We're really short on people.

Yu Zhi was at a loss. When she thought about what she could offer, it turned out she only had two hundred million yuan—just that one thing.

At Zhengzheng Film and Television, she was currently the only person there, and it seemed more like a shell company. Because the screenwriter app had abruptly given a free stay at a five-star hotel, she had no choice but to take things step by step.

Pei Zhao was different.

Her achievements were easy to find online, and her directorial style was distinct and evident. Even though she was currently lacking work, that didn’t mean she couldn’t find a crew.

On the contrary, as long as she was willing to take on projects and reached out to her previous contacts, it was always possible.

So, at first glance, Yu Zhi seemed outstanding, but in reality, she had little assurance.

Only the “dual core of director and screenwriter” plus “funds already in place” served as her bargaining chips.

It was a weak position, but there was no other way.

However, from Pei Zhao’s perspective, Yu Zhi’s move signaled that “this person must have strong backing.”

Two hundred million yuan in cash flow wasn’t something just anyone could produce.

Just as during filming, producers repeatedly pressed for payments—no director had never been threatened by “the money isn’t in place.” Otherwise, how would investors insert or replace people, or actors bring funding to join a production?

Moreover, having two hundred million to put into shooting a TV series, Yu Zhi certainly had more resources than just that.

Most importantly, Pei Zhao sensed sincerity in Yu Zhi’s words.

Perhaps it was because she was older now. In past collaborations, everyone might say “I really want to make a good drama,” whether true or false, but none matched the genuine earnestness shining through Yu Zhi’s eyes at this moment.

Yu Zhi spoke of her hopes for her novel, said she had watched Pei Zhao’s previous TV dramas and liked them very much, and wondered why the dramas always turned out so poorly.

She relied on her youth, openly admitting she was a newcomer, showing vulnerability, coaxing, and expressing grievance—a little emotional play that made Pei Zhao immediately follow her feelings.

“Yes! I want to know too! You have no idea what’s going on on my side…”

Even though they weren’t eating or drinking at the moment, Pei Zhao couldn’t help but vent to this newly met younger sister.

When it came to past troubles, the list was endless.

Yu Zhi listened attentively while calling someone to bring tea and snacks, pouring water to soothe Pei Zhao’s throat.

Often, when two people start complaining together, their relationship draws closer.

Yu Zhi was very good at observing and liked to use leverage.

She knew how to charm people effortlessly—provided the other party wasn’t sexist.

Pei Zhao’s confirmation to join gave Yu Zhi a solid anchor.

She didn’t know much about the crew’s work, but Pei Zhao was different!

At just over thirty years old, this director had rich experience—having worked as a camerawoman, background actor, assistant director, and even chief director, with a vast network of contacts.

Yu Zhi was very pleased with her.

Chemistry was crucial. Some people instantly felt compatible upon meeting.

Pei Zhao also deeply liked the story of Yu Zhi’s novel.

“The plot is complete, the pacing smooth, and there are many classic scenes that can be filmed. I already have ideas in my mind,” Pei Zhao praised.

Yu Zhi had seen some of Pei Zhao’s dramas—not all, but those aired near her, used as background noise in videos from a couple of years ago, or clips scrolled through on social platforms.

Pei Zhao asked, “Do you intend to enter the film and television industry?”

She didn’t ask where Yu Zhi’s investment came from. Two hundred million yuan in cash flow, directly credited—this was not her place to question.

The only issue was that if Yu Zhi had that kind of money, she shouldn’t be lacking relevant contacts.

Even if she didn’t know anyone in the entertainment or film industry before, thanks to the six degrees of separation, she could still find collaborators.

Yu Zhi replied, “Yes, barring any unforeseen circumstances.”

Pei Zhao cautioned, “Be careful with everything. Don’t get scammed.”

Those eight words were earnest advice from a senior to a junior. Pei Zhao’s tone was casual, but Yu Zhi could hear the echoes of past hardships within.

Pei Zhao’s tone and attitude were things directors and producers at that smoky script meeting days ago could never learn in their lives.

Perhaps they did have the skill but looked down on using it on someone like Yu Zhi.

