novelcity
Chapter 45
Chapter 45
"Merchandise? Ready stock? And this much inventory?"
When Xie Wanzhao saw this news, she was already certain that Sheng Quan would lose everything.
As a middle-aged woman approaching fifty, she had climbed her way up from being a penniless young girl to her current wealth and status, naturally accumulating a wealth of experience along the way.
She felt a secret thrill but didn’t let it show, maintaining the demeanor of a seasoned professional as she casually remarked:
"Selling merchandise for a newly released movie domestically… It seems this young President Sheng is too accustomed to the overseas market. When entering the film industry, she didn’t bother to properly study the Chinese market."
She had every right to gloat—after all, Xie Wanzhao was an investor in Iron Boss.
Iron Boss was the most anticipated movie of this year’s Spring Festival season—if The Cultivator hadn’t appeared.
On the first day, when The Cultivator’s box office suddenly surged and slightly overtook Iron Boss, Xie Wanzhao immediately called for a meeting and ramped up promotional efforts for her own film.
The marketing push clearly worked—on the second day, their box office saw a noticeable uptick, the classic upward climb.
At the time, Xie Wanzhao breathed a small sigh of relief. Even if The Cultivator also climbed steadily, there was still hope for a reversal.
The best outcome would be if The Cultivator didn’t climb at all.
And The Cultivator didn’t climb.
It shot up like a skyrocket.
Xie Wanzhao: "…"
Don’t ask. Just regret.
Iron Boss had been completed long ago, held back specifically for the Spring Festival season. Internal test screenings and professional critics’ reviews had filled them with confidence.
As for the other films slated for the same season, Xie Wanzhao and her team had conducted thorough analyses, concluding that none—whether in terms of production team or other aspects—could hold a candle to theirs.
The final verdict: This Spring Festival, they would leave all competitors in the dust.
And now, "left in the dust" had indeed happened.
Unfortunately, it was Iron Boss eating dust.
Xie Wanzhao hadn’t completely overlooked The Cultivator when assessing competitors. After all, the earlier "Immortal Palace Livestream" had been wildly popular, and the subsequent explosion of xianxia-themed novels, comics, and music was clearly laying the groundwork for the movie.
But after careful calculations and analysis, The Cultivator wasn’t seen as a threat.
So what if the investment was huge? If a veteran film producer (like herself) had poured that much money into it, then sure, the movie would likely be a hit.
But with Sheng Quan…
Young. Inexperienced. A rich second-generation. The perfect recipe for a flop.
Yes, her investment in The Road of Life had been a success, but TV dramas and movies were entirely different. The Road of Life could at least be considered a comedy. What was The Cultivator?
A dead-on-arrival xianxia flick.
No matter how many xianxia novels, comics, or songs Sheng Quan’s team churned out, none of that had anything to do with actual cinema. Movies had to make people willing to pay to watch them.
The Cultivator had unveiled the Immortal Palace early and saturated the market with xianxia content to hype the genre. Others might call it genius marketing, but Xie Wanzhao and her team saw it as sheer suicide.
After all, not every cent from box office earnings went to the investors.
Once ticket sales were tallied, deductions had to be made for the Film Development Fund, special business taxes, and agency fees before arriving at the net box office.
And even then, the net wasn’t simply divvied up among investors like a happy potluck.
First, theaters took about 50%. Then, cinema chains claimed 7%.
The distributors got their cut too.
In the end, the production side—represented by the investors—was left with only around 40%.
The bigger the film’s budget, the harder it was to break even. Sheng Quan had splurged on building ten Immortal Palaces, aggressively promoted the xianxia genre, and invested over 300 million in production alone.
To Xie Wanzhao, this wasn’t just playing with fire—it was self-immolation.
So even as The Cultivator’s hype grew, she never considered stepping aside. Instead, she clung to her "victor’s" mindset, ready to watch from the sidelines.
Back then, Xie Wanzhao had even imagined how she’d console the young President Sheng and be the first to invite her to collaborate on future projects.
Mock her?
Please.
Who in their right mind would alienate a deep-pocketed patron?
If anything, Xie Wanzhao had felt a certain fondness for Sheng Quan—like a benevolent elder watching a brash, overconfident junior.
She could tell Sheng Quan genuinely wanted to make great films.
While chuckling at the girl’s naivety, Xie Wanzhao couldn’t help but feel a twinge of nostalgia. She too had once been young and idealistic, burning with passion to create something meaningful.
