Lan Province is one of the 21 federal provinces of the Great Zhou Federation.
Jinhui Television Station—one of the four major commercial broadcasters in Lan Province, with assets in the billions. Though its presence was negligible on the national scale, within Lan Province itself, it was a household name.
After all, every region raises its own people. It's hard to create a show or variety program that captures the hearts of audiences from all over the country. But in Lan Province, Jinhui's shows had always been a local favorite.
In the TV Drama Production Department, Chu You, the deputy director, sat waiting for Jing Yu to arrive. He was a potbellied man—a college classmate of Jing Yu's late father, a fellow frequenter of bathhouses for years, and a sworn buddy.
Ten minutes later, Jing Yu arrived, slightly out of breath.
"You're here."
"Yeah," Jing Yu nodded.
"Alright, let me give you the full rundown."
As Chu You explained, Jing Yu finally grasped what was going on.
It seemed… he was finally getting a job.
This world wasn't much like Jing Yu's previous life. There was no shared history or culture—except for one thing:
Ten years ago, the Great Zhou Federation had officially entered the ranks of developed nations. Economic growth had since slowed, leading to intensified internal competition. Youth employment was grim. Resources remained in the hands of the older generations. The workplace was stagnant.
It was eerily similar to that of a certain island nation in Jing Yu's past life—and naturally, the culture here had evolved in similar ways.
Anime wasn't popular in this world, but the public's obsession with dramas and TV series far surpassed that of Jing Yu's previous world.
And the general style of the shows? Otaku-friendly, of course—thanks to the massive population of shut-ins and nerds.
One of Jinhui Television's flagship autumn dramas, White Lovers, had run into trouble.
The female lead had injured her leg in a filming accident the night before and would be out for at least two weeks.
Like in Japan, Korea, and American TV production models, the Great Zhou industry followed a "live-broadcast" format—episodes were aired as soon as they were completed, and writers adjusted the plot based on audience feedback.
That meant White Lovers had to halt its broadcast for at least two weeks. And for a romance drama, losing the female lead—who appeared in one-sixth of the series—was a fatal blow. No amount of script tweaking could cover that up.
So, Jinhui Television acted fast.
They decided to rush-produce a short drama to fill the two-week broadcast gap left by White Lovers.
"Just two weeks. That's two episodes. The story must be complete and match the youthful, bittersweet romance vibe of White Lovers. Filming starts the day after tomorrow. The station's total investment budget is… 960,000 Zhou Coins."
Chu You looked at Jing Yu calmly.
After all, this was just a stopgap project. They weren't going to throw in a blockbuster-level investment.
A budget of 500,000 per episode might not sound too bad—but what era was this? And where were they filming?
Online and offline crew members all needed paychecks: sound team, producers, production assistants, directors, writers, cinematographers, lighting, art direction, post-production, makeup, props—you name it. Even with a skeleton crew, you'd still need dozens of people. And actors? Even background extras cost 100–200 a day (with lunch included), not to mention leads.
The shooting schedule was just fourteen days—half a month of salaries for the entire crew. Add in equipment wear and tear, location fees…
And given the tight deadline, they'd likely have to shoot overtime. Overtime pay would be another chunk.
Less than a million might sound okay on paper—but realistically, it was tight.
Sure, someone might live on two buns and a bottle of water, while others need thousand-coin meals.
Trying to produce epic scenes or high-end effects on this budget? Not happening.
"No problem," Jing Yu said confidently.
Did he really have a choice?
Rent was due next week. He couldn't even afford food without crashing blind dates.
And no matter what, if he was leading this project, he'd get a screenwriter's cut—typically 5% of the production budget, which meant at least 50,000 Zhou Coins.
"Hold up," Chu You added. "Yes, the budget is small, and the station won't place unrealistic expectations on it. However, White Lovers has maintained an average viewership rating of 1.38% over the last seven weeks in this time slot."
"The station requires that this filler project not fall below 60% of that figure. That's at least 0.82% viewership average across its two episodes."
"Many viewers are already used to watching our station during this golden time slot. With White Lovers already drawing an audience, this show will inherit that momentum."
"So yes, low budget. But performance expectations are still there."
Chu You's tone grew heavier.
Truth be told, White Lovers had been a massive hit within the province during its time slot. Usually, Jinhui's shows pulled in 0.7 or 0.8 at best. So, expecting this emergency series to at least match average past performances was… not unreasonable.
"This is your shot—maybe your only shot. If you can't hit the numbers, as the head of this project, you'll have a hard time getting any more opportunities at the station."
