11 The Past

The addition from Zhengzheng Film and Television was meant to better assist the crew with filming; whether it was following procedures or handling subsequent promotions, a professional partner was needed to coordinate.

Yu Zhi had no doubts about the screenwriter app asking her to set up the company, but she was unsure about where the funding would come from. Two hundred million was sufficient for making a series, but starting a company—especially one that looked this large—would probably burn through money quickly.

However, if the venue and facilities were all provided, then successfully launching a legitimate enterprise shouldn’t be too difficult. After all, it was a business without initial capital.

Yu Zhi happily accepted the new task and sent the address to a few people who had already done online interviews, setting up times for in-person meetings. Job seekers were generally eager, and with the benefits and compensation she offered, it wasn’t too hard to get them to come for face-to-face interviews and sign contracts.

After instructing Xu Huang and Bo Qiao to continue screening resumes, Yu Zhi went to check on the director and screenwriter.

Cai Yanni and Wen Mingshu were responsible for organizing the filing information, while the other three were compiling details on the main actors. Yu Zhi had provided thorough materials and had prepared relevant group information in advance, so progress was quick.

Pei Zhao and two others were here as well, looking at available roles. Lang Qingwen had already sent information to the actor she liked, but that person was currently filming a drama and couldn’t come over.

“I can’t easily take leave; the production coordinator… Director Lang, can it be four days later? I have a gap then. I can leave at night and arrive in the morning! After the morning interview, I’ll return to continue filming…” Her voice carried a tightly held urgency.

Lang Qingwen reassured her, “It’s okay, don’t rush. The opportunity is still there. There are many standout roles in this drama. If you have time in the next couple of days, film a self-tape for me, okay? I’ll send you the scenes.”

The other party immediately agreed.

Lang Qingwen’s voice was slow but powerful: “Zhan Ying, you are a very gifted actor. I don’t know what difficulties you’re facing now, but keep going. You belong on the path of acting.”

Zhan Ying paused, her voice breaking with tears: “Okay, I’ll work hard!”

Lang Qingwen reminded her to send over an artist profile and then hung up.

She then scrolled through WeChat, screenshotting replies from several people and dragging them into her notes.

Before Yu Zhi entered, the three directors had basically divided up the dozen or so current roles.

Pei Zhao had contacted several agents with the pitch of a “new drama, S+ rating, good script,” and had even directly reached out to a top-tier actress.

They all requested script details—not the whole script, just the outline, which was common knowledge since it was an IP adaptation.

In today’s industry, eight out of ten dramas were adaptations rather than originals. Adaptations were actually easier to get approved than original works.

When they learned it was about an empress, and not one of those superficial dramas already greenlit in the circle, their interest surged.

That actress eagerly called Pei Zhao, asking if the script really matched the outline.

Pei Zhao smiled wryly: “You know, nowadays, big female-led dramas are mostly palace intrigue. It’s rare to see an empress-themed story that’s straightforward. This one’s plot is clear and upfront—no tricks.”

Pei Zhao added, “I can’t guarantee the script won’t be revised, but I can firmly say the female lead will be the female lead, and the novel’s story will remain intact.”

The actress said, “I have some variety shows to shoot, so I won’t be free to leave for the next two weeks. Let me know when’s a good time for the audition.”

Pei Zhao replied, “Okay, but there will be many competitors. I’m just giving you a heads-up; it’s not my decision.”

The actress laughed, “I’ve been on sets before, I know how it works.”

Birds of a feather flock together. The person Pei Zhao thought of immediately must have qualities she admired—those shared attitudes and values.

Zhai Duo saw Yu Zhi and invited her to sit beside her.

“We’re trying to get the filing info as soon as possible, but it comes in batches, so the earliest will probably be the batch on the 5th of next month,” she explained. “Also, a lot of pre-production planning needs to start. Do you have anyone on your side? Do you want me to recommend someone?”

Yu Zhi said, “I definitely need help.”

Zhai Duo was surprised at how readily Yu Zhi agreed but understood—Yu Zhi had no staff now, and the temporary team was incomplete.

“In this industry, just because someone is easy to work with doesn’t mean they’re a good person, and most nice people aren’t that easy to work with. You’re young, so if you’re unsure of anything, ask Pei Zhao a lot,” Zhai Duo advised.

Yu Zhi took notes diligently.

“No worries, we learn bit by bit,” Zhai Duo smiled. She enjoyed seeing newcomers join the industry and hoped for fresh energy to make things better.

—

Expenses at the hotel were covered by the screenwriter app, including three meals a day and basic internal spending, all part of the package.

After a busy day and dinner, Yu Zhi called everyone to go for massages and soak in the hot springs.

“Great!” said Xu Huang.

Cai Yanni looked around with eyes full of anticipation.

At this moment, the only man present, Pu Huamao, was “isolated” and sent away.

He sighed, “So I get to enjoy it alone?”

It was common for directors to have five-star treatment, but junior screenwriters rarely had this privilege; few could even sneak in for such luxuries.

Everyone was very happy.

Yu Zhi changed clothes, found a spot, sank into the warm water, closed her eyes, and felt the soothing embrace of the thermal bath.

It was as if the whole world was wrapping her in a loving embrace.

Bo Qiao came over mainly to chat with Yu Zhi. It wasn’t about anything important—just sharing what she’d eaten, how happy she was working with Xu Huang, chatting with Ping Cong, and so on. Random, purposeless sharing.

Yu Zhi told her about going to the altar that morning, listening to a lecture, and witnessing a scholar’s lifelong passion for his research.

Xun Yi was a taciturn person who only spoke at length when it came to her expertise.

From the first step on the stone path, she began to passionately describe the ancient tribe’s rituals from thousands of years ago, now vanished like smoke.

