thoughts after watching it?"
"In the chase scene in episode seven, I landed the wrong foot, and it was very obvious in the shot."
Zhang Linghe spoke calmly, without any extra emotion.
"I suggest reshooting that camera position; I have no other objections."
Peng Bing picked up a pen and drew a line on the notebook.
She looked up at him and asked, "Just this one place?"
"Just this one place."
Peng Bing threw the pen back on the table, a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth.
"Okay, I'll talk to the post-production team about it later."
Zhang Linghe moved his chair back and stood up.
He picked up his coat and draped it over his arm.
After a moment's hesitation, he finally asked Peng Bing.
"Will I be able to recapture that feeling in my next film?"
Peng Bing looked up at him and remained silent for two seconds.
He slowly spoke, "You'll have to find the answer yourself."
Zhang Linghe nodded and didn't ask any more questions.
She gently closed the door and went out.
In the corridor, the stagehands' carts slowly passed by again.
The dull thud of the wheels rolling on the ground bounced once, then quickly dissipated.
He stood in the corridor for a moment.
That half-second scene kept replaying in my mind.
It's not about reviewing acting skills, it's about digging deeper to see what's hidden inside.
After thinking for a long time, I still couldn't come up with any conclusion.
On the contrary, I think it's right that there's no conclusion.
If only we could clearly explain what that half second was.
The feeling captured on camera just isn't the same.
He put on his coat and walked outside.
When Xu Wen came in, Zeng Hao was flipping through a draft contract.
Fingertips glide across the paper, making a soft, rustling sound.
Yang Shanshan met someone yesterday afternoon.
Xu Wen stood at the door and didn't go inside.
Yang Shanshan exudes the aura of a glamorous female star, and even in private, she carries a refined air.
The other party's name is Shen Wenlang, a strategic consultant for a mid-range FMCG brand.
The brand's parent company shares a common limited partner (LP) with Ruilan in the business registration.
Zeng Hao flipped to the exclusive brokerage agreement and put the document down.
His fingers pressed against the edge of the table, his knuckles turning slightly white.
"It wasn't Ruilan who directly connected," Xu Wen quickly added.
"But that LP, people in the industry call her 'the revolving door,' because she has connections with multiple agencies."
"What did Shen Wenlang do before?"
Zeng Hao finally spoke, his voice flat and monotone.
Xu Wen glanced down at his phone: "Before becoming a FMCG consultant, I worked at a cultural company for three years."
Jingcheng Culture Fund is one of the shareholders of that company.
Zeng Hao flipped the contract back to the cover and looked up at Xu Wen.
A barely perceptible hint of melancholy flashed across his eyes.
Jingcheng Cultural Foundation.
He had seen this name before his rebirth.
It wasn't at a dinner party in the entertainment industry, but in legal documents from 2019.
That was an arbitration related to Sunshine Entertainment, and the other party won.
It's only 2016 now.
Jingcheng's LP has invested in the parent company of the brand that contacted Yang Shanshan.
There were still three years until that arbitration.
His heart sank for only a moment before he quickly composed himself.
Xu Wen didn't notice the change in his expression and continued talking to himself.
"I think it's most likely a misunderstanding; it's just a normal contact between the brand and the artist."
"Keep an eye on it." Zeng Hao pushed the contract aside, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Yang Shanshan, tell me the day you meet Shen Wenlang next."
Xu Wen immediately shut his mouth and obediently agreed.
He turned and left, closing the door behind him, and the office returned to silence.
Zeng Hao smoothed out the documents on the table, his fingertips pressing on the pages without moving.
He remembers the arbitration in 2019 very clearly.
The cause was a contract that was terminated prematurely.
The other party exploited a loophole in the breach of contract clause and shifted all the blame onto Sunshine Entertainment.
The person who signed that contract was Yang Shanshan.
...
the other side.
With noise-canceling headphones on, all outside noise is blocked out.
Only the accompaniment flowed in through the earphone, leaving only the melody, so clean and clear.
The recording studio indicator light was on red.
The pop filter in front of the microphone had a pale silver sheen.
Xue Zhijian stood in front of the microphone, and the second chorus began.
He started singing along with the tune and finished the line steadily.
Behind the glass window, the sound engineer leaned back in his chair.
He stared at the screen without moving and didn't say a word.
