Chapter 166 166 The Four Strongest

Chapter 166: The Top Four

Zheng Xiao knew that Lu Xu had plans to invest in TV series and films.

With the success of *Female Grandmaster*, Lu Xu outearned most celebrities in the industry. He hadn’t set up his own studio yet, and his contract was still with Feiyang Entertainment, so he didn’t have to fund a staff. Though Lu Xu frequently appeared on trending searches throughout the year, he didn’t overspend on self-promotion.

There were a few fixed periods when Lu Xu would trend: first, when a new work was released, and second, during major award ceremonies within the year. The former included paid trending tags and marketing arranged by Feiyang Entertainment. Beyond that, since most of Lu Xu’s works were of solid quality, once word-of-mouth spread, influencers would organically latch onto the buzz.

Of course, Lu Xu himself was great at creating buzz, and combined with his magnet-for-drama persona, he might not be a permanent resident on trending searches, but he wasn’t far off.

Many celebrities in the industry were involved in investments, and there were indeed a few investment experts among them. But Lu Xu wasn’t particularly interested in that—he still preferred projects related to film and television.

If he didn’t invest… his wealth would just keep growing.

Still, *Female Grandmaster* had been a fluke. If Mo Qi and Lin Hui hadn’t failed to secure funding, the project might not have landed in Lu Xu’s hands.

Showbiz was cliquish, and good investment opportunities rarely went to newcomers like Lu Xu.

After *Female Grandmaster*’s massive success, investors in the industry became even more cautious about small-scale projects, willing to take chances on seemingly unremarkable ones—just to avoid missing another sleeper hit like *Female Grandmaster*.

The script Zheng Xiao recommended was one that no one, inside or outside the industry, wanted to touch: a sci-fi series, commonly known as an investment black hole.

With sci-fi, if the budget was too small, the most you’d get was a cheap flop. Historically, successful sci-fi films required hefty investments. But even with a big budget, there was no guarantee of good results.

Sci-fi works presented audiences with a fantastical and magnificent world, showcasing the potential for cinematic advancement. Spectacular special effects and grand scenes filled viewers with anticipation for the unknown worlds simulated on screen—but none of that had anything to do with money.

In other words, even if a sci-fi film had a massive budget and spent lavishly, it didn’t necessarily mean it would be more profitable than an ordinary drama.

In the domestic film and TV market, the term "sci-fi" was often associated with so-called "passion projects." Though the film industry had reached a certain level of development, sci-fi films rarely managed to excel in both special effects and storytelling. If the effects were stunning but the plot was mediocre, that might still be acceptable—but most of the time, both the effects and the plot were equally cringe-worthy, leaving audiences feeling like they’d been scammed.

After being burned too many times, whenever a work was hyped as the "next big thing," audiences approached it with deep skepticism.

Still, there were directors and screenwriters willing to chase this pipe dream. But with too many failures and audiences’ distrust growing stronger over time, sci-fi became increasingly unpopular in the market.

Investors weren’t philanthropists—who would pour money into an unprofitable project?

Films at least had a shot at success, but sci-fi series were a risky gamble, something most people wouldn’t touch lightly.

The reason Zheng Xiao introduced this script to Lu Xu was that he thought the quality was promising, and he was familiar with the director and screenwriter—they weren’t the type to try scamming millions with just a PowerPoint. Zheng Xiao also planned to invest, but his own funds were limited and couldn’t cover the full production of a series.

Based on his understanding of Lu Xu, he believed Lu Xu would like this script.

As soon as Zheng Xiao mentioned it in the group chat, Shao Yao @’ed him: "What script?"

Since Zheng Xiao intended to invest and hoped Lu Xu would join, Shao Yao naturally became interested too.

Zheng Xiao suddenly realized: "...You want in?!"

Lu Xu was widely recognized as a high roller, both inside and outside the industry. Shao Yao, though seemingly low-key, was signed to a small agency. Small agencies had limited resources, and to retain their top star, they had to make concessions in royalty splits.

Beyond that, Shao Yao’s spending habits were frugal. Though part of the entertainment industry, he didn’t care for cars or watches, focusing more on acting—so it made sense that he had money.

Since everyone was interested, and Zheng Xiao hoped Lu Xu would be too, the three of them gathered to break down the script together.

After the *Contention Award*, Lu Xu reduced his public appearances, but both industry insiders and outsiders tracked his every move.

Insiders were curious about Lu Xu’s next film project, the release schedule for *Fearless Life*, whether he’d be nominated again for the Golden Flame Award and Critics' Award, and even which projects he planned to invest in—in a way, Lu Xu’s Midas touch extended to investments.

