Chapter 35: Continued Chaos

Feiyang Entertainment had started as an agency specializing in managing actors. Over the years, it had grown deep roots in the entertainment industry. In an era when there were few agencies and a limited pool of actors, most well-known performers were signed under Feiyang Entertainment.

However, by now, Feiyang Entertainment resembled more of a retirement home. While it had plenty of solid, experienced actors, there were barely any young talents making a name for themselves.

Perhaps it was due to the generally mediocre quality of current dramas, where the concept of “fame” seemed almost mystical. In the past, simply putting actors in high-budget, star-studded productions would naturally propel them to stardom after two or three projects. Now, not only was it harder to promote actors, but those frequently cast in big productions often annoyed audiences.

Feiyang Entertainment had yet to produce a male lead with significant popularity.

Although its newcomers had gained some attention and accumulated considerable filming experience, they lacked a breakout opportunity to secure their footing, leaving them appearing unstable in the eyes of the industry.

Xu Wen had come here this time with the intent to sign Lu Xu. After meeting Lu Xu in person, he became even more convinced that Lu Xu was the type of actor he was looking for.

Despite his youth, Lu Xu exuded a calmness that seemed beyond his years.

He was also quite different from the impression one might get of him based on his online presence.

Xu Wen laid out many attractive terms, including signing bonuses, promises of leading roles in dramas, and collaborations with well-known directors. Upon hearing these, Lu Xu’s eyebrows didn’t even twitch, as if these were nothing but the most ordinary offers.

If it had been anyone else, they might have been tempted on the spot.

Xu Wen had presented a long list of conditions, yet Lu Xu remained silent, which made Xu Wen uneasy. He couldn’t figure out what Lu Xu was thinking. Typically, this kind of actor was the hardest to negotiate with.

After about four or five minutes, Lu Xu finally spoke. “None of that matters. I want the freedom to choose my scripts. The company cannot interfere.”

“Your company also needs to have the capability to secure the scripts I want to act in. I don’t want to waste too much time.”

When it came to profit-sharing, Feiyang Entertainment offered rates slightly above the market average. As far as Lu Xu knew, most companies provided similar percentages to young actors. Once an actor became immensely popular, agencies would naturally renegotiate contracts, so there was no need to emphasize this point.

As for fashion and commercial resources, an established company like Feiyang Entertainment didn’t lack in those areas. Moreover, an actor’s ability to secure such resources largely depended on their achievements. With sufficient accomplishments, those opportunities would come knocking on their door.

Lu Xu’s primary focus remained on acting.

While Xu Wen observed him, Lu Xu was also observing Xu Wen. They discussed currently airing dramas, classic shows, directors, screenwriters, and other industry topics. After talking for a while, Lu Xu finally stood up and said he would consider the offer.

Several agents had approached him, so he naturally had to take his time selecting carefully.

When Xu Wen left the room, there was sweat on his forehead.

Cheng Yun, noticing this, was curious. “Was it hard to negotiate, or did Lu Xu make some unreasonable demands?”

Cheng Yun knew Xu Wen well. Regardless of the type of actor he dealt with, Xu Wen was usually the one in control of the conversation.

Xu Wen shook his head.

“I told you, Lu Xu isn’t the type to make things difficult. He’s easy to talk to,” Cheng Yun said.

“He refused to step into my trap,” Xu Wen replied. “He cared more about how I could help him achieve his goals.”

Xu Wen had painted quite a rosy picture for Lu Xu, a basic skill for any agent. Yet Lu Xu didn’t take the bait at all. From start to finish, he maintained an equal footing in the conversation.

Xu Wen had dealt with many actors, but few were as straightforward as Lu Xu.

Moreover, Xu Wen noticed that Lu Xu placed greater importance on his abilities as an agent, particularly in selecting scripts. As for public relations and marketing, Feiyang Entertainment, being a large agency, had the requisite capabilities, and Lu Xu didn’t pay much attention to these aspects.