As the accompaniment came to an end, Xue Zhijian pulled his headphones down a bit.
He turned to look through the glass: "What's wrong? Is there a problem?"
The sound engineer moved his chair forward.
"This one works, sing it again, let's see if it sounds even better."
Xue Zhijian put his headphones back on without saying much.
Step back and stand still in front of the microphone.
He revised this song three times.
He was not satisfied with the first draft.
After the chorus, there's always something missing.
It's like having something to say but getting stuck in your throat and unable to come out.
I added a melody to the second draft, but then I felt it was superfluous.
It completely washed away the original flavor.
The third draft removed unnecessary parts, and the chorus line was moved one beat to the back.
After sitting down at the piano and trying to sing it once, he immediately knew what to expect.
That's it, that's the feeling.
If it's right, it's right; there's no way to explain it in detail.
Explaining things too clearly actually diminishes the fun.
The accompaniment started again, and he took two deep breaths.
Find the right moment and start singing along.
This time, he didn't think much and sang quietly.
Sing that line thoroughly, put that energy into it.
Not too much, not too little, just right on the spot.
As the last note faded, the studio fell silent for a second.
The sound engineer's voice came through the headphones.
"This one is the one, it's settled."
Xue Zhijian took off his headphones, hung them on the microphone stand, and raised his chin towards the other side of the glass.
He took out his phone, wanting to send a message to share the good news.
I went through my entire contact list, but I couldn't find anyone who could have said that.
I opened the Moments editing box and stared at the blank page for more than ten seconds.
Finally, I took a picture of the recording studio ceiling.
The ceiling was white, with a few old light bulbs and a tangled wire sticking out in the corner.
The caption read: "Not bad."
After sending it, he glanced at it and a slight smile appeared on his lips.
He uses the phrase "not bad" more fluently than anyone else.
When I'm happy, I say it's okay; when I'm upset, I also say it's okay.
This song is unexpectedly good, but he deliberately doesn't write a perfect and satisfactory version.
Even I find it pretentious to write it down.
The sound engineer pushed open the door to the control room and handed him the hard drive.
"The final mix will take three more days to adjust. I'll send it to you when it's done."
"become."
Xue Zhijian took the hard drive and casually stuffed it into his bag.
"Is the company handling the submission for review?"
"That's under the agent's jurisdiction; I don't know."
Xue Zhijian grunted in agreement, slung his bag over his shoulder, and headed for the door.
Passing by the recording station, he picked up a half-empty bottle of mineral water.
He paused by the trash can, then clenched his fist in his hand.
The shed door was pushed open, and the air in the corridor was dry and astringent.
He stood at the door for half a second, stunned, before remembering that his coat was left on the chair.
Turning back, I saw the sound engineer squatting on the ground tidying up the cables.
She glanced at him but didn't say anything.
Xue Zhijian put on his coat and walked out of the recording studio again.
The corridor was deserted, and the sound of footsteps on the floor was particularly loud.
He took out his phone and glanced at it.
The assistant was the first to like and comment on that "not bad" post on WeChat Moments.
Boss, are you done recording?
He didn't reply; he simply stuffed his phone back into his pocket.
The song is finally completely in my own hands.
From lyrics and music to arrangement, no one changed a single word or note.
This is how it should be.
After so many years in the industry, he finally understood how difficult it is to live up to the ideal.
The sense of peace I felt was indescribable and needed no further explanation.
Xu Wen watched as Zeng Hao pushed the materials aside and then poked his head into the office.
"Dingsheng is stirring up trouble on the forum, saying that 'Ning An Ru Meng' was rushed and the post-production was outsourced to a small workshop."
She shoved the phone right in front of Zeng Hao's face.
"The post I made last night has started spreading this morning, and the public opinion is terrible."
Zeng Hao didn't answer his phone and moved the file to the left.
"How far have you gotten with the color grading and special effects?"
"Color grading is finished for the fourth episode, and special effects are in progress for episodes five through eight. Peng Bing said the progress is stable."
"Does Peng Bing have any records of the outsourcing qualifications?"
"I saved it when I signed the contract."
"Have Peng Bing provide a progress report and give it directly to Chen, the business manager, to process through the platform."
Zeng Hao spoke at a steady pace, his words clearly and logically organized.
