Chapter 4: The Director Takes His Place

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Faced with the enormous benefit granted by the golden finger, Yu Zhi was surprised but did not let the free wealth cloud her judgment.
“I need manpower right now,” she analyzed.

During the week waiting for the contract, Yu Zhi had not been idle.
Although her understanding of the golden finger was limited so far, she noticed that the assistance it provided consistently affirmed her methods.
Especially regarding copyright matters.

In fact, the screenwriter app could have assigned her a task earlier to approach the copyright editor about signing the contract and transferring rights to the company’s name.
But it didn’t.

Yu Zhi initiated the conversation with the editor herself, received advice, and only then did the screenwriter app release a corresponding task.
Yu Zhi realized, “It seems like it’s trying to teach me something.”

Compared to when she first connected with the golden finger a week ago, Yu Zhi was much calmer now.
Such a miraculous buff is common in novels, but in reality, this was her first time experiencing it, so excitement was inevitable.

She even tried posting online, “I’ve bound a system,” which wasn’t blocked but met with disbelief—everyone thought she was just playing with a concept.
Some jokesters commented, “What system are you? I have a tycoon system, spending five million a day, can’t sleep until it’s all spent.”

Yu Zhi: “...”

She chatted with the jokester a bit, trying to see if it was real or made up.
In the end, it was fabricated—likely someone who just finished reading a novel, talking about how the tycoon system’s cash-outs only worked through live streaming gifts and boasting about how many times they’d topped the charts.

Yu Zhi checked short videos but found no such person.
Looking at her phone screen, she chuckled quietly at her own caution and flights of fancy.

“Forget it.”
Why get tangled up in all this?
Why look for similar people?

She abandoned such futile behavior and turned to seriously consider what she could achieve with the golden finger.
It’s a waste to enter a treasure mountain and come away empty-handed—not just in wealth but in the ability to create wealth.

Coincidentally, Yu Zhi was the type who, when seeing others’ abilities and achievements, immediately thought, “They’re so amazing—I want to learn that too.”
Perhaps because she had nothing in childhood, she grew up wanting to have everything.

·

Yu Zhi didn't have many friends in the film industry; she met a few online through writing novels, with two of them she got along well enough to exchange some wild, crazy banter.
However, these two had little influence or connections either.

She had just finished her novel and originally planned to start a new one next month. For now, she decided to settle the production team’s matters first!
She messaged her friends, saying she needed a break for a while.

Both of them were excited—one joked, “Don’t show off or I’ll buy a ticket and come beat you up,” and the other encouraged her to “go travel and find inspiration.”
Yu Zhi grinned mischievously at the first and gently patted the second.

The five-star hotel stay would begin counting from the next day; not going would be a waste. So she packed her bags again, preparing to head over.
Yu Zhi: “This suitcase was really a great buy!”

There was a high-speed train from Ningxi City to Maple City that took just twenty minutes.
The five-star hotel offered comprehensive services, and Yu Zhi planned to recruit her team there.

She’d start with the director and screenwriter, then gradually assemble the rest of the crew.
The screenwriter app mentioned “group messages,” which Yu Zhi knew meant public recruitment notices for assembling a production team.

Yu Zhi: “Let’s see how to find people…”

[Task One] Your First Drama
“The production team is a huge organization requiring a leader, and the director is such a key figure! But how to find the right director under the screenwriter’s core control? New feature unlocked!”

[Note] The right one isn’t necessarily the best in the world, but the best for you.

[Updated Version] Wanted Notice (Suite Feature)
“You need reliable candidates; enter your requirements and the screenwriter app will help you find suitable matches. You can also input a name and identity to get corresponding evaluations.”

[Note] Searching and searching for friends until you find a good one~

Yu Zhi: “!!!”
This is just the pillow you need when you’re sleepy!

The wanted notice in the new feature perfectly met Yu Zhi’s needs!
She immediately opened it and found the operation very straightforward.

No detours necessary, since it was “based on Yu Zhi’s basic preferences,” described as “habits, personality style, etc.”
Yu Zhi: “I don’t even know what my basic preferences are…”

You’ll find out soon enough.
She cautiously wrote her expectations for the director, the most important being “hoping they can best present the novel’s content.”

Then the page flipped, and candidate recommendations appeared quickly!
Yu Zhi was thrilled: “Three!”

In the internet age, film industry people all have social media accounts, most with emails listed, so the app even noted the contact info for her.
If no public account existed, the app could still find phone numbers.

Who to choose?
Oh no, of course she wanted all of them!

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Yu Zhi: “Whether it works or not, I’ll cast a wide net first!”
Every lead counts!

