Hao Jie
For the past three days, I have been analyzing the submissions received by the GLOW Critic Division at the request of Mr. Qin.
Among them, only four projects were quite unique.
One of them chose to show a traveler who spent their life traveling around the world, and the passing memories were the letters sent by their old companions or friends made on the way.
The concept resembles the journey-based storytelling popularized by works such as Genshin Impact, though the execution here attempts its own direction.
Another took a sci-fi approach: a woman born on another planet who mistakenly arrived on Earth and left after a year when her spaceship was finally repaired.
There are many works, especially fan fiction, that explore similar premises. The narrative idea was not particularly unique.
However, this young man, Xiao Wei, managed to produce what looks like a high-cost scene on an extremely limited budget.
These two projects were my best picks until Mr. Shen showed me another project. The director turned this simple "passing time and memories" idea into a full deity narrative, where a god born from elements passed their experience and knowledge to the next generation of deities.
I never expected someone to turn such a simple idea into fantasy work.
If I were honest, I would rank this first.
It was an interesting approach.
There were six films left. None of us had reviewed them yet. I had no high hopes for anyone, but earlier, three could gain my personal interest.
They have their strength.
What they need now is to sharpen their skills and instincts.
That's when one film made me curious.
When it started, it was an ordinary couple sitting together. Then, an accident. What surprised me most was that it had neither dialogue nor any extraordinary premise.
Just a simple life and silent death.
Yet, somehow, the daily life and the memories were more romantic and emotional than any story. It dragged me in.
One thing became immediately clear.
Zu Cheng, whoever this person is. He has a unique instinct to make the common shine within the exceptionals.
Until now, I was so sure that the sci-fi one would end up being the best among these.
After seeing this, I'm not certain about that.
One relies on technical efficiency and cost control. The other possesses an instinctive understanding of emotional storytelling. Both of them will become some of the finest directors with global success.
It's just a matter of time: who becomes first and who next.
That uncertainty lingered—right until the moment the final judgment began.
Soon the final judgment started; we five sat around the table along with Mr. Qin himself in the middle.
For a brief moment, no one spoke. We glanced at each other before Mr. Shen spoke up.
"I'll begin," he said calmly, sliding a file forward. "There are two projects I don't find particularly noteworthy."
He did not elaborate much. A few concise remarks, precise and clean: lack of narrative depth, predictable structure, nothing that lingered after viewing. His tone remained neutral, almost detached. To him, they were simply not worth further discussion.
Another followed, nodding in agreement. "I share the same view. They're technically fine, but nothing stands out."
Two projects were set aside just like that efficiently, without resistance.
Then Mr. Shen tapped lightly on another file, a faint trace of interest surfacing in his otherwise composed expression.
"This one, however…" He paused briefly and said, "It has an interesting interpretation."
He began outlining the fantasy project: the deity born from elements, the passing of knowledge, and the quiet continuity between generations. As he spoke, his words carried a rare note of approval.
"It takes a simple concept and elevates it. The world-building is not excessive, but it is deliberate."
I listened without interrupting. His evaluation aligned with mine, though I had placed it slightly lower.
When he finished, his gaze shifted toward me.
"And you?"
All attention followed.
I placed my hand over the remaining files, tapping them lightly once, as if organizing my thoughts.
"There are three I'd like to bring forward."
I began with Xiao Wei's project.
"A sci-fi premise. Not particularly original," I said plainly. "However, the execution compensates for it."
I outlined the visual construction, the controlled use of resources, and the illusion of scale achieved under limitations.
"He understands efficiency," I added.
"More importantly, he understands where to invest it."
A few nods followed around the table.
Then I moved to the next.
"The traveler narrative."
I paused for a moment, choosing my words carefully.
"It resembles familiar journey-based storytelling. But its strength lies in emotional continuity—the letters serve as anchors, connecting time, distance, and memory."
I glanced briefly at Mr. Qin, though his expression remained unreadable.
"It is not groundbreaking. But it is sincere."
Finally, I reached the last one.
For a brief second, I found myself hesitating—not out of doubt, but because it was harder to define.
"The last project…" I began, "…has no dialogue."
That alone drew a subtle reaction.
"A typical couple. An accident. Nothing unexpected in premise."
I let the simplicity settle before continuing.
"And yet, it is the only one that made the ordinary feel irreplaceable."
The room grew quieter.
"There is no reliance on scale, nor on novelty. Only timing, framing… and instinct."
I closed the file.
"This young man," I said, almost as a conclusion, "understands something that cannot be easily taught."
No one spoke immediately after that.
As a critic, I understand the value of precision.
It builds structure, ensures clarity, and refines presentation.
But instinct…?
Instinct is what allows something imperfect to be remembered.
Ms. Rei leaned slightly forward, her fingers resting against the edge of the table as she spoke. "What surprises me more is this… this might be the first time we're considering first-year students for the top three spots. And this time, there are two of them."
A brief pause followed.
It wasn't disbelief. More like quiet acknowledgment.
"First-years?" one of them repeated, almost under their breath, as if weighing the implication rather than questioning it.
Mr. Shen's expression did not change, though his gaze lowered briefly to the files in front of him.
"Unusual," he said. "But not impossible."
I did not respond immediately.
Because the point she raised wasn't about rarity. It was about precedent.
In most cases, first-year submissions lacked refinement. Even when ideas were promising, execution often fell short. That gap was expected.
But this time…
"They don't feel like first-years," I said.
My fingers tapped lightly against the file once.
"Not in the way they structure their work. Not in how they make decisions."
Mr. Qin, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke.
"Which means," he said evenly, "we are not evaluating them as first-years."
His gaze lifted, steady and deliberate. "We are evaluating them as contenders."
"However, we can only choose three, not four," he continued, his tone steady. "One of them has to be left out."
This wasn't only about eliminating one work but about which should get first place and which second place as well. Although this time we didn't have to worry about first position, we did about what should be second and what in third.
After a while of consideration, the discussion gradually settled into silence.
It wasn't that there was nothing more to say—only that everything necessary had already been said.
"The deity project," Mr. Shen stated at last, "takes the first position."
No one objected.
Its interpretation and scale of thought set it apart.
"The traveler narrative… second," Ms. Rei added. "It may follow a familiar structure, but it executes it with consistency."
Again, no disagreement.
That left one position.
And two works.
The room fell quiet once more.
I glanced at the remaining files, though the comparison had already been made long before this moment.
Xiao Wei's work: precise, calculated, efficient.
Zu Cheng's work: simple, unadorned… yet difficult to forget.
Mr. Shen was the one who broke it.
"Does the audience care about budget?" he asked.
The question was simple, but it left no room for argument.
Because in the end, what remains with the audience is never the cost—only what they felt.
"Then the third position…" Ms. Rei spoke softly, "...goes to the silent piece."
It was a quiet conclusion.
No formal vote was needed after that.
I closed the last file.
In the end, precision had its place. It built the foundation, but instinct…
Instinct allows the ordinary to become unforgettable.
I said nothing more.
In time, both of them would be seen.