Chapter 166: The Four Strongest
Zheng Xiao knew that Lu Xu had plans to invest in TV dramas and films.
After The Female Grandmaster’s success, Lu Xu earned more money than the average celebrity in the industry. Since he had not yet established his own studio and was still under contract with Feiyang Entertainment, he did not have to pay to support a team of employees. Although he frequently trended on social media throughout the year, his personal spending on marketing was not particularly high.
There were a few fixed times each year when Lu Xu would inevitably trend: first, when a new project was released; second, during major award ceremonies. The former included trending spots bought by platforms as well as marketing efforts arranged by Feiyang Entertainment. Additionally, since most of Lu Xu’s works were of high quality, once word-of-mouth spread, marketing accounts would jump in to ride the wave of the show’s popularity.
Of course, Lu Xu himself had a knack for generating viral moments. Combined with his peculiar magnetism for attracting bizarre situations, he had not quite become a permanent resident on the trending list—but he was not far from it.
Many celebrities in the industry participated in investments, and there were indeed a few skilled investors. However, Lu Xu had no interest in that; he was more inclined toward projects related to film and television.
Without investing, he truly had more money than he could spend.
However, The Female Grandmaster had been a stroke of luck. If Mo Qi and Lin Hui had successfully secured funding, the project might never have landed in Lu Xu’s hands.
The entertainment industry had always been a closed circle, and good investment opportunities rarely fell to someone like Lu Xu, who had entered the industry later.
Since the massive success of The Female Grandmaster, investors had become even more cautious about smaller projects. They were now more willing to give seemingly unremarkable projects a chance—out of fear that they might overlook another The Female Grandmaster.
As for the script Zheng Xiao recommended, it was a sci-fi drama that no one in or outside the industry was willing to invest in—commonly known as a financial black hole.
Science fiction was a genre where, if the budget was too low, the money might as well have been thrown into a lake just to hear a splash—it would never result in a high-quality production. Historically, successful sci-fi films had almost always required substantial investment. Yet, even when a lot of money was poured into them, success was not guaranteed.
Sci-fi films presented audiences with a wondrous and magnificent world, showcasing the limitless potential of cinema. Grand special effects and vast, intricate settings made people excited about the possibility of exploring unknown realms through film. But—this had nothing to do with money.
In other words, even if a sci-fi film had an enormous budget and spent a fortune on production, that did not mean it would be more profitable than a simple drama.
In the domestic film and television market, the word “sci-fi” was often tied to passion projects. While the film industry had reached a certain level of development, sci-fi productions still failed to strike a balance between special effects and storytelling. If the visuals were impressive but the plot was mediocre, that might still be acceptable. But in most cases, both the effects and the story were terrible, leaving audiences feeling like they had been struck by lightning.
After being scammed too many times, audiences had grown wary of any production that loudly touted itself as a “grand masterpiece” before release.
That said, there were still directors and screenwriters willing to dedicate themselves to this genre. However, with too many failures and a growing sense of distrust among audiences, sci-fi gradually became an increasingly unpopular choice in the market.
Investors were not philanthropists—who would put money into a project that had no chance of making a profit?
At least films had a slim chance of paying off, but sci-fi dramas were even more niche. Most people would not dare to touch them.
The reason Zheng Xiao introduced the script to Lu Xu was that he thought it was of good quality. He was also familiar with both the director and the screenwriter—they were not the kind of people who would try to scam millions with just a flashy PowerPoint presentation. Zheng Xiao himself planned to invest, but the amount he could contribute was limited and not enough to fully support the production of a TV series.
Given what Zheng Xiao knew about Lu Xu, he believed that Lu Xu would like the script.
As soon as Zheng Xiao mentioned it in their group chat, Shao Yao immediately tagged him: “What script?”
Since Zheng Xiao planned to invest and also wanted Lu Xu to join in, it was only natural that Shao Yao became interested as well.
Zheng Xiao suddenly realized something. “…You want to invest too?!”
It was well known both inside and outside the industry that Lu Xu was incredibly wealthy. Shao Yao, on the other hand, seemed low-key. However, he was signed with a small company, which had limited resources. To keep Shao Yao, their top star, they had likely offered him a favorable revenue share.
Beyond that, Shao Yao had very low personal expenses. Despite being in the entertainment industry, he had no interest in collecting luxury cars or watches and spent most of his time filming. It made sense that he had money to spare.
Since all three of them were interested in the project, they decided to meet up and analyze the script together.
After winning the Contention Award, Lu Xu had significantly reduced his public appearances. However, both the industry and the general public remained highly focused on his next moves.
Insiders were eager to know what film Lu Xu would work on next, the release schedule for Fearless Life, and whether he would be nominated for the Golden Flame Awards or the Critics’ Awards again. They were even interested in the projects he considered investing in—because, in a way, his investment instincts were just as sharp as his project choices.
No matter which script Lu Xu took an interest in, or even if his agent, Xu Wen, casually inquired about one, it would immediately become a hot topic in the industry.
