Chapter 95: The Proposal (Combined Chapter, Requesting Monthly Votes)

“Zhang Yang, Gabe.” Liu Kang carried his tray and naturally sat at the intersection between the two.

The executive canteen had small round tables. Li He and Zhang Yang sat opposite each other, while Liu Kang took the diagonal seat, forming a right-angled triangle from a straight line.

Li He greeted politely, “Minister Liu.”

Zhang Yang lifted her eyes slightly, a hint of displeasure flashing through them. “Minister Liu, how do you have time to come eat in person?”

With so many seats available in the executive canteen, and he chose to sit at my table... The cold and elegant woman inwardly fumed.

The two of them were now absolute adversaries.

Anyone who obstructed the independence of the Lyrics and Composition Department was an enemy of the composers.

Liu Kang’s hand, holding chopsticks, stiffened noticeably. What was this ‘I also come down to eat personally’? It’s as if I don’t need to come down daily to eat, like there’s a secretary feeding me.

Little Zhang was becoming increasingly arrogant.

Liu Kang glanced sideways, pretending not to notice Zhang Yang continuing to eat, finding it odd.

Usually, when the two met, the tension wasn’t so thick. Although Zhang Yang had been cold towards those opposing the department’s independence since she advocated for it, she never deliberately sought to provoke.

Then, as Liu Da withdrew his sidelong glance, his eyes happened to meet Li He’s.

At that moment, Liu Kang suddenly understood.

Come to think of it, it seemed that every time Zhang Yang snapped at him, people from the Lyrics and Composition Department were present.

Before the “former boss” could reply, Zhang Yang, assuming she had silenced Liu Kang, feigned indifference and said, “Li He, tell me about your idea.”

Liu Kang lifted his curious head. “What idea?”

Zhang Yang turned her head away, clearly unwilling to engage with the “former boss,” now a sworn enemy.

“It’s a rough idea about a variety show,” said Li He, his head as big as a bucket. Watching his superiors spar was entertaining, but being the only spectator was suffocating; he was caught in that predicament.

He wanted to watch but dared not; he couldn’t resist not watching.

Both bosses were holding back today—Sister Yang was going to confront, and Minister Liu was going to retort... Li He’s inner drama was vivid, eagerly anticipating their spectacular battle.

Provided the onlookers weren’t alone, or else the whole thing might end badly.

“Go ahead,” Zhang Yang put down her chopsticks, signaling she was listening.

After a pause, with a pointed glance, she said, “This is a confidential internal meeting for the Lyrics and Composition Department. Outsiders, please leave.”

A bit of discernment, Liu Kang was indeed getting more annoying!

No matter how much she roasted him, he seemed not to hear it, leaving Zhang Yang helpless and unfulfilled in her rebuke.

But Liu Kang acted as if oblivious, quietly picking at his meal.

Singers and composers are one family; the department’s meetings are effectively singer meetings, so I’m not an outsider.

No problem!

Liu Kang conscientiously picked at his food without a word, playing the part of a quiet eater.

Li He was frustrated—how did an innocent bystander get caught up? The script for watching this show wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Zhang Yang signaled Li He not to bother with Liu Kang, who was now “not human,” and to continue discussing the variety show plan.

Receiving the cue, Li He pulled out his phone from his pocket, opened his notes app, and handed it to the cold and elegant woman.

“Hm?”

Zhang Yang took the phone with a puzzled look, but her expression changed upon reading the contents.

It wasn’t just an idea—it was a complete proposal.

The thought of not having a daughter struck her again.

She studied the proposal carefully; the more she read, the more shocked she became, her expression shifting repeatedly.

Liu Kang, who had been quietly eating, sensed something was off. At first, when Li He asked Zhang Yang to look at the phone, he assumed it was to request permission to explain.

After all, the Lyrics and Composition Department, influenced by the rebellious Zhang Yang, was unfriendly to him.

But Zhang Yang kept staring at the phone with a serious, focused expression.

Something was definitely wrong!

Liu Kang, chopsticks in hand, subtly moved closer to Zhang Yang, shifting this way and that, finally fixing his gaze on the phone screen.

Zhang Yang did not stop him, letting the “former boss” watch.

She was deeply shocked; the variety show proposal was incredibly thorough.

From the core concept to the required number of staff and their technical skill levels, to the positioning and abilities of the artists—it was a very complete plan.

After a few minutes of sneaking a peek, Liu Da also noticed something unusual about the plan. He stopped pretending, put down his chopsticks, and sat closer, openly studying the document.

Seeing the reaction of his two superiors, Li He finally exhaled in relief.