"The platform has verified that he meets the standards, and he knows how to tell people that."
Xu Wen put away his phone and added another sentence.
"They also said that our production cycle is one-third shorter than that of similar period dramas."
"The two storylines run in parallel during post-production, so as not to delay the editing process."
Zeng Hao leaned back in his chair, his tone indifferent.
"A short cycle doesn't mean poor quality goods. Dingsheng is betting that some people won't use their brains."
Xu Wen nodded, and just as he was about to leave, he turned back.
"Xue Zhijian just posted on his WeChat Moments. He took a picture of the ceiling and just said two words: 'Not bad.'"
"I won't look."
"He's finished recording."
Xu Wen couldn't help but sigh.
"I've heard that demo, it's not just okay, it's absolutely amazing."
Zeng Hao didn't reply, and continued flipping through the materials with his head down.
Xu Wen stood at the door muttering to himself.
"They just finished recording and left without even saying goodbye. That's too laid-back."
"As long as the song is recorded well, nothing else matters."
Xu Wen shut his mouth, pushed open the door, and walked out.
She casually gave Xue Zhijian a thumbs up, but after sitting down, she felt it wasn't appropriate and canceled it.
After hesitating for a while, I lit it again.
Finally, he simply ignored it, took out his phone, and sent a message to Peng Bing asking for qualification documents.
...
The windows in the performance psychology classroom on the third floor of the Shanghai Theatre Academy are always not completely closed.
When the wind blows, the window frame rattles.
It doesn't get annoying after listening to it for a while; instead, it's like a metronome that's a beat too slow.
Chu Ran sat in the middle of the third row, her long hair neatly tucked behind her ears.
Her profile is clean and gentle, with the purity of a student, yet also the unique liveliness of an actor.
The handouts were spread out on the table, the pen tip gently touching the paper.
The teacher was on stage talking about the retrieval of emotional memories, saying that emotions are not something that can be acted out, but rather something that can be retrieved from memories.
Hearing this, her fingers, which were holding the pen, paused for a moment.
It hung in the blank space, not falling for a long time.
In the final scene, she stood in the courtyard.
After finishing his lines, Peng Bing didn't yell "cut," and the machine kept whirring.
She just stood there, her mind blank.
It's not an acted emptiness; it's a state of natural emptiness that comes after countless sleepless nights.
At that time, she didn't understand any technical terms.
I just know that when I stand there, the emotions will well up on their own; I don't have to force them.
She drew a line in the blank space of the handout.
It's not about actively seeking out others; it's about passively waiting.
After writing it, I glanced at it, then raised my hand and crossed it out.
It feels stiff when written on paper; this feeling is clearer when spoken than when written down.
The classmate next to me was slumped over the table, lost in thought, when the window frame clicked again.
The teacher switched slides, and the phone in the desk compartment vibrated.
Chu Ran glanced down at the screen quickly.
It was a message from Tian Xiwei.
She turned her phone brightness down to the lowest setting and hid it under the table to look through it.
Tian Xiwei: Last time you asked me to ask the teacher about directions, and I did.
Tian Xiwei: The teacher told us to practice physical action methods, to move our bodies first, and not to suppress our emotions.
Tian Xiwei: I tried it, and it seems to really work.
Tian Xiwei: Tell me quickly, is this the right approach?
Chu Ran tapped the screen with her fingertip and replied with three words.
Yes, keep practicing.
Tian Xiwei: That's it?
Chu Ran: In class.
Tian Xiwei: ……
Tian Xiwei: I just have a question.
Chu Ran: Talked during break time.
She placed her phone face down on her lap and looked back at the podium.
When the teacher talked about the superposition of emotion and muscle memory, she lightly made a dot on her handout and didn't write anything more.
As soon as the bell rang, the classroom erupted in chaos.
The sound of students running and jumping came from the corridor, and then there was another knock from the window frame.
Tian Xiwei sent three messages in quick succession, urging them to hurry up.
Chu Ran unlocked her phone and switched back to the chat window.
Tian Xiwei: It's break time, hurry up and tell me!
Tian Xiwei: Can physical action methods and emotional memory be used together? Will they conflict?
Chu Ran thought for two seconds and typed a reply.
There's no conflict; it's a two-step process. Once your body is in the right state, your emotions will naturally follow.
