Huayu: This director is pretty strong.

Chapter 205 Transoceanic Call, Aftershocks of a Rainy Night in Milan

Rain washed over the streets of Milan, and the red and blue police lights swept across the night, cutting it into pieces.

Chen Yan folded his umbrella and retreated under the eaves.

Several heavily armed Italian police officers jumped out of the car, pointing their guns at Wang, the comprador on the ground, and also at the unconscious rioters in the passageway.

Wu Gang clutched his injured shoulder, leaning against the wall, blood seeping from between his fingers, diluted by the rain.

Su Wan ran down from the screening room, clutching the draft of the guaranteed revenue sharing contract in her hand. Her high heels splashed through the puddles.

"Chen, what happened?"

The police inspector leading the team asked in English with a heavy Italian accent.

Chen Yan stepped forward and handed over his passport and the black invitation letter with gold lettering.

"Officer, I'm a film director."

He raised his hand and pointed to the cinema entrance, raindrops dripping down his sleeves.

"A closed-door screening will be held here tomorrow morning at 10 a.m., with Hollywood executives and film selectors from the three major European film festivals in attendance."

Chen Yan's finger moved towards Wang, the comprador who was handcuffed, and then pointed to the plastic bottles scattered on the ground.

"These people were carrying high concentrations of nitric acid and guns, and they were trying to destroy the only film master tape."

He paused for a moment, looking into the police inspector's eyes.

"This is a deliberate sabotage of international cultural exchange."

The police inspector's expression changed instantly when he saw the skull and crossbones symbol on the plastic bottle.

In Europe, security incidents involving international film festivals and Hollywood executives are enough to alarm the Ministry of the Interior.

"Take them all! Take them all!"

The police inspector waved his hand to give the order, then turned to look at Chen Yan.

"Mr. Chen, you and your team need to give a statement."

He glanced at the rain and bloodstains at the cinema entrance.

"I will apply to my superiors to have more police officers deployed to maintain order at tomorrow's screening."

Thank you for your trouble.

Chen Yan nodded.

Wang, the comprador, was dragged up from the ground by two policemen. As he passed Chen Yan, he looked up.

His scarred face was covered in rainwater and mud, and his eyes showed only defeat.

He knew that in Italy, if someone was prosecuted for possession of weapons and dangerous chemicals, they would likely be out in less than ten years.

Lu Haiming wouldn't go abroad to rescue a useless person.

Chen Yan didn't look at him; her gaze went past the police car and towards the end of the street.

Tianjin, on the banks of the Haihe River.

The stage on the second floor of the teahouse was empty.

The woman in green removed her makeup, leaving only a dim yellow ceiling lamp illuminating the empty stage.

Lu Haiming sat at the rosewood tea table, toying with two century-old mint-tipped lion's head teacups in his hands.

The walnuts have a reddish patina on their surface, giving them a jade-like sheen.

The dial tone after the phone call ended echoed in the empty teahouse.

It was raining quite heavily in Milan.

Your person is probably not coming back.

Chen Yan's words were spoken lightly, without much embellishment, yet they tore apart the facade that Lu Haiming had cultivated for ten years.

Lu Haiming exerted force with his thumb.

The priceless lion's head walnut in his right hand had a thin crack.

A sharp splinter pierced his palm, and beads of blood seeped from his skin.

He didn't let go; instead, he continued to apply more pressure until the entire walnut crumbled into pieces in his palm.

Twenty years ago, he worked as a porter at the Tianjin docks.

In order to steal a contractor's job, he and three brothers broke their competitor's leg with shovels and sank him into the Haihe River.

From that day on, he understood a principle: rules are made for the weak, while the strong only care about results.

The clock tower collapsed, and he paid someone to take the blame.

When reporters questioned him, he bribed them to keep quiet.

When theaters refused to cooperate, he formed an alliance to cut off film distribution.

He was used to solving problems in the simplest and most brutal way, and he was also used to others bowing down to him.

But Chen Yan didn't.

This young man in his early twenties not only overturned the chessboard he had set up in China, but also traveled 8,000 kilometers away and broke his sharpest knife.

