Chapter 2: Welcome to Linking the Screenwriter App

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Yu Zhilian didn’t even want to wait for the elevator; she ran straight down the adjacent fire escape. Her footsteps quickened, as if afraid the invisible black hole of secondhand smoke behind her would come spewing out to engulf her. May was warm, the blazing sun even somewhat scorching, its light sterilizing and dispelling the suffocating gloom.

The wide open outdoors carried every scent imaginable—except the annoying smell of secondhand smoke. Yu Zhilian sneered, “Trash!” How infuriating! What the hell was that?

“I’m never coming back here again. One time is enough for this kind of nonsense!” she muttered, glancing back at the building with lingering disdain before striding forward a few more steps.

She found a patch of cool shade and finally stopped. Her head, still foggy from the smoke and the man’s stench, began to clear. Suddenly, realization dawned: “Ah!”

My golden opportunity! The golden opportunity I’ve waited twenty years for!

She looked around as if trying to dig something up from nowhere. But of course, there was nothing. Then, with a flicker of thought, a blue light suddenly appeared in her mind. Yu Zhilian tugged at it with her consciousness, and a floating screen materialized before her eyes.

Yu Zhilian: “!!!”

It’s real! Not a fake! Oh my God! I have a golden opportunity now!

She jumped on the spot, spinning around joyfully, not bothering to examine what the device was. Whether it was useful or what exactly it did didn’t matter—just having a golden opportunity was like having a cheat code!

That alone was enough to thrill her. Who could be picky at a time like this?

After calming down, about ten minutes later, she followed the route and arrived at her lodging. The floating screen hovered steadily before her, and she’d basically figured out how to use it.

There was no system for chatting; this so-called “Screenwriter APP” golden opportunity was simply a uniquely designed app. The UI was rudimentary, the interface sloppy, with the main page showing only one rectangular box labeled [Task 1 In Progress]. Clicking it revealed the task details.

It matched what she had heard earlier, just in text form—two hundred million in funding and such. But the text also included some guidance.

[Task 1] Your first drama:
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Take the first step! A production team based on your novel ‘Reborn as the Princess of a Fallen Kingdom’ is about to be formed. Now, please name your production team (modifiable later) to make it official!”

[Note] Be bold—conquer the world beneath your feet!

Yu Zhilian: “Thanks for the encouragement.”

That note sounded oddly quaint.

Still, she thought carefully and wrote the two words “Seize Power” in midair with her finger. The screen detected and confirmed her input.

[Task 1] Your first drama:
“Your production team is now named ‘Seize Power’!”

“Next, please follow the instructions to complete the team formation. Difficulties are temporary; success is guaranteed! Believe in yourself!”

[Note] I believe in you; you definitely can do it.

Yu Zhilian: “…”

Confirmed—the notes were really straightforward. She hoped they wouldn’t turn sarcastic later.

But thinking back to that initial voice—if this was a proper golden opportunity, how could it sound like a river spirit, teasing with silver and gold?

Nonetheless, Yu Zhilian was thrilled: “I like it!”

Even without a chatting system, such human-like messages were endearing.

Her face lit up with a smile, and her steps grew lighter as she headed toward the hotel, trying to retract the floating screen. Great—it folded away neatly.

Swiping her card to enter, Yu Zhilian tidied up the few belongings she’d brought out. She sent a WeChat message to her roommate, the young lady responsible for reception, saying she was leaving soon and thanking her for the care.

Her roommate replied with a sticker and a simple reminder to stay safe. Earlier in the meeting room, she had silently supported Yu Zhilian with a glance.

Pulling her suitcase out the door, Yu Zhilian booked a high-speed train ticket back. Fortunately, it was after the May Day holiday; otherwise, she wouldn’t have gotten a ticket. She also quit all the groups she’d joined yesterday—screenwriters, directors, logistics, set design, art teams…

As she left those groups one by one, she sighed, “Why so many groups?!”

Was she dragged into some kind of pyramid scheme yesterday?

Is work really this scary?

Even her class chat group wasn’t this crowded!

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And why do you all love using WeChat so much?

Her class chat was still on QQ! Because when they first exchanged contacts, everyone chose that. Though there was a WeChat group, all key information was on QQ, so not joining WeChat groups didn’t affect her studies.

