No matter how capable Chu An was or how much money he raised, in the end, it all came down to the work itself.
And honestly, The Best of Us was giving him a headache.
Sure, the script was something he had "borrowed"—and in his previous timeline, the show had impressive ratings.
But that didn't mean success was guaranteed.
Let's put it in perspective. Just last year, the Huaxia television industry produced around 7,000 episodes in total.
Of those, 30%—that's about 2,100 episodes—halted midway due to funding shortages or other issues. In other words, one-third of productions fell apart before completion.
Of the remaining 5,000 episodes, another 25%—over a thousand—were too sensitive to pass censorship.
That left around 3,600–3,700 episodes that could actually be broadcast.
But here's the catch: just because something is ready to air doesn't mean it will sell.
Take CCTV, for example. Its prime-time lineup across the year only fits around 200 episodes. Even if you include all the other time slots on Channel 8 and a few others, the total volume of first-run purchased episodes is around 500.
Sounds unbelievable, right? Only 500 episodes a year?
Well, the total number of episodes aired across all CCTV channels tops 3,000—but most of those are reruns. First-run procurement remains incredibly limited.
What about provincial stations?
They're even worse.
At this point in time, only a handful of provincial networks could afford to buy first-run shows. Most didn't even bother showing up at the procurement fairs.
So, if in a year 2,000 episodes get made, pass review, and actually air—that's already considered a great year for the industry.
And that's not even accounting for whether they made a profit. Just airing counts as a win.
Now, back to the Best of Us production crew—this wasn't just an industry problem. They had internal chaos too.
Tiandu pulling out meant the entire production system was effectively gutted. The people managing the money were gone, and those left were just the spenders.
Post-production, marketing, pitching to TV stations—none of that could move forward.
And worse, no one knew if Tiandu would continue to sabotage them from behind the scenes.
Back when Director Lu handed Chu An the bank card, Chu An had asked, "Tiandu pulled out just because you didn't want to shoot a Qing Dynasty court drama?"
If that were the only reason, it wouldn't be a big deal. There wouldn't be too much bad blood, and Tiandu probably wouldn't go too far.
But if there was something deeper—and Lu Mingze hadn't told him—and Tiandu was out for blood? That was another story entirely.
"Getting it shot. Getting it aired."
Those were the two biggest obstacles The Best of Us faced.
Director Lu, for his part, was optimistic as ever.
"Don't worry! We'll make it happen!"
In his mind, the producers leaving was the best thing that could've happened. No one to control the money meant he could fully unleash his artistic vision and make a masterpiece.
Too bad they hadn't even left Shenyang yet before Chu An already revoked his financial authority.
"Go chill somewhere cool and don't touch a dime."
Lu Mingze, still driving his nearly-new Crown sedan with the windows down, let the wind tousle his few strands of long hair.
One hand on the wheel, one hand holding a phone—his whole aura screamed: I'm loaded.
He called the biggest film equipment supplier in Shenyang directly:
"Get me two Panavision Millennium cameras. Full lens kits, of course. Only the best."
"Two Steadicam rigs as well."
"And prep 300 reels of 35mm film. If that's not enough, I'll call again."
"I swear to—" Chu An wanted to kick him out of the car, just to teach him what "budget control" meant at 120km/h.
This wasn't about making a drama—Lu Mingze was fulfilling a personal dream.
A single Panavision Millennium cost around 2.6 million RMB in China. Two would be 5.2 million.
These were the same cameras used in blockbusters like Iron Man and Avengers: Endgame.
The full lens kit? No idea how much, but Chu An knew the rental price was over $2,000 a day.
No one in China used them.
And 300 sets of 35mm film?
One 400-foot reel could shoot about 4 minutes. But not with the Panavision Millennium. That beast could shoot up to 75 frames per second—it chewed through film.
Each reel cost between 800 and 1,200 RMB, and Lu Mingze clearly wasn't buying the cheap stuff.
In movie terms, "one set" usually just meant one reel, and some long takes could use up multiple reels.
So 300 sets? Not a huge deal—about 360,000 RMB max with top-end film.
But that logic doesn't apply to TV.
In drama production, "one set" of film meant the bare minimum for a full day of shooting.
That's 20 reels per set.
300 sets meant 6,000 reels—7.2 million RMB!
In the time it took to drive to the airport, this lunatic had nearly blown the entire Best of Us budget.
"You should stay away from money—it clearly hates you."
Lu Mingze still wasn't done. He tried again, slyly.
"What about ARRIFLEX 535B?"
Chu An: "Get out."
That one wasn't cheap either. And China didn't even have a dealer for it.
Lu Mingze pouted, refusing to speak the rest of the way. I just want better quality! This guy has no artistic soul at all!
Chu An ignored him. He thought to himself, Let's see if you're still in the mood to dream once we get back to Ningyuan.
