The current film and television industry in the Great Zhou Federation was vastly different from the one in Jing Yu's previous life.
First off, the industry atmosphere now was quite similar to that of the 1990s to early 2000s in Jing Yu's original world. The main battleground for dramas was still traditional television broadcasting.
Most of the well-known TV stations were not government-owned, but privately operated. In fact, more than half of the dramas airing on major stations were actually self-funded productions by those TV stations.
Private film and television companies existed, of course—but unless they had a breakout hit under their belt, small studios mostly survived in the gaps, relying on low-tier time slots or niche markets.
In this regard, it resembled Japan and South Korea from Jing Yu's former world.
Naturally, similar industry cultures had formed. Since the TV stations controlled the final traffic and exposure, the careers of trending celebrities, variety show personalities, and drama actors were all in the hands of the stations. No one dared to act arrogant or "too big to cooperate" in front of the networks.
Basically, it was a repeat of the "TVB model" from old-school Hong Kong.
Take the case of Dicky Cheung. He played Sun Wukong and became a household name across Asia. The series earned TVB two hundred million, but guess what his salary was?
Just 90,000 yuan.
When he asked for a raise, TVB told him to beat it. They said, "Without the monkey hair glued to your face, you're worth nothing." Then they replaced him with Benny Chan for the next version of Journey to the West.
So, Dicky Cheung shaved his head bald to prove he didn't need fur to be a star.
All in all, compared to the messed-up entertainment industry in his past life, the Great Zhou's current system was actually a dream come true for someone like Jing Yu, a screenwriter.
He didn't have to worry about actors lazily reading off "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7" in place of dialogue. If anyone dared do that, he could replace them outright.
No actor could change his lines or mess with his script on set.
No director could boss him around.
In the Great Zhou industry—like in Korea—the screenwriter was king. If you had the talent, even the director and producer had to respect you.
Top-tier screenwriters were paid per script produced, often earning more than the lead actors. They could also control the actors' careers, since shows were filmed and aired simultaneously, and scripts were constantly adjusted based on viewer feedback.
If you didn't like someone?
Write their character off. Kill them. Make them the most hated villain on screen.
Early morning, Jing Yu woke up in his company-assigned room.
It had a private bathroom. He was allowed to stay there until his short series "My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday" finished production.
At exactly 8 a.m., his phone started ringing.
"Figures. They're coming."
Because of the high status of screenwriters in the industry, practically everyone involved in production maintained a respectful, even deferential, attitude.
Even though Jing Yu was only shooting a two-episode stopgap series, it didn't matter.
At Jinhui Television, there were plenty of junior employees who'd worked for years without ever getting a chance to showcase their names in any credits.
These people usually just did grunt work for the higher-ups. After the shows aired, their names didn't even appear in the end credits. In short, in the world of film and TV, they were the equivalent of "failed authors" in the online writing scene.
Thanks to the connection with his late father, Chu You had given Jing Yu this opportunity. And because the timeline was tight—he had to form a crew and write the script in just one day—the news had already spread across the station.
"Teacher Jing, do you remember me? We had dinner together last year…"
"Hello, Mr. Jing. I'm Shi Yu, a talent agent from Lanxing Entertainment Agency. I heard you're preparing a short series? I'd love to recommend one of our female artists for the role…"
"Jing-ge! Remember me? Da Meng! We worked together two years ago!"
Calls flooded in—everyone wanted to get on the crew list.
In this industry, credits were everything. Sometimes, just having one failed, obscure series on your résumé was enough to land you a spot in a new drama team.
"Alright, I understand. I'll consider it," Jing Yu said politely before hanging up.
He sounded courteous—but in truth...
This show? You guys want in? Fat chance.
The reason Jing Yu chose to shoot "My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday" was that it was low-cost and emotionally compelling.
There were no major scenes, no fancy locations, and only a small cast.
At most, the entire production needed: the two leads, the male lead's best friend, child actors for the younger versions of the leads, and the male lead's parents.
That's it. Six to seven people to carry a two-hour emotional narrative.
So, casting had to be extremely precise—no room for filler roles or favors.
After washing up, Jing Yu got to work.
He recalled the email exchange from last night with Chu You, which told him to finalize key crew members.
First up: the director.
Jing Yu wasn't clueless about directing—his screenwriting courses had covered the basics—but he lacked real-world experience. This wasn't the time to take unnecessary risks.
