WYLM | Chapter 1

Endless expanses of the Gobi Desert.

Wild grass growing rampant, the sky filled with yellow sand.

A group of people dressed in black photography vests, carrying cameras and equipment, are fervently snapping photos of the two main actors at the center.

Chi Guan isn’t getting involved; he’s lounging lazily behind a monitor on a recliner, his head resting on his arms, bored out of his mind as he gazes at the blue sky in the distance.

He’s praying internally: Please, no more script changes.

This is already the eighth time.

Chi Guan gets irritated just thinking about it. The studio’s boss, Lin Qiuyu, to repay a favor, sent him to this lousy crew as a scriptwriter. The location chosen is the middle of nowhere, and the director is a rich second-generation who plays with money and doesn’t stick to the basics of filmmaking, doing whatever he pleases, changing orders from day to day.

Before joining the crew, Chi Guan had all the script’s threads neatly planned out. To accommodate the rookie director, he even provided a simplified guide to help the director understand. However, once on set, the director’s response was curt: Change everything.

Fine, change it. But the director doesn’t even know what he wants. He tells the props team he wants a multicolored black and tells Chi Guan, “It feels like scriptwriting doesn’t require any skill. Give me a pen, and I could write it too.”

Chi Guan remains silent.

Then he lets it go.

Well, what can you do when the rich second-gen director has the money? Money talks.

The sun over the Gobi Desert is brutally hot, but only Chi Guan’s spot has a little tent set up, offering a bit of shade. He’s comfortably lying there when a crew member runs over to him and whispers, “Chi Bro, the director is asking for you, he says he needs to talk.”

Chi Guan stiffens.

Following the crew member, he walks over to the director, who greets him with a slight smile and says, “Chi Guan, sorry to trouble you, but we need to rewrite this scene.”

Chi Guan: “…”

The ninth time.

After being tossed around all day, as the sky gradually darkened, the director finally seemed satisfied and ended the day’s shoot, arranging for everyone to ride back to the hotel to rest.

The rich second-gen director might be clueless but is indeed wealthy. He booked an entire luxurious five-star hotel, providing single rooms for everyone in the crew.

Back in his room, Chi Guan collapses onto the soft, big bed, sprawling out in a “big” character shape, exhaling deeply after being tormented by the director all day. His brain is in a complete state of vacancy.

Suddenly, his phone rings. It’s Lin Qiuyu, the instigator of all this, calling.

Chi Guan grabs the phone from the bedside, presses the answer button, and immediately starts ranting at Lin Qiuyu, “You have the nerve to call? Next time you have dirty work like this, do it yourself if you’re so capable.”

Officially, Lin Qiuyu is Chi Guan’s boss, but in reality, they’ve been friends for many years. Lin Qiuyu once admired Chi Guan’s talent enough to pay a hefty sum to poach him from a major studio and set up her own small studio with a few other scriptwriter friends.

Lin Qiuyu, only a few years older than Chi Guan, handles people well and has a forthright personality, like a dependable big sister. Chi Guan might complain about her, but he’s never thought about leaving her studio.

Lin Qiuyu chuckles, her tone matter-of-factly, saying, “It’s because I know you’re capable, Chi. I really don’t have that skill.”

She’s clearly not there to listen to Chi Guan’s complaints. After teasing him a bit, she swiftly changes the subject, saying, “I’ve got some good news for you. Someone is interested in that script of yours and wants to meet to talk about it.”

“Which script?” Chi Guan asks lazily, “The one where the protagonist loves her boyfriend deeply but ends up being cheated on and then gets together with the cheater’s uncle? That kind of plot is quite popular with the audience these days. Add some more twists of love and hate, get a few fresh young actors to spice things up, and it could really—”

“The Legend of Emperor Jingming.”

Those four words make Chi Guan forget everything else he was going to say.

After a long silence, Chi Guan finally speaks, albeit with difficulty: “This boss isn’t just some rich second-generation with money to burn, right?”

It’s not surprising that Chi Guan reacts this way. “The Legend of Emperor Jingming” was his first work when he entered the industry. The plot was rather immature, and the theme was unappealing—a historical drama.

Emperor Jingming was a real emperor in history, but very little historical material exists about him. Chi Guan had spent a lot of effort researching for this drama, reading through extensive materials, but in today’s fast-paced era, investors prefer quick and easy idol dramas. Historical dramas are high-cost, high-risk, and few companies are willing to take the gamble.

Chi Guan wouldn’t look at smaller crews anymore; it was, after all, his first piece, and he still wanted to give it a decent place. So, over the years, he’s written numerous scripts—originals, adaptations, big-budget, and low-cost for dozens of movies and TV shows. Yet, this labor of love had never been signed.

“Of course, it’s not that kind of rich second-gen,” Lin Qiuyu snorts, her tone still cheerful, “This boss is really something else, the kind that could scare you.”

Lin Qiuyu’s confidence is firm, but after this experience with the rich second-gen director, Chi Guan has completely lost faith in her, not even bothering to pick up her conversational cues, saying, “Maybe you should just turn it down for me, Qiuyu. That script’s been lying around for years, better to just let it be, rather than risk running into some bizarre characters.”

Lin Qiuyu cuts to the chase with three words: “Qi Jingyao.”