The task required “conversation,” but this was not a back-and-forth dialogue; simply looking at Xun Yi, listening, and nodding counted as completing it.

Listening itself was part of the conversation.

The planned ritual lecture alone sufficed to complete the task.

Yu Zhi smoothly received the check-in reward and, before leaving the altar, shared some pastries with Xun Yi.

At first, Xun Yi didn’t want to accept, but after tasting one, she set down Yu Zhi’s bag and opened a new one, saying, “You eat that, I’ll eat this.”

The screenwriter app hadn’t required Yu Zhi to do anything else with Xun Yi—she hadn’t even asked for contact information, just attended the lecture and shared food.

Xun Yi was actually quite happy when Yu Zhi left.

The vigorous sixty-year-old woman wasn’t very old; her hair was tinged with gray but her body was in good shape.

Otherwise, Yu Zhi would have dropped the items and run away.

“I think I probably can’t outrun her,” Yu Zhi said.

Bo Qiao laughed uproariously, nearly drowning.

—

In these two days, enough investigation had been done to uncover who Yu Zhi was.

Pei Zhao had asked around; the information came from Yu Zhi herself—on the contract.

One didn’t need to break any laws; just a bit of discreet inquiry could reveal her approximate background, birthdate, and growth path.

After reviewing the public information, Pei Zhao, fresh from a massage, received a new message.

[Ah Tiao]: Sis, the girl changed her name. When I searched her info, I found no records under this name. She changed it at eighteen; her original name was—

[Ah Tiao]: Sigh, I don’t even know how to say this.

[Ah Tiao]: You see for yourself.

When Pei Zhao saw the message, she had a bad premonition.

Only when the picture arrived did she understand why.

Yu Zhi’s ID card listed her university’s address.

Before she changed her address, there was no "Yu Zhi" there.

Instead, there was a girl named "Wei Zhaodi."

The birthdate was the same as Yu Zhi’s; her elementary, middle, and high school routes matched, along with searchable online information—accounts registered by the child, sharing joys and discontents about school and classmates, leaving digital traces.

Moreover, Yu Zhi had received awards in extracurricular literary projects, with photos and articles about her on high school websites and official accounts.

She had also received scholarships during middle and high school, and these details had been edited into official public articles by school accounts.

The more Pei Zhao looked, the heavier her heart grew.

[Ah Tiao]: She probably changed her name right after the college entrance exam, just in time to use the new name at university.

[Ah Tiao]: A very strong girl.

[Ah Tiao]: When I searched for her info, I wanted to strangle her parents.

Minors needed guardian approval to change names, but after eighteen, they didn’t.

—

Right after the college entrance exam, Yu Zhi took her ID card to the household registration office.

Adults could change their names easily, though some places resisted because it complicated records.

Changing her name after the exam, though no guardian consent was needed, made receiving her admission letter and registering in September more complicated.

But it was only a hassle.

Yu Zhi told the clerk she wanted to change her name, placed her ID on the counter, and the clerk’s eyes flicked to the name field, immediately understanding the reason.

There were no questions or objections; she smoothly changed to her new name.

She didn’t want the surname Wei, nor to be connected to those two people, so she gave herself this name.

She liked its homophone: “Want to know what happens next? Stay tuned for the next episode.”

She hoped her future would be free, unrestrained, and full of longing.

Pei Zhao, reading this, was furious: “Damn their grandfather, damn their father, damn their mother, damn their ancestors!!!”

At university, only her initial counselor who handled her admission knew the story.

At first, the counselor was puzzled: “Why change your name? I have to verify your files later, and this really adds a lot of extra work!”

But when she saw Yu Zhi’s original name, she immediately understood and had no negative feelings.

When Yu Zhi came to register and asked how to get the new household registration info to update her ID address—she needed a school certificate, which she didn’t have before—and unwilling to live under that name any longer, she changed it first while leaving the address unchanged for now.

The counselor kindly helped her.

Yu Zhi obtained her second new ID in a short time.

Only then were her name, household registration, and address completely separated from that “family.”

Yu Zhi’s past was harsh, but fortunately, she met many kind people along the way.

That’s why she grew into who she was now, never losing her kindness and hope for the world.

—

The next day, Yu Zhi got up early to check in.

Today, she was to visit the great river outside Maple City and stay for half an hour.

She wasn’t sure what it meant.

She unpacked the gown she had received yesterday; in the personal settings under the “Inventory” icon, she saw all her current possessions.

A beautiful dark-colored dress, complete with crown, boots, and a jade pendant—many items.

But these were not physical objects, only images.

The description said that when the crew needed them, they could be resized accordingly.

After all, these were for actors, and to look their best, everything had to be tailored.

Today’s reward was “a box of props,” and Yu Zhi was eager to see what it was.

When she happily slung on her small backpack and stepped outside, she casually greeted Pei Zhao, who gave her a look that made Yu Zhi step back.

“Uh…” she cautiously asked, “Director Pei, are you okay?”

Had something happened?

Why was her gaze so sensitive, gentle, and filled with tears?

Pei Zhao stepped forward and hugged Yu Zhi.

Her tall frame immediately blocked Yu Zhi’s view, forcing her to accept the sudden embrace.

It was very warm.

But Yu Zhi was a bit surprised and confused, remaining somewhat stunned.

“It’s nothing,” Pei Zhao said after letting go, “I just had a nightmare.”

Yu Zhi: “???”

Pei Zhao gave her a gentle push: “Go on, get busy.”

Yu Zhi: “...Okay.”

She walked forward, turning back every few steps, her lively steps now hesitant, worried that something might have happened to Pei Zhao—family, or friends?

But it seemed really fine, as Pei Zhao turned back to her own work, her posture normal.

Yu Zhi: “Alright then.”

She returned to her joyful mood and dashed off in a flash.