A dozen seconds later, Tian Xiwei replied to the message.
You're starting to sound more and more like a teacher.
Chu Ran: Is that considered a compliment?
Tian Xiwei: Okay, don't get carried away.
Chu Ran put her phone on the table and leaned back in her chair.
The students in the back row were chatting about their afternoon vocal lesson, and their noisy voices drifted over.
She turned to the next page of the handout and glanced at the crossed-out words.
It sounds good to say it, and it's fine to keep it anyway, since only I can see it.
...
Chen Shangwu's message came even faster than Zeng Hao had expected.
At 2:30 p.m., Xu Wen, holding his phone, knocked twice on the door frame.
"The business department has completed the procedures, and the quality team has inspected it. All specifications meet the standards."
Xu Wen read the message aloud.
"When the media asked, he gave this answer, and the post's popularity has already dropped."
Zeng Hao gathered the materials on the table to one side and tapped the edge of the table with his fingertips.
"besides."
Xu Wen paused.
"The account that posted on Dingsheng was deleted by the platform for violating regulations, and the post is gone."
"Was it done by Chen, the business manager?"
"No, it was automatically deleted by the platform. Fake data just happened to be flagged."
Zeng Hao straightened the materials without saying a word.
Xu Wen waited a few seconds, then couldn't help but laugh.
"Dingsheng has completely lost out this time, all their efforts were in vain."
"Um."
Xu Wen put his phone back in his pocket, and just as he was about to leave, he turned back.
"Jingcheng's legal supplement has been sent, and Yang Shanshan's agent has received it and said they will reply tomorrow."
Zeng Hao finished flipping through the last page of the document and looked up at her.
"Did Yang Shanshan herself know?"
"The agent said it's standard procedure and doesn't need to be discussed with the artist."
"Um."
Xu Wen left, and Zeng Hao put the documents aside, his fingers pausing on the edge of the table.
He had seen too many of the tricks of the Jingcheng Cultural Foundation before his rebirth.
They specifically target artists during the gap period when their contracts are about to expire, and then easily manipulate them once the artists are no longer under the protection of their companies.
Yang Shanshan's contract still has more than two years left, and Jingcheng can't wait.
Either force her to breach the contract, or find loopholes in the contract.
The original clause regarding "damaging the company's goodwill" was vague and unclear.
The legal department's supplementary explanation quantifies the standards; once signed, this path is completely blocked.
The agent's response tomorrow will be the most direct signal.
Zeng Hao stacked the documents neatly and pushed them to the corner of the table.
The phone screen showed 2:40, the latest news from Chen Business.
Ding Sheng Bai's efforts, in fact, helped "Ning An Ru Meng" gain some visibility on the platform.
He turned off the screen and placed the phone face down on the table.
It's time to move on.
When Xu Wen sent over a screenshot of the agent's reply, Zeng Hao was looking through the post-production schedule.
After scanning the messages, he put down his phone and continued checking his watch.
The screenshot contains only two sentences.
The terms need to be checked. The legal department is unavailable this week; we will reply next week.
Zeng Hao understood those two sentences perfectly.
Xu Wen walked in and took a folder from the cabinet.
"That agent is certainly being polite."
"Um."
"The supplementary explanation is only one and a half pages long, and I can understand it. What's with this talk about the legal department not being there?"
Xu Wen flipped through the folder with a disdainful look on his face.
"understood."
Xu Wen couldn't detect any emotion in his tone and placed the folder on the table.
"Shall we wait until next week?"
"Need not."
Zeng Hao put the schedule aside.
"The instructions state that if there is no response within seven business days, it will be considered as acceptance. Have the legal department send an email specifying the timeframe."
Xu Wen blinked.
"Does the agent know about this?"
"Now you know."
Xu Wen sorted out the logic, and a smile secretly crept onto his lips, which he quickly suppressed.
I picked up the folder and walked to the door, but couldn't help turning back.
"Is the legal counsel genuinely unavailable, or are they faking it?"
"Anything is possible, just send an email."
After Xu Wen left, Zeng Hao picked up the progress chart again and turned back to the first page.
He only figured out Jingcheng's methods after he was reborn and researched the information.
First, they disrupt the internal operations; then they exploit loopholes; and finally, they shift the blame to the original company.
The vulnerability hasn't been fully developed yet; the deadline is seven business days.