·

The first director to arrive at the hotel was Pei Zhao, a young woman only thirty-two.
In the app’s recommendation, Pei Zhao’s compatibility rate was 83%—the highest among the three.

The app’s “compatibility rate” was calculated through a complex algorithm, factoring in appearance, temperament, acting skills, character, personality, cooperation history, and more.
Yu Zhi studied it and felt these criteria differed depending on the person.

For directors, she hadn’t specified looks as a criterion.
But she might need that later when searching for actors, so appearance and temperament were still important.

The small print explained: a compatibility rate over 60% meant no big issues and was usable;
Over 80% was excellent and recommended to hire;
If over 90%, absolutely don’t miss out.

If someone had a heavy negative history affecting the team’s normal work, their score wouldn’t break 60%, no matter how suitable they were otherwise.

Yu Zhi was puzzled: “What does this mean exactly?”
She didn’t understand yet, especially since the lowest score among the three directors was still 76%.

She set that question aside and focused on the task at hand, planning to revisit it later.

·

When Yu Zhi contacted Pei Zhao, the director was already worried about work.
Her mother had cancer five years ago, draining all her savings on treatment. After selling the house to pay for medicine, only the current home remained, thankfully mortgage-free; otherwise, life would still be tight.

Pei Zhao had sacrificed many directing opportunities to care for her mother, which made it difficult to find a suitable production team now.

Her mother’s condition had eased to a near-normal state, able to live independently with a hired caregiver.
Two months ago, Pei Zhao began a new shoot.

But half a month ago, she was fired by the financiers.
After over four years of swallowing insults and bending to the producers for the sake of medicine money, her anger finally boiled over. Now that she could breathe a little, she exploded.

Pei Zhao had directed several good dramas, but after half a lifetime on set, she found herself losing out even to financiers’ favored actors.

She’d fallen out with the producers because they thought she filmed too slowly and wasted money and locations.
Pei Zhao found this laughable:

“I film slowly? Your male lead’s acting isn’t just bad, it’s worse than nothing!
During two months of shooting, you swapped out the female lead three times. Each time, I had to reshoot.
And take a look at this script—bringing the screenwriter on set as the third female lead? It’s a joke! The pile of scripts taller than your dwarf!
All sorts of weirdos and freaks came to act. A single scene took two days and still wasn’t done properly; do you think when I say ‘cut’ it means they nailed it?
No, I just couldn’t stand it anymore!”

She’d held this in so long that her outburst felt extremely cathartic.
Those who tried to stop her couldn’t get a word in, hesitating with a hand raised, but it didn’t seem they genuinely wanted to intervene.

Everyone’s frustration was thick enough to film an infinite-loop drama on site.

After cursing, Pei Zhao turned and left. The financiers replaced her, telling the public the original director was no good and they brought in someone better.
The male lead’s fans were ecstatic, trashing Pei Zhao and saying the change was overdue, citing stories about the director yelling at him and making him shoot a single scene three hours without passing.

Pei Zhao felt relieved after venting.

Still, she couldn’t find a suitable production team.
After idling for half a month, someone called, earnestly asking her to be the chief director.

Pei Zhao asked, “What drama?”

The female voice on the other end said, “A costume drama with a bit of political intrigue, adapted from a novel IP.”

Yu Zhi dared not say her novel was strictly a serious political drama—it was mainly a fast-paced, entertaining story when she wrote it.
She cautiously described it as having a bit of political intrigue.

Pei Zhao mused, “Every word feels like a dead end!”

The other side was momentarily stunned, then said, “The screenwriter is the original author, the financiers won’t meddle or send people unprofessionally, payments are fast, the director and screenwriter are the core of production with full control.”

Pei Zhao immediately responded, “Turning a dead end into a path!”

If what they said was true, no matter the drama, it would be good!

Though having no restrictions isn’t always positive—some directors need constraints to create good works.

But Pei Zhao wasn’t that kind.
Her best work was a youthful costume romance with strong pacing and thrills, which became the annual best drama.
The leads and several supporting actors all became overnight sensations.

Alas, times change.

Trusting these words, Pei Zhao took the address and packed swiftly, ready to depart the next day.

Pei Zhao: “Nothing to do anyway, I’ll be there tomorrow!”

She disliked flying, so between a four-hour high-speed train and a one-and-a-half-hour flight, she chose the train.
Because factoring in airport check-in, waiting, landing, and travel time, it was roughly the same.
Plus, the train station was usually closer to the city center.

At least in Maple City, it’s a ten-minute taxi ride from the high-speed rail station to the hotel.