He thought for a moment and made a call.
"Gao Wencang, it's me."
Half an hour later, a pudgy man in his mid-twenties came jogging into Jing Yu's temporary office.
"Damn, Jing Yu, you really remembered me when it counted. Not bad at all!"
Gao Wencang was one of the few genuine friends the original Jing Yu had. Well, had been, until things soured last month when Jing Yu's father died.
Grieving and unstable, the original had conned Gao out of 30,000 yuan and blown it all in nightclubs.
They had been friends for three years. The fallout wasn't enough to break them completely—but it was understandable that Gao had been pissed.
Otherwise, even if Jing Yu had fallen on hard times, he could've just crashed at Gao's place for a month or two.
"I know I wronged you. That's why I thought of you first when this chance came," Jing Yu said sincerely.
Of course, he wasn't doing this out of guilt over the original owner's misdeeds. Gao was actually competent.
Not top-tier, sure—but definitely solid. Like Jing Yu, he had graduated from Lancheng University, second in his class from the directing department. He joined Jinhui the same year and has worked as a director's assistant since. He had real, hands-on experience.
"Having you direct this short series is my way of making up for that money I took…" Jing Yu hesitated, about to promise to repay him when he got his screenwriter fee.
"Forget it," Gao Wencang waved it off.
Jing Yu shut his mouth immediately.
After all, it was the original soul that owed that debt. While Jing Yu felt responsible, he wasn't going to pretend to be noble. Since Gao had forgiven the debt, so be it. No guilt.
"It's not about the money. I ignored you for a month, not because of the cash, but because of how you handled things. Still, the fact that you thought of me for this role proves you still see me as a real friend. That's enough."
And he was right.
Even though this was a short emergency series, it would air in a prime-time slot on Jinhui TV. If it succeeded, being listed as the director would be a major résumé booster.
In that light, thirty thousand meant nothing.
"But seriously," Gao said, shifting topics. "You're starting principal photography tomorrow, right? And you're only now picking a director? What about the cast? Extras? Crew? Makeup? Props? You're cutting it way too close."
"That stuff? Chu Shu—er, Director Chu already thought of that. He's arranged people to help."
Jing Yu recalled their emails from the night before.
Although he'd been appointed the writer, that didn't mean he had to handle everything.
That's where the producer team came in.
They handled shooting schedules, crew assembly, budget distribution, inter-department communication, equipment logistics...
Way beyond the average screenwriter's job description.
Due to the urgent timeline, Chu You had told the producer to personally manage most of the logistics. Jing Yu, meanwhile, was only in charge of choosing the director and main cast and writing the script.
He didn't have to coordinate with the producer—that saved tons of time.
Of course, if Jing Yu couldn't find people on his own, the producer could assign cast and crew. But what about the quality of those people? Let's just say Jing Yu didn't want to risk that.
"So, Jing Yu… after all this talk, what kind of story are we even making?"
Gao plopped into a chair, his weight making it creak under him.
In the Great Zhou Federation, many hit dramas were written as they filmed. Sudden changes were normal. Maybe there was no full script yet—but surely Jing Yu had a concept?
Gao asked just to get a rough idea and mentally prepare.
"The script's here. See for yourself."
Since he had chosen Gao as the director, Jing Yu didn't keep secrets.
He handed over the script he had stayed up all night writing.
"Wait—you already finished it?" Gao looked a little uneasy.
Even if this was a quick fix, wasn't this a bit too fast?
"My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday"
He glanced at the title.
Hmm. Definitely had that attention-grabbing clickbait vibe.
Truthfully, scripts and actual filmed results often differed wildly. The impact of a script was largely determined by how the director visualized it.
Just like with Jin Yong's martial arts novels, one story could be filmed in dozens of different ways depending on the director's skill.
And as Gao read the script, the plain words began unfolding in his mind as vivid scenes.
"My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday" was originally a manga, later adapted into a film. It earned around 100 million Chinese yuan at the box office. In China, that wasn't huge—but in Japan, with a population of only 100 million, that was a very respectable number.
The plot was simple.
The male and female leads were from parallel worlds, and due to some mysterious event, their timelines began to intersect.
But their timelines moved in opposite directions.
Meaning?
It was like two trains moving in opposite directions.
The male lead's "yesterday" was the female lead's "tomorrow."
But it wasn't a perfectly mirrored reverse timeline either…