The other party has no choice but to either sign or agree to it.
After reviewing the schedule, Zeng Hao picked up his coat and headed towards the post-production computer room.
The server room became even more chaotic later on than before.
Two external hard drives were added to the table, and several empty coffee cups were piled up at the editor's workstation, with stains still on the rims.
Peng Bing squatted in front of the monitor and saw Zeng Hao come in. He pointed to the empty chair next to him.
"Just look at it, I'll pick out the key points."
Zeng Hao sat down, and Peng Bing asked the editor to start playing from episode three.
I've already watched the first two episodes, no problem, I'll start watching from the city tower.
The server room lights went out, and the monitors lit up.
The third episode features Zhang Linghe's scenes, and the chase scene on the city wall is filmed neatly.
Peng Bing whispered to the side that the minor flaws in the filming had been remedied by changing the camera position, and were not noticeable to the naked eye.
Zeng Hao read it twice and nodded.
The later episodes are rushed; Peng Bing only pauses to explain where there are problems, and skips directly where there are no problems.
The pace was much faster than Zeng Hao had anticipated.
When it came to the scene between Bai Lu and his opponent in episode seven, Peng Bing asked the editor to pause.
He picked up the laser pointer and tapped on the screen.
"Look at her eyes."
Zeng Hao looked at Chu Ran on the monitor.
She had finished her lines, but the camera didn't cut to her. Her gaze drifted to the side, empty, as if she were waiting for something that would never happen.
"I didn't arrange this shot."
Peng Bing retrieved the laser pointer.
"The photographer took a two-second extra shot without her even noticing, and I watched it three times while editing."
Zeng Hao finished watching the video and then spoke.
"Keep this one."
"I already left it."
Peng Bing chuckled.
"If you hone your skills in this role, you can practice in the next one. Sooner or later, you'll master it."
Zeng Hao didn't reply, he just nodded.
Peng Bing turned his head to signal the editor to continue playing.
After watching all twelve episodes, the lights in the server room came back on.
The editor was tidying up the hard drive when Peng Bing picked up his cold coffee, frowned, and downed it in one gulp.
Has the broadcast schedule been set?
"Still under negotiation."
Zeng Hao leaned back in his chair.
"The viewership of iQiyi's premiere depends entirely on the first three days. We need to avoid the most popular shows and find a clean time slot."
Peng Bing slammed his coffee cup down on the table, the rim of the cup making a soft clinking sound.
"Post-production will take another six to eight weeks, with color grading and music composition to be done simultaneously, so as not to delay the delivery of the film."
"I'll submit it on time in six weeks. If it's in eight weeks, I'll have to change the schedule with the platform. Give me a definite answer."
"Seven weeks," Peng Bing said without hesitation.
"Seven weeks, it will definitely be delivered."
"OK."
Zeng Hao stood up, and Peng Bing followed suit.
He escorted the person to the door, and just before closing the door, he added another sentence.
"I cherish this film even more now that I've finished filming it than when it first started."
Zeng Hao draped his coat over his arm and didn't say much.
He pushed open the door and walked straight out.
In the corridor, he silently calculated it in his mind.
In the latter part of week seven, we just happened to be in the platform's available slots.
Next, it's time for Chen, the business manager, to formally negotiate the schedule.
The script for "Three Lives Three Worlds" is a thick 430 pages.
The book in Dilireba's hand had its pages curled up and was limp from being turned so many times.
Next to Bai Qian's lines, she filled them with pencil marks.
There were no emotional markers, only rhythm markers, indicating which lines were fast and which were slow, densely packed together.
There are only two days left until the official start of filming.
She leaned back on the sofa by the window, her long hair casually draped over her shoulders.
The afternoon sun slanted across her profile, highlighting her clear and bright features.
That air of nobility, that of the most beautiful woman in all the lands and wilderness, was not feigned.
It's a calmness ingrained in one's bones; just standing there exudes an aura.
She turned to scene eight of the script.
This scene marks the first time Bai Qian reveals her true form to Ye Hua, and she has only a few lines.
But to convince the audience that she is a true goddess, words alone are not enough.
It takes that inner strength to keep going.
The curtains weren't fully drawn, and sunlight streamed in through the gaps.
It left a bright mark on the floor and slowly moved to the side.
