Chapter 76: A Heavyweight Blow

Huang Guolun’s mood stalled—could the premiere of “A Corpse’s True Love” have performed so poorly? Was it really on the verge of collapse? Surely Huang Guokun wasn’t joking with him? He waited, but Huang Guokun sent no further messages. Huang Guolun realized that their film was in a truly perilous situation! In fact, the entire company’s fate was precarious. If this film couldn’t help Kunlun Culture make a comeback, the efforts of the past two years would be wasted, and they would have to start from scratch again.

That day, after spending hours playing with Huang Tao, Huang Guolun was already exhausted. With anxiety gnawing at him, he had no energy left, and went to bed just after nine o’clock. He had barely lain down when Sun Yanzhen sent him a message. She had worked overtime all day and only now had a chance to relax. She had just finished watching “A Corpse’s True Love”—the thrilling plot and stirring music had swept away her fatigue, and she praised the film to Huang Guolun, saying it was superbly made! The ending theme, just as he had promised, absolutely floored her.

Sun Yanzhen declared that she would urge every friend she knew to watch this zombie masterpiece, supporting Kunlun Culture through her actions. That evening, she didn’t chat much with Huang Guolun; she wanted to rest up, for tomorrow morning she’d take her students hiking in Xiangshan, wearing their “class uniforms” to advertise “A Corpse’s True Love”!

Huang Guolun was grateful for Sun Yanzhen’s wholehearted support, but he couldn’t help worrying about the film. Lying in bed, he turned restlessly, wondering how such a good movie could be on the brink of failure.

At eleven the next morning, exactly twenty-four hours after the release, Huang Guolun asked Bai Yao to help tally the numbers again. After a full day in theaters, “A Corpse’s True Love” had surpassed five hundred thousand views on the Eight-Network. Yet the paid conversion rate remained low, with just over twenty thousand paying viewers.

On the Tencent Video online movie chart, which held the largest market share, “A Corpse’s True Love” hadn’t broken into the top twenty-five in either daily views or daily box office. This ranking was far below anyone’s expectations, mismatched with the film’s quality.

Huang Guolun could imagine morale at Kunlun Culture must be at rock bottom. He called Huang Guokun, hoping to understand the current situation and see what more he could do to help. The company was short on funds, but Huang Guolun had money and was willing to lend it to help them through the crisis.

Having spent a sleepless night, Huang Guokun was overjoyed to hear Huang Guolun was willing to help. He didn’t ask for much—just one million to fund further publicity.

Regardless of whether the film ultimately turned a profit, once the first wave of box office revenue came in, about a month later, he would immediately repay Huang Guolun with standard monthly loan interest.

Huang Guolun told him, “Don’t talk nonsense with me—interest and all that. If the company urgently needs money, just take it. There’s no rush to pay me back.”

“No need. If we need more, I’ll ask you again,” Huang Guokun replied. “Though the box office is way below expectations, breaking three million in the first month shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll recoup at least one and a half million, and I’ll repay you then.”

Online films were divided into A/B/C/D grades by revenue share. Major platforms’ premium, exclusive productions were A-grade, with the film company receiving seventy percent of ticket sales—on a five-yuan ticket, they’d get three and a half yuan.

B-grade films, which were standard, exclusive productions, earned fifty percent of box office revenue for the filmmakers.

Regular, non-exclusive, wide-release films were C-grade; their creators received thirty percent. D-grade films, with especially low budgets, also called “Five-Star,” only got ten percent—fifty cents per ticket.

With online blockbusters booming, D-grade films had become rare; most platforms wouldn’t even list them anymore, with C-grade being the minimum standard.

“A Corpse’s True Love” should have been a C-grade, wide-release film, but thanks to the series’ reputation and fan base, plus its excellent production quality, Kunlun Culture negotiated B-grade contracts with all the major platforms, meaning half the box office would go to them.

The film’s opening day box office was bleak: just over twenty thousand paid viewers, barely surpassing one hundred thousand yuan. To reach three million in the first month would be challenging.

Yet Huang Guokun remained confident. He told Huang Guolun, “Once the money arrives, I’ll immediately contact the agents for Yang Mi and Wu Yifan and prepare a big push!”

Huang Guolun exclaimed, “You’re planning to have Yang Mi and Wu Yifan promote ‘A Corpse’s True Love’?”

“Exactly! I’ve looked into it—Yang Mi and Wu Yifan charge five hundred thousand each for a single Weibo ad. Their teams have to approve the ad first; only then will they post. I believe, once they see our film, they won’t refuse to help us with this paid promotion!”

Huang Guolun was startled, asking, “You’re going to spend my one million on two celebrity Weibo posts? Isn’t that burning money? With that budget, why not place solid ads where there are more movie fans?”

“Traditional ads don’t work now. With just a million, we can’t afford any truly effective hard ads. Small-scale hard and soft ads are already being handled by the company team, but the results are mediocre. What we lack most is heavyweight advertising—a breakthrough. Without it, the film really will collapse.”

