Che Kaijun blinked, subtly adjusting his tone.
"No, what I mean is—anyone can provide funding for platform development, but when it comes to choosing who gets equity, it depends on what other value they bring."
"For example, if Lide Media bought in, they'd go all-out with offline promotion across major cities. If I let Conti Pictures invest, they'd bring a massive catalog of film and TV rights directly into our content library."
"Oh? And then?" Jing Yu had understood what Che Kaijun was implying.
Cheng Lie could also guess what he was about to say next.
"So... the reason I reached out to Bluestar Media wasn't because of your money, but your potential. Or more specifically, I value you, the famed screenwriter of the Great Zhou— Teacher Jing Yu."
Che Kaijun even added "Teacher" as a respectful suffix at the end.
"As far as I know, both Qiezi and Jixun have been assembling capable production teams since September, shooting new dramas. While they're filled with industry veterans, no one knows how these shows will turn out, or how they'll stack up against flagship content from the Big Six networks."
"But one thing is clear—dramas and films that have never aired on the Big Six or any traditional network... if they stream exclusively on our sites, and if the quality is solid—they'll be the key to explosive user growth."
"High-quality exclusives... might determine which of our three sites survives."
Che Kaijun locked eyes with Jing Yu, speaking solemnly.
Jing Yu was caught off guard for a moment.
He didn't expect Che Kaijun to be this sharp.
In his previous life, platforms like iQIYI, Youku, and Tencent Video competed fiercely for one thing: originals.
Yes, they all had giant libraries—anime, dramas, variety shows—but that was basic. Everyone had them.
What mattered was exclusive, high-quality, original content.
That's what drove user retention.
Why did celebrity salaries skyrocket back then?
Because streaming sites kept pouring money into flashy productions just to attract viewers.
Back in the days of broadcast TV, young idol actors wouldn't dare act arrogant—because their exposure depended on the networks.
But in the Great Zhou, film companies would never skip theatrical releases to go straight to streaming.
Even in Jing Yu's past life, very few studios ever did that.
As for television dramas—well, Jing Yu was now the benchmark of the entire industry.
After all, 'Kimi ni Todoke' topping ratings made that crystal clear.
"You want equity in my company? Then your dramas must stream exclusively on Qingyun," Che Kaijun said bluntly.
In April, both Qiezi and Jixun would roll out their original series.
Qingyun had plans too, but confidence was shaky.
If Jing Yu partnered with them, at least when it came to original series—arguably the most critical battleground—Qingyun would have a strong foothold.
"That's a no-go." Jing Yu immediately got up to leave.
"If I wanted to tie myself and my work to one platform, why would I have left Yunteng TV in the first place? Or I could just sign a multi-year contract with one of the Big Three networks. Getting a billion-yuan deal from them would be easy."
"Qingyun might not even exist ten years from now. Sure, I'm willing to gamble some capital, but betting my career prime—my golden creative years—on one platform? Not happening."
Che Kaijun stiffened.
Jing Yu did want to invest—but he wasn't desperate.
"Then what terms would you accept?" Che Kaijun asked after some thought.
"I can put in 300 million yuan. In exchange, I want 15% equity in Qingyun," Jing Yu replied.
The box office share from his two films totaled about 600 million.
Over 100 million had gone into producing 'Kimi ni Todoke' and '5 Centimeters per Second'.
That left over 400 million—using 300 million for Qingyun's investment and keeping the rest for future productions and contingencies.
Qingyun, after all, was still a startup. It had over 20 million users, but no profitability yet—it was a cash-burning machine.
Its market valuation was only in the low 2-billion range.
Compared to iQIYI's multi-hundred-billion stock valuation in Jing Yu's past life, Qingyun still had a long road to go.
But with luck and growth, it wasn't unthinkable for a company like this to 10x or 100x in a few years.
Besides, the Great Zhou didn't suffer from rampant piracy like his past life in Huaguo.
If Qingyun could adopt a model similar to Netflix, its eventual influence and revenue could easily surpass iQIYI's by severalfold.
That's why Jing Yu was willing to get involved.
Investing now could still get him a decent stake—10% to 15%—before later-stage funding diluted it.
Even if Qingyun lost the streaming war, it would likely be bought out by the winner. Jing Yu had no doubt he'd profit from the swap.
Of course, that only applied to the right industry.
Had this been bike-sharing, Jing Yu would've run for the hills.
Some companies went bankrupt, and users had to queue for decades just to get their deposits back. Investor money? Gone with the wind.
But streaming? That was a different beast.
Che Kaijun's first reaction was—
You have 300 million yuan in cash?
Jing Yu's young age was deceiving.
This wasn't stock or assets—it was cold, hard cash.
But then came the 15% ask.
"No way. 300 million for 15%? Impossible," Che Kaijun laughed, shaking his head.
"I'm not done yet," Jing Yu added.
"Along with 300 million, I'll produce three high-quality series—exclusively for Qingyun."
Che Kaijun's vision was still limited—after all, the internet age was just beginning.
He didn't yet realize how transformative this industry could become.
He assumed that even at its peak, Qingyun might match the influence of one of the Big Three networks—but couldn't replace them.
But that was the thing—no one saw it coming.
If everyone had foreseen the rise of e-commerce, would someone like Jack Ma have ever gotten a chance?
It's always the industries that the big players overlook that create new titans.
Same with short-form video and TikTok in his past life.
Back then, if Tencent had noticed short videos' potential earlier, TikTok would never have existed.
And that Hong Kong tycoon's son who once owned 20% of Tencent?
He sold it off for a small profit, thinking he was clever—only to realize later it had cost him the chance to be the richest man in the world.
