Chapter 69: —

Jiang Yang did regret it. But not before it was done — only after watching Yu Zhitao rake in the wins on Tongue Tips of the Immortal Realm.

That should've been his spot too.

Jiang Yang: '...'

Unlike Yu Zhitao, the reason his next project kept stalling wasn't that he was waiting on a production. Yu Zhitao was waiting because Kunning Palace is a palace-intrigue drama — it needed a massive amount of pre-production prep. Every character's traits had to be catalogued, along with their costumes, props, and sets, before the art department could even move. They even had to figure out the supporting cast's headpieces — you can't just send extras out with bare heads. The design bible had to be fully packed before anything else.

Aurora Entertainment was also planning to follow Sang Ying's lead — run a public submission campaign. The last one Sang Ying did on Douyin, collecting recipes, had worked brilliantly. In theory, you could replicate that model and solicit handcraft creators' work in a targeted way. That way, audience engagement goes up, and watching the show feels like watching someone's passion project...

So given how uncompromising the standards were, getting Kunning Palace into production by the end of the year would already be a win.

Yu Zhitao had a screw loose — willing to sit around and wait that long for a supporting role. Dumb.

Jiang Yang couldn't afford that. An artist's prime years are short. If you don't hustle and stack up projects now, who's going to come looking for you later?

Jiang Yang had already blown up. He had Hongming behind him, his acting wasn't bad — was landing a lead role really too much to ask?

Not taking leads would be a step down. Even his fans would be disappointed and drop him.

That's how his manager kept talking him into things.

So Jiang Yang had always been gunning for lead roles.

Aurora had so many projects in the pipeline — Jiang Yang had actually gone in to audition for the male leads in both Kunning Palace and I Inherited a Zoo.

Those two had the highest buzz.

He got passed on both.

For the first one, the casting director said he didn't fit the role — he hadn't managed to project any imperial authority.

For the second one, Jiang Yang had a natural aversion to animals, and he couldn't even get into character during the audition.

So he got rejected there too.

Two rejections back to back. Something quietly simmered in Jiang Yang's chest — irritation.

So when the 3D animated film dubbing gig came up — the one he'd originally planned to turn down — his manager talked him into it again (read: pressured him), and he figured, fine, and took it.

Then the regret started.

Tongue Tips of the Immortal Realm blew up. It dropped right in the middle of summer break, peak traffic season — an undisputed hit variety show. Jiang Yang watched Yu Zhitao's follower count climb and climb, her fan activity numbers surpassing his, and the feeling sitting in his chest had no name.

He vaguely wanted to course-correct, to look back — but he'd already pledged loyalty to Hongming, which meant following the platform's arrangements. If he tried to flip sides halfway...

Playing both ends was impossible. Both sides would see through it.

Never mind whether Aurora even had a spot for him — if Hongming sensed divided loyalties, they'd get way more careful about feeding him resources, and keep a much tighter grip on him. They'd use him as a tool, a cash cow, squeeze every last drop of value out of him, and keep harvesting.

He'd be stuck with no way forward and no way back...

Maybe he should've just taken that ancient romance drama.

The script the platform had passed him earlier — a second collab with Yu Zhitao, being called the ancient-era version of The Favored One.

If Yu Zhitao had taken it back then, that would've been great — no waiting, and her gap period wouldn't be stretching on this long.

Jiang Yang couldn't point fingers at her. That would basically be admitting he'd chosen wrong.

Fear of losing what he had — so he needed to gaslight himself, to rationalize the path he'd already committed to, convince himself it wasn't worth spiraling over.

But Jiang Yang had a gut feeling —

Even the supporting roles in Aurora Entertainment's projects, he might not be able to land.

Had he ended up on Sang Ying's blacklist?

·

Not even close.

Sang Ying didn't even know this was a thing.

The casting director had passed on Jiang Yang for two reasons: one, his auditions genuinely weren't good enough; two, Aurora Entertainment had no reason to 'settle.'

No exaggeration —

Pretty much half the entertainment industry had already lined up to audition for Aurora's pipeline.

Veteran award-winners, rising new-gen actors, top-tier stars, idols...

They were not short on options.

Jiang Yang, in that pool, had one thing going for him — prior experience working with Aurora. Outside of that, his competitiveness honestly didn't stack up against the others.

