CDJMM – Volume 4 – Chapter 8 Filming in the Interstellar Era (8)

Every Monday, the editorial office of Qi Jiang Video Network held a weekly meeting. All editors attended and would summarize the progress of the previous week’s work while deciding the plan for the upcoming week.

Today was different.

The chief editor announced a new initiative at the meeting—the “Rising Star Plan.”

The main content of the plan was that, through editorial recommendations, Qi Jiang Video Network would select promising newcomers to nurture, giving them more exposure. This would inject fresh talent into the site and encourage a flourishing variety of works.

Qianhe, who had been half-asleep, suddenly perked up.

Qianhe was an ordinary editor at Qi Jiang Video Network. He had joined not long ago, so most of the authors under his management were newcomers, lacking any well-known names.

He had once been troubled by the absence of renowned creators under his watch, but now he felt that a big talent would soon rise from among them.

Old Scenery.

Although currently just a slightly famous newcomer, with time and development, this creator could one day become a pillar of Qi Jiang Video Network.

Their works started from the culture of ancient Earth, and under a real historical backdrop, they created imaginative yet logically coherent artistic interpretations. The weight of history and the emotions of the characters were perfectly combined, giving a refreshing feeling in an increasingly impatient world.

Even though Qianhe had watched countless videos, the first time he saw Old Scenery’s work, he was still somewhat amazed.

“Chief editor, I recommend Old Scenery.”

The chief editor thought for a moment but didn’t recall the name. “A newcomer you just signed?”

Qianhe nodded. “I signed them last week. You were abroad at the time and didn’t notice the trending topics. Their work reached the tenth spot on Xingbo’s trending list—it was quite talked about.”

The chief editor nodded and asked all the editors present, “What do you think?”

Other editors immediately chimed in:

“I’ve watched their videos too; they’re pretty good.”

“The plot is touching. That story about Xu Pingjun they updated last week made my girlfriend cry several times.”

“Nowadays, very few people put effort into studying ancient culture—this is really rare.”

“Eh? You’ve all seen it? Is Old Scenery really that famous?”

“You haven’t seen it? Then I recommend you watch it; you won’t regret it.”

The chief editor was a little surprised. She knew her editors well. They were usually critical, rarely unanimously recommending something. But when that happened, it meant the video was genuinely good.

She couldn’t help but ask, “Is it really that good?”

Her question immediately received enthusiastic responses:

“Yes, chief editor, it’s excellent—I’ve watched it three times already.”

“It tells the story of small people in a great era. Though fictional, it’s truly flavorful and heart-wrenching.”

“The author must have solid cultural knowledge. The character dialogue, costumes, and plot design are all well-crafted. Though a virtual film, it’s no worse than real films.”

After the meeting, she specifically looked up Old Scenery’s video and casually opened the latest episode from last week to savor it properly.

The changing images on the screen reflected flickering light on her face. Unconsciously, it seemed like a watery glimmer flashed across her eyes.

When the video ended, the chief editor sat in silence in front of the darkened screen.

To most people, this was a love story. Although it ended tragically, evil was punished, and it was a somewhat satisfying ending.

But to the chief editor, the story’s theme wasn’t just love—love was only part of it.

The real exploration was how small people caught in the torrent of a great era could maintain their personal integrity and not lose themselves.

Xu Pingjun was both fortunate and unfortunate.

She became the most noble woman in the world as the daughter of a eunuch—her fortune.

Yet it was precisely this fortune that brought misfortune.

Regardless, she remained neither arrogant nor humble, keeping her personality intact and achieving maximum freedom.

When her once-downfallen husband suddenly rose to the throne, becoming the supreme emperor, she did not grovel in fear. She still regarded Liu Bingji as her beloved husband, an ordinary man.

She sincerely cared for him and loved him—not because he was emperor, but because he was her husband.

Facing the arrogant and malicious Huo Chengjun, she acted with propriety and composure, never overreacting, always graceful, maintaining dignity and poise.

Regarding wealth and splendor within easy reach, she remained rational and simple, never seeking luxury. When confronted with flattery from palace attendants, she remained indifferent, always clear-headed.

When she drank the poisoned wine and faced the cruel fate imposed upon her, she did not break down or harbor resentment. She only sighed, her wise and clear eyes seeming to have seen through everything. She already knew that small people, standing high, would fall hard.

Yet, lying in bed, looking at a corner of the blue sky outside, she still felt some regret.

That’s why she lightly complained in the end: “It’s been so long since I’ve gone out.”

At the moment of her death, she bore no hatred for Huo Chengjun, nor concern for her young children or husband. She did not care if anyone avenged her—she only regretted having stayed in the deep palace for so long without enjoying the outside world.