“Okay,” Yu Zhi smiled, “I’ll remember that.”

The formal contract with Pei Zhao still needed drafting. The director could share in the script’s revenue but also had to shoulder responsibility.

Especially now, with only Yu Zhi and Pei Zhao in the crew, many tasks were difficult to carry out.

Fortunately, the other two directors arrived the next day.

Pei Zhao accompanied Yu Zhi casually as they interviewed the two.

The two recommended by the screenwriter app were named Lang Qingwen and Zhai Duo.

The former specialized in martial scenes, the latter in dramatic scenes.

In film and television, dramatic scenes involve dialogue and emotional expression, while martial scenes include action and fight sequences.

In recent years, the former has been more valued due to the prevalence of contemporary and costume romance dramas, which have a higher chance of success.

Martial scenes weren’t ignored but had become increasingly disappointing.

Many fight choreography sequences were clichéd and simple, relying heavily on slow-motion editing to stretch time, often focusing on heads or hands to avoid revealing the full body.

Lang Qingwen’s name contained the character for “literature,” but she was genuinely a director with a strong background as a martial arts choreographer.

Zhai Duo’s dramatic scenes were delicate, and Pei Zhao was also skilled at them, but each had their own focus.

Zhai Duo understood story construction and visual styling well, while Pei Zhao excelled in post-production and performance control.

Comparatively, Pei Zhao’s dramatic scenes were better than Lang Qingwen’s, and her martial scenes far superior to Zhai Duo’s.

Her abilities suited her perfectly as the chief director.

Yu Zhi wanted Lang Qingwen and Zhai Duo to be assistant directors.

Zhai Duo was indifferent: “Sure, as long as there’s work.”

Before coming here, she had been a camerawoman, exhausted and scolded constantly.

Lang Qingwen was a bit slow. She looked at Pei Zhao, then Zhai Duo, then Yu Zhi.

Yu Zhi was puzzled.

Lang Qingwen asked, “If there’s a conflict, whose decision should I follow?”

Pei Zhao replied, “Mine.”

Lang Qingwen said, “Oh.”

Then she asked, “What if I don’t agree?”

Pei Zhao shrugged, “Then follow Yu Zhi. She’s the producer, and she controls the money.”

Lang Qingwen had no response.

“But I want the right to choose actors.”

Yu Zhi nodded, “We’ll choose together.”

Expecting conflict, Yu Zhi was surprised by their harmony.

They were all insiders—never worked together but familiar by reputation.

For the first time, Yu Zhi truly felt the power of the screenwriter app’s “compatibility rate.”

She was standing there, secretly pleased to have found three directors smoothly, when Pei Zhao’s question snapped her back.

Pei Zhao said, “If you need actors, I can recommend some. I know some top-tier actors who can be contacted. With your budget, people will compete to join. But we do need to hold offline auditions. When will your script be ready?”

Even if not complete, at least the first six episodes were necessary.

Yu Zhi replied, “A screenwriter is coming soon. If she can join, our script will progress quickly.”

When looking for directors, she had already input her screenwriter requirements, and the app had recommended seven writers!

Seven!

Yu Zhi had immediately contacted them all.

Pei Zhao was surprised. Did this mean Yu Zhi didn’t even have a screenwriter yet?

No wonder she only showed her the story outline and character settings, then the full novel.

Pei Zhao exclaimed, “You’re really going in solo, recruiting a team with nothing prepared?”

Yu Zhi hesitated, “But I brought the money?”

Pei Zhao was speechless.

She stammered, “Well, as long as you brought the money.”

Pei Zhao looked at Yu Zhi like a deity: “A rookie, huh!”

So bold, throwing herself in without preparation!

Sigh, she’d better look after her well—otherwise, what if little Yu Zhi got sold out?

To make a film requires money, script, and manpower.

The first depends on investors, the second on copyright holders, and the third can be handled by professionals.

There were many companies undertaking film production and director teams.

Script copyrights could be found through circle screenwriters, self-owned, or companies hoarding rights.

Manpower for shooting was supported by specialized production companies.

Yu Zhi had money and copyright; if she wanted to be efficient, she could just search for a production company and immediately have a full setup.

