Chapter 248: Chapter 242 The Conservatory's Spring Festival Evening Mobilization Meeting, the focus of public attention, young creator Teacher Xu

“Three hundred thousand is just the starting point; I’ve cut costs, and most of the money was spent on post-production,” the guy said, lifting his head and smacking his lips, “Small-time business.”

“It doesn’t matter what we end up shooting, the important thing is to get it done before next Friday.”

Pei Muchan seemed to understand, her eyes pausing briefly.

“Are you planning to leverage the hype from the show’s crew?”

“Exactly, what else? Post and accuse the show of rigging votes?” Xu Qingyan said matter-of-factly, “Only after being eliminated can we comfortably piggyback off their publicity.”

“The truth doesn’t matter. The audience of ’The Song King’ won’t stop watching because of one episode. We can create a storm with posts, but in less than three hours, it’ll be suppressed.”

“Besides, ’I Am the Song King’ stopped being purely about music from the second episode on. Proving its shadiness falls within the audience’s tolerance,” Qingyan explained.

“I know, I have no such illusions,” she nodded.

It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford to offend the show’s crew; even if they had to rely solely on album sales in the future, it wouldn’t matter. The two weren’t even on the same level; there was no shaking the foundation of an IP that had already produced five seasons of a music variety show.

Even if the expose were successful and they garnered public support after a huge expenditure of energy, the production crew wouldn’t pay much for a minor instance of vote rigging.

By its fifth season, faithful viewers of the show knew what they were in for. The show was like a dish of curry with a bit of dirt—somewhat unclean, but still edible.

If they were to argue with the directors over the rigging and bring things out into the open, it would be like exhausting all their strength fighting over a dish of curry with mud in it.

Even if they could win, what would be the point? At best, they’d have mud-stained curry. The directors wouldn’t weep and beg Xu Qingyan and Pei Muchan to return to the stage.

“We’ve discussed this before; they want to promote Jiang Jingsheng, and originally planned to eliminate Wang Yu, but he outperformed Jiang Jingsheng,” Qingyan continued.

“So, you’re the one to be squeezed out to ensure Jiang Jingsheng’s departure. For Lin Wanzhou, getting on stage one more time for exposure is worth it; she has Wen Yun behind her, along with other resources.”

“But you have no such resources, so being eliminated isn’t entirely a bad thing. Treat ’I Am the Song King’ as a stepping stone to reach higher places.”

“So, your plan is to shoot a MV?” Pei Muchan asked, surprised.

Xu Qingyan put down what he was working on and explained in detail.

“A MV is a medium to expand influence. Take for instance, a singer who once shot a phenomenal MV for a cola advertisement which garnered over a hundred million views.”

“Not only did the cola company make a killing, but the singer also gained significant influence, to the point where mentioning the cola MV immediately brings her to mind.”

“But… what’s the connection? If I shoot a MV, there’s no fan base to back it up.”

“Top celebrities spend a fortune crafting MVs to broaden their influence,” Pei Muchan said, “but nowadays, the impact of MVs released by lesser-known singers is much diminished.”

“Don’t we still have ’I Am the Song King’?” He smiled, a smile that had a dirty quality to it, “Nicely done with the vote rigging; I bet the show crew doesn’t believe we can produce anything significant, right?”

“But we’re only spending three hundred thousand… Isn’t that too little? Should we add more, maybe a million?”

“You have that much money?”

“The show hasn’t paid their dues yet; if we bite the bullet, we can manage it. It’s a bet…” Pei Muchan bit her lower lip, the expression on her face tinged with hesitation.

“You trust me that much?”

“Yeah, I trust you.”

Although songwriting, dance and art design, and directing and producing were entirely different industries—not exactly worlds apart but certainly with their own barriers to entry—she trusted Xu Qingyan, even though he had only been in the industry for two months.

Sometimes, he showed a capacity for cross-disciplinary brilliance, such as his stunning creativity in art design, which occasionally made people forget his main expertise was as a lyricist and composer.

Pei Muchan hadn’t thought it through that much; she simply saw him as a quick learner, no matter the subject.

“Alright, only you would invest several hundred thousand to let a novice like me direct a MV,” Xu Qingyan laughed, “It’s not just for you; it benefits me as well.”

“Are you planning a career change?” she asked, surprised.

“What career change? I never ’entered’ the field in the first place,” he stated frankly, “Writing is not as good as singing, if you sing well you act, and if you act well, then you direct.” Find more chapters on empire

“Skipping straight to directing isn’t bad either.”

At these words, Pei Muchan was a bit dumbfounded; his erratic logic somehow made sense.@@novelbin@@

“Right… right.”

A MV director’s job simply requires visualizing a segment of audio, coming up with a concept, and telling a good story. After negotiating with the client, the next steps involve choosing locations and discussing with the art director how to smoothly transition ideas and creativity into reality.

The rest is just shoot, shoot, shoot; better to overshoot than undershoot, otherwise post-production becomes a nightmare.

Xu Qingyan took on the roles of client, director, and art director himself, bypassing the time-consuming process of steady collaboration, with a shooting script in hand, ready to start filming the next day.

A MV isn’t completely a waste of money—if it’s made well. Otherwise, it might just end up being ridiculed.

Nightfall.

Lin Wanzhou stood on the balcony, nervously making a phone call to Xu Qingyan.

That evening, she watched “Rice Fragrance” over and over. She sang along softly with the lyrics, time and again, as memories of her youth began to unfold.

The more she sang, the brighter her eyes became, her mood increasingly light.

She thought of his message, “This song is not for sale; it’s a gift to you, a song that belongs to you alone.” The lingering shadows in her heart were slowly healing.

Listening to this song inevitably brought back memories of the past. She remembered those days in Qinghe, sitting in her grandparents’ bamboo chair, watching the boy run through the mountains.

Sometimes, when he passed by, he would show her his captured beetles. Memories of those summer days, along with the gentle song, were slowly pulled back to the season of wind-blown rice fragrances.