When Pei Liang heard Gao Jun say that, she looked up from her previous air of indifference.
The film had already progressed this far. Although Gao Jun did not have much screen time, his scenes were crucial to wrapping up the story and delivering its major final twist. To achieve the desired effect, he needed to settle down and fully immerse himself in the role.
Given Pei Liang’s usual style, once things had reached the point of Gao Jun’s parents getting involved, she would already have considered replacing him.
But they were at the end of filming. Recasting Gao Jun and reshooting his scenes would mean filming virtually every shot he had appeared in all over again.
Terror Mansion was a horror-mystery film with meticulous details and airtight logic. It could not be altered like an ordinary movie merely to save costs or accommodate an actor’s schedule.
And if Gao Jun broke his contract at this point, it was not that she looked down on them, but they truly could not afford the penalty.
It would be another matter, however, if there were a backer willing to foot the bill—especially one who hated her to the core.
Pei Liang raised an eyebrow. Seeing the sudden panic on Gao Jun’s parents’ faces and the warning looks they shot their son, she smiled.
Gao Jun’s parents hurriedly denied it. “It’s not President Chen from Huiyuan. It’s just an ordinary dinner. It’s a rare opportunity for our Xiao Jun.”
“Producer Pei, you know that although he’s young, he’s struggled for years to get where he is. It wasn’t easy for him to finally—”
But Pei Liang had no interest in hearing them out. She merely sneered. “What’s wrong with President Chen of Huiyuan? Why are you so afraid I’ll assume it’s him?”
Then she turned to Xie Chen. “Come to think of it, during the May Day release season, it was also the investors led by President Chen who graciously showed us mercy. He single-handedly cleared out the entire May Day schedule, yet, with such broad-minded generosity, refused to monopolize the profits from it, leaving small-budget films like ours struggling to survive.”
“He even took the initiative to lower his film’s quality in order to accommodate competitors like us. Such a noble spirit of sacrificing himself to light the way for others—”
“All I can say is: President Chen is truly magnanimous!”
“Pfft—” Xie Chen had been scowling at Gao Jun’s family, but he could not help laughing at Pei Liang’s words.
Gao Jun’s parents wore awkward, embarrassed expressions. Gao Jun himself, meanwhile, looked as though he was trying not to laugh.
Pei Liang glanced at him and asked, “Do you want to go to that dinner?”
Gao Jun’s expression darkened. He looked at his parents and, under their frantic signals, hesitated for a moment.
Then he said, “No.”
Pei Liang nodded. “All right, then. Go get ready for your scene.”
Gao Jun looked as though he had been granted a reprieve. The tension drained from his face, replaced by obvious relief. As if he did not dare look at his parents’ reactions, he quickly fled to the makeup room.
In the early part of the film, Gao Jun’s character was timid and unremarkable. By the end, however, he revealed a dark and sinister side. They were now filming the latter portion. Gao Jun himself had a bright, sunny presence, with a healthy fair complexion, so his overall coloring needed to be adjusted with makeup.
Seeing that Pei Liang had simply arranged matters like that, Gao Jun’s parents grew anxious. “Well, Producer Pei—”
Pei Liang waved them off impatiently. “If you want to attend the dinner, go yourselves. I’ve never heard of a child having to personally toast people at a dinner just to show sincerity when seeking resources. As his parents, you’re more than enough.”
“If President Chen specifically instructed you to do this, then pass him a message for me. Why doesn’t he call me directly next time so we can discuss things properly? That way, you won’t muddle things up relaying messages between us and damage the professional relationship between President Chen and me.”
Gao Jun’s parents were left thoroughly choked up. They still wanted to say something, but Pei Liang suddenly gave them a half-smiling look.
“Go ask President Chen. Before he personally makes any concrete promises, the two of you would be better off not making any rash decisions.”
“Otherwise, if the price is too high for you to pay and no one is there to bail you out, it’ll be rather ugly.”
Gao Jun’s parents exchanged a glance and did not dare insist any longer.
President Chen’s promises had sounded wonderful, but none of them had yet been fulfilled. And because their son had misspoken and revealed President Chen too early, there was no telling whether he might use that as an excuse to turn against them.
If they impulsively breached the contract now and President Chen refused to cover for them, the consequences truly were not something they could bear.