True nobility lies not in status, but in character.

Xu Pingjun came from humble origins but possessed noble character.

Even the most ruthless emperor fell for her.

In the turbulent tides of the era, small people were like drifting duckweed, powerless against fate.

Yet small people can still do what they can.

That is, remain true to themselves.

Trapped in a cage, yet my heart is free.

This was Xu Pingjun’s way.

Only small people like this had value to portray.

Only small people like this could move an audience.

The chief editor wiped her tears and then opened the second episode and the first episode in turn.

Each episode brought her to tears and offered new insights and reflections.

Old Scenery’s videos were not long, only ten minutes each, yet the author told extraordinarily rich and philosophical stories in that short span.

Each story was different, but the theme remained the same—trapped in a cage, yet my heart is free.

They all conveyed how small people persevered in adversity.

Many great people could not escape their struggles. That’s why the steadfastness of small people in hardship appeared so grand and moving.

The chief editor took a deep breath, tapped the table with her fingers, and smiled: “Truly a monster.”

Old Scenery was unquestionably a monster.

Other directors would have needed one to two hours to tell such a story. But Old Scenery accomplished it in ten minutes—complete with excitement, heartbreak, climax, and low points. Such skill was no small feat.

Honestly, Old Scenery’s talent was wasted on online AI short videos; these works deserved the big screen.

The chief editor thought for a moment and called a friend.

“Hello, An Yun? I have a few videos for you to watch…”

…

When Qianhe called, Le Jing was preparing the production of the movie Huo Qubing. With only two weeks until the competition deadline, he had stayed up for two nights straight to work overtime.

Qianhe told him on the phone that his video had been selected for the Rising Star Plan at Qi Jiang Video Network. The site would create a dedicated page to feature his work. They would also select the top three out of a hundred works through reader voting, with the first place receiving a reward of 100,000 Xing Coins.

More exposure was, of course, good. Le Jing announced it on both Qi Jiang Video Network and Xingbo, urging his fans to vote.

Then, too exhausted to continue, he went to sleep.

So when the phone rang, disturbing his sweet dreams, he felt unusually groggy. Seeing a stranger’s number on the screen, he hesitated.

Could it be a wrong number?

After a pause, he chose to answer.

“Hello, are you Old Scenery?” A hoarse yet strong voice asked—it was an older person.

“Yes, I am. Who is this?”

“You should know me. I’m An Yun.”

An Yun?

The name rang like thunder in Le Jing’s memory.

An Yun was a top director in China. His film Military Soul had once won the Ark Best Film Award! The Ark Award was the highest film honor in the Earth Alliance, given annually. Every winner was a leading director of their country.

And now such a big name was calling him?

Could it be a scam?

“I watched your Small People and am very satisfied. It’s excellent. I’d like to adapt the first story of the historian into a film I’m directing. Can you sell me the adaptation rights?”

Le Jing: …Interstellar scam, new style?

“Sorry, I have a contract with Qi Jiang, so I can’t decide on this myself. You’ll need to speak directly with the copyright editor.”

“You don’t know yet? Your video was recommended to me by your site’s chief editor. We’re old friends, and it was her strong recommendation that made me watch your work. After seeing it, I realized she was right—it’s truly a good work, with complete narrative structure, strong storytelling, tension, and rare ancient Earth historical material. Your skill is evident.” An Yun laughed: “So I got your number from your editor and called you directly.”

“…Can I think about it?”

“Of course. Take your time and give me an answer later.”

“Oh, by the way, I’m free the day after tomorrow. How about we meet? I’m very interested in you and want to talk in depth.”

Not knowing if An Yun was genuine, Le Jing agreed—there was nothing to lose.

After hanging up, he called his editor Qianhe to confirm, receiving a positive answer.

Qianhe advised: “Director An is such a prominent director. Having your work adapted is a great opportunity—you must seize it!”

Le Jing fully understood the magnitude of this chance.

He was undoubtedly short on money. Making a film required funds.

Small People didn’t have grand scenes or special effects, so simple AI simulation could suffice. But Huo Qubing was different. The battlefield scenes and majestic landscapes required elaborate, costly special effects.

For every frame of this visual splendor, extra payments were necessary.

And Huo Qubing was just the beginning.

Le Jing would make many films in the future, needing funds and manpower.

If An Yun’s adaptation fee was generous, he could establish his own studio and a professional production team.

This would greatly reduce his workload, or he’d risk overworking himself to death.

Moreover… his name would appear in the film’s credits.

The film industry would notice him, sending a steady stream of invitations.

His goal was that one day, even aliens would enjoy his work and know his name.

Ultimately, cultural influence would reach other worlds.