Zhang Guangzhen had no desire to return.
Business should be a matter of mutual consent, but Zhang Guangzhen deeply regretted being swayed by Cao Shao’s high payment, landing himself in this dilemma with no easy way out.
How he regretted it!
Before *The Princess’s New Clothes* aired, Zhang Guangzhen wasn’t a top-tier screenwriter in Taiwan. His scripts fetched less than 500,000. When Tianjiao offered 500,000, he headed to Rongcheng without a second thought.
Tianjiao paid promptly and treated him well. Later, when issues arose with the *Princess’s New Clothes* script, they didn’t bother Zhang Guangzhen. With his consent, they let Wen Ying revise it.
Zhang Guangzhen took the money while someone else did the work—why would he object?
Only those who wrestle with words know that revising can be harder than creating.
Creating is like painting on a blank canvas, free to paint as you wish with no limits.
Revising is adding or subtracting from an existing draft.
The painting already has a pear, but they insist on turning it into a bunch of bananas—isn’t that torture?
No matter how it’s revised, the bananas will always carry traces of the pear. Why not start fresh on a new canvas?
That’s Zhang Guangzhen’s situation now.
No, his situation is worse. He started with a pear, and when it was nearly done, Yu Tianlin wanted an apple. Zhang Guangzhen grudgingly turned it into an apple, only for someone else to demand bananas.
A pear and an apple share some similarities, so it was manageable.
But how do you turn an apple into bananas?
Even if he could, Zhang Guangzhen didn’t want to.
A script is best guided by one vision. The worst is when multiple people call the shots, each with their own ideas, resulting in a monstrous mess.
Pear to apple, apple to bananas—Zhang Guangzhen could reluctantly accept.
But if, after he made bananas, Boss Jin complained they weren’t majestic enough and demanded Transformers, what then?
No amount of extra payment could make Zhang Guangzhen take on such a cross-species demand!
Boss Jin, with his wealth and brash style, chased him down at the celebration event. Seeing the imposing boss, Zhang Guangzhen wanted to slap himself for being so shortsighted. A million was a lot, but after *The Princess’s New Clothes* aired, his script fees had risen with the tide. From 500,000 to a million was now market rate.
If the show’s ratings broke 4, Zhang Guangzhen could quote 2 million, and people would still buy.
A hit show was like that—market recognition trumped personal favors. In this industry, not just actors but directors and screenwriters all benefited from a blockbuster.
Zhang Guangzhen knew *The Princess’s New Clothes*’s success wasn’t entirely his doing. His rising rates owed thanks to Wen Ying.
But people judged by age and experience, skeptical of Wen Ying’s contribution to the script. Outside Tianjiao’s circle, the credit went to Zhang Guangzhen.
Boss Jin was no exception.
Zhang Guangzhen didn’t want to revise the script, so Boss Jin considered asking the other *Princess’s New Clothes* screenwriter for help.
Wen Ying was right there, but seeing a young girl, Boss Jin dismissed the idea, intent on dragging Zhang Guangzhen back to work.
Zhang Guangzhen wanted to curse Boss Jin’s high-handedness. Even Wang the bodyguard was annoyed: how could this guy doubt Wen Ying’s screenwriting skills?
Xie Qian glanced at Wen Ying, who wasn’t upset at all, standing there with a grin, already in spectator mode.
Right, Wen Ying had likely met people like Boss Jin before and didn’t care.
But while Wen Ying was unfazed, Xie Qian felt irritated.
Boss Jin was still haggling with Zhang Guangzhen. With coal prices soaring in China, money was mere paper to some coal bosses. For Boss Jin to persuade Zhang Guangzhen like this was akin to ancient nobles “courting the wise,” but Zhang Guangzhen’s repeated refusals irked him.
It had been a while since someone disrespected Boss Jin like this!
“Screenwriter Zhang, you signed a contract. If the payment’s not enough, I can add more. Name your price, money’s no issue.”
Boss Jin’s tone implied Zhang Guangzhen was deliberately hiking his price.
Fine, hike it—Boss Jin had money to burn!
Zhang Guangzhen wasn’t swayed.
Boss Jin cared about face, but so did Zhang Guangzhen, especially with Wen Ying and the others present.
Everyone loves money, but a gentleman earns it honorably. Zhang Guangzhen valued a scholar’s dignity. Provoked by Boss Jin, he flatly refused to continue revising.
“Let’s stick to the contract. My work’s done. Please leave, Boss Jin!”
Boss Jin’s face darkened, “You say it’s done? I say the script’s not finished!”
Zhang Guangzhen was furious—Boss Jin was playing dirty!
They might really end up in court.
He glanced at Wen Ying, who smiled: her offer to recommend a lawyer still stood.
Zhang Guangzhen felt a surge of boldness.
Since they’d already fallen out, so be it—he wasn’t serving these people anymore!
Before he could lash out, Xie Qian spoke up, “A forced melon isn’t sweet. Teacher Zhang has refused. If Boss Jin keeps pressing with the contract, aren’t you worried he’ll resent it and deliberately produce a bad script? Boss Jin may not be satisfied with the current script, but it’s acceptable to Teacher Zhang. I doubt he’d easily ruin his reputation. If I were Boss Jin, I’d leave professional matters to professionals. Teacher Zhang is a professional screenwriter.”
Xie Qian guessed Zhang Guangzhen couldn’t keep revising because the current script was his bottom line.
Further changes would violate his creative vision, tanking his quality and reputation.
Revising wasn’t the worst—turning your work worse was. That’s why Zhang Guangzhen wouldn’t accept even a higher offer.
Why would Zhang Guangzhen pass up money unless it cost him bigger earnings down the line?
If so, why bother revising the script?
If Boss Jin was making films to profit, he should quit while ahead.
To hire Zhang Guangzhen, respect his craft.
If not, find a bootlicking screenwriter who’d revise however Boss Jin wanted!
Boss Jin caught Xie Qian’s subtext.
He’d ignored Xie Qian while focusing on Zhang Guangzhen, but now Xie Qian had stepped in. Boss Jin sized him up, frowning, “Are you surnamed Xie?”
Coal bosses weren’t simple folk. Boss Jin’s questioning aura was intimidating.
Sensing his pressure, Wen Ying switched from spectator to protective mode.
What did this mean? Did Boss Jin know Xie Qian?
No, anyone who’d seen Xie Qian wouldn’t forget him—they’d call his name outright.
Unless Boss Jin knew not Xie Qian, but Xie Jinghu… Xie Qian and Xie Jinghu looked so alike, anyone could tell they were related.
Wen Ying’s alarm bells rang, wondering about Boss Jin’s connection to Xie Jinghu.
What Wen Ying could think of, Xie Qian could too.
The hamster was bristling again.
Xie Qian’s eyes held a trace of amusement, but he wasn’t afraid of whatever tied Boss Jin to Xie Jinghu. He calmly confirmed, “Yes, my surname’s Xie. I’m Xie Qian.”
Boss Jin stared at him, let out a heavy snort, turned, and left, letting Zhang Guangzhen off the hook.
