Da Zhou was a vast country, and naturally, customs and viewing preferences varied from region to region.
For example, in Lan Province, people generally preferred romance dramas. The neighboring northern province favored horror and bizarre genres. Some regions loved detective stories, while others leaned towards intricate mind-game thrillers.
Add to that each local TV station's pricing policies and promotional strategies, and you get a highly regionalized television drama market.
Most dramas in Da Zhou earned their highest ratings within their local province.
That is—unless you were a national-level broadcaster like Xing Tong TV in Magic City.
Those top-tier networks had massive reach across all regions. Without that kind of foundational advantage, there was no way they could produce dramas that broke 10% viewership nationwide. And even then, hits of that level were rare—the kind born more of luck than strategy.
Typically, primetime dramas on networks like Xing Tong would pull 4-5% or higher.
Was the drama great? Even better.
If it was garbage? It could drop to an average of 3% or below.
But even a 3% average was still four to five times better than what Jin Hui TV could manage in its primetime slot—where 0.8% was the norm.
At its peak, a big network's viewership would be ten times that of a mid-tier station like Jin Hui.
They're not even in the same league.
So, when it came to choosing his next project, Jing Yu wasn't saying other genres were off-limits at Jin Hui.
But the so-called "audience genre preference" only really mattered when shows were of equal quality.
If your script were truly outstanding, audiences would watch it no matter the genre.
Still, Jing Yu had only just gotten his foot in the door at Jin Hui.
It wasn't the time to go wild experimenting.
Lan Province was Jin Hui's home base, and the Lan Province audiences loved romance.
So his considerations naturally leaned in that direction.
A stream of past works flowed through his mind.
In his past life, Jing Yu had been an anime addict, heavily immersed in Japanese anime, though he'd watched plenty of domestic animations too.
However, when it came to works suitable for live-action adaptation, Japanese 2D content still had the edge—especially in tone and style, which closely aligned with current Da Zhou viewer tastes.
Focusing solely on adaptable Japanese 2D works—
The first thing that came to mind was White Album 2.
Jing Yu had been deeply impressed by this work. It was also extremely controversial—perfect for stirring discussion and buzz.
Originally a visual novel, its story spanned the protagonist's high school, university, and workplace stages. The game also featured 5-6 alternate endings, allowing for different plot branches based on popularity—something that could be used to tailor live-action outcomes based on fan response.
But there was a major hurdle—this project required two absolutely perfect female leads.
Jing Yu didn't have the luxury of time to go hunting for two stunning actresses.
Yu Youqing's appearance definitely fit—she could probably play Setsuna without issue.
But where would he find a "Touma"?
Not to mention, the exchange cost for 'White Album 2' was over 2 million fan points.
Jing Yu set it aside for now.
Maybe someday.
He turned to the next possibility.
'Kimi ni Todoke' (From Me to You).
This was the pinnacle of romantic anime in his past life's Japan.
It had held its own in the rankings against action powerhouses like 'Attack on Titan', 'Fairy Tail', 'Bleach', and 'Naruto'.
In terms of pure sales?
Only 'NANA' had ever outsold it.
Would it be a great live-action series? Absolutely.
But again... way too expensive.
He simply couldn't afford it right now.
And 'NANA'?
Even worse. Not only was it outrageously expensive, but the tone was far too dark—a pure depression piece.
Not suitable.
Jing Yu sighed and forced himself to stop dreaming.
But just then, a new title surfaced in his mind.
"Your Lie in April."
Twelve episodes would be the perfect length for a seasonal drama.
And—crucially—it wasn't a pure romance. It was also a musical drama.
This genre wasn't just popular in Lan Province, but also fared well in several other regions.
Dramas with music elements tended to perform solidly across demographics.
What's more, a January premiere meant the show would conclude around late March or early April—
Exactly in time for the title to carry double meaning.
"Your Lie in April"
Viewers were going to have a field day dissecting that title by the end.
The only problem?
The exchange price was: 2,275,615 fan points.
Jing Yu had just under 1.93 million.
