After wrapping up the 2048 matters, Luo Ming opened his computer and started searching for information on mobile games.
Up until now, his focus had been on PC games and premium buy-to-play titles, so he hadn’t really given much thought to the mobile gaming space.
It wasn’t until Lin Shuwen had reminded him that he realized he might have been missing out on a business opportunity.
After about half an hour of research, Luo Ming closed his browser.
Outside of Asia, the gaming landscape in this world was pretty much the same as in his previous life. The differences were mostly concentrated around Asia—specifically, countries that had once been part of the Sinosphere cultural sphere.
Games that had been huge in his past life, like Angry Birds and Temple Run, had already been developed here. However, Clash of Clans, which had remained popular for years, hadn’t been released yet. In fact, even the company that had originally created it in his memory didn’t exist in this world.
Luo Ming sat in thought for a moment, then created a new folder on his computer.
Clash of Clans was a fantastic game! If managed well, it could serve as a pillar for the company’s early development.
Blazing Light would definitely be moving in the direction of ByteDance.
But the business that had truly propelled ByteDance to new heights was, without a doubt, short-form video.
Given the current penetration of 4G networks and the pace at which smartphones were being upgraded, the environment for short-form video platforms wouldn’t really be viable until around mid-2015, or even early 2016 at the earliest.
So, to get through the next two years smoothly while simultaneously supporting the company’s big data efforts, they’d definitely need other sources of revenue.
Otherwise, they’d be forced to accept large infusions of outside capital, which would mean giving up equity.
Luo Ming clearly didn’t want that to happen.
In his past life, ByteDance had broken through with Jinri Toutiao (Today’s Headlines). They’d leveraged big data to upgrade their recommendation algorithm, built up a large base of loyal users, and gradually expanded using advertising revenue from the platform.
This was a classic success story that Luo Ming definitely wasn’t about to overlook. But if the gaming side could also see strong growth, that would be even better—after all, who doesn’t want more money?
And with a substantial amount of capital on hand, Luo Ming could even start building out cloud computing infrastructure ahead of time.
In his previous life, ByteDance hadn’t filled that gap until 2020, which allowed their in-app recommendation mechanisms to undergo another upgrade.
If Luo Ming could build out cloud computing earlier, then by the time the short-form video platform launched in 2016, Blazing Light would have a big-data recommendation algorithm that was several steps ahead of its time. In that case, the company’s meteoric rise would be all but guaranteed.
Just thinking about it got Luo Ming’s heart racing.
And at that very moment, Lin Shuwen was equally excited.
Her excitement, however, wasn’t because of the afternoon movie premiere—it was because Director Zhu had just called her.
The day before, her cousin had handed over the complete program proposal to Director Zhu. After reading through it, he honestly couldn’t find a single flaw. This wasn’t just a program proposal; it could practically be used as a full script.
When Director Zhu learned from Lin Shuyue that the script had been polished and improved by “Lin Shuwen,” he immediately called her.
“Wen Wen, I won’t beat around the bush. I’m planning my next movie, and I’ve set aside the female lead’s second role for you. You’ve got to say yes!”
“Director Zhu, do you really think I can pull it off? My reputation as an actress isn’t exactly great…”
“With me around, you don’t need to worry about a thing.”
“Then I won’t hold back.”
“This is what you deserve, Wen Wen. I’m looking forward to working with you again.”
“I’m looking forward to it too. Thank you, Director Zhu.”
“I should be the one thanking you. Wen Wen, that script you put together is absolutely brilliant! You saved me a ton of work!” With that, Director Zhu offered a few more words of encouragement before hanging up.
“Director Zhu’s female lead’s second role?” Sister Shan, who had been listening nearby, quickly asked as Lin Shuwen put down her phone.
Lin Shuwen nodded.
“Oh my gosh! Wen Wen, your luck is incredible! Director Zhu is practically handing you a role on a silver platter.” Sister Shan got so excited that her Northeastern accent slipped out again.
“Luck? No way! This is talent! Luo Ming’s talent.” Of course, Lin Shuwen couldn’t say the latter half out loud—she just muttered it silently to herself.
“Right, right, right! Talent! It’s all talent! Miao Miao, Chu Chu, dinner’s on me tonight. Anywhere you want—name it!”
“Ahem! Sister Shan, I think Director Liu is the one treating us tonight,” Chen Junmiao reminded her.
“Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot—after the premiere, the film’s creative team is definitely going out for dinner together. Well then, how about tomorrow? Pick any restaurant in Shanghai you like!”
“Sister Shan, you’re the best!”
“Thanks, Sister Shan!”
“Sister Shan, can I let loose and eat too?” Lin Shuwen asked with a hopeful look.
“Since you’ve been losing weight pretty quickly, I’ll let you go all out this time!”
“Sister Shan, you’re amazing!”
At 3:00 PM, Lin Shuwen arrived at the China Film International Cinema in Shanghai in her chauffeured van.
Today, she wore a pair of very common jeans on the bottom, a white T-shirt underneath, and a light yellow down jacket on top. She had a baseball cap on her head, looking every bit like a vibrant college student, with just a touch of light makeup on her face.
This was exactly what Sister Shan had instructed. After all, Lin Shuwen had only sung the theme song. In the 113-minute film, her face appeared for less than 20 seconds—without even a named character. So at times like this, it was best to let the actors take center stage.
All she needed to do was perform the theme song, help the creative team promote the film at this premiere, and ride the wave of attention to drum up interest for her album, which was set to drop in February the following year.
Yes, Lin Shuwen’s album was scheduled for release in February of next year.
More precisely, on the first Monday after the Lunar New Year—February 10th, 2014.
Her album was going to center around the theme “The Original Dream,” which meant she couldn’t even piggyback on the buzz from Valentine’s Day on February 14th.
Come to think of it, today was already November 30th, 2013. That gave her just about 70 days until the album dropped.
Director Liu’s movie was set to hit theaters on New Year’s Day. As for the Spring Festival slot—well, in Director Liu’s own words, that was when the big guns came out to play.
He was well aware that his movie was barely above average. He didn’t have much confidence in battling it out during the Spring Festival box-office frenzy, so he’d settled on a New Year’s Day release instead.
At least there wouldn’t be any major competitors around that time. Breaking even would be no problem—it was just a question of how much profit they could rake in.
The film’s budget was 20 million yuan. To recoup that, they’d likely need around 60 million yuan in box-office revenue. Director Liu’s hope for this film was to cross the 100-million-yuan mark.
To that end, he’d scheduled the premiere quite early and had made sure to invite Lin Shuwen.
Of course, Lin Shuwen would only be attending this one premiere. Director Liu and the rest of the crew would continue holding a few more premieres in other major cities afterward, but Lin Shuwen wouldn’t need to be there. In fact, even the main cast members might not all show up for those later events.
By the time Lin Shuwen arrived backstage, the rest of the creative team was already there.
She hadn’t expected to be the last one to arrive. Even though she wasn’t late, having so many people wait for her made her feel a little embarrassed.
“Director Liu, I’m sorry—traffic was a bit heavy on the way here.” Lin Shuwen made up a classic excuse on the spot.
“No worries. We just got here ourselves. Wen Wen, we’re counting on you today.”
“Don’t worry, Director Liu. I promise I’ll give it my absolute best and sing perfectly.”
Director Liu smiled and nodded.
At 3:15 PM, the film’s creative team entered the theater first. The movie was set to start at 3:30, and the team took their seats in the very front row.
Lin Shuwen absolutely hated sitting in the front row to watch a movie. She preferred rows four or five—what most moviegoers considered the “golden zone” for the best viewing experience.