After the two left, Pei Liang spoke into the crew’s walkie-talkie. “Director Hu, put the remaining office and exterior scenes on hold for now. Let’s finish all of Gao Jun’s scenes today.”
Director Hu had no objection. Gao Jun did not have many scenes left, and if they pushed a little, they should be able to finish them that day.
The scene Gao Jun was filming was an outdoor one, as well as the ending of the movie.
The bodyguard, who had never been able to find a reason to live, gave the prostitute his chance to survive and died together with the criminal posing as a police officer.
The prostitute returned to her hometown and used the savings she had amassed over the years to buy an orchard. Just as she had promised, she was going to live well.
But one day, while loosening the soil in the orchard, she casually drove her shovel into the earth again and again, until it struck something hard.
She dug it out and discovered that it was a house-number plaque—the kind that represented a death number. She was the last one.
The prostitute looked up in terror, only to see the young man—who should have died when the car exploded during his escape—standing before her with a sinister expression.
In his hand was a weapon that made one’s blood run cold.
There was none of the boy’s usual shyness, dullness, or meekness left. Every inch of him radiated a mature, dangerous malice utterly at odds with his appearance.
What came across through the camera was not the evil of a wicked child—innocent, ignorant, and fearless—but the cunning and viciousness of a fully grown man.
The tension in his gaze and the powerful clash between his youthful appearance and that sinister aura sent chills down everyone’s spine on set. Once the color grading was done in post-production and the score was added, the impact on viewers would be even greater.
Director Hu leapt to his feet excitedly. “Cut! Excellent. That was perfect.”
Pei Liang applauded as well, making no effort to hide her appreciation for Gao Jun.
Even Xie Chen, who was always arrogant about his own acting ability, had a look of praise and approval on his face.
As soon as the scene ended, Gao Jun returned to his bright, cheerful teenage self. He seemed a little embarrassed by all the compliments around him, his face reddening slightly.
At that moment, Pei Liang’s assistant brought over two bouquets to celebrate the wrap for Gao Jun and the actress playing the prostitute. The actress also received an extra red envelope.
Every lead actor in the film had received one of those red envelopes, except Gao Jun, because he was the only one who had not died.
By the time they wrapped for the day, it was already evening. Pei Liang said, “Everyone worked hard today. The remaining scenes will be easier, so we’ll take tomorrow off.”
“Tonight is on me. Let’s head back to the city and relax.”
The crew immediately broke into a unified cheer of excitement, and their hands moved even faster as they packed up.
President Pei had always been generous with her staff. The production’s budget was not high, but the treatment on set was excellent. They had booked out the best hotel nearby, and since they would be staying for several months, she had even replaced personal-use items such as the hotel’s sheets, quilts, and pillows, making sure everything was comfortable and hygienic.
On the first day, after President Pei remarked that the hotel food was not up to standard, she had specially brought in two chefs. In her words, when they were going to be eating and living there for months, they could not afford to be careless.
Snacks and drinks were purchased in bulk and replenished every few days. Ordering fruit and milk tea for everyone on set was an even more common occurrence.
There was also Xie Chen, the Best Actor, who frequently treated the crew to fruit, drinks, boxed meals, and snacks. By the end of the shoot, quite a few people had put on more than a little weight.
Whenever they went out to unwind, the perks were even better: high-end restaurants and entertainment venues where the per-person cost alone made one's heart ache. When Pei Liang said they were relaxing, she meant they would enjoy themselves properly.
After dinner, Pei Liang had her assistant arrange for the group to go singing, but she took Gao Jun away with her.
Gao Jun seemed to have anticipated it. Though his face showed some unease and panic, he did not look particularly surprised.
Xie Chen insisted on coming along as well. Pei Liang knew his temperament—he was not someone who could not keep a secret—so she did not refuse.
They found somewhere reasonably private. The moment Pei Liang sat down, she got straight to the point and asked Gao Jun—
“Do you need me to provide legal assistance?”
Gao Jun had assumed that Pei Liang had called him over because President Chen was making trouble for the production by pressuring him to attend that dinner. He had never expected her first question to be this.
He had not even said a word about it, yet from the way Pei Liang looked at him, he understood that she probably already knew everything.
Panic flashed across Gao Jun’s face. His expression turned strained and embarrassed, and he nervously kept twisting the edge of his jacket.