He was short by around 300,000–400,000.
Jing Yu blinked.
This… was tricky.
Even though 'My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday' had finished airing, his fan points were still steadily rising.
Why?
Because people were still watching it through non-TV channels:
Recorded DVDs.
TV-ripped copies.
Though these were low-quality (basically the garbage video clarity from his previous life), they still drew viewers.
Officially, households were allowed to record shows for personal use, but not for profit or public distribution.
That's also why official DVD/Blu-ray sales were usually high—viewers still wanted quality.
So yes—his fan count was still growing.
And then Jing Yu remembered the morning call from Chu You.
Chu had mentioned that the station was likely to rebroadcast 'My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday' and sell the syndication rights to other provinces.
If that happened?
His fan count would definitely see another boost in the coming days.
But out-of-province rebroadcasting wouldn't happen immediately.
If he wanted to exchange for 'Your Lie in April', he needed those extra points now.
Jing Yu was just about to call Chu You—
When Chu You called him first.
"Jing Yu, my boy! Where are you? Uncle Chu's got something important to discuss with you."
At a certain café, Jing Yu once again met with his father's old friend.
"Come, sit!"
Chu You greeted him warmly, clearly in high spirits.
Once seated, Jing Yu got straight to the point.
"Uncle Chu, why did you ask me here?"
"You guessed it. Director Shi Teng has fulfilled his promise. The station has approved 11 million yuan as the production budget for your next series."
"'My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday' performed beautifully—your viewership stats were so high, the execs took notice."
Chu You chuckled, his tone full of approval.
In the television industry, a drama's funding was typically approved after the station reviewed the script's quality.
However, for top-tier screenwriters, this step could be skipped.
Many hit dramas were written during filming, with storylines adjusted based on viewer feedback. Writing a full script in advance often made no difference.
Sometimes, a famous writer's name alone was worth millions.
They could secure a massive contract without a single word of a script.
Jing Yu wasn't there yet.
But thanks to Chu You's efforts, the higher-ups placed great trust in his recommendation.
And Chu You understood well—
Jing Yu had just wrapped 'My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday'.
He likely didn't have a full script on hand.
But… so what?
In Da Zhou's drama industry, it was common to start filming without a script, just like in the old Hong Kong days.
Back in Jing Yu's past life, Hong Kong director Wang Jing once sold out a film in advance, with a release date just a month away, and only had 10 words to go on.
"Stephen Chow, Andy Lau, Tricky Brains."
Just the names of two leads and a title—no script, no plot.
But Wang Jing wrote the script in four days, started filming, and the movie became the fifth-highest-grossing film in Hong Kong that year.
Chu You had lived through those kinds of scrambles.
He knew: opportunities don't wait.
So when the execs asked, "Can Jing Yu deliver?"
He simply said:
"No problem. The ratings are guaranteed."
If they had doubts?
Then this opportunity would never be Jing Yu's.
"You can write while filming. Just like last time—this is both a challenge and an opportunity."
"You good with that?"
"No problem." Jing Yu smiled confidently. Not a trace of hesitation.
"Good. You're just like your father. When he and I produced our first drama, it was the same thing. We had 20 days to shoot. Back then, costs were low—one full-season show only cost 760,000 yuan."
Chu You's eyes misted over in nostalgia, and the two spent the next 20 minutes reminiscing.
"By the way, Uncle Chu—I've already got a concept in mind for the new drama. As for casting, I want to bring back most of the **core team from 'My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday'."
"You mean Liu Neng and Gao Wencang?" Chu You frowned.
"They've worked here for a while, but they're still pretty green."
"Even so, 'My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday' broke 1% with them," Jing Yu replied calmly.
"We've developed solid chemistry and a good workflow. Swapping them out might make things worse."
Chu You's expression relaxed.
He had wanted to assign a few veteran producers or crew to help Jing Yu out.
But he understood.
Sometimes, "big names" don't mesh with rising talent.
The chemistry can be actively harmful.
He could more or less guess what Jing Yu was thinking.