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When she was job hunting, Su Manwen truly felt that Ying Shi Entertainment was the company she had the best chance with.

Because it was a new company, entangled in fewer interests, and given the boss’s consistent style of operation, there was a certain brashness to her—like a novice who could still knock out an old master with one punch.

But even she hadn’t expected to rise to the position of executive assistant within just half a year.

It was… a bit sudden.

What was it like working as an executive assistant for a boss who was still a university student?

It probably felt like often getting the illusion that she was the one actually running the company, while the boss was just a shareholder collecting dividends…

Of course, Su Manwen had no intention of usurping the throne or sidelining the boss. If she treated the boss like a fool, she’d be the real fool.

She had witnessed this company grow from nothing. The boss’s attention was usually focused on the production crews, so it fell to Su Manwen to keep an eye on the company.

Thanks to the boss’s laid-back style, the employees worked in a very relaxed atmosphere. Fortunately, their efficiency was still good, so Su Manwen let them be.

In summary, being executive assistant at Ying Shi Entertainment felt far more fulfilling than being a general manager at Enyao Entertainment.

Yes, Su Manwen had once been a department general manager at Enyao Entertainment. Her father had been one of the company’s founders.

Due to some internal power struggles, her father was pushed out. She managed to barely hold onto her position, but further advancement became impossible.

Later, because things got so toxic inside Enyao, Su Manwen couldn’t take it anymore and left.

Logically speaking, with her resume and work experience, she shouldn’t have had trouble finding a job. But the reality was that she was blacklisted by the industry.

She wasn’t sure if Enyao had a hand in it.

Fortunately, she eventually met Ying Shi.

And being able to help bring down one of Enyao’s cash cows within six months of joining was an unexpected bonus.

Half of the scandalous material that brought down Li Yinan had come from her. While she didn’t have solid evidence, she knew Enyao’s internal mess well enough to point the Special Investigation Office in the right direction.

Although she didn’t have ironclad evidence, she knew enough about the messy internal affairs of En Yao to give her colleagues in the Special Investigation Office a clear direction.

Now that “Little Sweetheart” had been finished for quite some time, and Boss Ying still hadn’t announced any future projects, Su Manwen had been leading her team in market research.

Then, out of nowhere, Boss Ying sent her a twenty-episode script, saying that the next project would be this drama, and the director had already been secured—Zhang Shuo, Director Zhang. As for lighting, cinematography, and the rest, Su Manwen was to coordinate with the director. If Director Zhang had a crew he worked well with, his preferences would take priority.

Director Zhang Shuo—Su Manwen had heard of him.

Lin Chongshan, the director of “Little Sweetheart,” had been dismissed by many simply because he had worked on “For Your Sake.”

Now Boss Ying was going off the beaten path again, bringing in the head director of “For Your Sake” itself.

Great. This drama would certainly not lack buzz. Su Manwen could already imagine the chaotic, lively discussions that would unfold.

Su Manwen opened the script document and began reading.

The working title of the drama was “The Legend of Medicine Maiden.” It was a mythological script written by Song Zhizhi—currently the only contracted screenwriter at Ying Shi Entertainment, the sole sapling of the writing department.

Before the script itself, there were two pages of introduction, meant for someone like Su Manwen, who wasn’t familiar with the background.

The script was based on legends from the northern region of Huchun Province, telling the story of a fairy surnamed Yao who traveled around healing the sick.

In the legends, only her surname, Yao, was recorded; her given name was unknown. People called her Fairy Yao, which gradually evolved into Medicine Fairy, Medicine Maiden, and so on.

After getting a general sense of the protagonist’s background, Su Manwen began flipping through the script.

Yao Sanya was born into a poor farming family. At the age of six, she was sold by her parents to a broker. On the way, she fell seriously ill and was nearly abandoned by the broker.

Fortunately, she met Lin and his wife, the owners of the Lingcao Hall medical clinic. They rescued her, and afterwards, she stayed with the Lin family as a helper and medicine apprentice. Mrs. Lin even gave her a new name: Sanxiu.