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·

Yu Zhi not only introduced the production team’s overview to Pei Zhao during their contact but also sent her the story outline, main character profiles, and the novel’s full text.
All these materials were prepared during the contract waiting period.

Yu Zhi had saved them while setting up the novel’s plot and just needed to organize them again from her computer files.
It was done quickly.

Pei Zhao spent the afternoon and evening skimming through the materials and continued reading Yu Zhi’s novel on a tablet during the train ride the next day.
She liked the story very much.

But she understood it wasn’t an easy story to adapt.

When they met at the destination, Pei Zhao’s first reaction was surprise.
She hadn’t expected the person on the other side of the phone to be so young.

Most importantly, Yu Zhi radiated a vibrant energy, a rare and precious quality.
If Yu Zhi’s friends knew Pei Zhao’s thoughts, they would correct her: what she meant was the loss of the foolish, clear-eyed college student’s “something.”

Other college students might be clear but foolish; Yu Zhi had long abandoned that obvious foolishness but remained innocent.
She might never give up that innocence for her lifetime.

Yu Zhi liked Pei Zhao a lot. She had also researched the director online and found many videos about her.

In the internet era, everyone’s past scandals were recorded in high-definition 4K.
Finding a director with works was very easy.

Pei Zhao didn’t have her own “fan manager,” but actors from her dramas and shorts often did.
As a result, she herself became material for the camera.

So when Yu Zhi saw the tall director in person, she wasn’t surprised by her height or appearance.

From interviews, Yu Zhi learned that Pei Zhao’s eyes were gentle, she smiled often, and spoke softly—that was her everyday demeanor.
But on set, she was completely different.

She was very tall, about 1.8 meters, so she didn’t need to stand on boxes during filming.
When she stood up from the director’s chair, she could be imposing.

Her nickname was “Big Strong.”
Originally derogatory, Pei Zhao had forcefully turned it into praise.

Yu Zhi wasn’t short herself—just over 1.7 meters.
As a child, she grew rapidly, the pain making it hard to walk; she once sat on the stairwell floor, kicking her legs straight, aching deep in her bones as if wanting to break them.

A neighbor aunt felt sorry, said it was malnutrition during growth, and brought her home to make pork rib soup, encouraging her to eat well.
The aunt didn’t think Yu Zhi was greedy, just felt pity.

Everyone around knew about Yu Zhi’s parents’ character and had seen the heavy burdens of cooking and caring for her younger brother at a young age.
But others’ family affairs were none of their business; occasional mockery was all they dared.

The next day, when Yu Zhi left, the aunt gave her a large bottle of calcium tablets, reminding her to take them.
Passing a pharmacy, Yu Zhi saw it was the largest bottle they sold.

She had hated that part of her past as a child but regretted it as she grew up—fortunately, she had endured it.

Pei Zhao and a few others took the elevator, with a waiter pressing the button for their floor.

Pei Zhao looked at Yu Zhi: “Why choose a place like this? Showing off your strength?”

Yu Zhi smiled: “Director Pei, what do you think of the strength?”

Pei Zhao nodded: “Very impressive. If the inside matches the outside, I’d be very willing to stay.”

Meeting someone at a five-star hotel was a strong sign of sincerity, regardless of other factors!

Pei Zhao didn’t care much for such superficial things, but people naturally felt comfortable being complimented and respected by others.

Though the accommodations and food weren’t extremely luxurious, at least the style and class were evident.

With the pre-researched info and the app’s strong filtering capabilities, Yu Zhi didn’t need to curry favor—just honest communication let her connect well with Pei Zhao.

Especially with Yu Zhi’s assurance: “I am the original author and the funding representative. After the team is formed, the director and screenwriter are the dual cores. No meddling financiers, and no one else will interfere with you.”

Pei Zhao, already feeling in tune with her, leaned forward eagerly at this.

She looked seriously at Yu Zhi: “You say the investment is two hundred million. How can you ensure your words won’t be affected as production progresses?”

Investment funds don’t arrive all at once.
The production team, especially the executive producer, faces financiers’ representatives who supervise and release funds according to progress.

So producers often have to chase payments, and financiers sometimes withdraw or new ones join.

Yu Zhi was fully prepared for this.

She took out her phone, showing a screenshot of a transfer page the screenwriter app had prepared for her—a reply she received after requesting funding support for the production team.

The two hundred million fund balance was extremely tempting.

Yu Zhi: “Because the money has already been received.”

Pei Zhao: “!!!”

She slammed the table, shaking the documents in front of her.

“Let’s do this!” Pei Zhao met Yu Zhi’s eyes, both burning with fierce determination.

If she missed this chance, then Pei Zhao would truly be ungrateful!