Chihara Rinto—no, Lu Zhishou's university mentor was a somewhat unscrupulous man. While teaching, he frequently took private gigs, occasionally dragging students along as unpaid labor under the guise of "social internships" to expose them to the harsh realities of life.
Despite his greed, the mentor excelled at teaching, never neglecting his duties. He created a text-based game titled Ratings Are the Lifeline as an educational tool for freshmen to grasp terminology, production processes, and job responsibilities in directing and screenwriting—a far more effective method than rote memorization.
The game's script was penned by him, while the programming was outsourced to engineering students lured by performing arts majors. Not only did he pay nothing, but the actresses even gained three pounds during the process—a classic case of exploitation that somehow left the engineers unfazed.
The game itself was engaging. Students undertook various "jobs," answered questions, handled events, and aimed to produce quality content meeting rating requirements before submitting their work to the mentor for grading based on in-game data.
Lu Zhishou had played it during his freshman year—it was mandatory homework—and scored highly due to his strong planning skills, resilience, and ability to focus on tedious tasks. The mentor began singling him out for extra work, leading Lu to suspect the game might be a covert labor-screening tool. Eventually, he shrugged it off; learning was learning.
Of course, there were cheaters too, but they were swiftly caught—their subpar coding exposed—and punished with textbook memorization or exams personally crafted by the mentor, ensuring failure and mandatory winter-break retakes.
After the first semester ended, Ratings Are the Lifeline was shelved. Two years later, Lu Zhishou had forgotten all about it.
Now, staring at the floating green text, he recognized its resemblance to the game's prompts. Delving into his memory, he sifted through countless video fragments until locating the familiar interface of Ratings Are the Lifeline.
The UI remained unchanged, yet now it interacted with reality? How was this possible?
Shaking off the unanswerable question, he reflexively opened the character panel:
- Name: Chihara Rinto
- Title: None
- Energy: 78/100
- Screenwriting: LV1
- Directing: Inactive
- Producing: Inactive
- Current Skills: [Format Writing], [Spiritual Observation]
- General Skills: [Talent Scout LV1]
- Funds: 10,000
- Items: None
A bold red "+" appeared next to "Items." Clicking it revealed familiar terms: "Use these tools responsibly. Those who cheat will bear the consequences!"
Closing the nostalgic warning, Chihara spent his initial 10,000 funds on a tool: [Dual Focus]. He was very familiar with this game and knew that [Dual Focus] was an early-game godsend. It enabled players to "idle" in the background while writing scripts and simultaneously engage in other activities like schmoozing with actors—a sort of dual-play that saved significant time. However, now that he was in the real world, it was unlikely he'd be running around while writing scripts. At most, he might write while attending meetings or observing shoots.
Still, this was better than being glued to his desk all day. With only 10,000 starting funds and three basic items to choose from, [Dual Focus] was clearly the most practical option. The other two—[Flattery Mastery] and [Discover Special Talent]—were far more troublesome.
[Flattery Mastery], when used, had a chance to trigger unexpected lucky events like sudden promotions or wealthy benefactors investing in your project. However, it came with significant side effects. For instance, the wealthy benefactor might make special demands, and if you refused, they'd immediately turn hostile.
As for [Discover Special Talent], it was practically useless at this stage. He wasn't yet at the point of assembling his own team, and even if he discovered someone talented, there was no guarantee they'd agree to work with him. Spending 10,000 on this could easily go to waste.
More advanced items like [Energy Recovery Potion], [Explosive Acting Pill], or [Beauty Filter] were completely out of reach for now—there was no point even looking at them.
The game itself was simple and mindless, designed primarily as a teaching tool to give students a taste of what directing and producing entailed. Its educational purpose outweighed its entertainment value. In essence, it didn't serve much practical use beyond that. The unscrupulous mentor had included purchasable items solely to speed up gameplay and prevent students from getting bogged down indefinitely.
Even within the game, you still had to write your own scripts, secure funding, and cast actors. No matter how much clicking around you did, all the essential steps were unavoidable.
---
"Chihara-kun? Chihara-kun??"
Snapping back to reality, Chihara turned to Murakami Iori, who asked concernedly, "Are you alright, Chihara-kun? You can rest if you're tired."
She'd intended to ask his opinion on the previous actor but noticed him zoning out—an alarming sign given his recent workload.
"I'm fine," Chihara assured her. "Were you asking about the last actor?"
"Yes, what do you think?" She scrutinized him, relieved to see renewed alertness.