Whether it was a script Lu Xu took interest in or his agent Xu Wen suddenly eyeing a project, it all became a hot topic in the industry.

Of course, these people may not necessarily want to profit alongside Lu Xu—they just want to intercept the projects he invests in and replace them with their own investments.

This isn’t baseless talk; there are indeed successful precedents in the industry.

A certain project was originally ignored, with the producer and director turning gray from funding stress. Then one day, news trended that Xu Wen had met with the director, hinting Lu Xu was interested in the script. Soon after, the production team received attention from several investors, and the funding issues were gradually resolved.

*Lu Xu: “…”*

If this continued, he wouldn’t even dare to speak casually anymore.

“How about this—you pretend to take an interest in some script, I’ll pretend to be the film’s director, and we’ll con some investors first. Once the funds hit the account, you can say you’ve found another project you like and con another round.” Zheng Xiao felt like a genius. “This way, I won’t even need to rely on acting to make money anymore.”

*Lu Xu: “…Who would dare say you’re not a genius?”*

“Thanks for the compliment.” Zheng Xiao scratched his head sheepishly. “But I really didn’t expect anyone would actually spend money on such false rumors.”

At first glance, Zheng Xiao would’ve suspected this was a scam.

Yet someone actually believed it!

Now, Zheng Xiao was convinced—even in an industry full of smart people, some still made their fortune through pure boldness.

……

Since Lu Xu rarely met with Zheng Xiao and Shao Yao, they were inevitably photographed again.

After rising to fame, the three of them had fewer and fewer chances to meet—one was always booked for events or another was on set. This time, they arranged to meet at a nearby café, discussing the script while wearing hats, but they were still caught by the paparazzi.

Of course, the paparazzi were mainly after Lu Xu; Shao Yao and Zheng Xiao were just collateral catches.

In their report, the paparazzi specifically labeled the trio—Best Actor at the Contending Awards + Best Actor in a Television Series at Starlight Awards, Starlight Best Actor in a Television Series nominee, and Starlight Best Supporting Actor. “This is undoubtedly a gathering of the most talented young actors in the industry. Half of their peers are filming idol dramas, while the other half are stuck in awkward transitional phases—yet these three have successfully broken through.”

Both Shao Yao and Zheng Xiao have publicly stated that they’ve learned a lot from Lu Xu.

Though the audience doesn’t know exactly what they’ve learned, their achievements speak for themselves.

Even if Shao Yao and Zheng Xiao fall slightly short in comparison to Lu Xu, within the entire entertainment industry, they are undoubtedly among the most outstanding young actors.

At the moment, however, the three of them paid no mind to the paparazzi outside. Lu Xu, in uncharacteristic glasses, furrowed his brows, chin propped on one hand while leisurely flipping through the script with the other.

“The script’s pretty interesting, right?” Zheng Xiao looked at him.

Lu Xu nodded. “No original work?”

He had specifically searched online—this was an original sci-fi screenplay written by the screenwriter themselves. However, the screenwriter was indeed a hardcore sci-fi fan, having written sci-fi novels, worked as a sci-fi editor, and even translated works by several renowned overseas sci-fi authors, being the first to introduce them domestically.

The reason Lu Xu had doubts about the script was that the story carried the romanticism of the cosmos while remaining grounded in China’s space program. It wasn’t one of those attempts caught between cultures.

This was a story about farming in space.

As everyone knew, the Chinese people carried Shennong’s farming DNA, possessing an obsession with agriculture no matter where they went—even in space. In fact, China’s space program had long been experimenting with space farming. The focus of this series was—settling interstellar disputes through farming, sharing cosmic crops to benefit the entire universe and humanity. It sounded outlandish initially, but upon closer reading, one could sense the bone-deep obsession ingrained in the narrative. Moreover, under the screenwriter’s meticulous worldbuilding, Lu Xu found himself weighing the plausibility of this story.

He also understood why no one wanted to invest in it.

The sci-fi projects currently produced in the industry—whether series or films—all carried a sterile, industrial vibe. Sci-fi was epic, visually staggering, and deeply tied to physics. Even if aliens appeared, they were here to invade Earth—no room for agriculture or space plants.

But still…

It really did intrigue him.

Lu Xu wondered: "Do you think the audience will stick with it?"

"This series isn’t long, only planned for 20 episodes. If funding is tight, we can shorten it further. We can cut the episode count, but the budget won’t shrink much—fixed costs are fixed."

