Money 9%

“Da-da-da—”

The helicopter touched down amid a sea of voices. Zhou Xicun, terrified of heights, had landed in body, but his soul was still floating somewhere above.

Jiang Tangmian put away her phone, which had been streaming live, and the next moment, she herself appeared in the center of the broadcast, radiant as sunlight.

She hopped lightly down, dressed in a custom T-shirt co-branded by the production and a luxury label, paired with simple but by no means inexpensive light-wash jeans.

Her skin was fair, sunglasses perched on her nose, and her striking red hair was tied back in a ponytail. With bold red lipstick, her presence was no less dazzling than any of the stars present. Smiling, she greeted the audience.

Following the emcee’s direction, Zhou Xicun stood in the center, surrounded by Jiang Tangmian and the two leads. Together, the four of them unveiled the red cloth covering the camera.

Once again, all four chanted the slogan for “Solemn Oath”:

“Bound by oath, together unto death!”

Their average age was only in their twenties—the oldest was the male lead, Gu Yanxun, at twenty-six.

A group of youthful faces—if not for Jiang Entertainment’s investment, it would be hard to believe they could shoulder such a massive S+ project.

They looked more like four college students piecing together a group project. And the group leader this time was the maverick director, Zhou Xicun.

His expression gradually relaxed, then reverted to his usual stern, distant demeanor, like a modern-day Lord Bao.

Jiang Tangmian glanced at the director. In the sunlight, the earring in his left ear flashed in her eyes.

During the opening ceremony, Zhou Xicun was especially devout as he knelt and burned incense.

He didn’t acknowledge her, just brushed the ash from his hands and said, “Better to believe than not to believe.”

He’d always been a staunch materialist, but this time was different—this time, he was staking his whole career. If things went wrong, his professional standing would be tied to this damn costume drama.

The outcome mattered just as much to Jiang Tangmian. She needed the audience’s favorability to survive, but she preferred to believe: my fate is mine, not the heavens’.

It was said that this temple, blessed by the sea god, was especially efficacious. After the group ritual, Gu Yanxun quietly slipped away to buy a sea god blessing plaque.

He paused, then carefully wrote: “May Mom recover soon.”

He hung his plaque on the ancient banyan in the temple, and happened to spot another plaque nearby, the ink still fresh.

The handwriting was delicate—familiar, somehow.

It read: “Wishing Aunt Gu a speedy recovery.”

Could it be?

Who had prayed for his mother?

He finished hanging his own plaque, quietly observing his colleagues. Only a few people knew about his family’s situation.

He couldn’t be sure who it was, but the gesture warmed him unexpectedly.

While “Solemn Oath” launched with an extravagance that bordered on the inhuman, over on Mu Xi’s side, her new female-lead drama couldn’t even secure a decent second male lead. With the project about to start, they had to scramble for a washed-up veteran to fill the gap.

Mu Xi brushed off reporters’ gossip with a sweet, effortless smile, acting unconcerned. But back in her private trailer, she secretly watched the “Solemn Oath” opening ceremony livestream from a burner account.

This drama’s lineup—apart from the two leads, who barely counted as traffic—boasted top-tier professionals in styling and costume.

And when the producer of “Solemn Oath” appeared, the livestream comments were, surprisingly, harmonious.

“So that’s the producer?”

“She looks as good as a star…”

“Turns out the capitalist is a sweet girl.”

“Honestly, the rookie male lead isn’t worthy of her.”

“For the last time, they’re not in that kind of relationship!!”

…

Seeing this, Mu Xi felt even worse.

She should have been the female lead of “Solemn Oath.” Now, the thought gnawed at her like a cockroach crawling in the dark of her trailer.

She picked up the phone, her voice as sweet as melted vanilla ice cream in summer, thick with artificial flavoring.

“Brother, about that script…”

She giggled coquettishly, rolling her eyes all the while—her little assistant taking in every detail.

The assistant slipped out of the trailer and sent a message to a familiar number.

“Sis, keep an eye on script management.”

–

In the camera’s view, the automatic curtains of a spacious room slowly drew back, sunlight pouring in and bathing everything in a warm, golden glow.

Jiang Tangmian was curled up under the covers, her long hair spilling everywhere like a waterfall. Her thick lashes fluttered, and as she opened her eyes, she saw a circle of cameras mounted around her. Her limbs instantly tensed up.

…

The lavish opening ceremony of “Solemn Oath” had gone viral for its sheer financial power, drawing enormous attention.

Compared to the company itself, “Jiang Entertainment,” the public and industry focus was squarely on the young owner, President Jiang.

So young, and yet it was as if the words “fat sheep to be fleeced” were written across Jiang Tangmian’s forehead. In an instant, countless production companies and talent agencies flooded in, all seeking collaboration.

Fortunately, Susan filtered out most of the unreliable projects for her. But one invitation caught Jiang Tangmian’s eye.

“Schedule Not Full” was a variety show in the domestic entertainment industry that combined both critical acclaim and high viewership—a competition for acting talent.