Huang Guokun explained further, “At this rate, ‘A Corpse’s True Love’ will match the previous film’s box office, maybe letting us recoup three or four million. That’s a fifty percent loss. The online film market’s developed too fast; damn it, the platforms push only their own movies, squeezing wide-release films out of existence. The situation is much worse than when ‘A Corpse’s True Soul’ premiered during the New Year. I didn’t expect the platforms to go this hard, leaving no room for syndicated films.”

Huang Guolun said, “The platforms are forcing you into exclusive contracts; they’re fencing off their territory.”

Huang Guokun retorted, “I refuse to sign! I want more people to see the films Kunlun Culture produces. As long as the quality is solid, I don’t believe we can’t break through! I’d rather risk a bigger loss than let our film end like this.”

Huang Guolun cautioned, “But you have to bet on the right horse! Pinning your hopes on a couple of celebrity Weibo posts—aren’t you being reckless?”

“It’s not reckless, it’s keeping up with the times. You don’t know the industry. In this era of traffic, getting top influencers to promote yields the greatest advertising return! If Yang Mi and Wu Yifan’s teams agree to do it, I guarantee our film’s views will skyrocket dozens, even a hundred times! If even ten percent convert to paying viewers, we’ll make a fortune! ‘A Corpse’s True Love’ isn’t lacking in word of mouth—it needs more exposure. As long as more people know about it, paying viewers will explode! If this million is spent well, we might even break ten million at the box office this month!”

Huang Guolun felt Huang Guokun was dreaming again, so he quickly warned, “Be careful; don’t be too optimistic. I don’t know this industry, so I won’t offer random advice. If you believe in celebrity Weibo promotion, do it—but don’t stake everything on that one hope.”

“I know, that’s our main punch, but I’ve got plenty of smaller punches lined up. If none work, then I’ll bring out the Seven Wounds Fist.”

“What’s the Seven Wounds Fist?”

“Let Marco do a live stream on Douyu, cooking himself in an iron pot; let Bolo swallow swords and walk on fire on Panda TV. Whatever it takes for this movie’s box office, we won’t hold back.”

Thinking Huang Guokun was joking, Huang Guolun laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

But Huang Guokun insisted, “I’m not joking, I mean it. I’ve built up this golden couple for years—it’s time they repay the company.”

Huang Guolun hurriedly objected, “Don’t do anything crazy! If you have them do such idiotic things, their careers will be ruined!”

Huang Guokun had his own logic, “No matter. If they’re ruined, they can become comedians. If ‘A Corpse’s True Love’ doesn’t take off, they have no hope as legitimate stars anyway—better to switch tracks.”

Huang Guolun was speechless; it was obvious that the lackluster premiere had nearly pushed Huang Guokun to the brink. After pouring his heart and fortune into a film meant to attract great attention, only to see it buried by the Eight-Network’s collusion, it was a bitter blow. Anyone in his position would struggle to bear it. Huang Guokun’s fighting spirit was remarkable.

After their call, Huang Guolun wasted no time and transferred one million to Huang Guokun, hoping it would be the umbrella in the rain, the coal in the snow.

Money alone wasn’t enough; Huang Guolun considered what else he could do himself to help promote “A Corpse’s True Love.” He posted on his social feed, urging all his friends to watch the film and, if they liked it, to recommend it.

Constantly posting such ads was annoying, but he had no other way to help.

That afternoon, Zhao Jing sent him a voice message, her tone full of reproach: “Mr. Huang, did you forget about your special performance at my sister’s shop? Everything’s ready—we’re just waiting for you to sing. Are you coming? If you are, I want to livestream the event to help promote my sister’s duck restaurant. The whole point of your special performance is to promote the shop. Livestreaming is just another way to help—shouldn’t be a problem, right? My sister insisted I get your opinion first; if you agree, we’ll set up the streaming equipment. Please reply soon—a lot of people are waiting for your go-ahead.”

Listening to Zhao Jing’s message, Huang Guolun was intrigued. He wondered if livestreaming really attracted lots of viewers—these days, it was the craze, and if many netizens watched, he could use the opportunity to give “A Corpse’s True Love” a powerful advertisement!

Compared to celebrities casually posting a Weibo ad, his own live performance would be far more eye-catching and memorable to viewers—it would leave a deep impression of the film.

This was real heavyweight promotion!

But then he hesitated: he didn’t want to appear on camera or become famous. He didn’t even want others to know who he was.

Suddenly, he realized there was a solution: he could wear large sunglasses and appear as “Mr. Huang,” the film’s behind-the-scenes music producer! That way, he could promote “A Corpse’s True Love” while concealing his identity.

He was plain-looking and not easily remembered, and with sunglasses, people would recall only the glasses, not his actual appearance.

Just like Wong Kar Wai, who always appeared in sunglasses—people remembered only the sunglasses, never what he looked like. Without them, Wong Kar Wai blended into the crowd, able to stroll the streets without being recognized.

Huang Guolun decided he could do the same: whenever he needed to appear, he’d wear big sunglasses and use “Mr. Huang” as his persona. No one would know he was Huang Guolun.

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed feasible.

He immediately replied to Zhao Jing with a message: “I’ll come to the duck shop this afternoon; let’s talk in person.”