Pei Liang did not press him. Instead, she gave him plenty of time to think.
Gao Jun lowered his head. Confusion and conflict flickered in his eyes before he could not help asking, “How... how did you know?”
Pei Liang answered, “You didn’t just look like someone who didn’t want to attend a business dinner. You looked more like you were running away from something.”
Certainly, few fifteen- or sixteen-year-olds enjoyed occasions like that. But Gao Jun’s life experience had never been like that of an ordinary child.
He got along so well with everyone on set, and at previous crew dinners, he had handled himself smoothly among adults. That showed that Gao Jun was not simply a shy child who feared ordinary social gatherings.
On the contrary, he was exceptionally good at navigating people and highly emotionally intelligent.
If the issue had only been that President Chen wanted to cause trouble and was calling away one of the leads to create losses for the crew, then with Gao Jun’s social skills, he could easily have hinted at it to her privately elsewhere.
Yet he had deliberately chosen to act stiffly and awkwardly, in a way completely unlike his usual self, while his parents were present—as though he had suddenly become foolish.
And compared with getting Gao Jun to leave the crew, Gao Jun's parents seemed more concerned about making sure he personally appeared at the dinner.
The two goals might have sounded similar, but upon closer examination, their priorities were entirely different.
One was about completing President Chen’s task first. The other was far more suggestive.
Putting those things together, Gao Jun’s reaction had seemed almost like a cry for help.
So Pei Liang looked into what was unusual about President Chen’s dinner. It was a private gathering, but the industry was not that large.
Through Xie Chen, she found a producer who often attended the same dinners as President Chen and had him inquire about that night’s gathering.
Assuming the producer intended to come, President Chen listed several names, which were eventually passed back to Xie Chen.
Ordinarily, Pei Liang was not omniscient; she could not be expected to know everything about someone merely from hearing a few names.
But two of those names seemed vaguely familiar, so she contacted the agency she had dealt with when she had first arrived in this world. She asked around among the people the agency had pimped out and introduced to drinking-table arrangements.
Sure enough, several of them recognized those names. President Chen, too, was a regular client at such dinners.
The entertainment industry had its dark side. If it was consensual, then unless someone reported it, the authorities generally did not interfere. But once Gao Jun was involved, it became impossible to remain calm.
Gao Jun was still a minor.
Further investigation confirmed that one of the people at the dinner was a notorious LTP in the industry.
Pei Liang had long known that Gao Jun’s parents were that kind of people. Because their son had been strikingly good-looking since childhood, they had used him as a child model and put him in commercials from a very young age to make money. He had barely gone to school, only holding a nominal enrollment at some mediocre institution.
Once he was a little older, they had searched everywhere for chances to send him into the entertainment industry. And they were not the sort of parents willing to invest in their son’s future with a long-term vision.
They were no different from the lowest-tier talent agencies—short-sighted, intent only on cashing in on whatever value their son possessed.
Originally, when their son joined this production and got to act alongside Best Actor Xie, they had been overwhelmed with delight. Their constant ingratiating behavior was annoying, but not enough to make them intolerable.
But no one could have imagined that they were even more deranged than they appeared. For fame and profit, they were actually willing to sell their underage son.
They were sucking him dry to the bone, exploiting him from every possible angle without the slightest restraint.
Pei Liang could not stand to see such things, but Gao Jun was far more mature than he looked. Before doing anything, she wanted to know what he himself wanted.
Pei Liang said, “I’ve already had people gather evidence on the person targeting you. If he likes that sort of thing, he can’t possibly have left no traces.”
“The more troublesome issue is your parents. If they remain determined to profit from selling every part of you, then this is only the beginning. In the future, if someone else takes an interest in you and offers enough money—or if your parents have already started thinking of your body as something they can monetize—they may even take the initiative to sell you.”
“Legally speaking, forcing a child into sexual transactions is already enough grounds to strip them of guardianship. But since you intend to stay in the industry, it would be best to minimize the impact of such a scandal.”
“And I don’t know how you feel about your parents. That’s why I wanted to ask: do you need legal assistance?”
Gao Jun looked up. As Pei Liang laid everything out with such clear logic, the hostility and coldness toward the entire world—normally concealed beneath his sunny, bright exterior—began to loosen.