While working on You Are My Glory, Chu An had been keeping tabs on the production team in Ningyuan.
Things were reaching a breaking point.
They landed in Yangcheng, Liaoning Province, where Ma Lan and Tong Meng came to pick them up.
First thing Lu Mingze did was complain, "This guy doesn't get a director's romance at all!"
Chu An sneered. Yeah, you're romantic alright—just reckless.
He turned to Ma Lan. "What's the situation?"
The two women had returned to Ningyuan after the CCTV project meeting.
Partly because they weren't needed in the capital anymore—partly because Ningyuan was falling apart.
Tong Meng, who had been in regular contact with Chu An, said, "Tiandu pulled funding. The director ran off. Over a hundred people stuck in a small county town with no one in charge. What do you think happened?"
"The crew collapsed in three days!"
Ma Lan, the highest-ranking person left after Lu Mingze, had done her best to stabilize things. "Good thing you're back. I'm at my breaking point."
She gave them the rundown.
"All the production staff quit. No one's in charge. That old bastard Jia Chenglin's just fanning flames—completely useless."
"Yesterday, word spread that Tiandu's starting another project and trying to poach our crew."
"Right now, only producer Li Chunhua is still here—just wrapping up loose ends, not handling any real work."
Ma Lan looked anxious. "We don't even have someone to order meals. No one knows when we'll start shooting again. And with Tiandu spreading rumors..."
She shared the worst news of all: "Some crew members have already left Ningyuan quietly."
Chu An sighed. This was exactly why a solid production system was so important. It could rein in directors like Lu Mingze—and more importantly, keep the basic operations running. The crew couldn't function without it.
"Tiandu really pulled the rug out from under us."
Lu Mingze ground his teeth in frustration. He had hoped Tiandu would at least leave behind essential roles like logistics and set managers.
But no—they didn't just pull funding. They took the whole foundation.
"If I get the chance, I'll expose every damn thing they've done!"
Tong Meng, impatient by nature, waved him off. "Enough talk. Did you get the money or not?"
Money was still the biggest issue. You Are My Glory had been approved, but whether it could attract investment was still uncertain.
To avoid interference from Tiandu, Chu An and Lu Mingze had quietly approached only trusted contacts—nothing public.
Chu An and Lu Mingze exchanged a grin at her question.
Lu Mingze rubbed his shiny bald head. "We managed to get some."
Tong Meng lit up. "How much?"
She cared about the crew like it was her own family.
"Not a lot," Chu An said, not wanting to get their hopes too high. "But it should be enough."
Lu Mingze added, "Barely enough to finish the shoot."
Tong Meng clutched her chest in relief. "As long as we can finish."
It hadn't been easy. Making it this far despite being backed into a corner was a huge feat.
Thinking ahead to likely cost overruns, Tong Meng pulled out a savings book and handed it to Lu Mingze.
"This is all I've saved. I didn't get a card because I was afraid I'd spend it on impulse. But now—it's time to use it."
"We'll get through this together!"
Ma Lan followed suit. "I've got 200,000 on my card. I'll send it to Director Lu later."
They had decided before heading to the airport—they'd show their support no matter what.
Lu Mingze waved them off proudly. "There's no need for that—"
Chu An cut in immediately. "Take it."
"Huh?"
Lu Mingze was confused. "We're not even short on—"
Chu An said firmly, "Consider it an investment from Sister Lan and Sister Meng."
Then he added with a smile, "Don't let down the people who believe in you. That's your job, Director Lu."
Lu Mingze nodded solemnly. "I won't."
Then he announced gravely, "Everyone rest up tonight. We start filming tomorrow!"
Chu An wanted to kick him again. It might not be respectful to his elders, but this guy really needed a wake-up call.
"Go cool your head somewhere."
Best of Us was still under wraps. Everyone thought they were filming My High School Years.
Not to mention—the crew was still paralyzed, with no production system.
And morale was in tatters. Film your ass.
Leading everyone to the car, Chu An thought for a moment and said, "First, we need to stabilize the team. Back at the guesthouse, Director Lu, call an all-hands meeting."
"Two key messages: First, we've got the funding—we can start anytime."
"Second, My High School Years is shelved. We're officially launching The Best of Us."
Ma Lan nodded. "Changing projects midstream might shake some people."
Chu An replied, "Easy fix. Print out both scripts—plenty of copies."
"From crew to cast, make sure everyone has one. Let them compare and decide which one has more potential."
Everyone looked at Chu An with newfound respect.
This guy was born for the entertainment world—versatile and sharp.
He could write scripts, secure investments, and he knew crew operations inside and out. What couldn't he do?
If he turned out to be a decent director too, Lu Mingze might as well retire.
(End of Chapter)
If you'd like, I can help with further chapters or support me at https://www.patreon.com/YugiroTL