Not making the cut was normal.

And after Jiang Yang started pulling stunts, there was even less reason to pick him — the reasoning hadn't changed: Aurora Entertainment doesn't need anyone that badly.

Jiang Yang wanted to come crawling back? Did anyone say he was welcome to?

·

Tongue Tips of the Immortal Realm was going strong, and a mid-sized piece of news rippled through Aurora Entertainment's production pipeline.

Back when Sang Ying had bought a private zoo outright — just like that, no hesitation — specifically for the I Inherited a Zoo project.

The protagonist in the story has a built-in upgrade system, letting them renovate the zoo bit by bit — enclosures, the medical room, staff dorms, all of it.

But in real life? Not a chance.

Where's that kind of cheat code in the real world?

Filming inside an actual zoo while renovating it at the same time wasn't realistic either — the timeline would be brutal, the noise would stress the animals out, and the crew wouldn't be able to get clean audio.

So Sang Ying waved her hand again —

Find an empty plot of land.

Build a replica of the original run-down zoo from the novel, fully upgraded to its final form — basically a deluxe film-set zoo.

Not a waste after filming wraps either, right? It could actually be put into use.

It's in her name anyway.

Done.

Assistant Cao, who had already been shocked speechless multiple times and had long since lost the ability to react to Sang Ying's big moves, heard this decision and once again lost all control of his facial expressions.

Absolutely unhinged levels of wealth...

But work still had to get done.

So they'd been scouting for the right location. Land zoning for a zoo is different from residential use, so it needed careful searching — identify a few suitable plots, then let Sang Ying make the final call.

Sang Ying had her eye on one of them, but the seller wasn't based in China, so they'd have to wait.

Sang Ying: 'No rush. We'll wait.'

She went into the office today.

While Sang Ying was in, people rushed to get their progress reports in front of her.

Sang Ying sat in her sun-drenched, spacious office, a mint candy in her mouth, flipping through the materials.

— She'd grabbed the candy from the entrance of a crab hot pot restaurant.

·

Sang Ying had gone out for crab hot pot with Sang Ying today.

(Sang Ying was genuinely dying of curiosity — she wanted to know what it was like being a dog-sitter.)

Did Sang Ying entertain her?

She did.

When there's something to brag about, you brag. Some of the dogs were actually pretty well-behaved.

At just three or four months old, Sang Ying had already trained them to sit, shake hands, and roll over — practically the Einstein of dogs.

But then there were the little demons.

San, Qi, and Shiyi — those three were poop-obsessed, high-energy chaos machines. If things kept going like this, Sang Ying was going to have to hire a behavioral correction trainer.

Private tutoring.

Either way, the two of them had plenty to talk about and had a great meal.

Sang Ying joked that going from 'writer' to 'dog-sitter' was quite the career pivot. Plenty of range. Could always work at the shop in retirement.

Sang Ying made a face.

Work for someone else?

Absolutely not.

·

So after lunch, the two went their separate ways — Sang Ying headed back to walk dogs for clients, and Sang Ying went to the office.

She started going through the reports — the 'progress directory' —

Currently, Aurora's pipeline had thirteen live-action dramas and five animated projects. Beyond those, the manhwa and novels they'd acquired were set aside for now.

None of these could realistically all air this year, or even all of next year.

Rough estimate: a three-to-five-year long-term plan (especially for something like I Inherited a Zoo, which needed a purpose-built set).

Looking at just this year — aside from A Cultivator Becomes a Rural Internet Celebrity in the Modern World, there was one more drama that could go into production.

That was Chu Chu.

A female-lead drama.

It was kind of a mashup of a quick-transmigration story and a fable — one standalone story per episode.

The themes: greed, hatred, delusion, resentment, aversion, love and loss, unfulfilled longing, the loss of joy.

The novel's blurb had already been written: 'Chu Chu steps into the mirror — evil thoughts, inner demons.'

The novel had both ancient and modern settings, but at around two hundred thousand characters total, with no special effects needed — it ran entirely on the horror of human nature — it was practical to film.

For next year...

One drama, one animated project.

The drama: the long-form series The Martial Way — a classic fantasy power-up story from the big-male-lead genre, urban supernatural setting, single female lead. The main storyline follows the protagonist crossing over from a high-Martial Arts world into a low-Martial Arts world, shining bright and spreading the spirit of Martial Arts.