That afternoon, after filming wrapped, Director Hu and everyone else had praised the final scene he shot. Even the usually arrogant Best Actor Xie had given him a second look.
They said his talent was astonishing—that despite being only a teenager, he had convincingly portrayed the sly, vicious quality of an adult who had been pricked and brutalized by the whole world.
But Gao Jun knew that it had not been acting at all. It was simply his true nature. The cheerful, sunny, likable version of himself he showed every day was the act.
Gao Jun was a reborn soul. In his previous life, at this very time, a man with extensive connections and resources in the industry had extended an olive branch to his parents.
Back then, still only in his teens and completely defenseless toward his biological parents, Gao Jun had been sold just like that. Though he later achieved fame and success, the trauma of his youth and the despair of betrayal by those closest to him had always hung over him.
And fame and success had not brought him any inner satisfaction. Instead, they had led only to endless exploitation.
In the end, he fell into depravity and madness, becoming cunning and cold-hearted. Though he eventually took revenge on everyone, he still died young, disgraced and ruined.
When he opened his eyes again, he had returned to his teenage years, before everything began.
But there was one difference. The girl-group idol who, in his previous life, had been driven to suicide by the online abuse following the Cui Ying incident had not died.
When Gao Jun learned that the producer of the film project he had been cast in was her, he looked into what had happened.
Not only had she not killed herself under the pressure of the online abuse, she had even brought Cui Ying down in one stroke. Later, she left her idol group and became a producer. Her first film had seized the opportunity presented by that year’s National Day holiday season, when the most popular movie was a terrible one and audiences had few alternatives, allowing her to make a fortune.
At first, Gao Jun had also suspected that the other party, like him, was a reborn person. But Pei Liang had clearly died before the movie was released, so how could she have known about all this in advance?
Although there were still many unanswered questions, Gao Jun had always paid a certain kind of attention to Pei Liang—something akin to the instinctive recognition one feels toward a fellow traveler.
From observing her on set, he had determined that Pei Liang was decisive in her dealings and ruthless in her methods. Whenever she made a move, she never left any room for retreat.
That was why, even though he could easily have avoided this calamity, he had chosen to expose President Chen in front of Pei Liang.
He knew that, given President Chen’s vengeful nature, and with the Pei family having suffered such a blow recently, if any leverage fell into Pei Liang’s hands, she would surely make those people wish they had never been born.
Gao Jun could not wait a moment longer. He wanted to grind those people to dust right now. He had even planned how to let Pei Liang discover everything without making it seem deliberate, and had thought of ways to provide her with evidence she could use to take control of the situation.
Having returned from the future, he knew more about the scandals in this circle than anyone else. All he had to do was lie in wait, and he could destroy every one of them.
What he had not expected was that Pei Liang did not need him to hint at anything. In no time at all, she had already dug up the whole picture.
Of course. If she were not so meticulous and sharp, she would never have achieved such a complete victory under those circumstances, much less risen to such heights in such a short time.
What surprised Gao Jun, however, was that compared with taking advantage of a rival’s weaknesses falling into her lap, compared with exacting revenge on her competitors, the first thing she had considered was actually him—a minor who was underage and, after the movie was finished, supposedly of little further use to her.
A flicker of emotion appeared in Gao Jun’s eyes. It was like a stone tossed into a stagnant mire, creating a few ripples across the surface.
But moments later, the ripples subsided. He lowered his head and said softly, “They are my parents, after all.”
Her son had already died once. How could a family not be complete? Stripping them of custody would be far too easy.
But to Pei Liang’s ears, it sounded as though the boy still held on to one last shred of hope for his parents.
She felt a little disappointed, though she also knew that an outsider could not force someone into making this kind of decision.
So she handed him a business card. “This is my personal number. Save it. If you change your mind, or if you run into a problem you can’t resolve on your own, you can contact me.”
She quite liked Gao Jun. He was good-looking, had a natural talent for acting, and possessed a certain spark. If he were properly nurtured, he might well become the next Xie Chen.
When it came to attractive men and women who suited her tastes, she was generally more patient and tolerant. He was still young, and there was room for him to make choices and mistakes.
Besides, helping him would be no trouble for her.