It was clear that Lu Xu intended to pursue a pure acting career.

“So, it’s a no-go?” Cheng Yun asked. “It can’t be, right?”

Within Feiyang Entertainment, Xu Wen was considered one of the most capable agents. Known for his discerning eye, he had previously managed the career of a top actress. When she later established her own studio and invited Xu Wen to join her, he declined and chose to remain with Feiyang Entertainment.

The company’s higher-ups hoped Xu Wen would help mentor new talent. While he didn’t mind the idea, he preferred to handpick a collaborator who met his standards.

“Let’s wait and see,” Xu Wen said with a wry smile. “I feel like I’ve gone back to my early days in the industry when actors were hard to deal with.”

“That’s not the same,” Cheng Yun replied. “Back then, actors had to rely purely on their skills.”

In those days, leading actresses competed in ratings, acting ability, box office performance, and awards, comparing who had the most trophies. Fashion resources were also hard to come by, with brand collaborations signed for years at a time.

But now, fashion endorsements had become a free-for-all, with ambassador titles divided into categories as granular as makeup and sunglasses—more segmented than the United Nations.

Actors collaborated on dramas and movies, creating on-screen couples (CPs) for marketing, manipulating fan emotions, and promoting third-tier roles with the momentum of a lead star.

The entertainment industry back then had a certain wildness to it, while today’s system had become too polished. There were countless ways to achieve fame, and it no longer relied solely on the quality of one’s work.

Cheng Yun felt that actors nowadays were far too impatient.

Still, his comments were little more than casual grumbles. The film industry had only been market-driven for a few years, yet box office records were already approaching 5 billion yuan. In the face of such massive profits, staying level-headed wasn’t something everyone could manage.

Feiyang Entertainment was already within Lu Xu’s range of consideration; it all depended on whether they could meet his expectations.

Lu Xu didn’t think of himself as being picky. Choosing an agency was a two-way process, and he didn’t view himself as inferior in this exchange. Besides, the fact that they sought him out meant he had the value to warrant being signed.

After seeing Xu Wen off, Lu Xu glanced at Weibo and noticed that the online “battle” had become even fiercer.

Lin Ge Entertainment had issued a statement condemning Mu Qian, accusing him of unethical behavior for posting the audition video.

In response, Mu Qian claimed his account had been hacked.

He further accused a staff member from the Rising Sun production team of planting the video on his computer to frame him.

Meanwhile, regarding the viral comparison video of Lu Xu and Li Li’s interpretations, Li Li’s agent stated that every actor has their own way of portraying a role. Li Li and Lu Xu had different takes on Wu Shen’s character, so their performances naturally yielded different effects. After all, art is inherently diverse.

The netizen’s reaction:

[… Got it, we’re not allowed to criticize?]

[I guess I don’t understand your art.]

Lin Ge Entertainment’s attempts to shift blame had also angered another group: screenwriters working behind the scenes.

Everyone knew how tough a screenwriter’s job was.

They were underpaid, often had to deal with directors and actors, and were constantly pulling all-nighters to revise scripts or write last-minute additions. While a poorly written script could indeed be blamed on the screenwriter, anyone with a discerning eye could tell when it was the actors at fault. So why was the blame suddenly being pinned on the writers?

After Mu Qian’s meltdown, a prominent industry screenwriter spoke up for Jin Mu. As a respected voice in the screenwriting community, this individual took a rational tone, emphasizing that a drama’s failure stemmed from multiple factors and couldn’t be blamed on any one person.

Other screenwriters, however, were far less diplomatic with their words.

[Who doesn’t know what it’s like working with Xiao Bo? Do screenwriters even get a say? He has to count the exact number of spots on a ladybug and make sure a cockroach’s antennae are symmetrical. If Jin Mu could actually get him to adjust his pacing, I’d bow down to Xiao Bo.]

This particular screenwriter had long despised Xiao Bo, harboring deep resentment. When trouble came Xiao Bo’s way, they were at the forefront of the crowd watching gleefully.