Of course, it was not because others wanted to get rich alongside Lu Xu. More often than not, they simply wanted to intercept the project ahead of him and invest in it themselves.
This was not mere speculation—there had been successful cases of this happening before.
A certain project had initially been completely overlooked—its producer and director were worrying themselves sick over funding. But one day, a trending post appeared, claiming that Xu Wen had met with the director and that Lu Xu had supposedly taken an interest in the script. Not long after, several investors suddenly began paying attention to the production, and the funding issues were naturally resolved one after another.
Lu Xu: “……”
If this kept up, he would soon be too afraid to say anything at all.
“How about this?” Zheng Xiao suggested. “You pretend to be interested in a script, and I’ll pretend to be the director. We’ll scam some money first. Then, once the funds are in the account, you can suddenly ‘change your mind’ and say you’ve found another project. That way, we can scam another round. If we keep this up, I won’t even need to make money from acting anymore.”
Lu Xu: “…Who could say you’re not a genius?”
“Thank you for the compliment.” Zheng Xiao sheepishly ran a hand through his hair. “But seriously, I never expected people to actually pay for something this baseless.”
His first reaction upon seeing such news would have been to assume it was a scam.
Yet, people actually believed it!
Zheng Xiao was now convinced that even in an industry filled with supposedly brilliant people, there were still those who made money purely by charging forward recklessly.
—
It was rare for Lu Xu, Zheng Xiao, and Shao Yao to meet up, so naturally, they got photographed.
After rising to fame, their chances to get together had become fewer and fewer. If one had an event, the other was starting a new project. This time, they had arranged to meet at a nearby café, wearing hats as they discussed the script—yet they still got caught by paparazzi.
Of course, the main target was Lu Xu. Zheng Xiao and Shao Yao were just incidental.
When reporting on the meeting, the paparazzi made sure to highlight the trio’s accolades—Contention Award Best Actor + Stellar Award Best Actor, Stellar Award Best Actor Nominee, and Stellar Award Best Supporting Actor. They wrote: “This is undoubtedly a gathering of the most talented young actors in the industry. While most actors of their age are still stuck in idol dramas or struggling with awkward career transitions, these three have already broken through.”
Both Shao Yao and Zheng Xiao had publicly stated that they had learned a great deal from Lu Xu.
While audiences didn’t know exactly what they had learned, their achievements spoke for themselves.
Even though Shao Yao and Zheng Xiao’s track records were slightly less impressive than Lu Xu’s, they were still among the most outstanding young actors in the entire entertainment industry.
At that moment, however, the three of them had no time to worry about being photographed.
Lu Xu, now wearing a pair of glasses he rarely used, furrowed his brows. One hand propped up his chin while the other slowly flipped through the script.
“The script is interesting, isn’t it?” Zheng Xiao asked, watching him.
Lu Xu nodded. “There’s no original work?”
He had searched online and found that this sci-fi drama was an original screenplay, written by the screenwriter from scratch. However, the writer was a true sci-fi enthusiast—someone who had written sci-fi novels, worked as a sci-fi editor, and even translated works from several renowned international sci-fi authors, being the first to introduce them to the domestic market.
What puzzled Lu Xu about the script was how it managed to capture both the romanticism of space and the realities of domestic life. It wasn’t just a foreign sci-fi concept awkwardly transplanted into a Chinese setting, creating a film that felt neither fully Western nor authentically Chinese—something that could only be described as off-putting.
This was a story about interstellar farming.
As everyone knew, Chinese people had an almost obsessive instinct for farming—no matter where they went, they found a way to cultivate the land. Space was no exception. In fact, China’s aerospace industry had already begun experimenting with agricultural projects in space.
The core of this drama was solving interstellar territorial disputes through farming—spreading various space-adapted plants across the universe for the benefit of all mankind. At first glance, the idea sounded downright absurd, but upon deeper reading, Lu Xu could sense the deep-seated conviction woven into the story, something almost ingrained in the blood.
Under the screenwriter’s meticulous and logical approach, Lu Xu even found himself contemplating the real-world feasibility of such a concept.
At the same time, he understood why no one wanted to invest in it.
The sci-fi productions in the industry—whether TV series or films—had always carried a cold steel-and-concrete aesthetic. Sci-fi was supposed to be grand, awe-inspiring, heavily tied to physics. Even when aliens were involved, they were inevitably portrayed as invaders seeking to conquer Earth. The genre had never been associated with agriculture or space plants.
And yet…
It was undeniably interesting.
Lu Xu’s biggest question was: “Will audiences have the patience to watch this?”
“It’s not that long. The plan is for about 20 episodes. If the budget falls short, we can cut it down further. The episode count can be adjusted, but production costs won’t change much—the baseline expenses are still there,” Zheng Xiao explained.
His perspective aligned with Lu Xu’s—this drama was clearly niche, yet intriguingly unique. The premise seemed bizarre at first, but it operated under a consistent internal logic.
After reading the full script, Lu Xu found that he no longer cared about how much money this project could make.
What he really wanted to know was what this drama would look like once it was completed.
Something about it felt so unique, so strange, that he was curious to see it realized—not just for himself, but for the audience too.