Sanxiu—an alternative name for the lingzhi mushroom. It carried the meaning of “spirit and elegance,” as well as the power to heal the sick.

Gradually, Mrs. Lin noticed that Sanxiu was exceptionally quick at identifying herbs and had memorized common medicinal formulas thoroughly.

After several tests, Mrs. Lin confirmed that Sanxiu had remarkable talent in medicine. But in this world, a woman studying medicine faced countless obstacles—even if she succeeded, the most she could become was a Yīpó(midwife/female healer.) [1]医婆 (Yīpó) – “Female Healer” / “Medicine Woman” (often pejorative or diminutive)

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A yipo was considered one of the lowest trades, likely to be looked down upon by others. Aside from treating women’s private ailments, there would be no other opportunities to practice medicine.

Mrs. Lin explained all of this to Sanxiu and asked for her thoughts.

Sanxiu simply looked up at Mrs. Lin and said that there was nothing wrong with treating only women for her entire life. In this world, girls already had it hard enough. If she could save them, she would be very happy in her heart.

If the story were only this, it would be a legendary drama from a female protagonist’s perspective. But this was a mythological drama.

While Sanxiu was studying medicine and doing chores around the clinic, she accidentally stumbled upon a heavenly general chasing down a plague demon. She was gravely wounded by the plague demon and left on the brink of death.

Fearing that accidentally killing a mortal during his mission would bring divine punishment upon him, the heavenly general split off a strand of spiritual energy to heal her wounds.

As Sanxiu’s injuries slowly healed, the spiritual energy was supposed to dissipate little by little. But the story was never going to follow what was “supposed” to happen.

Sanxiu had a pure and clear heart. Combined with her dedication to studying medicine and her kind intent to save others, she unexpectedly began to nurture the spiritual energy instead. The energy slowly grew stronger within her, merging with her flesh, blood, and bones, transforming her entirely.

Without even realizing it, as Sanxiu gradually grew up, her body—through this silent, unnoticed process of cultivation—absorbed the spiritual energy, nurtured it, gave back to it, and released it.

This was a principle of cultivation where deities and the environment coexist and benefit each other. It was the very concept spoken of by mortals: mountains gain spirit when immortals dwell within; waters gain spirit when dragons reside beneath.

Yet this principle of cultivation was now at work within a mere mortal woman. The entire small county became saturated with spiritual energy, drawing the attention of lurking demons…

Su Manwen was completely drawn into the story. Sometimes she got angry when Sanxiu was misunderstood by patients; other times she felt happy when the cured villagers came to thank Sanxiu. She worried about demons coming to cause trouble for Sanxiu, yet at the same time, she found the little demons who followed their innate nature to cultivate and ended up near Sanxiu quite adorable.

By the twentieth episode, the story reached the point where the plague demon reappeared.

The plague demon wanted to strike first, intending to seize Sanxiu’s life elixir before the other great demons could. In the process, the plague demon recognized Sanxiu as the child it had injured all those years ago.

The plot cut off right there—comparable to the most frustrating cliffhangers in web novels. Su Manwen took a deep breath.

So where was the rest? Why couldn’t Song Zhizhi write twenty episodes a day?

As far as the first twenty episodes went, the story development was excellent, but what truly stood out were the various characters.

There were common folk struggling to survive, corrupt and cruel officials, and also upright magistrates who stood up for the people. There were vicious demons with blood on their hands, innocent little demons who knew nothing of the world, a land god who seemed lazy but possessed great spiritual power, a sharp-tongued and cold-faced yet warm-hearted ghostly messenger, and the many gods and diverse personalities in the heavens above.

A character you hated one moment might make it impossible to keep hating them the next. Someone you thought was a good person could turn around and betray you in the next instant.

Most importantly, after twenty episodes, Sanxiu had no romantic storyline whatsoever. She wasn’t developing any ambiguous relationships with any characters. Yet some of the friendship dynamics were absolutely delightful to ship.

Take Sanxiu and Mrs. Lin’s daughter, for example. The two had grown up together and would go to any lengths for each other.