Gao Jun naturally understood what her offer meant. He had never received simple, untainted kindness before. Lowering his head solemnly, he accepted the card and clenched it tightly in his hand, unwilling to let go for a long time.
Pei Liang stood up. “All right. Go have some fun for now. I have a few more calls to make.”
From the sound of it, she had no intention of letting those people off.
The evidence she had gathered earlier had come at an inconvenient time. Back then, she had already offended too many people, and it would not have been wise to wipe them all out in one stroke and invite a total industry-wide blockade.
But enough time had passed since then, giving her ample opportunity to make preparations and lay out her plans. If she wanted to bring certain people down without getting herself dragged into the mess, it would not be difficult.
Xie Chen had listened to the entire matter from beginning to end. Compared with the bright life he had enjoyed—loving parents, excellent relationships, and a smooth career—he was not unaware of the darker side of the entertainment industry, but he had always found it filthy and kept his distance.
He had never imagined that parents like these could actually exist.
His expression darkened as he asked Pei Liang, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Pei Liang thought to herself that Best Actor Xie never got his hands dirty. Though he had extensive connections, how could he possibly understand the ins and outs of this sort of thing?
She, on the other hand, had seen business rivalries far uglier than this. In both her previous lives, she had accumulated plenty of experience: where to dig for information and evidence, and how to expose it.
She knew exactly how to inflict the greatest damage on an opponent at the lowest possible cost.
Xie Chen trusted her ability when he heard this. After all, in the recent, fiercely contested market battle between the Pei family and Jiayue, Jiayue had originally possessed overwhelming advantages, and everyone had believed it would be the ultimate winner. Yet now, it had been thoroughly defeated.
Even so, he still felt stifled, as though something were stuck in his throat.
Pei Liang could not help reaching out to rub his head. “Don’t worry. I won’t let any of this filth come anywhere near you.”
In the original story, when Xie Chen fell from the heights of success, with his looks, figure, achievements, and glory, it was inevitable that the people who had only dared to spy on him from the shadows would emerge.
Some of them had even been people who had enjoyed chatting with him and called themselves his close friends when he was still at the height of his fame.
His transformation had not been caused merely by the blow of his career collapsing and the harshness of human nature revealing itself.
A trace of sweetness seeped into Xie Chen’s heart, and he began to look smug again.
Gao Jun, who had originally left the private room after receiving a call from the director asking whether the three of them were still coming over, had returned to ask Pei Liang about it.
Taking advantage of the screen partition that blocked the view, and entering at a moment when no one noticed him, he overheard the conversation between the two.
Gao Jun knew very well what Xie Chen had gone through in his previous life. Fortunately, Xie Chen had ultimately managed to climb out of the abyss and mature into a stronger person.
During this period of observing Pei Liang, Gao Jun had already noticed her unusual attitude toward Xie Chen.
There was an ambiguous atmosphere between them, and it was obvious that Pei Liang was interested in Xie Chen. Yet the way they interacted did not resemble that of a couple in the early stages of romance.
At present, Xie Chen was still arrogant and immature. He was poor at expressing himself and slow to pick up on other people’s feelings.
But Gao Jun was different. He could tell that while Pei Liang was interested in Xie Chen, she did not possess the kind of anticipation a normal woman felt toward a man she loved.
There was an utterly unreasonable protectiveness in the way she treated him. She occupied the controlling position in the relationship, as though she intended to build a world around him where he would never be hurt by malice or setbacks, and where his proud, naïve confidence could remain intact forever.
At first, Gao Jun had assumed that Pei Liang had been a fan of Xie Chen in her previous life, and that she knew what he would suffer in the future, which was why she wanted to protect him.
But now Gao Jun was certain.
Pei Liang wanted to keep Xie Chen.
Gao Jun’s feelings were complicated. On the one hand, he detested this kind of transaction between sex and power.
On the other hand, he could not stop himself from shamefully envying the idiot Xie Chen, who was being indulged and protected so thoroughly without even realizing it, receiving an outpouring of kindness that took no account of the cost.
That idiot Xie Chen, with his inflated sense of self, was convinced that Pei Liang’s feelings for him were deep and romantic. But—
Ha! Who in his position would not have made the same mistake?
Respect, protection, someone waving a hand to shield you from everything. And even from the most superficial perspective, the other person was beautiful, charming, well-educated, and full of wit.
