Late at night, Su Yan was still revising the script for Rurouni Kenshin: Trust & Betrayal.
The Trust & Betrayal arc itself only amounted to one or two hours of content, so even in script form, it was just tens of thousands of words.
Under normal circumstances, spending one or two months—or even longer—writing a script of that length would be completely reasonable.
But Su Yan was essentially copying the original, turning himself into a merciless typing machine. Before eight o'clock in the evening, he had already finished the scripts for the first two segments, "The Assassin" and "The Lost Cat."
That said, this was his first time doing this after transmigrating, and his typing speed wasn't particularly fast. Converting the original story into proper script format still required thought, not mindless copying, so an afternoon's work resulted in only this much progress.
Even so, it wasn't a problem.
Film and television productions in Xia, influenced by Sakura Province, often followed a shoot-while-airing model. In most cases, screenwriters would revise scripts based on audience feedback after episodes aired.
Sometimes, if a series flopped badly, the station would cut it short midway to minimize losses. That was completely normal.
Because of that, there was no need to finish the entire script before submitting it.
By this time, almost everyone in the screenwriting department had already left. Su Yan walked over to the window, gazing at the darkened sky and the dazzling neon lights of the city below, and let out a long breath.
"It's still hard to accept that I've transmigrated," he muttered, "but since I'm here, I might as well live a more exciting life than last time."
Leaving Sakura TV, he transferred between a bus and the subway. After more than an hour of travel, Su Yan finally returned to his rented apartment on the outskirts of Hudou.
A single room of barely over ten square meters.
On the surface, screenwriting looked glamorous, involving productions with budgets in the tens or even hundreds of millions.
And in Xia, under Sakura Province's influence, screenwriters enjoyed a much higher status in the industry compared to Su Yan's previous world.
In a production, the screenwriter's position was no less important than the director's or producer's. Famous screenwriters could easily earn hundreds of thousands or even millions from script fees and profit shares alone.
But that applied only to established names.
For a newly hired rookie like Su Yan, earning just a few thousand yuan a month in Hudou meant scraping by at best.
Orphaned. Single. Poor.
These were the labels attached to Su Yan.
Truly befitting a transmigrator.
Even he found his situation classic to the point of comedy.
The next morning, Su Yan woke up at six. He bought two steamed buns on the way, jogged into the subway station, and arrived at Sakura TV before eight.
Xia was similar to his previous world in many ways, but also very different.
Take the television industry, for example. Aside from the Imperial Capital TV Station, which functioned as an official state broadcaster, most TV stations were privately operated.
Sakura TV, Hudou TV, and Zhongxia TV formed a three-way balance of power in the industry, all with headquarters in Hudou.
Below them were several other large stations and dozens of mid-sized and small-sized stations spread across the provinces, but their viewership and production strength were clearly inferior.
Although this world had already entered the internet era, online video platforms hadn't exploded in growth as they had in Su Yan's previous life.
The real giants in the media industry were still the television stations, and they were extremely cautious about investing in online platforms.
There were indeed a few video sites with massive user bases, but their major shareholders were still these same TV stations. They were essentially subsidiaries.
As a result, even in this era, most audiences still watch hit shows on television.
The highest-quality productions aired on TV, while lower-budget or inferior works were usually released online.
Sakura TV's own platform, Sakura Net, ranked among the top four video sites in the country.
Su Yan had no illusions about Trust & Betrayal.
There was no chance it would be produced as a TV series and broadcast on Sakura TV itself.
Not because the quality wasn't worthy.
But because he wasn't.
Competition at Sakura TV was brutal. Every broadcast slot was fought over by veteran screenwriters and production teams who had spent ten, sometimes even decades, building their reputations.
Why would a newcomer like him stand a chance?
From the very beginning, Su Yan had aimed not for television broadcast but for online release on Sakura Net.
The four chapters of Trust & Betrayal could be filmed as four short episodes and released weekly.
That was, of course, in the best-case scenario.
Entering the screenwriting department office area—
"Good morning, Su Yan!"
"Good morning, Sister Yoshii. You look great today."
"Morning, Sister Nishimura. Congratulations on Sakura Tears blowing up in ratings. At this rate, the station will probably let you lead a project next quarter."
"Good morning, Senior Xu Fang."
As he walked in, Su Yan greeted colleagues along the way.
He had just passed probation and had the shallowest seniority in the department. Being polite costs nothing and helps avoid unnecessary trouble.
Soon, his gaze sharpened slightly as he greeted a handsome man with a cold expression.
"Good morning, Senior Kiyota."
Although Kiyota Sanji had only joined the department six months ago, he was older than Su Yan. More importantly, he had connections. Out of courtesy alone, Su Yan still had to show respect.
Honestly, Su Yan hated this kind of workplace etiquette.
But Sakura TV was a Sakura Island enterprise, steeped in local corporate culture. Nepotism was rampant. Over half the staff were recruits from Sakura Island living in Hudou. Su Yan had no choice but to play along.
As for Kiyota Sanji in particular, Su Yan was especially cautious.
A graduate of a prestigious Sakura Province film school, handsome, wealthy, and with an uncle who was the deputy director of the production department, Akasaka Yoshitoki.
Everyone in the screenwriting department had to give him some face.
Kiyota's own ability was mediocre, but under his uncle's arrangements, he had been inserted into multiple writing teams, crediting his name everywhere to build credentials.