Suddenly, Chi Guan, who had been sprawling on the bed, immediately scrambles up, asking, “When is Teacher Qi available? I can meet him anytime.”

Who is Qi Jingyao?

If you were to pull someone off the street right now and ask them who the most famous male star in the entertainment industry is, the answer would likely be—Qi Jingyao!

Qi Jingyao is like a miracle in the domestic film industry, having shot to fame in his debut year as a teenage emperor. Since then, his career has been smooth sailing, staying steadily popular in the ever-changing entertainment industry for eleven years.

As he grew older, Qi Jingyao began working as a film producer, with each project a blockbuster hit. He is the dream guy for countless fans.

But Chi Guan’s reaction isn’t just because Qi Jingyao is famous; he’s also been a fan for eleven years.

Lin Qiuyu tsks twice, teasingly saying to Chi Guan, “Isn’t it past the time for you to say ‘forget it’? Who was it just now calling Teacher Qi a strange character?”

“Don’t know, was someone talking just now?” Chi Guan’s tone is utterly innocent.

Lin Qiuyu is speechless, laughing as she scolds him, “With that acting of yours, it’s a real waste you aren’t an actor.”

Qi Jingyao didn’t immediately buy the script, instead expressing a desire to meet the screenwriter in person. Chi Guan readily agrees, and after arranging the meeting with Lin Qiuyu, he lies back down in the same spot on the bed, yet feeling an incredibly strong sense of unreality.

He’s going to collaborate with his idol.

This thought repeatedly flashes through Chi Guan’s mind, making his heartbeat gradually quicken.

His chat with Lin Qiuyu wasn’t just for laughs. Chi Guan truly entered the industry because of Qi Jingyao.

Chi Guan didn’t write “The Legend of Emperor Jingming” by mere coincidence. In high school, he was crazily obsessed with the story of Emperor Jingming, completely uninterested in studying, and instead feverishly researched every piece of historical material and biography he could find.

Back then, his classmates thought he was crazy, and his parents often sighed in despair, eventually paying him little mind, as if he were not their son.

The cafeteria was bustling during dinner time, people coming and going, Chi Guan staring blankly at the big TV hanging up.

Somehow, someone had changed the channel on the TV, switching from the news to an entertainment interview.

The young man being interviewed was roughly their age, dressed in a bright yellow imperial robe, his features refined yet still carrying a hint of youthful naivety. However, the imperial demeanor in his eyebrows seemed naturally ingrained, his dark eyes exuding a depth as if spanning millennia.

When he looked up at the camera, Chi Guan distinctly heard the sound of his own heartbeat.

The noise of the cafeteria, the calls of the aunties, all seemed to freeze, as if the world contained only him and that person, gazing at each other across time, a moment lasting a thousand years.

Later, a fan club sister told him that this was what it felt like to fall in love with an idol at first sight.

Who knows how long passed before the classmate next to him looked at him in astonishment, “Chi Guan, why are you crying?!”

Chi Guan was startled, only then feeling the coolness on his cheeks.

He had never met the person on TV before, yet inexplicably, a sour feeling surged up in his heart, as if a long-sealed drawer had been pried open a crack, revealing a millennia-old love.

“I don’t know, maybe the food today is too spicy,” Chi Guan shook his head, then asked his classmate, “Who is that person on the TV?”

The classmate glanced at the purely green stir-fried vegetables on Chi Guan’s plate, deciding to skip the previous topic, and simply said, “That’s Qi Jingyao. Don’t you know him? He’s really popular lately.”

Qi Jingyao, Qi Jingyao.

Chi Guan savored the name, searing it into his heart.

The TV interview continued. The host asked Qi Jingyao, “We all know your parents are respected veteran artists. What motivated you to debut? Was it because of your family?”

Qi Jingyao lifted his dark eyes, his tone indifferent: “Standing in the most conspicuous place, that’s how more people can see me.”

Seemingly surprised by his response, the host paused, then quickly smiled and continued, “It seems our Jingyao is still very positive. Indeed, only by striving and working hard, reaching a certain height, can more people see us, hear us, and make our contribution to society!”

The classmate snickered, disdainfully saying, “This host really knows how to stretch it to motivational speaking.”

But suddenly, Chi Guan had an idea: If he could stand high enough, could he share that person’s story with more people?

This thought flickered by, yet took root in the heart of Chi Guan, then a senior in high school.

The thoughts of a young man are always somewhat childish and silly, and looking back now, it seems quite funny. But back then, it was with this thought that Chi Guan began studying anew, step by step getting into film school to study directing and screenwriting, eventually becoming a scriptwriter. Everyone around him found his transformation incredible.

Now, seven years into the industry, the naive and impractical ideas of the past had been smoothed over by reality. Chi Guan had become a seasoned pro at slacking off, no longer as obsessed with that historical figure as before, but his fondness for Qi Jingyao hadn’t faded with time.

The phone rings again, this time from the rich second-generation director.

The call connects, and his voice is a bit awkward, saying, “Sorry, Chi, I just realized there’s still a problem with that script. I think I need to change it again…”

The tenth time.

He was ready for Chi Guan to explode.

But Chi Guan, still immersed in the joy of collaborating with Qi Jingyao, responds, “Good, right, change it more.”

Rich second-gen director: “?”

It’s over.

He had driven the scriptwriter mad.