Who would not want that?
After the dinner, they spent another week or so filming a few scattered scenes and reshooting parts that had previously seemed unsuitable. At last, the production of the entire movie was officially complete.
Pei Liang then threw herself into the hectic work of post-production, publicity, and distribution.
Xie Chen had a major falling-out with his company over taking this film. He went ahead and entered the production alone on impulse, which infuriated his agency even more. Throughout the entire shoot, not a single detail was disclosed to the public, and no promotional buildup was arranged. It was both the agency’s way of expressing its displeasure with Xie Chen and an attempt to keep Pei Liang’s production from benefiting in the slightest.
After all, a film’s popularity had to be cultivated from the moment filming began. The more familiar people became with a movie, the more likely they would be to consider it when the time came to choose what to watch.
Based on what Xie Chen’s fans knew about him, he had only just finished filming a small-budget art-house movie. They assumed he would spend the next few months resting and searching for a good script.
Then, out of nowhere, the news broke that Xie Chen was starring in The Haunted Mansion.
When the news first came out, his fans felt as though they must still be dreaming.
Xie Chen? The acclaimed Best Actor Xie, practically a guarantee of quality? The Haunted Mansion? A potential addition to the long list of disastrously bad Chinese horror films?
Then they looked at the premise: an abandoned village apartment complex, dozens of people trapped there on a stormy night, killing one another. It was the standard template for a cheap, terrible movie.
Then they looked at the investment: a mere thirty million yuan.
That amount might not even cover Xie Chen’s fee. Surely Xie Chen couldn’t have lowered his asking price two films in a row, could he? How much money would be left for the actual production?
It was unquestionably going to be a terrible movie.
Many of Xie Chen’s fans exploded with anger and flooded the agency’s official account with complaints—
“Did you fail to make enough money from that art-house film and decide you need to recoup it immediately? How can you accept any garbage script they throw at him?”
“Eight years of building a reputation, ruined in one fell swoop. We could understand the last cameo—even though the movie was a little vulgar, at least it did well at the box office. But this time, you’re genuinely ruining Little Xie!”
“Damn this company. There aren’t many actors left like Little Xie, with both extraordinary acting skills and an impeccable reputation. The market is becoming more and more impetuous, and now you’re ignoring his future and career longevity too, just to make a quick buck? What an ugly way to cash in!”
“No, seriously, what kind of power does this Pei Liang woman have? How did she manage to put a spell on Xie Chen and get him to lower himself to appear in such a terrible movie?”
“Xie Chen, blink twice if you’ve been kidnapped.”
The company was practically dying of injustice. If they had actually been trying to make money and got criticized for it, at least it would have been worth it. The problem was that Xie Chen was taking the role at his own expense.
So the company quietly released a statement, emphasizing that Xie Chen was the face of their agency and that they absolutely could not allow his halo to be tarnished.
The statement repeatedly implied that the responsibility lay with Pei Liang. In summary, it said—
Pei Liang had shown extraordinary sincerity in inviting Xie Chen, while the company had firmly advised him to decline. After considering the matter from every angle, they had concluded that cooperation was unsuitable at this stage.
However, Miss Pei had repeatedly pleaded with him, and her sincerity eventually moved Xie Chen. He had decided to contribute to the revival of China’s currently struggling horror-film industry.
The company had already reviewed the script and found it quite good. That was the reason Xie Chen had ultimately chosen to participate.
The underlying message was obvious: she had clung to him relentlessly, and Xie Chen was only doing his part for the advancement of Chinese horror films. The company had reviewed the script and deemed it acceptable, but if the film turned out badly, that had nothing to do with them.
After all, they had tried to stop it.
Nor was it Xie Chen’s fault. He had been morally blackmailed into making the sacrifice, even at the cost of the reputation he had built over many years.
Sure enough, the moviegoers’ fury was redirected toward the production team led by Pei Liang.
However, after the trailer for The Haunted Mansion was released, some people felt that it actually looked decent.
A horror mystery trailer naturally could not reveal much of the plot, but at the very least, the acting, the film’s visual texture and color palette, the quality of the soundtrack, and the sophisticated tension conveyed by the imagery all suggested that this was not a bad movie.
“I’m surprised—the trailer actually looks pretty good.”