But people had to grow up. The market was what it was. In China, making quality films wasn’t just swimming against the tide—it was practically a thankless task.
Take Iron Boss—a star-studded action-comedy with most of the budget spent on A-list actors. The quality was passable, but it was guaranteed to turn a solid profit with minimal risk.
Meanwhile, The Cultivator had risk dialed up to the max.
And yet, against all odds, this seemingly doomed film had skyrocketed at the box office.
Xie Wanzhao was a businesswoman first. The moment she was overtaken, whatever goodwill she’d felt toward Sheng Quan evaporated.
After all, it was easy to be gracious to those you’d defeated. But when the tables turned? Not so much.
After a week of scrambling, Xie Wanzhao had to admit: There was no coming back.
The Cultivator was unstoppable.
A year and a half of the company’s time, effort, and money—countless connections called in to secure top talent—what should’ve been a surefire victory had turned into a box office disappointment.
Xie Wanzhao took it in stride. The film industry was volatile, and this loss wouldn’t crush her.
But that didn’t stop her from reveling in Sheng Quan’s merchandise misstep.
Being bested by a junior was bad enough. Now that junior had made such an amateur mistake? How could she not savor the schadenfreude?
Xie Wanzhao went to bed with this petty delight simmering inside her. The next morning, she leisurely finished breakfast, cleared a couple of postponed tasks, and took a stroll.
Only after returning home did she finally open The Cultivator’s official merchandise site, eager to witness the young upstart’s failure.
Honestly, Sheng Quan’s inexperience showed. Movie merchandise should always start with pre-orders.
Who in their right mind would stockpile this much ready-to-ship inventory right out the gate?
Unsold merchandise was pure deadweight. A quick glance the day before had revealed staggering quantities.
Sipping ?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????warm water, Xie Wanzhao lazily shifted her gaze to the screen.
After one night, surely only a fraction had been sold…
SOLD OUT?!?!
She nearly choked on her drink.
Xie Wanzhao set down her water glass without drinking and scrolled down the page with her mouse.
Sold out, sold out, still sold out.
The screen was filled with merchandise listings, nearly all marked as sold out.
She could understand the cheaper plushies priced at just a few dozen yuan selling out, but as she kept scrolling, even the most expensive life-sized figurines—priced at a staggering 23,000 yuan—were gone.
Three years ago, when her company invested in a movie and released collaborative merchandise, even a 100-yuan thermos barely sold.
Temporarily setting aside her shock, Xie Wanzhao opened Weibo, ignoring the trending hashtag ?"Cultivator" Merchandise Sells Out Overnight?, and directly searched for ?"Cultivator" Merchandise?, then clicked on real-time updates.
The hype was undeniable, with new posts refreshing every second.
JustCallMeXiaoWang: ?AHHHHHHHH YOU GUYS ARE TOO FAST! I COULDN’T GET ANYTHING!?
CatEatingFish: ?WHO WAS IT?! WHO BOUGHT THE LAST LIFE-SIZED MASTER KUKE?! I SAW IT SAID "1 LEFT," BUT THE SECOND I CLICKED "BUY," IT WAS GONE! I’M SO MAD!!!!?
SleepEarlyToday: ?Looking to buy the "Emerald Crown"—willing to pay 1.5x the price?
WhenWillMyFaveAuthorUpdate: ?I GOT IT I GOT IT HAHAHAHAHAHA!! YOU WEAKLINGS CAN’T EVEN OUTBUY ME?
SuperNoticeable: ?So upset. Last night, I spent forever on the official site trying to decide between Yuan Ming or Taoist Xingyun’s cup—since I’m a student, I could only afford one. I thought I’d sleep on it and decide in the morning, but when I woke up, EVERYTHING WAS GONE!!
I wanna cry. Please, if anyone bought one and doesn’t want it anymore, sell it to me!?
MuYuchen: ?By the time I got there, most stuff was already gone. I only managed to snag two pillows, but when I found out my friend didn’t even get those, my disappointment vanished instantly lol?
New posts kept flooding in—some bragging about their purchases, others lamenting their failure to grab anything.
Xie Wanzhao worked in this industry, and just from the wildly varying tones of these posts—ranging from frenzied excitement to outright rage—she could tell these weren’t paid shills.