In reality, the screenwriter’s script was tied to the entire production team’s operation—no department could be without screenwriters. Unfortunately, in the current production model, screenwriters were never central but more like errand runners anyone could boss around.

In ancient times, that would be called servitude.

After a long time quitting the groups, seeing WeChat return to its usual look, Yu Zhilian breathed a long sigh of relief.

“Feels great—this is how it should be!”

However, she didn’t delete the individual contacts she’d added, nor did she add the director’s or chief screenwriter’s accounts—mostly just a few interns; others hadn’t come yet.

Yu Zhilian: “Just in case they’re useful later.”

No harm in keeping those few contacts for now.

·

On the return train, Yu Zhilian messaged the website editor to inform them she was quitting.

[Qingzi]: What happened?

Yu Zhilian vented her frustrations.

[Qingzi]: ????? Are these people crazy?

[Qingzi]: Don’t be upset.

[Qingzi]: By the way, did you sign the contract? The supplementary screenwriter contract?

If you’re working as a screenwriter, you get paid—this isn’t freeloading.

Yu Zhilian: “Haven’t had time.”

[Qingzi]: That’s good; otherwise, it’d be a breach of contract. The production team isn’t controlled by one person, but I didn’t expect it to be this ridiculous.

[Qingzi]: When they approached me, they were polite—I thought it was a rare opportunity.

[Qingzi]: Pat pat.

Yu Zhilian was about to mention copyright issues, but her fingers hovered over the keyboard and then she gave up, pondering how to solve the copyright problems.

Yu Zhilian: “Sigh, too many unknowns.”

Scripts and production teams were her blind spots.

[Task 1] Your first drama:
“Ding dong! Please acquire the official copyright for your adapted IP!

To facilitate subsequent progress, please register a company! You can handle the procedures yourself or use this APP to do so!”

[Note] Copyright expenses fall within the budget. You may purchase directly or use a company to handle it. The Screenwriter APP can act as this entity. We all know the fun of operating under an alias~

Yu Zhilian felt happy!

Right, there’s task guidance!

Yu Zhilian: “Then I’ll register a company first!”

She didn’t choose to go offline; she wanted to see what the app could accomplish.

So she filled out the information step by step within the floating screen’s selection boxes and confirmed each entry.

Soon, the app displayed success.

Yu Zhilian named her company “Zheng Zheng Film and Television Co., Ltd.”

She was terrible at naming things. When writing novels, she relied on naming websites and agonized over titles for a long time.

Though a novel could carry itself with its format.

Yet now, staring at the company name input box, the words “Zheng Zheng” suddenly came to her mind.

The feeling of being ignored two hours earlier in the meeting room was still vivid—a bitter, lifeless sensation.

It was the oppression habitual to those in power and the long-exhausted reality endured by those beneath.

Yu Zhilian somewhat understood why in second-dimensional worlds, it was always high school students who saved the world.

Although her life hadn’t been easy, it seemed she hadn’t lost this rebellious spirit.

A rebellion she had never ceased.

The high-speed train howled, reaching 380 km/h. Outside the window, the scenery retreated rapidly—the endless mountain ranges like towering giants.

Entering a tunnel, darkness engulfed the carriage.

Only Yu Zhilian’s face glowed with a light unseen by others—the blue light illuminated by the floating screen.

Colors divided into warm and cool tones; the sun was warm yellow, yet at extreme temperatures, the light became icy blue or white.

Yu Zhilian pressed submit.

I want Zheng Zheng; I want to rise.

I want to start with this drama and change everything that can be changed.

She had written the name, and luckily it was accepted without modification.

As the legal representative, Yu Zhilian’s registered capital was set at three million yuan, along with address, business scope, and so forth—preset by the app.

At this moment, aboard the high-speed train heading back to Ningxi City, the company “Zheng Zheng Film and Television Co., Ltd.” was officially established—a company destined to shake the film industry and profoundly influence related circles in the future.

She checked the company on her phone and saw the registration was successful.

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The app’s capability was astonishing yet felt perfectly natural.

Otherwise, what kind of golden opportunity would this be?

Breaking out of the tunnel, light once again flooded the carriage. Yu Zhilian looked out the window.