She glanced at the light but didn't get up to draw the curtain.
After finishing her business at Sunshine Entertainment last time, she sat in her car for a long time.
She went over the details of her meeting with Zeng Hao again and again.
It's not about the contract; that issue is long gone.
What I can't let go of is that sentence he said.
He said that explanations are only for people who don't believe you, and it's not worth it.
She swallowed the question she wanted to ask at the time, but the more she thought about it afterward, the more she pondered it.
She actually wanted to know what was truly worthwhile.
That was a very direct question; it wasn't that she couldn't answer it.
I know that even if I ask, I might not get an answer, and that person is not one to speak softly.
She folded the script onto her lap, her fingertips tucked between the pages of Scene 8.
I've been agonizing over a single sentence for days; it's almost laughable when I tell it out loud.
She has always been carefree; if she understands something, she throws it away; if she doesn't, she puts it aside for now.
I've never felt so conflicted before.
That one sentence, however, is stuck in my heart, impossible to move.
She sat up straight and stared at her awkward posture for a while.
I couldn't figure it out, but I confirmed one thing.
Those words really hit her hard.
The phone on the sofa armrest was lit up, and she reached out and picked it up.
When you open the dialog box, the input field is completely empty.
She wanted to ask him a question, but she was still unclear about what it was.
It's like I want to ask, but I also feel there's no need to at all.
Not a single word was typed into the input box.
She reopened the script and returned to scene eight.
I went over the script again and moved the rhythm markings back one beat.
This change actually makes it taste even better than before.
The sunlight shifted a little to the side and brushed against her eyelashes.
Her eyelashes trembled slightly, and she subconsciously squinted.
He lowered his head and continued to work on the script.
Bai Qian stood there, making people believe that she was a true goddess, not an actress.
She knew perfectly well where this drive came from.
The phone was still in my hand, and the input box remained empty.
She placed her phone face down next to the script and continued flipping through the lines.
At 4:30 p.m., the legal department sent out a reminder email.
When Xu Wen entered the office, Zeng Hao was typing on his keyboard, writing a schedule proposal.
"The email has been sent. There are seven business days left."
"Um."
What if Yang Shanshan's agent keeps delaying their response?
Zeng Hao changed a number on the plan with his fingertip without even lifting his eyelids.
"She'll definitely reply when she sees the email."
Xu Wen stood to the side, pondering for a long time, but couldn't find a rebuttal.
"Okay, I'll wait."
She took two steps outside, then turned back.
"You know that Dilraba's 'Eternal Love' starts filming the day after tomorrow, right?"
"Know."
"Isn't there anything you want to tell me? Like a word of encouragement or something?"
Xu Wen gestured haphazardly with his hand.
Zeng Hao saved the file and closed the window.
She knows what she's doing.
Xu Wen opened his mouth, but swallowed back the words that were about to come out.
He turned around and tiptoed out of the office.
Zeng Hao reopened the proposal sent by Chen Business.
We moved the release window back by three days, which just coincided with the seventh week post-production period.
The two time points are perfectly aligned, without the slightest discrepancy.
Once the premiere window is set, the revenue-sharing tiers can be calculated clearly.
He knows the platform's bottom line perfectly, so there's no need for him to offer more concessions this time.
After scanning the last line, he sent the proposal directly to Chen, the business manager.
The sound of Xu Wen moving a chair came from outside, followed by two seconds of silence.
Then came the clattering of keyboard keys.
She sent a reply to Yang Shanshan's agent, and even bolded the time limit.
Zeng Hao didn't give any instructions, but she took care of it herself.
Okay, this matter is settled, it's time to move on to the next step.
Chen's business response clearly stated the platform's stance in the very first sentence.
The market for period dramas is unstable, so they're considering a strategy of guaranteed minimum returns plus a small percentage of revenue sharing.
The platform bears the risk of the first broadcast, while the production company receives a stable minimum guarantee.
After reading this line, Zeng Hao immediately sent a message to Chen, the business manager.
"Are you free? Give me a call."
Three minutes later, the phone rang.
Chen Shangwu immediately distanced himself from the matter when he opened his mouth.
"This was decided by the content department. I'm just relaying the message, so don't take it out on me."
"Article 8 of the contract for the exclusive premiere of 'Ning An Ru Meng': What is the minimum revenue sharing amount?"