[I’m really curious—when The Watchers flopped, why didn’t they blame the screenwriters? Lin Ge Entertainment went out of their way to shoulder that burden.]

[Oh, but when it’s Jin Mu, it’s open season for ab*se, huh?]

[Why doesn’t Lin Ge Entertainment just issue a statement? They could swear off working with screenwriters entirely. Write your own scripts then! After all, screenwriters are only good for taking the blame, so you might as well save some money.]

Apparently, Jin Mu’s mistreatment had enraged the screenwriting community to their core. The screenwriter who had beef with Xiao Bo immediately drafted an open letter, calling on their peers to boycott any future collaboration with Lin Ge Entertainment. The reason? “They’re out of our league.”

The letter quickly gained traction, shared widely by numerous screenwriters.

Lin Ge Entertainment swiftly backpedaled.

It was easy enough to bully one Jin Mu, but when the entire screenwriting community united, they became an immovable force that Lin Ge Entertainment couldn’t afford to offend.

Without screenwriters to pen scripts, how would Lin Ge Entertainment produce dramas?

The boycott had an immediate impact. The controversial ‘Who’s to Blame’ article was deleted at record speed.

On Weibo, where criticism of Gu Sinian and Xiao Bo had previously been suppressed, the floodgates suddenly opened. Soon after, a staff member from the Rising Sun production team revealed some insider details, claiming Xiao Bo’s behavior on set was tyrannical and that everyone had suffered under his reign.

[When Jin Mu pointed out issues with the shoot, Xiao Bo blatantly ignored him, and others laughed about it behind his back.]

[+1. I can confirm this as well.]

Jin Mu himself was an extremely easygoing person who got along with everyone. During the uproar online, he had remained silent—he didn’t even have a Weibo account.

This time, however, Jin Mu used Mu Qian’s account to express his disappointment with the collaboration.

He admitted that he questioned himself every day. Screenwriters already had very little power, yet now he felt as if he didn’t even have the most basic dignity.

As soon as Jin Mu spoke up, the number of signatures on the boycott petition grew even larger.

Now it was Lin Ge Entertainment’s upper management who were questioning their life choices. Why was the entire screenwriting community suddenly united against them?

“It’s because Lu Xu is a curse for me.” This comment, made by Gu Sinian, earned him a torrent of scolding from the higher-ups. No one wanted to hear such a ridiculous excuse.

Although, truth be told, the executives secretly thought the same thing.

How many times had it happened already? Every time they went head-to-head with Lu Xu, it seemed like Lin Ge Entertainment ended up suffering.

The executives had been monitoring the situation closely when suddenly—reporters went to interview Lu Xu, asking for his opinion on being compared to Li Li online.

On camera, Lu Xu looked genuinely confused, as though he didn’t understand the question. “You probably shouldn’t be asking me this. I was never given the role of Wu Shen in the first place. Shouldn’t you be comparing the actor who did get the role to Li Li?”

Lu Xu’s words were like a wake-up call, redirecting the reporters’ focus back to the unfair casting process.

Once again, Lin Ge Entertainment found itself under fire.

The upper management: “…”

It was a curse. And a very aggressive one at that.

However, the executives at Lin Ge Entertainment had no idea that the ordeal was far from over.

The cause wasn’t Lu Xu himself, but rather a conversation between Lu Xu and someone else.

The situation took an unexpected turn when the Rising Sun production team’s assistant director, Chen Changyin, had his account hacked. The hacker uploaded screenshots of his private conversation with Lu Xu online.

[The production team prefers obedient actors… If you’re too sharp, the industry won’t tolerate you.]

This sparked an immediate uproar:

[Ahhh, are they insane? They literally used shady methods to push Lu Xu out!]

[How can someone be this petty? This whole thing is making me feel disgusted!]

[I can just imagine how hurt our Lu Puppy must have been. Lu Puppy riding his bicycle, running away.jpg.]

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