By the time Jing Yu finished filming for the day, the sun had already begun to set.
At this point, 'White Album 2' was deep into its final production phase, and understandably, Jing Yu had become even busier than usual. It was nearly 8 p.m. by the time he returned home.
Despite now being worth several million, and with even more money on the way once the final payments from 'White Album 2' rolled in—potentially pushing his assets past the ten million mark—Jing Yu still had no interest in buying a home in Lan City.
Main reason?
This wasn't his hometown—just the original body's.
He had no idea where he'd ultimately settle down, so he wasn't in the mood to waste time house hunting.
But what he didn't expect was to find a man and a woman standing at his door, each holding a coffee cup, chatting animatedly.
The moment they spotted Jing Yu, both of their eyes lit up.
"Who are you?" Jing Yu asked, his tone laced with cautious suspicion.
Because really—
Who wouldn't be wary if two strangers were camped outside your door and suddenly lit up the moment they saw you?
Don't tell me they're some deranged fans of WA2 or 'Your Lie in April', pissed about the ending, and here to confront me?
Jing Yu's mind flashed through countless horror stories of "passionate" fans turning aggressive.
He felt a thin sheen of sweat forming on his back.
"You're Teacher Jing Yu, right?" the woman on the left asked excitedly.
"We've been waiting for you," said the man on the right, with an unsettling, almost eerie smile.
Five minutes later, Jing Yu—reluctantly but politely—let them inside.
Yup. That chunibyou edge needs to go.
"I'm Fu Jing, from the Chenghai TV production department. This is my assistant, Li Zhuo."
If they hadn't said that right up front, Jing Yu would've turned around and bolted.
No way would he have invited them in otherwise.
He poured them both some tea—using a tin of loose-leaf that Chu You had gifted him.
Jing Yu didn't drink tea himself, preferring plain water, so this was the first time he'd even opened the tin.
"So... what brings you two here?" Jing Yu asked, despite already knowing the answer.
Finally.
From April to now, it had been nearly half a year, and this was the first visit from any of the Big Six networks.
Fu Jing took a glance around his place—stacks of game discs, anime posters, all sorts of nerdy merchandise.
Totally different from what she'd imagined the screenwriter of 'Your Lie in April' and 'White Album 2' would be like.
But appearances could be deceiving.
This man—sitting here in a cluttered apartment surrounded by anime junk—
Had produced two back-to-back dramas, both of which broke into the Top 20 viewership rankings of their respective seasons.
And he did it at Jinhui TV.
To networks like Xingtong TV, Huanshi TV, or Imperial Capital TV—the top-tier Big Three—
Jing Yu might still not be quite enough to impress.
But for Chenghai TV, Squirrel TV, or Aurora TV—the lower three in the Big Six—
Jing Yu's age, talent, and eclectic skill set made him extremely appealing.
Especially with 'White Album 2' briefly breaking into the Top 10 during several weeks.
Fu Jing had been watching Jing Yu for a long time.
She'd seen all three of his dramas—multiple times each.
And she was convinced: his talent didn't stop here.
He had the potential to become one of Da Zhou's top-tier screenwriters.
That's why she came a full month before his Jinhui TV contract ended—to start negotiations early.
"I was wondering, Teacher Jing Yu," Fu Jing said with a polite smile,
"After your contract with Jinhui TV ends, have you considered moving on?"
Jing Yu glanced at her, then at her assistant, Li Zhuo—the guy with the unsettling expression.
To be fair, the man just looked kind of creepy.
But earlier, he had genuinely freaked Jing Yu out, making him think some deranged fan had brought backup to stab him for killing off their waifu.
"Yeah," Jing Yu replied, giving a small nod.
He didn't bother with empty pleasantries—he hated corporate-speak and meaningless small talk.
If the person in front of him was smart, there was no need to play dumb.
And the fact that he hadn't renewed with Jinhui TV yet?
That alone was a big enough signal to the rest of the industry:
I'm probably leaving. If you're interested, now's your chance.
Fu Jing's smile widened.
"Li Zhuo, the documents."
Li Zhuo smiled back (still creepy), then pulled a stack of paperwork from his briefcase.
The documents included a basic intro to Chenghai TV.
Nothing new—Jing Yu had already read up on them online.
What really interested him was:
What were they offering?
He read through the documents carefully.
And the more he read, the more his brows furrowed slightly.
Fu Jing took another sip of tea, then said calmly:
"If there's anything in our offer that you find inappropriate, feel free to speak up."
"Yeah, about this—" Jing Yu pointed to a line on the contract,
"—If I sign with Chenghai TV, I'm locked into a five-year contract, right?"
"Correct," Fu Jing nodded.
For well-known screenwriters, long-term contracts like this were often unappealing—
Especially ones that came with non-compete clauses and massive penalties for breach of contract.
Essentially, once signed, backing out would cost a fortune, and your career would be frozen for a while.
Of course, if the deal came with enough money to last you a lifetime, then sure—
Some people would sign whatever "soul-selling" clause you gave them.
But Jing Yu was different.
Sure, his potential was obvious, and yes, his two dramas at Jinhui TV both made it into the Top 20 nationwide.
But he wasn't yet a household name—
And his broadcast platform was a clear weakness.
For someone like him—trying to break into a bigger network—the leverage was limited.
So Chenghai TV had the upper hand.
Fu Jing wasn't about to sign him, only to have him leave after one year.
Hence the five-year clause.
"Five years is too long."
"Please have faith in Chenghai TV, Teacher Jing Yu. We have several writers who've been with us for over ten years, and they've only ever worked with us.
If you join us, we'll treat you well. Honestly, five years won't feel long at all. You'll want to renew."
Jing Yu looked at both of them but didn't press the issue further.
"What does B-tier treatment mean?" he asked, flipping another page.
"Ah," Fu Jing explained,
"That's a production classification. With B-tier, we'll invest over 40 million yuan into your project and give it a secondary prime-time broadcast slot."
Of course, this was conditional—
Only if his script passed internal reviews and got greenlit.
If he submitted something like "Postpartum Care for Sows: The Musical", no way would they throw 40 million at it.
TV stations weren't run by idiots.
In industry terms:
C-tier: ~20 million RMB budget, standard time slot
B-tier: 40+ million, secondary prime-time
A-tier: 60+ million, primary prime-time
S-tier: 100+ million — annual mega-productions, rare and risky
This B-tier classification was based on his past performance—a fair offer.
But if his first drama at Chenghai TV flopped, that would be the end of it.
They'd likely terminate the contract early, and after that, no other network would risk trusting a writer whose last project lost millions.
In short—
That five-year clause was only binding if he succeeded.
If he failed… they'd cut him loose without hesitation.
TV stations didn't keep dead weight.