He wasn’t sure if “The Life We Long For” would be a hit or a flop in this world.

In the previous life, the show was successful for many reasons, with its positioning and planning standing out.

However, a show’s success depended not only on the plan but also on the director’s vision, the guest stars’ appeal and chemistry with the audience, and whether the post-production team had the technical skill and creative dynamism.

Back then, “The Life We Long For” had a top-notch post-production team with flawless skills—especially the animated segments added charm to each episode.

The four regular guests were highly capable, and flying guests were carefully selected.

The system’s proposal was for the first season of “The Life We Long For,” with farming activities taking a significant role—a key feature of the show.

Li He had watched several episodes of season one, but stopped following later due to lack of time.

Season one left a striking impression, and he recalled the premiere’s ratings were quite impressive.

He didn’t remember the exact numbers but had seen online that they were definitely high.

After a long while, the canteen emptied, and the cleaning ladies passed by two or three times.

They were puzzled—why did these three stay so long after finishing their meals, sitting in the office instead of the canteen where it was more comfortable?

Those who ate in the executive canteen all had private offices.

The cleaners dared not urge them and could only gossip from afar.

After an uncertain amount of time, Zhang Yang and Liu Kang returned the phone to Li He, both deeply shocked but thinking their own thoughts.

Zhang Yang: It’s a good thing we took Li He in early. No, I have to work hard and try to have a daughter by year-end... there’s still time.

Liu Kang: Why didn’t I insist back then? Shamelessly, I should have kept Gabe by my side. But at least he’s in the Singer Department, at Shengshi.

Zhang Yang said seriously, “Has anyone else seen this proposal?”

Liu Kang also became solemn. Shengshi was aggressively pursuing diversification—from films to variety shows.

In fact, Shengshi Entertainment was the first company to pioneer diversification in entertainment.

Other companies focused on their own fields—some on music, some on films, some on variety shows—each minding their own business.

Until Shengshi Entertainment poached Wenshan at great cost, the industry suddenly realized Shengshi was up to something.

Indeed, very soon multiple companies reported actors terminating contracts, who then signed with Shengshi, becoming its contracted artists.

Shengshi boldly began producing movies, but it didn’t stop there; they also encouraged Brother Entertainment to run variety shows.

If you can’t make movies, then do variety shows.

Shengshi knew that if it broke the rules alone, multiple companies would block it, and Shengshi alone could not withstand such a blockade—not enough to go bankrupt but enough to suffer major setbacks.

However, involving one of the three giants in music, Brother Entertainment, changed the equation.

If you want to block, you have to consider if it’s worth it.

In the end, the movies flopped, their reputation tanked, and Shengshi sought to collaborate with Brother Entertainment on “Slow Rhythm.”

But Brother Entertainment refused, angering Shengshi greatly.

It was Shengshi who initially suggested doing variety shows. When they wanted to invest, Brother Entertainment disagreed and even brought in Cui Can instead.

Shengshi and Cui Can were at odds over Gabe’s situation.

So, Zhang Yang and Liu Kang were so serious because “The Life We Long For” and “Slow Rhythm” overlapped in positioning.

This was exactly what Shengshi wanted to see.

Li He shook his head and said to the cold and elegant woman, “No one else. After I finished this plan, I didn’t go eat but came straight to your office.”

No one else who saw the proposal was in this world.

Although Zhang Yang and Liu Kang expected this, they still felt relieved.

Liu Kang smiled, “Gabe, send me this proposal by email. I’ll submit it for company review, as long as—”

Before he finished, Zhang Yang interrupted sharply, “Minister Liu, don’t treat yourself as an outsider. Understand that Li He is part of the Lyrics and Composition Department. His proposal must be submitted for company review through that department, not the Singer Department.”

At this moment, Zhang Yang was like a protective wildcat, fiercely chasing away enemies coveting her food.

Liu Kang smiled wryly but didn’t argue.

Singers and composers are one family; there’s no such thing as a separate Lyrics and Composition Department.

Zhang Yang’s submission to the company review still went through the Singer Department channel and bore their label.

Who submits it doesn’t matter—the plan is Gabe’s, and the submitting department is Singer. That’s unchanged.

Liu Kang didn’t argue because it was pointless.

Though Zhang Yang, being a composer herself, was more articulate, the bottom line was that singers and composers are one.

Once he accepted that, Liu Kang felt much more comfortable and treated Zhang Yang’s barbs with a smile.

After warning the former boss, Zhang Yang said, “The company review should take two or three days because it requires market research, which takes time.”

Although “The Life We Long For” overlapped in positioning with “Slow Rhythm,” they differed in many ways.

