After Spectating Gossip, the Entertainment Industry Thinks I’m a Big Shot – CH60

Chapter 60

A few days after Cheng Xin helped them give Fang Xiao a verbal smackdown, something unexpected happened—Fang Xiao himself messaged them to apologize. His tone was incredibly humble, and he even paid them the outstanding fees he’d owed. Though they had no idea what had prompted this change, Yu Youxia and her team felt a new sense of confidence.

If their coworkers had made them feel safe enough to cautiously reach out, now, they felt as if they’d finally found a place to truly put down roots.

Countless times, Yu Youxia had felt grateful to have met President Gu that day, which had led to this new life.

Everyone cherished their current happiness deeply. The relaxed creative environment and the freedom to openly discuss ideas helped them release the pent-up frustration and resentment they’d built up from years of suppression and exploitation.

Their solid writing foundation and talents seemed to pour out in full force.

With everyone brainstorming together, they continually pushed the boundaries of each story. Alone, their creativity was limited, but combined, their ideas reached new heights.

Their long-lasting friendship wasn’t just due to their shared social anxiety but also to their similar talents, tastes, and principles.

Over the years, they’d written every type of script to make a living. While quality had varied, they’d learned not to limit themselves to narrow tastes.

Without any backstabbing or pointless discussions, they hadn’t even realized just how impressive their creative efficiency had become.

So when Gu Xingshi finally had time to check on their progress, he was astonished to find four or five scripts already stacked on his desk. The covers, printed on office A4 paper, were plain, showing only the titles and the names of the authors.

He noticed that nearly all the scripts had multiple authors listed.

Curious, he opened one at random and was stunned by the quality.

The structure was intricate, the plot tight, and the characters vividly distinctive.

Just from reading, he could envision the entire story unfolding in his mind, becoming immersed in it.

Even by major studio standards, this level of quality was rare.

Barely a few pages in, he put it down with lingering interest and reached for another.

This one had a completely different style.

The story was bolder, sharper, and just a few lines of dialogue had him wanting to applaud.

Unable to resist, he read through the remaining scripts.

By the end, despite having been in the industry for years, he felt a rush of exhilaration and disbelief—like he’d just won a lottery jackpot.

Each script had a unique theme and tone, yet they all shared one trait: impeccable quality.

Gu Xingshi held them in his hands, reluctant to let any of them go.

Yu Youxia and the others, while confident in their work, began to feel their old insecurities creep in when they saw him remain silent. Finally, she asked in a small voice, “President Gu… are the scripts… not good?”

“It’s not that they’re bad—they’re incredible!” Gu Xingshi looked at them, his eyes bright with excitement. “Oh my god! You’re all hidden gems! Such high-quality scripts in such a short time—you guys are amazing!”

It was the first time any of them had been praised so directly. They froze for a moment, then their faces all turned bright red.

Despite their shyness, the writers felt a deep joy from finally being recognized for their talents.

Gu Xingshi, however, found himself in a sweet dilemma—if he could, he would produce every single script. But given the current resources of the company, it wasn’t feasible to take on so many projects at once.

A thought suddenly popped into his head: partnering with Wen Corp. Yet as soon as the idea surfaced, he dismissed it.

If this had been the past, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But after the recent rumor incident, such a partnership felt… complicated.

Moreover, he realized just how entangled LeShi was with Wen Corp. Since their first project with the boy band to their latest dramas, nearly all their work had ties to Wen Corp’s various subsidiaries.

From his experience, Gu knew the risk of putting all his eggs in one basket.

Besides, he had responsibilities now—not just to himself, but to the artists and employees under him. As excellent as Wen Corp was as a partner, and as respectable as Wen Yue was as a person, the two companies were not on equal footing.

Wen Corp was a massive cruise ship, while LeShi was just a small boat. Even with the system, he couldn’t guarantee they’d navigate every storm unscathed.

It was a pity, but maybe someday, when LeShi grew strong enough, he could consider working with Wen Corp again.

With this in mind, he made his decision swiftly. He selected the script best suited to the company’s current situation and explained his reasoning to Yu Youxia and the team.

While those whose scripts weren’t chosen felt a bit disappointed, they fully understood his concerns.

They had been in this industry long enough to have seen many small companies relying on big ones, only to either be swallowed up or go bankrupt due to a single unforeseen incident.

They were perfectly happy with their current lives and didn’t want any drastic changes.

Plus, Gu Xingshi assured them that their scripts wouldn’t go to waste. If the opportunity arose in the future, he would see them produced.

If it had been anyone else, they might have brushed this off as empty promises. But Gu Xingshi had followed through on every single word he’d said since they joined the company.

On the contrary, Gu Xingshi felt uneasy about offering such a vague assurance.