Or Sanxiu and the turtle demon. The turtle demon was drawn to the spiritual energy around Sanxiu but was too timid and shy to speak. Every day, she would squat outside the medical clinic, waiting for Sanxiu to pass by.

Or Sanxiu and the ghostly messenger Wang Yan—there was a sense of ‘Bad End’ (BE) fatalism, a feeling of “You are my past, but I am not your future”

Of course, Su Manwen didn’t want the story to introduce romantic subplots later, but that didn’t stop her from shipping these them…

From this, it was clear that as long as the second half of the story didn’t fall apart, this drama was absolutely going to be a hit. Given her understanding of Song Zhizhi and Boss Ying, this project was essentially locked in.

Su Manwen willingly opened her computer and began writing the proposal.

They only had twenty episodes of the script for now, but the preparatory work was considerable. Everything from script review and pre-production to actor auditions and the various issues during filming would need to be managed.

The casting decisions would certainly be made by Director Zhang, Screenwriter Song, and Boss Ying, but she would need to arrange the audition preparations in advance. Once the full script was complete, how much of the plot could be revealed when announcing the auditions was something she would also need to discuss with Boss Ying.

The most important thing was she needed to manage online public opinion.

Ever since “Little Sweetheart” became a massive hit, she had heard that multiple companies were already preparing their own historical romance sweet dramas.

With their low cost and compact scale, everyone was eager to jump on the bandwagon.

Su Manwen had once asked Boss Ying whether the company should produce another historical sweet romance drama. The company now had experience and wouldn’t be as disorganized as before. As long as they maintained the quality, they could definitely produce another hit.

At the time, Boss Ying waved her hand and said to let the peers handle following trends. Everyone in the industry was a seasoned veteran. Once they realized that quality was the key, they would surely produce several excellent dramas in this genre themselves.

As for Ying Shi Entertainment, they could try exploring some new directions.

To be honest, Su Manwen didn’t quite understand what others producing similar new dramas had to do with their company producing one.

But it didn’t matter. Boss Ying was the boss—just look at how much bonus “Little Sweetheart” had brought her.

After the online broadcast ended, they also sold the satellite TV rights. Even though it was only a second-tier TV station, she heard they had made a fortune in advertising revenue this quarter.

Now, the sale of overseas rights was also in progress. Sweet little romances knew no borders, and the competition was fierce—the offers from various parties were higher than Su Manwen had expected.

So trust Boss Ying, and get rich.

Ying Men!

……

The preparatory work for “The Legend of Medicine Maiden” proceeded steadily. By the time the temperature gradually dropped and the days grew shorter than the nights, Song Zhizhi’s final complete script was finally revised and finished. The project officially entered the casting and preparation stage.

Everyone on the crew except the actors was already in place.

The makeup and styling designs were all completed, only waiting for the actors to be cast before making adjustments based on their appearances.

A new batch of costumes had also been custom-made, in addition to the ones from “Little Sweetheart.” If those weren’t suitable, there was still time to rush new ones.

As for the actors, finally, Ying Shi no longer had to drag the director and screenwriter around stalking people, looking like a bunch of shady scammers.

Once auditions began, word slowly spread that Ying Shi Entertainment’s next drama was a mythological one.

At the same time, because the director’s previous drama had been a spectacular failure, some moderately well-known actors who had initially planned to audition began to hesitate upon hearing the news.

The confused and mocking voices online also grew louder.

References[+]

· Gender‑marked – the character 婆 (pó) means “old woman” or “wife,” often used in female‑specific occupational terms (e.g., 媒婆 – matchmaker, 接生婆 – midwife).

· Historically, yīpó were female practitioners who treated women and children, especially in domestic or rural settings.

· However, the term often carried lower status and implied lack of formal training. Many yīpó learned through family tradition or self‑study, not through the established master‑disciple or scholarly routes.

· In some dynasties, official medical systems explicitly excluded women from formal examinations and licensing, pushing them into informal roles like yīpó – a ceiling on their professional advancement.

Chapter 11