"No opinion." He spoke truthfully.
"Understood." Murakami wasn't surprised. His earlier daze suggested fatigue.
Casting continued. Next up was Ono Kenta, the high-cost candidate favored by producer, director, and assistant director alike. Chihara rested his chin on his hands, feigning attentiveness while experimenting with his newfound skills.
[Format Writing], a passive skill activated upon signing the head writer contract, streamlined scriptwriting and reduced energy consumption.
[Spiritual Observation] had already triggered automatically during casting. This intuitive skill compared actors to roles directly but wasn't foolproof—it might select someone visually fitting yet lacking acting prowess. Still, it had helped rediscover Ratings Are the Lifeline, which he hadn't noticed before.
Checking Ono Kenta's spiritual compatibility, Chihara found it at 76%—the highest among candidates. Activating [Talent Scout LV1], he examined Ono's profile:
- Stage Name: Ono Kenta
- Real Name: ???
- Agency: ITE Entertainment
- Age: 37
- Height: 176 cm
- Weight: 67 kg
- Popularity: ???
- Looks: ???
- Acting Skill: ???
- Resilience: ???
- Breakout Chance: ???
- Slump Chance: ???
- Award Potential: ???
- Special Skills: ???
- Exclusive Abilities: ???
- Desired Pay: ???
- Notes: ???
At LV1, [Talent Scout] remained largely useless, riddled with questions marks. Closing it, Chihara relied instead on visual observation, activating [Dual Focus]. Instantly, his mind bifurcated—one fragment reconstructing scripts, another evaluating Ono's performance. Simultaneously, his hand scribbled notes effortlessly.
Thankfully, it worked reliably—though energy depletion seemed faster, possibly reflecting mental fatigue.
Murakami heard the pen scratching paper and glanced over in surprise, spotting script-like content. Inspiration struck? Perhaps his earlier daze masked creative ideas. Relieved he wasn't overworked, she resolved to continue pushing for more drafts.
Turning to Fujii Arima after Ono exited, she discussed, "Thoughts, Fujii-kun?"
"Better than Takeda," Fujii admitted honestly. Subjectivity reigned in acting evaluations. "Who do you prefer among the three, Murakami-san?"
"Ono performed better, but his fee…" She flipped through documents, troubled. High popularity stars were ideal, but budget constraints grounded such dreams.
"How much higher?"
"Nearly double Takeda's rate, plus backend royalties. The programming committee likely won't approve."
Fujii Arima hesitated for a moment. While he hoped to cast a more skilled actor, he couldn't disregard the producer's plight. After all, the current collaborative atmosphere was quite harmonious. The screenwriter was a quiet and reserved individual—if you didn't interfere with his work, he wouldn't meddle in yours. As for the producer, she was exceptionally agreeable, essentially coaxing everyone into doing their jobs without being overly assertive. It was an ideal dynamic.
"Your call, Murakami-san!" Fujii smiled.
"Let's go with Takeda Kazuma," she decided pragmatically, constrained by the meager budget.
Chihara didn't object. Despite Ono's higher spiritual compatibility and apparent skill, practicality demanded a cost-effective choice. Overinvesting in one actor risked compromising overall quality.
Reflecting, [Spiritual Compatibility Rate] seemed limited in utility…
With the Narrator role settled, auditions moved to Miho, the pivotal young girl from Episode One's opening short. Cost-saving measures led them to models and commercial actresses, but most struggled with acting despite photogenic appearances.
Their poses dazzled, but emotional range faltered—sweet smiles masking wooden expressions. Unsuitable except for typecasting, they lacked Miho's required depth.
Chihara shook his head repeatedly—budget constraints truly crippled productions. Murakami and Fujii shared his disappointment. If none sufficed, they'd either postpone the short or allocate extra funds for a child star.
Then, the final candidate entered. Chihara glanced up, noting an eleven or twelve-year-old girl with neat bangs, silky black hair gleaming like raven feathers, and striking eyes that curved prettily when she smiled—a pure, crystalline gaze.
Polite and poised, she bowed deeply. "Hello, sensei. I'm Fukazawa Michiko. Nice to meet you."
Glancing at the skill prompt, Chihara's brow twitched—spiritual compatibility soared at 81%, dwarfing the previous high of 42%.
Miho's dual nature—half innocent child, half shadowy adult—aligned remarkably with Michiko. Assuming adequate acting skills and reasonable pay, she seemed the clear choice.