“I’ll go see it when it comes out. Consider it support for Xie Chen.”
“Oh, please. Everyone knows horror movies spend all their money on the poster and trailer. That’s basic knowledge.”
Just as the internet was buzzing with discussion about the film, the horror movie starring First Love released its own trailer as well.
The title and poster alone made it look almost like a carbon copy of The Haunted Mansion.
One was called The Haunted Mansion; the other was called The Haunted Hotel.
The trailer itself offered nothing particularly new, but it did manage to build an overall atmosphere of suspense and horror.
As soon as the trailer was released, First Love posted an update from her own account:
“Please support my new film. Although the sisters are competing against each other, I’m very confident in my movie.”
Who didn’t know that First Love and Pei Liang had once been teammates? Or about the explosive scandal involving the two of them and Cui Ying, when people had argued over who was Cui Ying’s real girlfriend?
When it had been exposed that First Love had used her teammate as a scapegoat to draw Cui Ying’s fans’ fire, her image as a pure and innocent goddess had collapsed, and she had become known as a calculating, two-faced schemer.
Though she had since sunk to making cheap horror films, she still had a certain level of name recognition.
What was more, there was technically nothing wrong with the wording of her post. But considering the history between the two women, the catty undertone was practically dripping from it.
The gossipmongers grew excited, rubbing their hands in anticipation of watching the former teammates tear each other’s hair out.
“Fight, fight! We’ll see whose movie wins!”
“The two films have such similar titles and posters that I thought they were the same movie. What if I pick the wrong one?”
“She’s doing this on purpose, isn’t she? First Love used to maintain her pure goddess image so carefully. I didn’t expect her to throw all caution to the wind after falling out of the spotlight.”
“Come on, place your bets. I’m choosing Xie Chen. We can complain all we want, but we still have to support him.”
“I’m choosing First Love. I heard her movie has a daring sex scene. They’re both going to be terrible films anyway, so why not pick the one with more exciting fan service?”
“As for Xie Chen’s movie, I’m pretending he was never in it until I’ve seen it. I can’t let it ruin the image of the Best Actor Xie I have in my mind.”
There was no denying that this shameless piggybacking brought mainstream attention to First Love’s low-budget movie—one that otherwise would never have broken out—much like what had happened with Pei Liang’s The Missing Bride.
But the other side was even more shameless, clinging on like a piece of chewing gum. They were impossible to shake off, no matter how much one tried.
Their film had a tiny budget, yet they showed no restraint at all when it came to publicity and marketing. They had somehow found the money to promote it aggressively, completely disguising the poverty of the production itself. Online, things had reached the point where anyone who knew about The Haunted Mansion also knew about The Haunted Hotel.
President Chen was, of course, behind this. His goal was to siphon away the already limited traffic that belonged to The Haunted Mansion.
That did not mean there was no way to respond. Since the film’s publicity was centered around Xie Chen anyway, they could simply place his face and name in the most prominent position on the poster.
Redesigning the poster would be troublesome, but not particularly difficult.
Still, Pei Liang was not made of dough. How could she allow the other side to knead and manipulate her without limit after clinging to her film and leeching off it?
There was nothing she could do about the other side’s marketing tactics. They had already abandoned all shame by openly copying the title and poster. As long as Pei Liang’s side could not get their film pulled from theaters, any reaction would only give them free publicity.
So Pei Liang aimed her club at the mastermind behind it all.
During the film’s promotional period, an internet-shaking scandal known as the “Sex Broker Scandal” erupted first. Several talent agencies, led by President Chen’s company, were exposed for arranging transactions involving sex and money, sexual bribery, and the exchange of physical favors for career opportunities.
Countless artists connected to President Chen’s agency were implicated—and some of them were even minors.
During the press conference, President Chen and the others were taken away by the police for investigation, including Li Jian and Zhu Wen, Pei Liang’s former bosses.
For a time, President Chen’s company saw its stock price plummet amid widespread condemnation. The artists under the company were also heavily scrutinized, and quite a few of the sharper ones immediately distanced themselves from it.
Several artists with promising careers directly requested to terminate their contracts. The company’s scandal had severely damaged their public image, and even if it came to a lawsuit over breach of contract, the artists would have the stronger case.
In the end, several highly influential big names in the industry were also sent to prison on solid evidence, some even on charges involving the abuse of minors.