Skeptical, she clicked into the trending topic and scrolled down, where she found a highly upvoted and commented post:
MoneyMeansNoCilantro: ?LMAO, I just asked my usual scalper about buying the "Twin Blades," and not only did he not have any, he started ranting about how his scalper group thought there was no need to hoard "Cultivator" merch since the stock seemed huge. By the time they realized how fast it was selling, it was too late to grab much.
Especially since the "Cultivator" official site requires real-name verification to buy—probably to stop scalpers. The scalper told me they initially laughed at it, thinking, "Who’d bother with real-name verification for a movie merch drop this big?"
Now they’re kicking themselves. The funniest part? By the time they scrambled to buy, the Twin Blades were already sold out.
And besides me, SO many people are begging him for the Twin Blades, offering to pay extra. He’s so mad he keeps muttering, "Why do modern people even want a sword?" and "How did they buy out everything in one night?"
Honestly, his misery is so entertaining that I’m not even as sad about missing out on the Twin Blades anymore!!?
The replies were full of schadenfreude, whether people had bought anything or not.
?Hahaha, serves the scalpers right?
?No kidding, even I’m shocked. I saw an interview with Chairwoman Sheng Quan where she admitted she didn’t expect this level of demand—she said they’ve already called the manufacturers to rush a second batch?
?I saw that too! When she said she wanted to buy a Twin Blades set for her home but couldn’t even get one herself, her expression was priceless?
?At least the scalpers can take comfort—even Chairwoman Sheng couldn’t get the Twin Blades!?
?Seriously, what modern person could resist a pair of Twin Blades??
?My scalper was the same. When I asked, he just said "no stock" in the most defeated tone?
?Thank you, "Cultivator." Thank you, "Mortals." Finally, someone’s put scalpers in their place?
Xie Wanzhao was confused by the term "Mortals" until she looked it up. It turned out to be the fandom’s self-given name, inspired by the movie’s lore where cultivators draw power from the faith of ordinary people.
In other words, these fans were willingly offering their devotion—and wallets—just like the mortals in the film.
Even without having seen "Cultivator," Xie Wanzhao could sense the fans’ passion from that nickname alone.
They weren’t just buying merchandise—they were desperate enough to pay scalpers’ inflated prices for it.
Xie Wanzhao: I don’t understand the world anymore.
China’s movie merchandise industry had always been lackluster, developing late and progressing slowly. Audiences historically showed little willingness to spend on such products.
Ironically, up until last year, the best-selling movie merchandise had all been from animated films.
And even then, the so-called "merchandise" was just basic plushies, cups, and pillows—nothing priced over 200 yuan, because anything above that wouldn’t sell.
This kind of frenzied, large-scale purchasing of high-priced merchandise was practically unheard of in Chinese cinema history.
Xie Wanzhao’s assistant, however, thought it wasn’t entirely inexplicable:
"It’s probably impulse buying. Other movies’ merch is usually pre-order with long wait times, but 'Cultivator’s' products are ready to ship, dropping right when fans are most obsessed. That’s a recipe for impulse purchases."
He predicted: "Within seven days, there’ll definitely be a wave of returns."
Seven days was about how long it took for the hype to fade. Once the excitement wore off, fans would look at their overpriced purchases and regret would replace enthusiasm.
Plus, since the items were ready to ship, returns would be easy. A return wave was inevitable.
Xie Wanzhao agreed with his reasoning.
But seven days later, when fans had mostly received their orders, the wave that formed wasn’t a return wave.
It was a praise wave.
?I was shocked when I got mine! The quality! The detail! How is this only 288 yuan?!?
?I didn’t expect much—anyone who buys merch knows you’re usually paying premium prices for glorified junk. But this cup blew me away. It looks so high-end, way nicer than the 80-yuan cup I bought elsewhere. Unbelievably good value?
?OH MY GOD!!! I was kinda regretting spending 888 on this figurine, but now that it’s here, I can’t bring myself to return it. The details are insane—the proportions, the outfit, the expression! AAAAAH! My only regret now is not buying Lord Qingqing’s too!?
?Look at my Taoist Xingyun, so damn handsome, seriously drop-dead gorgeous, the hormones radiating off him are overwhelming, wuwuwuwu where did the crew even dig up Jiang Zhen from, why is he only getting famous now!!?