How well the show would be received depended on market research results.

If the data was favorable, filming could start immediately.

Liu Kang interjected, “I’ll help you apply for the position of chief planner.”

Producing the plan didn’t automatically make you the chief planner; the chief planner needed to work with the director during filming.

The chief planner in a variety show team was like the head writer in a film crew—different name, similar role.

Li He hesitated, “Does the chief planner get extra pay?”

He wanted to earn money, after all.

Zhang Yang was displeased, “I’ll help you apply. The chief planner’s salary won’t be low, though I don’t know the exact amount. Our company is new to variety shows.”

Shengshi Entertainment’s core business was music. Zhang Yang, as the leader among composers, rarely dealt with outsiders; Liu Kang handled most external affairs.

Li He nodded, agreeing to let his two superiors apply for the chief planner position on his behalf.

He had little to do in August anyway; idling around was boring.

The three discussed more about the “The Life We Long For” plan, spending the entire afternoon in the executive canteen.

The two cleaning ladies were nearly overwhelmed—they didn’t know whether to stay or leave.

If they left before finishing cleaning, the company would deduct their pay. But if they stayed, they dared not ask the three to leave.

They were ordinary cleaners, not bold enough to offend such high-ranking diners.

After Li He and the others finally left, the cleaners nearly jumped for joy—they had almost fallen asleep waiting.

Once outside the executive canteen, the three went back to their respective floors. Back in the Seventh Group’s office area, the senior colleague immediately noticed Li He’s late return.

He approached and grabbed Li He’s arm. “Where have you been? Don’t you know the company’s inspections tighten at month-end? Being late will cost you money.”

Li He smiled, “I was reporting some matters to Sister Yang.”

Reporting to a superior shouldn’t count as being late.

The senior colleague’s interest was piqued. “What did you report? Can you say?”

Li He smiled mysteriously, “You can try asking.”

He wondered if Sister Yang would silence him if he did.

The senior colleague shuddered and instinctively touched his lips.

Better not pry.

Last time, after watching “Ten Years,” he got carried away and his lips swelled for three days.

Old Qin was traumatized.

Now, whenever gossip about Zhang Yang surfaced, he avoided it like the plague. If he could not hear it, better.

As for whether to call her Little Zhang or not—gossip could be avoided, but the name could not.

Back at his desk, Li He resumed his idle, goofing-off mode.

Unlike the first two dramas “Battle Through the Heavens” and “Martial Universe,” this adaptation by the system inherently had a maddeningly intense style, requiring no story revisions.

“Zhu Xian” also needed little alteration; the situation with Dao Biyao was enough to stir readers up, especially since in the finale Biyao was not resurrected. Li He could already foresee the uproar the ending would cause, rivaling that of his revised “Battle Through the Heavens.”

Another wave of negative emotions!

This time, it really wasn’t my fault, and Dao Biyao’s fate wasn’t my intention. If you’re dissatisfied, take it up with Xiao Da!

I’m just the transporter for “Zhu Xian.”

While Li He idled at work, Baidu Literature exploded.

When readers saw the three-day leave notice for the author, they were shattered.

Three days!

Usually, leave was fine, and readers wouldn’t complain, but this was a crucial plot point—readers were desperate for updates!

Where did the three brothers go?

Would the three brothers die?

What happened to Ying Huanhuan?

These questions haunted readers’ minds, causing an uproar.

They were fed up!

Many of the author’s readers were also fans of the Grandmaster author, as he wrote the best “loser” genre aside from the Grandmaster.

The pleasure and plot control were always spot-on, with no disgusting contrivances or ambiguity about whether a character was dead—much better than the Grandmaster.

Especially after the “Battle Through the Heavens” finale, readers felt the author was a genuine, conscientious writer of the new era.

Updates matched the Grandmaster’s pace, writing skills rivaled his, and apart from not being the pioneer of the “loser” genre, the author was on par in every way.

Just as readers adored him, he took leave at a critical plot point.

And for three whole days.

Readers couldn’t say much, only helpless rage, unable to criticize the author openly.

After all, since starting the book, the author hadn’t taken a single day off.

Taking leave was normal—who had no business? Which author never took leave? But taking leave at a plot cliffhanger was hard for many readers to bear.

They couldn’t criticize, but the frustration built up inside.

The mental strain was unbearable.

At this time, readers even missed the Grandmaster. Though his antics were annoying, at least criticizing him felt guilt-free!

With this author, they felt guilty after criticizing.

It was a tough predicament!

—

P.S. This was posted first and revised later; please point out any errors.

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