Even internet moguls were fumbling their way through.
So what could you expect from a rich kid like Che Kaijun?
He could only guess what the future held—while Jing Yu already knew.
That's why he was willing to bet on a "chosen one."
When Jing Yu proposed 300 million, plus three exclusive dramas—
Che Kaijun was tempted.
In his past life, top streaming sites paid billions for one hit drama's exclusivity.
Now, with Qingyun still young...
Jing Yu was at his peak—popular, influential.
His two movies had already brought Qingyun over 100 million in total sales.
When you factored in revenue, user growth, and company valuation increases tied to Jing Yu's work, it was worth far more than just 300 million.
If this deal succeeded—
"Still not enough," Che Kaijun said greedily.
"You're filming a new movie, right? '5 Centimeters per Second'? Let it stream exclusively on Qingyun."
Cheng Lie's face changed instantly.
Are you insane? A theatrical release movie—streaming-only?
But to his surprise, Jing Yu didn't reject the idea outright.
He actually began to consider it.
Romance films like '5 Centimeters per Second' had high buzz but often modest box office numbers.
Cinemas favored big visuals—action, sci-fi, war.
Most top-grossing films were spectacle-driven.
Jing Yu had made '5 Centimeters per Second', but he didn't expect it to surpass 'Love Letter' at the box office.
If he wanted max profits, he'd make a Godzilla or Ultraman movie. Or cash in fan points for a Marvel project.
But for Jing Yu, money mattered—but not more than joy.
He wanted to enjoy creating.
So he thought about whether Che Kaijun's offer made business sense.
If '5 Centimeters per Second' cost 70 million to produce and pulled in 600–700 million in ticket sales, that was about 2 billion yuan in split revenue—a 3x return.
On a streaming site, though, you'd cut out distributors and theaters, and get a higher split.
But you'd need at least 30 million views to hit 2 billion in revenue. Still, streaming had its upsides.
People were lazy—some wouldn't even go to the cinema. But they'd definitely click "Play" at home.
Marketing + quality = profit.
Sure, theaters might yield 20–30 million more—but not that much more.
"I can accept that condition," Jing Yu finally said.
Cheng Lie panicked, frantically signaling him.
Che Kaijun lit up.
Jing Yu continued:
"'5 Centimeters per Second' can stream exclusively on Qingyun. But the revenue split can't be 50/50. I want a 70/30 split."
Che Kaijun paused—then nodded.
At this stage, maximizing user growth was the priority.
Splits didn't matter.
"Also, I need a guaranteed minimum payout," Jing Yu added.
"A minimum?"
"With my current reputation, I expect '5 Centimeters per Second' to bring in at least 200 million. If it doesn't, Qingyun must cover the difference."
Che Kaijun hesitated. What if it flopped?
"Lastly—300 million investment, three exclusive dramas, '5 Centimeters per Second' exclusivity... in exchange for 17% equity."
"17%?! I thought you said 15%?" Che Kaijun frowned.
"You've made demands. So have I." Jing Yu sipped his tea calmly.
"If you agree, we'll work out the details later. If not—forget it."
"I need time to think," Che Kaijun finally said.
After leaving the restaurant, Cheng Lie couldn't hold back anymore.
"Jing Yu, this is insane! 17% equity for all those works?!"
Jing Yu's dramas all had self-owned rights.
But their value depended on exposure.
The Big Three guaranteed high ratings—6% or 7%—plus overseas sales and merch revenue.
Would Qingyun have that reach?
What if the shows flopped?
"Don't worry," Jing Yu smiled.
"We won't lose money."
He understood Cheng Lie's concerns.
But that only applied if his output was limited.
If he could only make 50 works in his life, wasting three would be costly.
But he had plenty to give.
Time was the only thing being "wasted."
"I'm placing a bet," Jing Yu said.
"I can't run a platform. I don't plan to control Qingyun either. I'm just betting on Che Kaijun. If he's competent and can grow this company, then my 17%... will be worth many, many times 300 million."
"This industry has that kind of potential."
"Even if Qingyun hits the level of the Big Three, that's just a 10+ billion valuation. Your 17% would only be worth a little over a billion. Still less than you've put in," Cheng Lie argued.
"If you want big money, go play the stock market."
"Our dramas alone can pull in billions. Add in '5 Centimeters per Second', plus 300 million investment—if Qingyun flops, you'll lose hundreds of millions."
"Man's gotta take risks," Jing Yu grinned.
"If I just wanted to coast, we could throw our cash into low-risk investments and make tens of millions a year doing nothing."
"But what if streaming does become the future? After leaving Yunteng TV, are we just going to bow to these platforms? I'd rather be a shareholder."
"If Qingyun grows, at least the staff won't dare boss me around."
If Qingyun failed, so be it.
He'd tried.
Cheng Lie opened his mouth to argue—but stopped.
Jing Yu had already made up his mind.
And honestly, it was Jing Yu's money.
"Fine, you're the boss. Anyway, Che Kaijun might not accept. He guards his equity closely. If you get 17%, his share might drop to 60%."
They hadn't even eaten much at the restaurant.
So they drove off to a local place and stuffed themselves.
Jing Yu still needed to talk this over with Xia Yining and Yu Youqing—since they had a stake in the company too.
Meanwhile, Che Kaijun returned to Qingyun HQ and immediately called a board meeting.
He had expected Jing Yu to propose a casual investment.
Instead, it was a 17% stake.
And honestly, the terms were good.
For where Qingyun was now, they could give them a serious edge in the coming streaming wars.
Truthfully...
He was already leaning toward yes.