?Jiang’s fans are crying, I was a step too late when buying merch and couldn’t even snag a single strand of Taoist Xingyun’s hair, but I did get a pencil case—way better than my old one! I put Jiang Zhen’s photo inside!?
Audiences who impulsively bought merchandise might regret it at first, but once they held the actual products in their hands, they were pleasantly surprised to find the quality outstanding and the designs impeccable—totally worth the price.
Of course, not everyone chose to keep their purchases. A handful opted for returns, only for the items to be snatched up the moment they were restocked.
Xie Wanzhao: “……”
She even stumbled upon comments like this:
“I knew some people would buy on impulse and return stuff, so I kept refreshing the official site, but turns out I wasn’t the only one with this idea! Over a dozen attempts, and I still couldn’t grab anything!”
Below, someone replied: “Don’t even mention it. After failing a few times, I tried second-hand sites, but it’s insane—every listing gets bought in seconds. We’re all just mortals here, can’t you leave some for the rest of us?!”
Those like Xie Wanzhao, who had been waiting to see Sheng Quan fail, were left speechless.
In such a short time, the total sales of The Cultivator’s merchandise had already surpassed 100 million.
And with more and more people joining the viewing frenzy, the number of “mortals” jumping into the buying spree would only grow.
Anyone could see it—Sheng Quan was making a killing.
The risks she took during the investment phase had now transformed into massive profits, and the merchandise sales would become a steady, long-term revenue stream for Xingyu Entertainment.
There was another point Xie Wanzhao hadn’t forgotten: the filming locations were built on land owned by Sheng Quan.
The same people who once called her wasteful were now frantically calculating just how much profit the “Ten Great Immortal Palaces” would bring her, given The Cultivator’s explosive popularity.
Xie Wanzhao’s emotions were complicated.
As a profit-driven businesswoman, she instinctively resented Sheng Quan for blocking her path to easy money this time.
Yet, on a personal level, she couldn’t help but admire her.
Xie Wanzhao knew that The Cultivator’s success wasn’t just a one-time obstacle for The Ruthless Boss. Given Sheng Quan’s current momentum, there would undoubtedly be a second, a third The Cultivator in the future.
For production companies like hers, accustomed to dominating the Chinese market, the old ways of churning out low-effort, high-profit films would be completely obliterated if they didn’t adapt.
The logic was simple.
A piece of fruit left out for days, slightly wilted—if it’s the only option, customers will eat it, pay for it, and even convince themselves: “Not bad, at least it’s got vitamins.”
But what if, right beside it, there’s a plate of freshly picked, vibrant, mouthwatering fruit?
Xie Wanzhao felt the threat immediately.
She had two choices:
1. Stop being the wilted fruit. Strive to become the fresh one—but that required far more effort, investment, and came with higher risks.
2. Drive the fresh fruit off the market. Without comparison, customers would have no choice but to settle for the wilted one.
Logically, she knew she should pick option 2.
But for some reason, she hesitated.
Xie Wanzhao rarely second-guessed herself, and she’d never been this conflicted without understanding why.
Then, during a business trip abroad, exhausted after back-to-back meetings, she caught sight of a movie theater’s billboard from the car window.
She froze. “The Cultivator is screening overseas?”
Her newly promoted, slightly nervous Assistant No. 2 quickly confirmed:
“Yes, it premiered here a day ago.”
—And the box office and reviews were phenomenal.
He didn’t add that last part, since The Cultivator was technically their competitor.
Proud of his discretion, Assistant No. 2 was mentally patting himself on the back when Xie Wanzhao suddenly said:
“Pull over.”
“See if we can get tickets. We’re going in.”
Tickets were nearly sold out, but the assistant managed to secure three through a theater insider.
The driver, arranged by their local partner, looked reluctant when handed his ticket but eventually took it, muttering under his breath in his native language:
“I’ve never watched a Chinese movie before.”
He’d spoken softly, trailing several steps behind Xie Wanzhao, so she shouldn’t have heard—but her ears were sharp.
Though it was just a passing comment, and about The Cultivator no less, Xie Wanzhao’s mood soured slightly.
She knew the driver wasn’t being dismissive of Chinese cinema—it’s just that in recent years, Chinese films had indeed grown increasingly mediocre.
Even the box office hits were mostly comedies. When it came to high-budget fantasy epics, China had very few, and those that existed couldn’t compete with their foreign counterparts.
No wonder he wasn’t interested. Truth be told, even she, a film investor, never stepped into theaters outside of screenings.