President Chen was overwhelmed with his own troubles. How could he possibly spare any attention for Pei Liang’s little movie?
So Pei Liang released intimate photos of First Love and Cui Ying from when they had been dating—photos First Love had sent to the original host and the others to flaunt their relationship.
Pei Liang had the photos leaked directly, with the timestamps blurred so that people would assume the two had only pretended to break up and were actually still together.
Cui Ying’s fan groups were thrown into turmoil once again. Those die-hard fans who had watched their idol’s career take two hits because of First Love wanted nothing more than to tear her apart.
Both online and offline, they tried every possible way to sabotage the film and prevent people from contributing to its box office. They were even more proactive than Pei Liang’s own team in explaining the differences between the two movies, warning people not to pick the wrong one.
And through the tireless efforts of the obsessive fans, they actually found regulatory violations in the film and reported them to the relevant authorities, frightening the Terror Hotel production team into making overnight corrections.
The highly organized, action-oriented fanbase Cui Ying and the others had so proudly cultivated could be used by Pei Liang just as well.
It all depended on how one chose to manipulate it.
By the time both sides had shaken off their respective troubles, the National Day holiday release season was close at hand.
President Chen had recently paid an enormous price to clear himself of blame, leaving him exhausted.
The previous losses from Immortal Path had already dissatisfied the shareholders. Now, this huge scandal had been exposed because of him as well. If he had not held the largest stake in the company, he would already have been removed from his management position.
Even so, the few shareholders who still supported him were rapidly running out of patience.
President Chen repeatedly promised that he would shift the public’s attention elsewhere before the end of the year—away from both Immortal Path’s failure and the company’s scandal.
After all, when the “Pimping Scandal” had first broken out, the public had only paid attention to the celebrities in front of the cameras. As for people like them, they would soon be forgotten. Most people had no long-term memory when it came to the internet.
That left plenty of room for maneuvering. Once enough time had passed, they could reinvent themselves and remain industry giants with countless artists under their banner.
But President Chen now hated Pei Liang to the bone. He had hated her before, of course, but if someone handed him a gun now, he would shoot her without hesitation.
There had at least been a trail leading back to Pei Liang when the scandal involving him and Zhu Qian first came to light. This time, however, the attack had been executed with extraordinary precision. After investigating to the end, it turned out that the flaw had originated from his own side.
President Chen had no evidence with which to convince anyone that Pei Liang, busy with filming and post-production, was capable of orchestrating something so massive. People even thought he was merely trying to pin the blame on her at random.
But President Chen had a feeling—an instinct—that this wicked woman had long since cast a vast net around him.
With the National Day release season approaching, President Chen had made all the necessary preparations and was ready to crush Terror Mansion.
But then, one day, news broke that the director and producer of Cosmic Alliance, the film originally expected to dominate the National Day box office, had insulted China.
During the National Day holiday, such a matter naturally struck at the nerves of the entire nation.
Countless people, including devoted Cosmic Alliance fans, flooded the film’s official accounts with protests and condemnation, demanding an explanation.
Many even went to great lengths to bypass the firewall and find the two men’s overseas social-media accounts, where they hurled abuse at them. And what did they find? The more they dug, the more shocking revelations surfaced. Their discriminatory remarks about China and their support for separatism had not begun recently.
Even one of the leading actors—the well-known Korean actor cast in the new Asian role—was exposed for having made anti-China remarks.
That was it. From top to bottom, the entire production was rotten to the core.
At this time of year, everyone had been looking forward to celebrating National Day, and one essential form of entertainment during the holiday was going to the cinema to watch Cosmic Alliance.
Yet this scandal over insulting China was like a hard slap across the face of everyone celebrating the holiday—painful and humiliating.
Overnight, the fallout spread across the entire country. Even elderly people who did not use the internet knew about it.
The authorities acted swiftly, pulling the long-prepared film—into which countless investments and astronomical promotional costs had been poured—from its release schedule.
It was withdrawn just two days before the National Day holiday. The screenings that had originally been allocated to Cosmic Alliance were redistributed among the other films according to the existing scheduling ratios.
Terror Mansion’s share of screenings increased by nearly threefold.
Everyone who had avoided this release window, President Chen included, was left dumbfounded!