He remembered his own days as an employee, how he’d hated it when bosses made empty promises without any tangible rewards. He didn’t want to become the kind of boss he’d once despised.

With that thought, he added, “You’ve all worked hard lately. Here’s an idea—our company offers an annual two-week vacation for employees. How about taking a break and going somewhere you’d like? Just choose a destination, and the company will cover the expenses.”

The writers were stunned.

They knew about the vacation benefit, but wasn’t it usually a company-organized team-building trip?

Though they got along well with their coworkers, as socially anxious people, they’d rather avoid group trips altogether. They had actually been planning to find excuses to skip the team-building event.

But wait—this was a real vacation?

They exchanged looks, until Chun Yan, the shyest among them, timidly raised her hand. “President Gu, could I go to Baofu City?”

Encouraging her as the first to speak up, Gu Xingshi replied, “Of course.”

Then he hesitated. “But Baofu City… are there any famous sights there? Don’t feel like you have to choose an obscure spot to save the company money. Pick wherever you really want to go!”

Chun Yan shook her head. “I really do want to go to Baofu City. It has one of the country’s most famous ghost villages. I’ve always wanted to write a script inspired by it, but never had the chance to go. Now I finally can!”

Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she spoke.

Gu Xingshi: “…?”

The other writers suddenly looked inspired too.

“President Gu! I’d like to stay at a secluded mountain temple for a while. One with no tourists, somewhere really quiet…”

“President Gu! I want to live in a lighthouse for a bit. I’ve already picked out the location!”

“President Gu…”

Gu Xingshi: “…”

Is this really a vacation???

Yet, seeing them excitedly discussing their plans with each other instead of retreating into their usual shyness, he decided to support their ideas.

In any case, he figured he’d leave the details to the admin team to sort out.

Satisfied with his decision, Gu Xingshi smiled to himself.

With their requests granted, the writers were more motivated than ever.

“President Gu, we’ll get back to work now!”

“I only wrote three thousand words today! Not enough! Nowhere near enough!”

“We’re going to have a meeting to fine-tune the character dynamics for the new script. I think there’s still room to…”

Gu Xingshi: “?”

Wait a minute—why are they suddenly so intense about this?

I was just giving you all a vacation, not challenging you to outdo each other!

If they end up writing seven or eight more brilliant scripts, and the company can’t produce them all, wouldn’t that be like wasting a treasure and inviting cosmic retribution?

With his plans for a relaxed day dashed, Gu Xingshi could only throw himself back into work.

Today, President Gu was working hard—painfully, but happily.

*

With the perfect script in hand, the next step was to find the ideal director who could do it justice.

But good directors in the industry were few, and those with the specific style and vision to match this script were even rarer.

After reaching out to several directors, Gu Xingshi received polite rejections, some not even bothering to review the script.

With no other leads, he wracked his brain for alternative options. Lost in thought, he found himself wandering near the Central Film Academy in Zhongjing City.

At the entrance, a few students were advertising an event. Curious, he asked and learned that the school was hosting a retrospective of outstanding student films.

With some time to spare, he bought a ticket and took a seat in the academy’s theater.

Although these were student films, most of them were amateurish. After watching a couple, he started to feel drowsy and was about to leave—until a short, fifteen-second opening sequence on the screen held him in place.

The previously murmuring audience fell silent as well.

Gu Xingshi sat back down.

The short film lasted only thirty minutes, but he remained utterly absorbed, never losing focus for a second.

Even as a non-professional, he could recognize the film’s exceptional narrative structure, the stunning cinematography, and the masterful transitions, all of which highlighted the director’s unique style.

Most importantly, the short film’s mood and tone aligned perfectly with what he envisioned for his script.

He was instantly thrilled.

As the short film reached its end, the director’s name appeared on the screen—Pei Zhuozhi.

For a moment, Gu Xingshi was confused.

He had recently researched nearly every domestic director he could find, yet he’d never come across Pei Zhuozhi’s name.

But with such talent, how could he be unknown?

Was he perhaps still a student?

Without overthinking it, Gu went straight to the event organizer to ask about Pei Zhuozhi.

The organizer, a teacher from the film academy named Mr. Ye, raised an eyebrow at his inquiry. “You… want to hire Zhuozhi to direct a film?”

Gu nodded. “Is that… a problem?”

Mr. Ye hesitated. “Not exactly. I’m just worried that once you hear his story, you might change your mind.”

Gu’s curiosity was piqued. “Oh?”

Professor Ye sighed. “Zhuozhi is the most gifted student I’ve ever taught. He won countless awards during his undergrad years, and right after graduating, he was given a chance to direct on his own. But he’s had terrible luck—every project he’s been involved in since graduation has been canceled for one reason or another. Eventually, people just stopped offering him work.”