Pei Zhao and the others knew some about this.

“I’ve consulted online,” Yu Zhi said, “It’s not easy.”

During the week waiting for the contract, Yu Zhi not only organized novel materials but researched film production processes.

Nowadays, many film companies had official accounts on Weibo, Xiaohongshu, Douyin, or websites, with contact info everywhere.

Even if she didn’t actively search, posting “I have money and want to make a film” on any social platform instantly flooded comments and private messages.

She hadn’t even said how much she would invest, yet the whole world was already courting her.

Yu Zhi told Pei Zhao, “One said, ‘I have the money, I’m the investor, I decide what we shoot.’ Another asked what I wanted to shoot and how much money I had. I said costume drama with some political intrigue. He said that’s expensive, told me about several directors and screenwriters, then talked about actors bringing funding to join. The rest were just scammers.”

At that time, she hadn’t unlocked the app’s “wanted notice” feature. Even if the director names mentioned weren’t necessarily available, Yu Zhi tried to look them up.

It wasn’t good.

She first watched their interviews rather than their dramas.

From their answers, one could tell what kind of people they were. Such thinking easily revealed one’s true nature.

The good side might be editing; the bad side was simply never admitting “this is bad, I need to fix it.”

Yu Zhi avoided the latter.

Pei Zhao snorted coldly, “You don’t have to repeat them—I already know their character.”

Some had adapted novel IPs, but the final products were a mess, with the plot and characters shattered.

In interviews, directors openly said, “This novel is too Mary Sue, unrealistic—we want to focus on reality.”

Some blamed all problems on others.

The screenwriters said, “I’m better at original work than adaptations.” The directors said, “I filmed two endings; I prefer the unaired one,” or “I filmed it well, but you don’t appreciate it; I’m disappointed with today’s audience,” while the first episode was utterly hopeless.

After the “wanted notice” feature appeared, to prove her dislike wasn’t just subjective, Yu Zhi searched for two or three remembered names.

Indeed, the compatibility rate was below 20%.

Looking back now, it made sense—Pei Zhao and the other two’s high compatibility rate was well deserved.

Yu Zhi didn’t yet know how the compatibility rate was calculated, but from the contrast, she had a rough idea.

The so-called “basic preferences” were like this: Yu Zhi couldn’t accept a director who owned the web drama rights to her novel, nor collaborators with outrageous scandals, but such things seemed common in the film industry.

Especially among app recommendations, Pei Zhao, Lang Qingwen, and Zhai Duo had very different personalities but somehow all suited her well.

People were three-dimensional, not simply good or bad.

Even Yu Zhi’s biological parents, rare as their kindness was, sometimes gave her new clothes or candy.

To her brother, they might be the best parents in the world.

That didn’t stop Yu Zhi from classifying them as “terrible people.”

If she gave money only to specialized production companies, there was still a problem: their teams were complete, making it easy to deceive her as an outsider, setting traps.

When filming started, if they played tricks on her, it would be traps everywhere, impossible to avoid.

Yu Zhi didn’t understand the crew’s operating rules but was no fool.

On the contrary, she was quite clever.

“Forming my own team is more troublesome upfront, but if the early stage is difficult, the later stage will go smoothly,” Yu Zhi said.

Pei Zhao nodded thoughtfully, “Indeed.”

She looked at Zhai Duo and Lang Qingwen, “Your art, props, lighting—who’s available? Contact them and see if they can join.”

Zhai Duo had listened all along and understood. “The people I worked with had many issues too. Forget it, little Yu Zhi can pick. Your taste is pretty good.”

Pei Zhao chuckled, “How do you compliment others without praising yourself?”

Zhai Duo smiled gently.

Lang Qingwen slowly took out her phone, “I have someone. I’ll ask first.”

Pei Zhao glanced around the table and sighed, “A clean and pure crew.”

Yu Zhi was puzzled.

Isn’t it supposed to be poor and empty?

Pei Zhao said, “You’re not poor. You just have no one.”

Yu Zhi was speechless.

Alright then.

The urgent task was indeed to recruit many people.