The August sun was fierce and glaring. Walking on the streets under such heat would surely leave anyone dizzy and overwhelmed.
Ying Shi sat in her twelfth-floor office, gazing at the scenery beyond the glass wall, feeling completely at ease.
“My aunt says she wants to add more ads.” On the other end of the phone was Jiang Nian—two students who should have been taking a break over summer vacation, yet here they were discussing business collaborations.
Ying Shi replied with her usual smile: “Adding ads is fine, but it has to follow the same terms as before: three at the start, three in the middle, each ad no longer than ten seconds. The scrolling mini-icons in the bottom right can only rotate three at a time. No more than that.”
She had agreed to fifteen-second ads before only because the drama hadn’t aired yet and the other party hadn’t been fully convinced.
Now that she had leverage to negotiate, it was only natural to adjust the terms.
“It’s the premiere ad slot, so why don’t you put more ads in?” Jiang Nian wasn’t trying to get her to open more back doors—she was just genuinely curious.
The collaboration between Ying Shi and her aunt had been initiated by Jiang Nian, and she had some idea of the contract terms.
Ying Shi explained that these ads would only appear when viewers watched the drama for the first time, so when the contract was signed, she had to guarantee that the ads would reach a certain number of views.
Given how explosively popular “Little Sweetheart” had become, placing ads in it was guaranteed to be profitable.
“You could think of it as… hunger marketing?” Ying Shi said thoughtfully. “Wanshi TV doesn’t charge viewers, and the ads are mandatory. Too many of them would hurt viewer goodwill. I can sell ad slots precisely because I have the viewers.”
Jiang Nian chuckled. “So the ones paying you are the advertisers, yet your true foundation is the viewers who pay nothing?”
“They are my resource for sustainable growth.” Ying Shi didn’t deny the description.
“Actually, there’s something that’s been bothering me. You said your ad model follows TV stations, so you only planned for ads during the first broadcast,” Jiang Nian asked, raising a question that had puzzled her for a while. “But I noticed from netizens’ comments—when they rewatch, there are still ads.”
Ying Shi’s tone remained calm. “It’s an Easter egg. I’m waiting for them to discover it on their own.”
It wouldn’t be long now. In fact, someone had likely already found it.
…
[OMG! After logging into Wanshi TV and watching an episode of “Little Sweetheart,” I discovered…]
[OP: There are no ads when you rewatch!]
[No way, really? So you only get ad-free viewing if you register an account?]
[Those advertisers are getting the short end of the stick then. Ad-free after registration?]
[Is this a temporary promotion to get viewers to sign up?]
…
[I’m back, and it didn’t work! I registered an account and there are still ads? This isn’t a scam to get people to sign up, is it?]
[OP: It’s not a scam! Let me answer everyone. After you register an account and watch an episode completely from start to finish, the ads for that episode will disappear!!!]
[Whoa, seriously? Tried it myself. It actually works. How does that even work?]
As more viewers caught wind of the news, the number of new registrations for Wanshi Entertainment hit a massive peak.
Ying Shi had named the entire platform Wanshi Entertainment—one account, full access across the site.
In truth, according to her original plan, it wouldn’t have mattered even if she didn’t add ads or launch a membership system. As long as enough people watched the drama and the word-of-mouth was good, the system would pay out anyway.
But she knew that if she kept producing dramas as charity in the long run, it wouldn’t truly change the entertainment industry. After all, most people needed to work—dreams alone without income were just empty talk.
Before the drama aired, she had only sold ad slots for the first ten episodes. The plan was to wait until the show officially started airing to sell the rest at a better price.
Now, she had both the audience and the ad revenue. And thanks to this unique ad-removal mechanism, several of the ad shorts had even gone viral in their own right.
But at the end of the day, it all came down to the quality of the drama itself.
…
“Little Sweetheart” had now aired up to the eleventh episode. Viewers naturally noticed the increase and changes in ads, and many marketing accounts had started sharing the ads from Wanshi TV, discussing whether this kind of distribution model could make a drama profitable.
Zhou Qingning was also scrolling through her phone, watching the buzz unfold.
With the broadcast of “Little Sweetheart,” Zhou Qingning gradually gained recognition, and it was no longer appropriate for her to work as an extra.
Suddenly, she was approached by many companies interested in signing her, but she didn’t dare make a decision too quickly. She consulted Director Lin and Screenwriter Song, then looked into each company carefully, but always felt that none of them were quite right for her.
Then, unexpectedly, Shen Xiao called her to ask if she was interested in signing with Baiying.
To be honest, Baiying was actually quite a good company. They didn’t rely on hype or marketing stunts, but they had ample resources, and their artists were known for their professional skills—which suited Zhou Qingning perfectly at this stage.
Moreover, according to what Shen Xiao had heard, Baiying was not hostile toward Ying Shi Entertainment and was even open to collaboration.
But she still had one question: “If I join, it won’t be a long-term CP marketing thing with you, will it?”
Given how popular “Little Sweetheart” had become—everyone could see it—as a sweet romance drama driven by the emotional storyline, the two of them naturally had to engage in CP marketing during the promotional period.
Zhou Qingning was fine with that; it was part of the job. But if they were going to be tied together long-term, that wouldn’t be good for her development.
Shen Xiao understood what she was getting at, but he couldn’t help asking, “To be honest, are you that repulsed by me?”
Zhou Qingning: “…”
“If that’s how you want to see it, I can’t change your mind.”
Shen Xiao gritted his teeth. “Don’t worry, my company doesn’t do that kind of nonsense!”
With that, he hung up.
