Chapter Seventy-Eight: Sharing Wealth and Honor

Wu Xiang already had a plan for his new film, and the script was nearly finished. He’d begun writing it during the review of “The First Time.” However, there were some things he had to do first—namely, host a dinner.

“Come on, everyone, fill your glasses! Today our Director Wu—Wu the Iron Rooster—has finally plucked a feather, which isn’t easy! No need to hold back; we’ve come to a classy place, so let loose!” Huang Xibo was truly borrowing the spotlight, making it sound as though he were the one footing the bill, though Wu Xiang was the host.

“Cheers!”

“Of course! Drink!”

It was as if everyone had been waiting for this day; the whole group was relaxed. The venue was called ‘Cheap Pavilion,’ a renowned restaurant in the capital, famous for its roast duck. Compared to Quanjude, it boasted an even longer history. Wu Xiang had chosen this place, intending to treat everyone—all those who’d worked on his films.

With the teams from “The Great Flood” and “The First Intimate Encounter,” actors and crew added up to nearly forty people, most of them classmates. Wu Xiang had truly set out several tables.

Why the banquet? Was it for a wedding or funeral, or a baby’s first month?

Of course not. Wu Xiang and Hai Qing were still far from such milestones. He was hosting simply to thank everyone. To be frank, he felt he’d taken advantage of them a bit too much and wanted to make amends. Naturally, there were other minor reasons.

He was admittedly tight-fisted. Though wages were low in this era, everyone had worked hard for his films, and Wu Xiang felt guilty about always squeezing them. Previously, he hadn’t the means; he didn’t have much cash. Even with ten thousand or so in liquidity, it wasn’t enough to share—give some to a few, and what about the rest? If he gave, he’d have to give to all; otherwise, none.

It wasn’t about scarcity, but inequality. Now, with money in hand, if Wu Xiang didn’t show some appreciation, it would be shameful.

So, Wu Xiang stood and raised his glass, signaling he had something to say.

“Quiet down, everyone! Director Wu is about to speak,” Huang Xibo announced, ever irreverent, always ready with a jab.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wu Xiang began, adopting a formal tone that amused the crowd.

They’d never seen him put on airs; even now, he didn’t look the part of a grand director.

“All right, let’s get to business.” The jokes faded as Wu Xiang grew serious. “Check under your seats—do you see an envelope?”

It turned out Wu Xiang had planned ahead. Everyone began searching, and indeed, each found an envelope.

He and Hai Qing had prepared them earlier, working diligently for some time.

“Open them!”

No need for Wu Xiang’s instruction—someone had already begun, and Hai Qing, knowing what was inside, feigned surprise as she opened hers.

“What’s this?”

On the paper, prominently displayed, was a string of numbers.

“It’s a stock option from a company I invested in,” Wu Xiang explained. “A stock option means that, when the company goes public, these papers can be converted into shares. See the number? You’ll own that many shares.”

The number was 100,000.

“Wow! A hundred thousand!”

“Amazing! So generous!”

Many were stunned by the figure, but soon questions arose. They were all college students, no fools.

“What if the company doesn’t go public?”

“Are you pulling our leg?”

“If the company fails, will they come after us for money?”

Various voices chimed in, leaving Wu Xiang frustrated.

Did they not realize the future value of these papers?

But he couldn’t blame them; after all, only he had been reborn. So Wu Xiang said, “The IPO shouldn’t be a problem. I have no reason to deceive you. Anyway, I won’t explain too much—I’m not a finance expert myself. I just hope you keep these safe. When the company goes public, do as you wish. Okay?”

It was just a piece of paper—easy enough to keep. Most didn’t see the value in it, thinking it nonsense.

He’d hoped to bestow wealth upon them, but their skepticism was, frankly, tragic.

Hai Qing, seeing Wu Xiang’s speechless expression, wanted to laugh, but with so many people present, she dared not betray her feelings. This clandestine romance was indeed stifling at times.

“Tall Bamboo! Not bad—you’ve got heart!” Wen Zhengrong chimed in, still somewhat resentful for having been taken advantage of, but acknowledging Wu Xiang’s effort.

“You Tall Bamboo! What if that company doesn’t go public?” Zhang Yanyan was more direct, even threatening.

Ah, those who don’t understand me bring me sorrow.

Wu Xiang suddenly felt lonely. Was this rebirth a blessing or a curse? Forget it—drink.

Just then, Zhang Jingchu approached with a toast, saying, “Brother Xiang, about this stock option—can you give me a few more? It doesn’t seem to be much use anyway.”

Wu Xiang could barely look at her. He was sure that no one would have guessed that ‘Light Dance Grace,’ the dream girl of countless men nationwide, was so financially savvy.

But these options were bought with real money; he’d be foolish to give her extra.

Of course, Wu Xiang wouldn’t say so. Instead, he replied, “It’s better to keep things fair. If I give you more, what will others think? They might think there’s something between us, right?”

“Oh, you’re impossible!” Zhang Jingchu clearly caught Wu Xiang’s meaning, but her expression remained natural, almost flirtatious. “By the way, Brother Xiang, I’ve seen Cheap Pavilion before. It’s quite a large place—why such a name?”

A conversation began, and Wu Xiang happened to know the story. He explained, “There’s a history here. During the Jiajing era of the Ming Dynasty, there was a famous minister named Yang Jisheng—a renowned loyalist. At the time, there was a notorious traitor, Yan Song—you know of him?”

“Yes, yes,” Zhang Jingchu replied attentively, and in fact, many others listened. Some, like Hai Qing, were more interested in Wu Xiang’s interactions than the tale itself.

“Wu Xiang, you rascal! Always showing off for pretty girls!” Hai Qing could only stew silently in jealousy.

Wu Xiang continued, “One day, Yang Jisheng was troubled, surely at odds with Yan Song. He sought solace in a restaurant—not large, but bustling. He ordered roast duck and some wine; the taste was exquisite. When it came time to pay, the bill was surprisingly cheap. You must understand, under the Ming, the Zhu family was stingy, and officials’ salaries were—”

Someone interrupted, “Just like you!”

“Exactly!”

“Ha ha ha…”

Wu Xiang was sweating—indeed, the resemblance was uncanny. He ignored them and went on: “Salaries were low, but the food was cheap and delicious. When Yang Jisheng settled the bill, the owner recognized him and begged for a calligraphy inscription. Yang gladly agreed, writing ‘Cheap Pavilion’ in bold characters. That’s this place. Later, Yang was imprisoned and executed. Yan Song ordered the shop’s sign removed, but the owner refused, defending it to his death, leaving a legendary story.”

Wu Xiang finished, feeling proud—his breadth of knowledge was indeed impressive.

“Oh, so that’s the story. I thought you chose this place because it was cheap,” Zhang Jingchu teased.

Everyone laughed; it made sense—Wu Xiang was known as a miser and wasn’t a native of the capital. Perhaps he’d chosen the restaurant to save money.

Wu Xiang felt wronged, but it seemed his nickname as the Iron Rooster would stick for some time.

While Wu Xiang brooded, Brother Kun received a phone call and stepped out with a smile. When he returned, he was not alone.

He brought back a woman—a woman with exceptionally large eyes. It was Little Swallow, Zhao Wei.

(Thanks to friend 0402 for the reward. Truly grateful! Today, an extra chapter for the support—thank you all!)

C!.