“So? What do you think?”
“Let’s invest.” Lu Xu only hesitated for three seconds before deciding. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
Whether this drama turned out to be good or bad, Lu Xu was certain of one thing—no one, in China or abroad, had ever made anything like it.
Even if it ended up being a bizarre production, it would be a one-of-a-kind, utterly irreplaceable kind of bizarre.
Since the production team only planned to shoot 20 episodes, the funding gap wasn’t as massive as outsiders assumed. Lu Xu invested a substantial amount, and both Shao Yao and Zheng Xiao also pitched in.
As actors, the three of them couldn’t compare to actual business tycoons in terms of wealth, but their advantage lay in how fast their money came in. Brand endorsements paid handsomely and—while late payments happened occasionally—delays were rare. Even after investing in this drama, Lu Xu still had plenty of money left.
And even if he lost everything on this project, all he had to do was accept a new role or a fresh endorsement deal, and the money would come rolling in again.
After winning the Contention Best Actor Award, Lu Xu landed a prestigious endorsement deal—as the new brand ambassador for a top-tier luxury car.
The brand was notoriously cautious about selecting spokespersons, with an extensive vetting process before deciding on a partner. Before Lu Xu, the brand had only ever collaborated with two actors, both of whom were widely respected Best Actor winners with impeccable reputations, flawless careers, and a history of box office successes.
Now, Lu Xu’s endorsements were either high-end luxury brands or widely recognized mainstream brands—and the latter were just as picky about their ambassadors as the former. Every celebrity chosen was a household name with universal appeal.
Lu Xu himself had slowly begun to experience the perks of being a Best Actor winner.
Although he had transitioned from the TV industry to the film industry with three successful box office hits, he wasn’t originally a film actor—nor was he formally trained.
Compared to actors who had spent their whole careers in cinema, he seemed less grounded, his foundation less stable.
There were always people convinced that, sooner or later, the film industry would reject him, forcing him to return to television, where he would reign supreme once more.
There were many such examples, and Qiao Mengyao was just one of them.
Although Qiao Mengyao was still an A-lister with undeniable influence in the television industry—capable of attracting viewership and boosting co-stars’ popularity—her thriving career did not change the fact that she gave the impression of being rejected by the film industry.
Since she had failed to break into films successfully, she remained a step behind the true top-tier leading actresses.
Wei Fangfei, on the other hand, had broken into films but failed to maintain her footing.
If even Wei Fangfei had never reached the Contention Awards, then for Qiao Mengyao, the gap was even wider.
Lu Xu was still young, and just one Contention Award trophy had been enough to solidify his legendary status.
As of now, he was the youngest Best Actor in Contention Award history. Unless a younger actor broke his record in the future, his name was already written into the award’s legacy.
No one talked about Qi Di anymore. No one talked about Bei Hong either. Even Zhao Yifan—who had once clashed with Lu Xu over Reverse City—was no longer considered his competitor.
Achievements in television could not be used to compare with achievements in film. Even if Lu Xu had been the undisputed king of the TV industry, if his films had flopped, the film industry would have never fully accepted him.
But now, in terms of awards, Lu Xu had surpassed them all.
—
Some time later, the Golden Flame Awards announced their official ceremony date.
Although the Golden Flame Awards committee did not deliberately hype up the event, the most discussed topic leading up to the ceremony was—
Would Lu Xu receive his second Golden Flame Award nomination?
He had previously been nominated for Best Actor at the Golden Flame Awards for Feather of Youth, but at the time, many audiences felt that the Golden Flame Awards seemed to only want Lu Xu’s popularity rather than genuinely intending to give him the award.
Of course, compared to the other nominated films, Feather of Youth had a somewhat simplistic plot, so it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t win—winning would have been the real upset.
[There’s no way Lu Xu won’t get nominated. If a Contention Best Actor winner can’t even make it into the Golden Flame Awards, who’s the one losing face—Lu Xu or the Golden Flame Awards committee?]
[I originally thought the more official Contention Awards would be stingier, but they gave it to him instantly—one nomination, and boom, he won. Meanwhile, the Golden Flame Awards seemed more audience-friendly, but I always felt like they were cold toward Lu Xu. They did give him an early nomination, though.]
While discussions raged on outside, the Golden Flame Awards committee remained unmoved. On the day of the nomination announcements, they waited until the very last moment before calmly unveiling the list.
[Lu Xu made it!]
[Puppy just conquered another battlefield!]
[Can we get a Golden Flame Best Actor this time? Let’s manifest it early for our puppy!]
[Damn! Looking at the Golden Flame nomination list just made me realize what a huge deal it was for Lu Xu to win the Contention Award!]
Netizens reacted this way because—
The Best Actor nominations for this year’s Golden Flame Awards were almost identical to those of the Contention Awards. The only difference was that the last nominee had been swapped—Zhong Wen replaced Song Shizhen.
In other words, Lu Xu, Hang Xiaguang, Pei Han, and Ren Ningyi were officially recognized by both major awards as the four strongest leading actors of the past year.