The show’s director was Susan’s college classmate. Thanks to Jiang Entertainment’s deep pockets, the company had quickly made a name for itself.

This young boss had become the talk of the town, a frequent subject of gossip and a source of considerable online buzz.

The director came in person, bringing hundreds of pages of PPT to persuade Jiang Tangmian to join the show.

“Discover new talent.”

“Promote the production company.”

“Develop new IP projects.”

…

Jiang Tangmian found herself intrigued by the director’s pitch. As everyone knew, “Solemn Oath” had just started filming, Jiang Entertainment’s strength was now in the spotlight, and the next project was already being hyped as the industry’s next big thing.

Screening and preparing new projects had become Jiang Tangmian’s biggest headache. Even though Director Zhou Xicun had won awards, he’d only shot films before. She’d lured him to TV with money, but it was inevitable there’d be some growing pains.

More importantly, her favorability rating was her lifeline.

Project development needed to be orderly, not reckless. If a show aired and bombed, she might not even survive.

After the “Schedule Not Full” director left, Susan strongly encouraged Jiang Tangmian to appear on the show. Though Susan didn’t know about the system, she said, “Just treat it as a way to get familiar with the industry, survey the audience, and maybe recruit some new actors for future projects.”

Jiang Tangmian agreed with both Susan and the director. She’d planned to stay behind the scenes in this transmigrated life, but after some twists and turns, she found herself accepting the invitation.

For the show’s promotional trailer, she moved into the cheapest villa she owned.

Appearing in public as a “producer” for the first time, she was determined not to come off as a pretty but empty figurehead—hence the opening scene.

“Welcome to ‘Schedule Not Full’~!”

The acting competition show officially began. Jiang Tangmian’s red hair stood out on screen, and her classic white Chanel-style suit looked strikingly out of place among the male judges.

She smiled at the camera, “Hello, everyone. I’m producer Jiang Tangmian. I’m very happy to be here on ‘Schedule Not Full’!”

The judges’ panel featured four industry “big shots.” Besides Jiang Tangmian in the middle, there were two famous directors and the boss of an advertising company.

To her left was Director Li Mingkuan, around forty, with long hair and a beard, known for his commercial suspense films. He was stern, barely willing to greet the camera.

To her right was Director Xu Yajun, a bald man in his thirties who always wore a baseball cap and glasses. He specialized in family-friendly films, and his movies were a fixture in the New Year’s box office, giving him considerable market clout.

Jiang Tangmian had seen on gossip accounts that these two directors had a long-standing rivalry, sniping at each other from afar. Luckily, she was seated between them, but she could feel the heat of their silent battle.

The advertising boss, President Liu, was portly, holding vast commercial resources and infamous for his frequent scandals with actresses—a man whose motives in the industry seemed questionable.

The judges’ seats were designed to look like on-set director’s chairs, each with an oversized clapperboard in front—props for the judges to “bet” on their chosen rookie actors.

If a judge’s vote matched the audience’s, they’d successfully “bet” on a contestant and could then select them for a future PK round.

Among the four judges, they would ultimately select the final group of rookie actors to shoot four completed projects.

Although Jiang Tangmian and President Liu lacked directorial experience, both had the special privilege of seeking outside help.

Before filming, the production team had discussed the competition segments with Jiang Tangmian.

She wasn’t about to waste such a golden opportunity, and even summoned her system. The final cut of the show would be used to calculate her audience favorability—of course, negative reactions would count against her.

If she could exchange for audience favorability, Jiang Tangmian was wide awake!

She opened her cyber panel. The system, which had been silent for days, finally came online: “Congratulations, host, the system shop is now unlocked. You can exchange points for various items.”

Jiang Tangmian scanned the shop, but all the items were things she had no use for right now: viral fan-cam photo props, group-character customization…

She complained loudly, “Is there nothing like a scandal early-warning system?”

That would be far more useful than anything else.

The people-pleaser system replied timidly, “Um, I’ll report it to the higher-ups and see if we can develop it soon.”

Jiang Tangmian nodded in satisfaction, patting her system’s big head before logging out.

Back on set, Jiang Tangmian glanced at the guest list on the director’s cue card and was surprised.

One of the contestants was her old internet acquaintance—Mu Xi.

A quick glance off-camera showed Mu Xi’s attitude was humble, a far cry from the person Jiang Tangmian had encountered in the luxury store.

Mu Xi’s assistant was even more familiar. When their eyes met, a thousand unspoken words seemed to pass between them.

Yet both were careful to maintain the appearance of strangers.

She’d once received a text warning her to be careful with the new drama’s script. After discussing with Susan, they’d deduced it most likely came from Mu Xi’s assistant.

Jiang Tangmian had been amazed at the time, surprised to find she’d developed a mole on the rival side. But the assistant’s gaze didn’t linger on her at all, as if they’d never met—a perfect stranger.

“Action!”

“Schedule Not Full” officially entered the acting PK round.