For casting, they hadn't gone to the entertainment industry first — they went to Martial Arts schools, and actually found people there. Both leads and supporting roles covered.

They looked fresh, sharp, full of energy — the kind of presence you only get from someone who actually trains.

The one challenge was acting — they'd need training, so filming next year, airing next year.

The animated project: I Am a Retailer at Yaozu University — a 2D lighthearted series.

This project had been in development for two or three months since it was greenlit.

The production pipeline followed the steps: 'proposal → character design → storyboard → key animation.' They were currently on the storyboard for episode one.

Sang Ying was reviewing it now.

The art was solid — just like the manhwa, she was genuinely enjoying it.

But...

'This fight scene is really short, isn't it?'

Sang Ying.

The project lead for I Am a Retailer at Yaozu University felt their scalp tighten. 'You mean — the fight scene the protagonist witnesses when she goes to register at the academic affairs office?'

That was basically the only action in episode one.

'Yeah.'

The protagonist is climbing the hill, and her classmate assumes it's some kind of performance art, so they're just bantering back and forth — neither of them notices anything off.

Then they spot two figures — no, two demons — flying through the sky, going absolutely wild. The protagonist's pupils blow wide, and she finally clocks where she is.

She turns around. Her classmate has unfurled a pair of bat wings and is fanning herself with them while furiously spraying air freshener — apparently the two fighting demons stink.

The protagonist is completely stunned.

The scene in the manhwa didn't have much description, and Sang Ying had only looked at the manhwa — the key art — and felt like the buildup was...

A little thin?

One blink and it's over — there's no emotional escalation at all.

As a viewer, it felt like something was missing — the part that makes your eyes pop. Push it a little further, make it bigger, so the audience can actually feel what the protagonist feels.

Sang Ying was already mentally blocking out the shots.

Start with dynamic, tension-filled camera movement — shoot the demons' fight first.

Then a gust of wind blasts toward the protagonist, whipping her hair — cut to a tight shot of her pupils contracting. Old-school technique. Timeless.

The project lead blinked.

Wait — hadn't the original positioning for this animated series been something like an instant-noodle anime? Low-effort, no-brainer, chill vibes?

The bar had been raised. They were now working to the standard of foreign lighthearted productions.

Sang Ying waved her hand.

'The source material is solid, it's definitely staying lighthearted — but that doesn't conflict with having good fight scenes.'

Does watching a fight scene require brainpower?

The only thing that matters is whether it feels good.

Project lead: '...'

Skill activated: [Reading Comprehension].

Everyone knew Sang Ying's instructions always had layers. So this time, what was the deeper meaning...

Was it purely a pursuit of excellence, or was she thinking too surface-level?

Sang Ying's notes — 'make the fight scene more exaggerated,' 'let the audience feel what the protagonist feels.'

...A moment of cognitive reset. That kind of shift needed emotional buildup.

Sang Ying's suggested approach — shoot the fight first, then the gust of wind, the hair whipping, the pupils contracting — at its core, she wasn't teaching them how to choreograph a fight. She was teaching them how to...

Think!

Exactly — think!

Use the 'hype' of the fight to contrast the protagonist's 'confusion.' The bigger the gap between hype and confusion, the more the audience slides into the protagonist's perspective.

The moments in the source material that could be mined into highlights — full of tension —!

Was Sang Ying hinting that the source material was good, but you couldn't just copy it mindlessly?

Find the gold in it. Amplify it. That's the whole point of adaptation.

Foreign animated series did the same thing, didn't they?

Some source novels were only mid-tier, but once the animation team got their hands on them and processed them, they became classics.

The animation pulls the source material forward.

The whole point of adapting something into animation was never to copy it pointlessly — it was to present the best parts of the work in a different, more visceral form.

The project lead felt a flash of embarrassment first.

Honestly, if they'd been paying attention, Anlan's adaptation was a live, real-time counterexample sitting right in front of them — and they hadn't even made the connection. That was a real failure.

Then their eyes lit up —

Got it. From now on, they understood!

They were going to turn the ordinary into something extraordinary too — let the animation carry the source material forward, produce something better. Excellence in everything!