The endless mountain ranges still stretched before her, but ahead lay a vast open world.

·

Yu Zhilian had attended university in Ningxi City, majoring in management—a versatile field.

In her freshman year, she chose to move out of the dorm and rented a small room nearby for six hundred yuan.

She had no major conflicts with her dorm mates, but since she wrote novels, the incessant keyboard tapping was disruptive, especially as she often wrote late into the night, disturbing others’ rest.

So, before complaints arose, she moved out on her own.

Yu Zhilian’s life experience wasn’t easy.

When she was young, her parents had a son after her. They favored boys and belittled her, even once wanting her to quit school after middle school to attend vocational school and earn money.

Clenching her teeth, Yu Zhilian tutored wealthy classmates and did paid homework writing—though the latter was dubious, it paid for her meals.

On weekends, she collected trash—cardboard, bottles, and the like—selling recyclables to cover her tuition and expenses.

She got into a decent high school, but her parents refused to provide money. Yu Zhilian threatened to cause a scene at their workplaces.

At first, they ignored her, but when she actually showed up, things changed.

She shamelessly pushed forward, and although she had no shame, her parents couldn’t bear the embarrassment.

Yu Zhilian refused their empty promises to “give it to you later,” demanding cash from their offices and then not returning home, knowing they were waiting to beat her. How could she give them face?

She applied for school accommodation and stayed at school on weekends too.

When choosing the university, she had learned it prioritized academics and allowed students to apply for weekend stays, except during holidays like May Day or National Day.

She wanted to work part-time but no one hired minors. Even kind-hearted shop owners risked heavy fines if reported, a common occurrence online.

When the school’s newspaper called for submissions, Yu Zhilian wrote by hand during breaks and rest days.

She’d find computers in the library during activity periods and type up her work all afternoon.

Submitting online saved printing and mailing costs.

Fifteen yuan could feed her for three days.

She wrote fairy tales, short stories, magazine pieces—anything and everything—casting a wide net.

At her best, she published five pieces a month; at her worst, at least one. This was how she supported herself.

With some money saved, she bought a two hundred yuan phone, worn and outdated but functional.

She no longer had to time her writing; she could save texts anytime and send them directly to editors.

This stabilized her income.

Eventually, Yu Zhilian rented a basement near campus, finally having a place to call her own.

Even renting was a plea; the landlord took pity and took the risk.

There was a period when her grades slipped, and her homeroom teacher lectured her earnestly. Yu Zhilian snapped back to focus on her studies.

Her parents, bound by blood but indifferent, only scolded her for “having wild thoughts” when she avoided home, never caring if she ate well or dressed warmly.

After all, at home, she lived on the balcony.

Her homeroom teacher was kind, knowing her situation. When Yu Zhilian couldn’t pay for workbooks and fees early on, the teacher contacted her parents to no avail and then paid the fees herself, sighing.

Yu Zhilian repaid her as soon as she had the money.

After graduating high school and turning eighteen, Yu Zhilian’s first thought was, “Finally, I can earn money openly.”

But she no longer needed to work in factories. She won first prize in a writing contest earlier that year, receiving five thousand yuan before the college entrance exam.

Combined with other manuscript fees, she bought a laptop and rented a small room with a balcony.

For the next three months before school started, she stayed there writing her novel.

When she left for university two thousand kilometers away, her 600,000-word novel had earned her twenty thousand yuan.

Tuition and dorm fees were covered.

Best of all, the novel would continue to earn money, perhaps not much later, but even ten yuan meant a day’s meal.

After arriving at university, she applied for a student loan, which didn’t require parental co-signing, greatly broadening her prospects.

During her three years at university, Yu Zhilian never returned to that city or contacted her parents.

She had finally become what she dreamed of as a child: leaving and never seeing those two again, earning her own living.

Classmates admired her independence and boldness, unaware it was all born of necessity.

Yu Zhilian relied on her anger to persist through high school and university.

And she continued to persevere now.

She dared not surrender to life because she feared becoming the person her parents wanted her to be.

Now, seeing this golden opportunity arrive, Yu Zhilian finally had the means to stand up to directors and producers.

Yes, she did not lack courage.

She only lacked capital.