Zheng Xiao kinda agreed with Lu Xu—this series clearly belonged to an offbeat, under-the-radar sci-fi genre, yet upon closer inspection, it was quite intriguing. The premise was fresh, and while the logic might seem odd at first glance, it made sense in its own way.

After reading the script in full, Lu Xu’s current thought was that he couldn’t care less about the profits—he just wanted to see what the final product would look like. It felt unique, something he wanted to witness himself and share with the audience.

"So, what do you think?"

"Let’s do it." Lu Xu barely paused. "I’ve never seen anything like this before."

Whether this series turned out good or bad, Lu Xu was certain that no one, domestically or internationally, had ever made anything of this kind.

Even if it ended up being an eccentric work, it would undoubtedly be a total original—no one could top it.

Since the production team only planned for 20 episodes, the shortfall wasn’t as bad as people thought. Lu Xu threw in a hefty chunk of cash, and Shao Yao and Zheng Xiao also contributed.

As actors, their incomes might not compare to true tycoons, but the advantage of being an actor was that money came quickly. Brand deals paid well, and payment hiccups were few and far between. After investing in this series, Lu Xu still had plenty of funds left. Even if he lost it all, as long as he took on new scripts or endorsements, money would keep flowing in.

After winning the Contention Award for Best Actor, Lu Xu landed a flagship luxury car endorsement—the brand had a long vetting process and was extremely cautious in selecting partners. Before Lu Xu, they had only collaborated with two actors, both award-winning stars with impeccable reputations and box-office success, their careers squeaky-clean.

Now, Lu Xu’s endorsements were either high-end or mainstream brands. The latter were just as selective as the former, choosing only household-name figures.

Lu Xu himself was gradually realizing the benefits of winning the Best Actor award.

He had transitioned from the TV world to films. Though his three box-office hits performed well, since he wasn’t originally classically trained—or even formally trained—compared to seasoned film stars, he seemed like a shaky bet.

Some believed Lu Xu would eventually be pushed back to ruling the TV world.

There were many examples of this, with Qiao Mengyao being one.

Though Qiao Mengyao remained a top-tier star, her influence in TV dramas was industry-recognized—she had both popularity and the ability to elevate others. Yet, despite her thriving career, she was still seen as a film industry reject.

Flops in films kept her from A-list status.

Wei Fangfei, on the other hand, was someone who had broken into films but failed to solidify her position.

Wei Fangfei had never won the Contention Award, and Qiao Mengyao was even further from it.

Lu Xu was still young, and one Contention Award trophy was enough to carve his name into Contention Award history. Unless a younger actor broke his record in the future, Lu Xu had already etched his legacy.

Now, no one mentioned Qi Di or Bei Hong anymore, not even Zhao Yifan, who had clashed with Lu Xu in *Reversal City*. They weren’t even in his league anymore.

TV cred didn’t stack up to film cred. Even if Lu Xu had been the top actor in TV, if his film work failed, film snobs wouldn’t give him the time of day.

But now, in terms of awards, Lu Xu had surpassed them all.

...

Some time later, the Golden Flame Awards announced their ceremony date.

Though the Golden Flame Awards committee didn’t deliberately market it, before this year’s ceremony, everyone was asking: Would Lu Xu score another nod?

He had previously been nominated for the Golden Flame Best Actor award for *Feather of Youth*, but many viewers felt that year that the awards just wanted Lu Xu’s clout, not to actually award him.

Of course, compared to other nominated films, *Feather of Youth*’s plot was somewhat thin. Not winning wasn’t surprising—a win would’ve been a shocker.

"No way Lu Xu gets snubbed. Who’d look worse—Lu Xu or the Golden Flame folks?"

"I originally thought the more official Contention Award would be stingy, but it moved lightning fast—one nomination and like, bam, instant win. The Golden Flame Award seems more fan-friendly, but I always felt it was rather cold toward Lu Xu, even though the nomination came early."

The public buzzed with discussions, yet the Golden Flame Award committee remained unmoved. On the day of the nominations announcement, they waited until the very last moment before leisurely revealing the list.

"Lu Xu made it!"

"Ahhhh, our pup's on a winning streak!"

"Can we dream of a Golden Flame Best Actor this time? Early wishful thinking for our boy!"

"Wow! Seeing the Golden Flame nominations made me realize what an achievement Lu Xu’s Contention Award win was!"

No wonder people were shocked—this year’s Golden Flame Best Actor nominations were almost identical to the Contention Award’s, with only the last nominee changing from Song Shizhen to Zhong Wen.

In other words, both big awards agreed these four were last year's top actors: Lu Xu, Hang Xiaguang, Pei Han, and Ren Ningyi.