Chapter 70: A Battle for Life or a Test of Skill

Liu Qingshan gazed earnestly at Wang Huansheng.

“Lawyer Wang, from now on, Snowfield Studio’s legal affairs will be handled with your cooperation. Among family, there’s no need for such formality—just call me Shan. Now, tell me, what difference will it make for the video content to be aired on the Kyoto Station compared to the National Television?”

“The first issue is broadcast standards. Though both are under the shadow of the imperial city, local stations have far more leeway than the national network. Some things Kyoto Station dares to broadcast would be thoroughly scrutinized by the national network, possibly cut down to mere seconds, or glossed over in a news brief.”

“So you mean we should be prepared for entire segments of the event to be aired? The more that’s broadcast, the harder it is to avoid people picking things apart?”

“That’s essentially it. After all, you made many candid remarks at the conference, some quite emotional. Kyoto Station, at the end of the day, is still a media platform—and we all know media’s nature: ratings often trump other considerations.”

“I think his point is valid!” Park Hyejin now spoke with the air of a manager from Liu Qingshan’s own camp.

This was one of the reasons Liu Qingshan appreciated her. Others might not know, but he was well aware that she was the first person Jin Xishan had won over through the power of familial bonds.

Moreover, her willingness to participate so openly, risking any suspicion, showed both her faith in Liu Qingshan’s potential and her genuine concern for Jin Xishan’s future.

“There have been similar incidents in our country’s entertainment industry,” Hyejin continued. “The difference is, those involved had powerful capital backing them. Shan, you’re on your own. While your nation’s stable policies are an asset, when it comes to minor celebrity matters, media stance will ultimately steer public opinion.”

“Hyejin, what sort of attitude do you think I should adopt in response?”

“The formation of negative public sentiment boils down to three main causes: rising social discontent, distorted values in public discourse, and an imbalance in the power to speak. Today’s press conference already cleared up most issues, so now you need to pay close attention to the second point—preempting your opponents from manipulating public values through the media.”

“Be more specific.”

“First, don’t respond to potential targeted attacks; instead, quickly connect with the ‘Myth’ production team and investors, using the event’s heat to generate constant news. Second, at opportune moments, have influential figures in the industry speak up in your defense. Third, use your other talents to redirect public attention—such as that ‘Myth’ theme song, or even explore singing and songwriting beyond your acting career.”

“I understand the third point, but my current abilities are limited—I can’t count on that for now. The other two suggestions seem like hype. Are they really necessary?”

“In foreign markets, media hype is already standard practice—the difference is merely between the crude and the clever. I think it’s essential to involve Qinghuang Films, at least reach out in advance, since your future distribution depends on it.”

For a moment, Liu Qingshan was startled by her insight. It almost seemed as if this beautiful, mature woman could see right through him, guessing nearly the full extent of his dealings with Yang Wancheng.

Perhaps her words were meant to expose his hidden intentions.

But even if these suggestions were veiled with deeper meaning, only Park Hyejin herself could pick up on it—no one else would notice. He had no wish to appear as a schemer to those around him at the outset of his career.

“No, do you really think songwriting is as cheap as cabbage? That one ‘Myth’ song will suffice to divert attention for now, but if Chen Long and Xishan perform it as a duet, it’ll benefit the film but diminish your own influence.”

“Singing with Chen Long is non-negotiable—that’s our agreement. But what I care about more is the domestic audience accepting Xishan. I even promised her a full album’s worth of songs!”

Though she’d heard this before, Park Hyejin couldn’t help but exclaim, “I’ve listened to ‘Myth.’ If you can produce ten songs of that caliber, it could help Xishan become a superstar in mainland China.”

Such praise wasn’t empty. A true hit could support a singer’s livelihood for life.

A full album of classics? That was the mark of an icon—no longer just about making a living, but entry into the hall of fame and boundless fortune.

Granted, singers generally have less staying power and lower status than actors, but once they achieve fame, offers come unceasingly.

The saying goes, “Those who excel at singing naturally venture into acting”—a global entertainment industry consensus. Even if your acting is mediocre, you’ll be judged by a double standard, usually a favorable one.

“Shan, you can write songs?” Mao Shaochong blurted out unexpectedly.

Yu Yi shot him a look. “A single song can make someone? Shan’s real talent is his formidable skills—enough to take the whole entertainment industry by storm!”

Park Hyejin, inspired, clapped her hands. “Yu Yi reminds me—you could consider making friends through martial arts. For example, a public sparring match under media attention could boost your fame rapidly!”

Wang Huansheng frowned. “Isn’t that a bit too rash? It might give the impression you’re all brawn and no brains.”

“I never said do it now,” Hyejin replied, unfazed by his tone. “As long as Shan is confident in his abilities, one day, if provoked maliciously, he could pick an opponent and make an example of them. That’s far more effective than always playing it safe.”

Unsurprisingly, Kunal cheered at this idea. “Let them come! My master is a kung fu expert—just a step away from grandmaster status. Bring them on! If needed, I’ll be his vanguard, charging ahead!”

“It’s ‘a step away,’ you know! Nephew, stick with me and you’ll learn to speak Mandarin like a local!”

Yu Yi’s quip drew laughter all around. Perhaps only Wang Huansheng didn’t catch the joke about “nephew.”

Liu Qingshan, sitting several seats away, flicked a peanut at Kunal’s forehead, making him yelp in pain.

“Pay him no mind, he’s a warmonger. In the two months in India, he sparred with everyone in the Chen family team—though always under the pretext of friendly matches.”

Kunal protested, “They were friendly matches! I bought a round of drinks every time.”

“Friendly? You went through three Arabian scimitars!”

Everyone present exchanged glances in disbelief. This was no ordinary sparring.

Not only were real weapons involved, but three had been broken—proof enough that Kunal wasn’t just practicing, he was fighting for his life.