The sound of files being flipped through came from the other end of the phone, followed by a few seconds of pause.
Thirty-two.
"What is the platform's guaranteed minimum price, and what is the approximate equivalent revenue sharing ratio?"
There was another silence, this time longer.
After Chen finished calculating, his voice lowered by half a octave.
"...around twenty-seven."
"Article 8 of the contract directly blocks Twenty-Seven's path."
Zeng Hao said in a flat tone, "If the guaranteed minimum return is not feasible, we can discuss other options if you want to control the risk, but we will not budge an inch on profit sharing."
Chen Shangwu breathed a sigh of relief.
"You wrote this contract as if you knew I would bring this up."
"More or less."
Chen, the business manager, remained silent for two seconds before reluctantly agreeing.
"Okay, I'll talk to the content department. They'll definitely need to work on it further."
"Let them haggle over the profit-sharing ratio; stick to it and don't budge."
"Are you so sure that 'Ning An Ru Meng' will be a hit?"
Zeng Hao switched the phone to his other hand and didn't respond.
Having been reborn, he knew the popularity data of this drama better than anyone else in his previous life.
There's no need to be certain; it's just about using ready-made answers to solve problems.
After waiting for a long time without receiving a response, Chen, the business manager, smoothed things over himself.
"Okay, I understand."
After hanging up the phone, Xu Wen stood up from the outer room.
He walked to the door but didn't come in; instead, he leaned against the doorframe and spoke.
"Is the platform's guaranteed buyout strategy blocked by the contract?"
"Um."
"Will they keep grinding?"
"meeting."
"Can they maintain the final profit-sharing ratio?"
Zeng Hao put his phone back on the table and opened the file.
"We can hold it."
Xu Wen pondered these three words for a moment, then didn't ask any further questions.
He turned around and retreated to his workstation in the outer room.
When video platforms and production companies negotiate revenue sharing, the main point of contention is who will bear the risk.
Platforms often use market uncertainty as a pretext to lower the guaranteed price.
They'll lure you in with an attractive profit-sharing ratio, but it's all a trap.
Once the production team relents, the initiative is completely lost.
The terms for the premiere of "Ning An Ru Meng" were written out by Zeng Hao when he initiated the project.
When Peng Bing asked him why the checkpoints were so strict, he simply said it was just in case.
This is exactly what's needed now; the platform can only return to the revenue-sharing table for discussion.
When the subsequent data came out, he knew perfectly well which way the situation was tilting.
In his past life, he was clueless and was led by the nose by the platform.
If I had to do it all over again, I absolutely couldn't fall into the same trap again.
He gathered the documents on the table to one side and got up to get some water.
A page and a half of supplementary information lay spread out on the conference table.
It has few words, a clean and crisp layout, and looks exceptionally neat.
...
Yang Shanshan sat opposite, dressed in a simple work outfit.
It accentuates her clean and crisp shoulder line, delicate eyebrows and eyes, and carries a touch of aloofness unique to artists.
His fingertips rested lightly on the edge of the table, without any unnecessary movements.
The legal counsel sat quietly beside her, neither urging nor pressuring her.
She read the first page from the beginning and then turned to the second page.
The second half is supplementary content regarding liability for breach of contract, addressing the previously ambiguous statements.
Now, with detailed explanations and specific standards, all of which are quantifiable.
There was absolutely no room for ambiguity.
She stared at that passage and read it twice.
It's obvious that this was specifically targeted at her.
This is not a routine update to the company's terms and conditions; it's a targeted restriction.
She wasn't sure how much leverage the company had over her, but the timing and wording were questionable.
Even a fool could see what was going on.
The conference room was eerily quiet, with the air conditioner humming overhead.
The wind blowing out was neither hot nor cold, just lukewarm.
It makes you feel awkward all over, not exactly uncomfortable, but not at all unpleasant.
She has stayed at this company the longest.
When Zeng Hao first joined the company, it was still small, and he couldn't make any decisions.
Later, the decision was made.
If it's okay, it's okay; if it's not okay, it's not okay. The contract is written very clearly.
The revenue sharing was considered fair within the industry, and they even gave her a movie.
Later, the company grew bigger and bigger, and new artists emerged one after another.
That was the last time he told me about it.
She sometimes wonders what her position is in the company.