But the moment she entered the cinema, Xie Wanzhao was taken aback by the sea of foreign faces filling nearly every seat.
This many viewers?
A xianxia film like The Cultivator had such high overseas attendance?
As she sat down, she overheard a couple nearby whispering:
“I still think we should’ve gone for the horror movie. A night like this is wasted otherwise.”
“Zhang said this one’s amazing. You might end up loving it.”
“Come on, I saw the trailer. It’s just Chinese mythology, right? Not my thing. Only Asians would get it. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even be here.”
The blonde girl sighed. “Fine. If it’s bad, we’ll leave and grab tickets for Bloody Doll instead.”
Then the film began.
Xie Wanzhao was quickly absorbed, forgetting all about the foreign couple—until the credits rolled.
When she finally snapped out of it, she realized the couple hadn’t left. The previously reluctant young man was now wide-eyed with excitement, turning to his girlfriend:
“Babe, can we watch it again?! That was incredible!”
His suggestion was met with eager agreement—clearly, the blonde girl felt the same.
Around them, discussions and praises erupted, with many rushing to buy tickets for a second viewing or calling friends to rave about it.
Walking through the crowd, Xie Wanzhao listened to their animated chatter.
"Does China really have flying swords?"
"Those creatures are so captivating."
"Xinli, when I saw those cultivators soaring into the sky, my eyes were swollen from crying."
"It's so amazing, I have to tell everyone online."
Xie Wanzhao quietly absorbed it all, her emotions a turbulent mix.
In the car, she remained silent, while her young assistant, still buzzing from the movie, tried to contain his excitement upon remembering that "The Cultivators" was produced by a rival company. He could only secretly revel in his enthusiasm.
Soon, the car pulled up at the hotel entrance.
The driver stepped out and opened the doors for them.
As Xie Wanzhao exited, the driver—who had previously dismissed Chinese films—suddenly spoke up:
"Ma'am, that movie was truly mesmerizing. I wanted to ask, do those breathtaking landscapes in the film really exist in China? I’d love to visit and see them for myself. It’s just incredible."
Xie Wanzhao paused for a moment before looking up with a faint smile.
"Yes, all those scenes were filmed on location."
The driver’s face lit up with joy.
"That’s wonderful! I’ll have to plan a trip soon."
Once back in the car, he leaned out the window and gave a thumbs-up.
"Ma'am, thank you for treating me to the movie. That Chinese film was truly outstanding."
As the car drove away, Xie Wanzhao stood still, watching.
Her assistant, noticing her silent gaze, grew uneasy.
Did Chairman Xie just hear someone praise "The Cultivators" while she’s here on a business trip? Is she furious now?
Oh no, oh no… I even cried during the movie and laughed really loudly. Did she notice? She won’t think I’m secretly supporting the competition, will she?
Lost in his thoughts, he suddenly heard Xie Wanzhao speak:
"Call the office. Arrange a private screening of 'The Cultivators' for all company employees."
The assistant hesitated. "Should they leave negative reviews afterward? That might leak to the public..."
Xie Wanzhao: "No, no bad reviews."
The assistant sighed in relief.
Of course. Someone like Chairman Xie wouldn’t make such a rookie mistake.
Then, he heard her continue:
"Tell them to watch it properly—and leave glowing reviews afterward."
The assistant: "?"
Is this some new competitive strategy?
"Chairman Xie, what’s the reasoning behind this?"
Xie Wanzhao smiled, suddenly recalling the bold declaration she’d made in her youth to her peers:
"One day, I’ll make Chinese films famous worldwide—just wait! Foreign movies will come to China to win our awards!"
She hadn’t achieved it.
But the young, seemingly impulsive and idealistic Chairman Sheng Quan seemed to have taken the first step.
With a laugh, Xie Wanzhao gave her answer, feeling a surge of exhilaration she hadn’t experienced in years:
"The reason?"
"Because it’s a Chinese film."
She turned to her assistant. "From now on, we might need a fresh supply of fruit."
Xie Wanzhao strode confidently toward the hotel entrance. Though no longer young, she felt invigorated, each step filled with purpose.
The assistant pondered for a second before eagerly grabbing her bag and following.
"Chairman Xie, I’ll escort you to your room. Don’t worry, I understand your intentions."
He declared with confidence:
"After I drop you off, I’ll go buy fruit right away!"