The task was risky—but the potential reward was real.
If he pulled this off, Jing Yu would finally have credentials and results under his belt. It would give him a chance to move from part-time to full-time. If not for all the favors Jing Yu's dad had done for Chu You over the years, there was no way he'd even be considered.
Plenty of people would kill for this gig.
"I understand. I've got no problem with it," Jing Yu replied.
Was he supposed to feel pressure?
He was literally living off other people's meals. Turning full-time was a long-term goal—right now, he needed to assemble a crew and start filming so he could at least eat on set.
In short, there was no downside here.
Even if the screenwriting fee didn't come in immediately, he'd still be fed.
"Although… I do have one condition," Jing Yu added after a pause.
"I want to include a clause in the contract—I want a cut of the copyright profits."
Jing Yu figured he'd try to squeeze out a little extra.
After all, the station probably thought this would be just some low-effort filler. If expectations were low, maybe he could sneak this past them.
"Copyright profits?" Chu You burst out laughing. "You don't seriously think this kind of emergency filler show is going to be bought by another network, or that we'll sell DVDs or merchandise, right?"
"Hey, I'm a young guy," Jing Yu replied, smiling. "A little ambition never hurts. If it turns out well, and this becomes my first hit, just having that small percentage in the contract would be a point of pride."
After all, Chu You was like an uncle to the original Jing Yu. No need to be overly formal.
"Fine. I'll allow it. You can have 3% of copyright profits. That's the industry norm for someone of your level. Don't ask for more—the company won't agree. Even if the copyright ends up being worthless, rules are rules."
Jing Yu thought for a moment, then exhaled.
"Thank you, Uncle Chu."
"In the company, call me Director Chu," Chu You replied with a smile.
Favor is something to be remembered—not exploited. Chu You believed he'd already done his part for Jing Yu. But that didn't mean he'd support him forever.
His bond with Jing Yu's father would fade just as quickly as memories do after death.
It was a subtle warning: don't count on me to be your crutch.
"Understood, Director Chu," Jing Yu said after a brief pause.
"Alright, get moving. You can stay at the company for now. Write the script as you go. I only care about one thing—ratings."
Jing Yu left the office.
Compared to his past life, the workplace here seemed a little colder.
Maybe it was the nature of the industry?
He glanced at the sunlight outside the building.
He knew the basics of screenwriting—that knowledge remained in the original owner's body—but when it came to actual script creation, especially the spark of inspiration, he was clueless.
Which was why...
From the very beginning, he planned to plagiarize.
He didn't care much for Chinese dramas in his past life. He'd only liked anime, J-dramas, and some live-action adaptations.
And fortunately...
The drama style in this world leaned heavily in that direction.
Back in his room, just as he was about to pick up his pen—
He froze.
His hand felt… resistance. A strange, overwhelming pressure. He had the gut feeling that if he forced himself to write, something bad would happen.
Just then, something flashed before his eyes.
A panel appeared.
[Skill Work Materialization Interface]
Fan Points: 0
Available Work: My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday
Fan Points Required: 876,512
System Notice: Residual soul energy detected. The current manifestation cost can be offset.
Jing Yu blinked.
Then, in the next second, information flooded his brain, resolving his confusion.
His transmigration to this world had been accidental—but trying to influence this world with cultural works from another? That went against the rules.
It wasn't impossible—but it came with a price.
Fan Points were earned when a person in this world was affected by one of his works. One fan = one point. Since Jing Yu had just arrived and hadn't published anything yet, his fan count was naturally zero.
But the residual soul energy—from the original Jing Yu—could be sacrificed to cover the cost of manifesting this first script.
By sheer luck, it was just enough to offset the cost.
If that soul remnant hadn't been there, the price of writing this script would have come from his own soul.
And the consequences? Jing Yu didn't know. But he was sure they wouldn't be good.
Honestly, after transmigrating, this kind of supernatural twist didn't even shake him for long.
Rest in peace, brother.
Every year on the anniversary of your death, I'll burn some offerings.
Jing Yu hesitated, then made his decision.
The original owner was gone. The so-called residual soul fragments would disappear in a few days anyway. Better to use them than waste them.
And if Fan Points were formed by affecting people, maybe they were actually spiritual energy—fragments of human thought or soul particles?
No wonder the total needed was so high—over 800,000. Drops make an ocean, after all.
A thought flashed through his mind.
Once the process was completed, he picked up his pen—and this time, the resistance vanished.