Gu Xingshi: “…”

He hadn’t expected Pei Zhuozhi’s obscurity to be due to something like this.

The system chimed in: [Pei Zhuozhi’s luck has been nothing short of disastrous. For instance, his first film after graduation had just been greenlit when the main investor encountered financial troubles, forcing the project to fold. Later, he became an assistant director on his teacher’s film, and things went smoothly until the lead actors were caught in a scandal—both were married, but not to each other. They ended up on the front page, and the film faced public backlash and was shelved indefinitely. Even when he tried directing music videos, the singer got arrested for drug use before the MV was released…]

Gu Xingshi: [To be honest, I’m sensing a strangely familiar air of misfortune around him…]

System: […]

Despite Pei’s streak of bad luck, Gu figured that it was mostly circumstance—none of the cancellations seemed to be his fault. As long as he could maintain the quality he showed in the short film, Gu wasn’t bothered by the minor issue of “bad luck.”

With this in mind, he asked Professor Ye, “If I wanted to contact him, could you provide his number?”

Professor Ye looked at him in surprise, clearly not expecting him to pursue Pei Zhuozhi after hearing his history.

With an odd expression, Professor Ye said, “He doesn’t use his phone much. If you’re looking for him, you’ll find him in Sichuan Province.”

Gu Xingshi: “Sichuan?”

Professor Ye nodded. “Yes… he’s there competing in the National Mahjong Championships.”

Gu Xingshi: “???”

*

It wasn’t long before Gu Xingshi was on a plane to Sichuan, listening to the system share more about Pei Zhuozhi’s curious life as he waited for takeoff.

[Pei Zhuozhi couldn’t keep going as a director. His reputation for misfortune made production crews wary of hiring him, and he refused to take a regular job. Whenever he runs out of money, he enters local mahjong tournaments. Surprisingly, while he has terrible luck with directing, he’s incredibly lucky at mahjong and wins championships regularly, which keeps him afloat for a while each time…]

Gu Xingshi: […]

[This Sichuan tournament is the biggest mahjong event in the country in recent years. It’s attracted not only domestic players but also competitors from overseas. Even the reigning Mahjong King from Hong Kong and Macau joined—but all of them lost to Pei Zhuozhi, who’s now in the finals.]

Gu Xingshi: [So it seems that when one door closed, another window stayed wide open.]

When he finally reached the tournament venue, it was the last round of the finals.

The four players were battling it out as the game streamed live on the venue’s big screen.

Gu didn’t need the system to point him out; he recognized Pei Zhuozhi instantly.

In a lineup of sharply dressed players—some in suits with thick gold chains, others in traditional Chinese attire with gray hair—Pei stood out with his unique style.

He wore a faded T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. His skin was ghostly pale from lack of sunlight, his cheeks hollow, and his hair tied messily at the back. Half-lidded eyes barely stayed open as he chewed on a slim, unlit women’s cigarette.

Compared to the other finalists who were focused and serious, Pei Zhuozhi’s posture was completely relaxed. He sat cross-legged on the chair, occasionally zoning out. Even with a terrible hand, he didn’t seem to care and discarded his tiles casually, showing no discernible technique.

Yet somehow, each tile he drew was exactly what he needed, allowing him to win in seemingly impossible ways. If it weren’t for the crowd witnessing this luck firsthand, no one would believe it.

After his victory, Pei showed little excitement, even at the awards ceremony, where he looked as if his mind was somewhere else entirely.

When the ceremony ended and most people had left, Gu Xingshi made his way against the exiting crowd to find Pei Zhuozhi.

But he wasn’t the only one looking for him.

Among them was the large gold-chain-wearing player Pei had competed against. In awkward Mandarin, he said, “Mr. Pei, with your talent, you’d have tremendous opportunities in Hong Kong. If you would just sign with me…”

Pei ignored him completely, pulling on his down jacket emblazoned with the Film Academy logo. He shoved his prize money card into his pocket, looking straight ahead as he walked past without a word.

The man with the gold chain hurried after him, “Mr. Pei, don’t leave! We can discuss any compensation you want…”

Another man, with sun-darkened skin, stepped forward as well. “Forget Hong Kong. If you go overseas, I guarantee you’ll make more money than you can imagine…”

“Mr. Pei…”

But no matter what they said, Pei maintained a look of indifference, as if he hadn’t heard a word.

Seeing that Pei was about to exit the venue, Gu quickly called out, “Pei Zhuozhi!”

Pei didn’t even pause.

The man with the gold chain, irritated by Pei’s cold attitude, couldn’t resist a sneer. “Stop calling. This guy’s impossible to deal with. He won’t even look at you…”

The sun-darkened man added snidely, “Which company are you with, kid? If we can’t get his attention, you think you can?”