“Tch.” Zhou Qingning also felt a bit awkward. It wasn’t that she found Shen Xiao repulsive—she just often found herself at a loss for words because of his childishness.
She didn’t want their on-screen persona as an adorable, lovable pair of silly sweethearts to turn into the “No-Brains and Bad-Temper Show.”
Anyway, in the end, she decided to sign with Baiying. She had carefully reviewed the contract—it was fair and much better than any of the others that had been offered to her.
With both leads under the same agency, the subsequent promotional campaigns became much more “professional.”
Baiying took the lead in sending a promotional plan to Ying Shi Entertainment. After the two teams coordinated, the collaboration officially began.
Through these joint projects, Ying Shi could see the gap between the two companies’ staff. It wasn’t that her own employees lacked ability—they just lacked relevant experience. Each of them was refreshingly green, naive and eager, and they needed to learn from the other side.
By the time “Little Sweetheart” reached its twentieth episode, Shen Zhuhe had slowly begun to realize her feelings for Prince Kang. But the battle for succession among the royal princes was escalating, and as the emperor’s most favored son, Prince Kang had no way of staying out of it…
The drama’s fans online were simultaneously cheering, “Our daughter finally gets it!” while worrying that the story would take a heartbreaking turn. Even though the series had been labeled a “sweet romance” from the start, and the original novel hadn’t focused much on the succession struggle, the fans couldn’t help but fret.
Unless the series aired its finale, they wouldn’t trust any promises.
It was a defense mechanism born from years of being burned by dramas that betrayed their promises.
There was also an interesting phenomenon: discussions about “Little Sweetheart,” its characters, and its CP were unstoppable across various platforms. Clips of the show were everywhere, along with all kinds of fan art, edits, and illustrations. Yet on every chart except Wanshi Trending, the drama’s share remained stuck at 4% to 5%, fluctuating between seventh and eighth place.
The direct consequence was that trust in those charts took a serious hit.
But the platforms themselves didn’t seem to care. Fans, unwilling to admit that their favorites were being overshadowed by a no-name drama like “Little Sweetheart,” continued clinging to the three major charts, boasting and praising themselves.
Meanwhile, on Wanshi Trending, “Little Sweetheart” had already climbed to the top spot with a trending score of 88—earning it the label of a blockbuster hit, just one step away from becoming a full-blown mega-hit.
As the drama approached its finale, Lin Chongshan called. “Boss Ying, I’m just checking in—what kind of drama are you planning to make next?”
Ying Shi had been thinking about this lately. Initially, she thought putting ads on the new drama was just a way to draw attention away from the fact that she was earning points. But when the numbers came in, it turned out she actually made money!
The reason it was profitable was probably because her investment hadn’t been huge. The so-called “three-nothing” crew everyone mocked—no famous actors, no big budget, no promotion—was actually quite cost-effective. Plus, the website was managed by the system, so she didn’t need to hire staff to maintain it, saving even more expenses.
This gave Ying Shi a huge boost of motivation. The system had provided the investment, but the profits belonged to the company. After taxes, she would get a sizable bonus!
But as for what film to make next, she still had no clue.
“My mentor asked me to pass along a message…” Lin Chongshan sounded a bit awkward. “He’s very skilled at shooting mythological dramas, and he’s also dabbled in martial arts dramas. If you ever need him, feel free to reach out…”
Ying Shi: “…”
Was this really how people job-hunted these days? So direct?
“Thank you, Director Zhang, for thinking so highly of me…”
But Ying Shi did gain some inspiration from this.
In recent years, xianxia romance dramas had dominated the screen. Everyone, it seemed, had to go through several lifetimes of romantic tribulations in a xianxia drama.
But with the increasing homogenization of these shows, they could no longer offer anything new, and the ones that became hits were few and far between.
Meanwhile, the mythological dramas that had filled Ying Shi’s entire childhood had all but vanished from the screen.
Ying Shi suspected the reason was that most mythological dramas were based on traditional myths and legends. Adapting them required strong literary skill, extensive research, and the ability to distill the core themes—keeping the essence while discarding the outdated elements. It was inherently a thankless and demanding task.
Buying the rights to adapt online novels, on the other hand, was completely different. The vast majority of web novels weren’t written with lofty themes or profound messages in mind. Many were filled with wildly imaginative settings that required little research to adapt.
Once the drama aired, if it was drastically altered, they could simply claim the original story’s ideas didn’t align with modern audiences’ tastes. If it flopped, they’d blame the difficulty of adaptation, saying the screenwriter had to “optimize” elements in the original that no longer aligned with contemporary values.
No matter what, it was always the original work’s fault. The adaptation, of course, was excellent.
But when it came to adapting myths and legends, there was no such convenient scapegoat to fall back on.
The only question was whether Song Zhizhi would be willing to take on such a project.
With that thought, Ying Shi immediately contacted Song Zhizhi and asked if she would be interested in writing a traditional mythological drama.
“A mythological drama?” Song Zhizhi sounded surprised. “The last traditional mythological drama was… six or seven years ago, wasn’t it?”
Ying Shi recalled that Song Zhizhi had only entered the industry eight years ago. Perhaps she had never even considered writing a mythological drama before.
But that was okay. Challenges were meant to be overcome, and Ying Shi believed in her professional ability.
“I can give it a try…” Song Zhizhi sounded eager yet hesitant, unsure of her own capabilities. “I’m not certain. Give me a week—I’ll see if I can come up with an outline.”
“Take your time, no rush. ‘Little Sweetheart’ is still airing—you can relax a bit.” Ying Shi reassured her. “Maybe inspiration will strike once you’re more at ease.”