In almost every way except height and looks, he outmatched Su Yan.
And perhaps because of that, Su Yan could clearly sense his faint jealousy.
Among the three traits of being tall, rich, and handsome, wealth could be earned.
Height and looks couldn't.
"Focus on your work," Kiyota said lightly, lifting his eyelids. "The screenwriting department values ability. There's no need for all this smooth talk."
Su Yan's expression stiffened briefly, then relaxed into a faint smile.
Values ability, huh?
If I didn't greet you, you'd be the first to make things difficult for me.
Still, Su Yan had worked office jobs for years in his previous life. Compared to some people he'd met, Kiyota barely ranked as annoying.
After complaining internally, he quickly forgot about it.
As a newly hired screenwriter without an approved project, Su Yan spent his days assisting other writers—handling trivial, tedious tasks.
Boring, but unavoidable.
Every screenwriter goes through this stage.
Not long after starting work, his mentor Sawai Teruhiro approached him.
Sawai had launched a small-budget drama this quarter, and its ratings were decent. He was in good spirits lately.
"The script you're submitting to the production department," Sawai asked with a smile, "is it ready?"
Su Yan handed over the neatly printed script he had prepared.
"Rurouni Kenshin?" Sawai glanced at the title, surprised.
That name felt very Sakura Island.
"What genre?" he asked casually.
"Historical. Martial arts. Romance," Su Yan replied.
"How long is it?"
"A short series. About three to four episodes. It's not suitable for TV broadcast. I'm hoping it can be produced for online release on Sakura Net."
Sakura Net.
Sawai nodded slowly. "That makes sense. With your current reputation, it would be hard to convince producers to invest heavily."
"Sakura Net may not have the decades-long audience base of the TV station, but if a work is good enough, quite a few online releases have blown up there in recent years."
In truth, he didn't think Su Yan's script had great odds, but encouragement cost nothing.
"I'll submit it directly to the department's senior reviewers. That should save several days. If it passes, it'll reach the production department tomorrow."
Established screenwriters didn't bother with this process. They had fixed producers with resources and connections and contacted them directly.
Only rookies like Su Yan—who had nothing—went through formal submission, and even then, the chances were slim. Ten submissions yielding one opportunity was already considered good luck.
Talent and opportunity were both indispensable in this industry.
"Thank you, Master Sawai," Su Yan said sincerely.
"No need. You're my student. If you make a name for yourself, that reflects well on me, too, regardless of the outcome."
Sawai patted his shoulder.
"Work hard. Persevere."
He soon left for his own production set.
Su Yan looked around the slightly empty office. Anyone still here at this hour was like him—an edge figure, assisting others, buried in miscellaneous work.
"Kenshin," he murmured, "whether I can turn things around as a screenwriter depends on you."
The Emotion Points used to draw the Kenshin script had been accumulated over two years from the original owner's internship projects.
If this script were rejected, it would take at least another year to gather two million points again.
After submission, Su Yan couldn't help but feel anxious.
That afternoon, several senior reviewers in the screenwriting department casually flipped through the submitted scripts.
Without visuals or music, reading scripts was far less engaging than watching finished shows. Often, it was downright tedious.
Among them, Cheng Junsen had been staring at an unfinished script of ten to twenty thousand words for half an hour.
"Well written," he murmured, eyes closed, as if visualizing that brutal, blade-filled era.
Kyoto assassins. A boy who killed.
For reviewers like him, a script's appeal didn't equate to market success. It only meant whether it aligned with his personal taste.
Still, through a few sparse strokes, Rurouni Kenshin sketched the image of a boy born into chaos—family slaughtered, starving, yet yearning to save the world and bring peace.
The story of "Kenshin" turned into a killing tool by politicians, and the mysterious girl "Ba" paused at the second act, ending with Kyoto in flames and their escape.
The urge to read more—something Cheng Junsen had rarely felt after twenty years in the industry—rose unexpectedly.
"Interesting," he murmured. "A pity it's a short piece."
Only then did he notice Su Yan's note: a four-episode short series intended for Sakura Net.
"Su Yan… Sawai Teruhiro's apprentice, right?"
A newcomer dreaming of a massive TV investment was unrealistic. Getting a one or two million budget for online release and shedding the 'rookie' label would already be impressive.
After a moment's thought, Cheng Junsen placed the script into the approved folder.
Soon after, another approved script was added.
A joint work by young screenwriter Kanzaki Yusuke and the well-connected Kiyota Sanji.
Nominally co-leads, but in reality, Kanzaki did most of the writing. Kiyota likely contributed little and still claimed credit.
That script was also aimed directly at Sakura Net.
Television broadcast standards were much higher, after all.
Despite his uncle's influence, Kiyota's qualifications were still thin. Online release was the safer route.
With a deputy director backing him, any script with Kiyota's name attached usually passed production review.
He built credentials quickly.
Mutual benefit.
"Having connections really makes a difference," Cheng Junsen sighed.
He glanced at Rurouni Kenshin, then at the other script, shaking his head.
Kiyota's project would almost certainly be approved.
But resources were limited.
If one project moved forward, how much room would be left for Rurouni Kenshin?
Even if he personally preferred it—
This was a workplace competition.
Connections were part of the ability, too.
All that remained was to see how much luck Sawai's apprentice had.