Gu raised an eyebrow. “And if I do get his attention?”

The dark-skinned man smirked. “Then I’ll hand you my head!”

Gu replied, “Remember, you said that.”

With a smile, he called out to Pei’s retreating back, “I’d like to hire you to direct a film. Are you sure you don’t want to talk?”

Pei stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing as he turned around, his gaze sharp and piercing. “What did you say?”

As both men stared in shock, Gu calmly pointed at a few police officers approaching the dark-skinned man. “You can keep your head. Instead, why don’t you have a good chat with the officers about your overseas gambling operations?”

The man’s face went pale, and he tried to run, only to be restrained by the police.

Gu put his phone away, satisfied.

Pei Zhuozhi stared, dumbfounded, the unlit cigarette falling from his mouth.

Gu spread his hands. “Shall we?”

Pei gave him a long look, clearly impressed. His rebellious attitude softened, and he nodded obediently. “Okay.”

Half an hour later, the two of them sat across from each other in a nearby KFC.

Gu Xingshi explained his purpose for seeking him out.

Pei Zhuozhi took a lazy sip from his soda, the straw between his teeth. “Professor Ye should have told you about my… history?”

Gu nodded. “He said you’re exceptionally talented, but unlucky. Every project you work on seems to run into trouble—even your music videos end up scrapped…”

Pei froze, his gaze dropping. “And you still came to find me?”

Gu replied, “The investment falling through, actors embroiled in scandals, the singer arrested… None of that was your fault.”

Pei glanced at him intently. “Not everyone sees it that way.”

Gu smiled lightly. “I’m not worried about those things.”

Though Pei heard him, his expression barely shifted. Instead, he asked, “Why would you come looking for me?”

“I saw your short film at your school’s showcase. It left a strong impression on me, and your style happens to be exactly what I need,” Gu explained.

Pei responded flatly, “You’ve got a sharp eye and plenty of nerve.”

Though he was the one being evaluated, he showed no trace of unease.

Even after enduring so many setbacks and finding himself at a low point, his confidence in his abilities remain undiminished.

Gu found himself even more intrigued by Pei’s composure and resilience—qualities essential for a great director. “I think so too,” he said with a smile.

Pei extended his hand. “I want to see the script first.”

Although his demand might seem abrupt, Gu didn’t mind and handed over the script he’d brought.

Pei skimmed through it with impressive speed, finishing in no time.

Confident in the script’s quality, Gu asked, “Well? What do you think?”

Pei was silent for a moment, then mumbled, “It’s… all right.”

Just “all right”?

Gu felt an urge to debate, only to hear Pei continue, “Who’s the screenwriter? Do you have full control over it? Is it registered, time-stamped? Any copyright issues?”

Gu was taken aback.

Pei’s questions covered every mishap he had previously faced, each incident that had derailed his projects.

He looked tense, biting down hard enough on his straw that it seemed about to snap.

Gu suddenly understood.

Pei wasn’t implying the script was mediocre. On the contrary, he likely loved it but was terrified of history repeating itself.

Until now, Gu had thought those past incidents hadn’t affected Pei all that much.

With a quiet sigh, Gu said reassuringly, “The screenwriter is under contract with my company, so the copyright is secure. Everything is registered and timestamped…”

As he listed each safeguard, Pei’s tense expression gradually relaxed.

Gu finished, then asked, “So, any other questions?”

Pei hesitated. “What about the investors…?”

A flicker of doubt passed through Gu’s mind, as he didn’t yet have concrete investors lined up.

But he kept a straight face and replied confidently, “Are you interviewing me or am I interviewing you? I’d like to know if your skills are still up to par!”

As soon as Gu finished speaking, Pei Zhuozhi stood up abruptly and walked away.

Gu Xingshi: “?”

But he quickly realized that Pei hadn’t left the restaurant; he’d just gone to the counter to borrow a pen from the staff. Pei then returned to his seat and spread out a napkin, where he began sketching a storyboard.

His hand moved without hesitation, each line drawn with smooth precision.

In just a few moments, he filled an entire napkin with frames.

When Gu took the napkin from him, he was stunned. Although Pei had flipped through the script quickly, he had somehow memorized the scenes.

Moreover, his interpretation of the opening storyboard completely reimagined the script’s narrative structure, bringing a visual depth that was far more captivating than anything Gu had envisioned.

After filling several more napkins with sketches, Pei finally set down his pen and asked, “Well? What do you think?”

Gu carefully gathered up the napkins, then extended his hand with a smile. “Congratulations, you passed the interview. Here’s to a successful collaboration.”

Pei shook his hand, then pulled out his phone, activating the voice recorder. “Could you repeat what you just said?”

Gu Xingshi: “…”

Well, so much for that calm exterior!