"Old Zhou."

Lu Haiming took a hot towel and slowly wiped away the blood and sawdust from his hands.

Behind the screen, President Zhou, who had replaced Li Jianguo, came out, keeping his head down and avoiding Lu Haiming's still bleeding hand.

"Go and find out who approved the script for Chen Yan's film."

Lu Haiming threw the blood-stained towel into the wastewater container.

"Say hello to those retired senior leaders from the Film Bureau."

He looked up and saw the Haihe River outside the window was completely dark.

"For example, this film has the tendency to incite riots among the lower classes and does not conform to mainstream values."

The steam from the tea table dissipated, and Lu Haiming's palm pressed against the tabletop, the bloodstains rubbing against the wood grain.

"Block the review process."

He paused, his voice hoarse from the tea smoke.

"Even if he wins an award from the highest heavens abroad, he can forget about having his film shown in China for even a day."

"Understood, Mr. Lu."

Mr. Zhou wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"What about Li Jianguo...?"

"Let him rot in Hainan."

Lu Haiming stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the dark Haihe River outside.

"Times have changed."

He carefully shook the remaining walnut crumbs from his palm into the ashtray.

"Some people should just sink to the bottom."

Milan, Four Seasons Hotel.

Michael Horton, wrapped in a bathrobe, sat on the leather sofa in the suite.

On the table was the black invitation card with gold lettering.

The assistant came in carrying two cups of coffee and handed one to Horton.

"Boss, we've found out."

The assistant opened the notebook.

"Chen Yan, a 22-year-old Chinese director, is a recent graduate of the Beijing Film Academy and has no prior feature film experience in China."

He turned the page and continued reading.

"But for the film he brought, 'The Wandering Earth,' China Film Group took over the domestic distribution and promotion."

Richard Taylor of Vita Digital personally endorsed it.

This afternoon, on the second basement floor of the MIA trading market, in front of French buyer Jean-Michel, they tore up all the brochures.

Horton stopped drinking his coffee.

"Torn it?"

"Yes."

The assistant lowered his voice even further.

"Chen Yan only said at the time, 'My things are dirty.'"

He closed the notebook and added another sentence.

"Also, we just received news that a firefight has broken out outside the Cinema Arlecchino cinema."

Several local mafia members attempted to vandalize the cinema but were taken away by the police.

Chen Yan's team is safe and sound.

Horton put down his coffee cup and tapped his fingers lightly on his knee.

A Chinese newcomer with no feature film experience, carrying a heavy-industry sci-fi film, not only acquires Weta Digital's technology, but also encounters a physical ambush on the streets of Milan, and even dares to humiliate an arrogant French buyer to his face.

This is no ordinary director; this is a gambler with a strong aggressive mindset.

The ultimate form of the Chinese film industry.

Horton read the same sentence from the invitation again.

He stood up, walked to the wardrobe, and picked out a formal, custom-made suit.

"Tell the driver to wait for me downstairs at 9:30 tomorrow morning."

He smoothed his suit sleeves and looked back at the invitation on the table.

"I want to sit in the front row and see what this madman can come up with."

At the same time, on a highway outside Milan.

Pierre Durand was speeding through a rainy night in an old Peugeot.

The windshield wipers swung wildly, pushing the water off the windshield layer by layer.

On the passenger seat was a letter of authorization personally signed by the chairman of the Cannes Film Festival selection committee.

Pierre's eyes were bloodshot from driving all the way from Paris to Milan, sustained only by three cans of black coffee.

Every scene from those sixty seconds of behind-the-scenes footage is still burning in his mind.

Metal exoskeleton, planetary engine, heavy transport vehicle on the ice field.

It has been far too long since the three major European film festivals have produced a work with such a strong visual impact, while also possessing a sense of Eastern collectivism.

If this film could be brought to Cannes, it would undoubtedly become the biggest highlight of this year's film festival.

"Chen Yan, you'd better not disappoint me."

Pierre stepped on the gas, and the Peugeot sped through the puddles, leaving a trail of water as it headed towards Milan city.