"These are the scripts delivered from the Screenwriting Department today."
"Got it. Just leave them over there."
Shinozaki Ikumi took a deep breath as she addressed the staff member who had just brought in a box full of scripts to her office.
Just like the screenwriters who desperately wanted their work to get picked up and broadcast on TV, the producers in the Production Department were just as eager—
Eager to break out of the cycle of making web-only content like variety shows, documentaries, prank programs, and travel interviews.
In the current state of the industry, working on web-broadcast projects meant you were a third-tier producer—at best.
Because in Xia's media landscape, all the big capital was concentrated in the few top TV stations.
Their investments and attention went into shows that aired on actual TV.
What network streaming platforms did they own?
They were barely prioritized, with far fewer resources allocated.
If you wanted to become a major player in this field, you had to create a smash hit that aired on television.
But forget hits—forget TV broadcasts even.
Last quarter, Shinozaki Ikumi had personally led the production of a romance drama called 'Sakura Island Love Song'.
And it flopped—hard—on streaming.
In just the winter quarter of January alone, Sakura TV had released over 20 web dramas, variety shows, and music programs through its online platform.
Out of all of them, 'Sakura Island Love Song' ranked dead last across all major metrics:
Paid views, reviews, overall buzz… It lost by a landslide.
The production had cost over three million yuan, yet had barely recouped a third of it.
And this wasn't the first time.
Back in October, during the fall quarter, she'd also been in charge of a web variety show that ended up costing the company hundreds of thousands.
She could already see it coming:
When this year's mid-year evaluations happened, she was guaranteed to receive a bottom-tier D-rating across the board.
And under the Production Department's elimination policy...
If she failed her KPIs again in the second half of the year, her dream of becoming a legendary producer—something she had chased since childhood—would come to an end in her very first year after graduation.
Getting fired? That would be inevitable.
"No. No way."
Ikumi clenched her fist and pinched her own arm, standing up from her seat with defiance etched on her delicate, fair face.
Middle school. High school. College.
While her peers were partying, dating, and enjoying their youth, she had been grinding and studying relentlessly.
Becoming a producer had been her dream since she was a child.
How could she let it end here?
"You can do this, Ikumi. As long as you produce something profitable in the second half of the year and recover your losses, you'll still be the elegant, beautiful, and undefeated Shinozaki Ikumi."
"Getting fired because you're incompetent? That doesn't exist in your storyline."
She lightly slapped her cheeks to hype herself up.
It worked—for three minutes.
And then the spiral of mental exhaustion began again.
"But who would even want to work with me now…?"
She was a fresh producer, just a year into her career, following in her mother's footsteps.
And yet she'd already had two failed projects.
Not only had 'Sakura Island Love Song' lost money, but it had been voted #2 Worst Drama of the Year by drama fans across Xia.
Even the actors and director had gotten flamed so hard online that they stopped posting altogether.
Now, the directors, writers, and actors she used to know weren't even answering her calls anymore.
No one wanted to get involved in one of her doomed projects and stain their résumé with a giant black mark.
After a long sigh, Ikumi turned toward the box of scripts the assistant had brought in.
All formally employed screenwriters at Sakura TV were allowed to submit one script per quarter to the Production Department for review by producers.
But in reality?
Even mid-tier producers already had go-to screenwriters they collaborated with.
And for the more experienced writers, there was no way they'd just toss their scripts into a pile like this for random producers to pick through like a bargain bin at the supermarket.
These anonymous submissions?
They were practically reserved for rookie producers with no connections—like her.
Ikumi had known a few mid-tier screenwriters before, but after her last few failures…
"Sigh…"
Even though she wasn't expecting much, she started flipping through the scripts anyway.
"What if… just maybe… one of the new full-time writers this year is a hidden genius?"
Thanks to a childhood habit of reading domestic and international literature, Ikumi could read scripts quickly—and retain a lot.
But the more she read, the more frustrated she got.
"Cliché!"
"So melodramatic!"
"You hyped it up like a big reveal, and it ended in this?! What a pile of—"
"Oh my god. What kind of twisted brain comes up with this? This guy Liang Heng must have tofu in his head. His plot stinks."
"Toxic. Screw love triangles!"
Time passed.
Script after script. Not a single one made her eyes light up.
Until—
She picked up one titled "Pure Breeze".
As she flipped through it, her frown began to relax.
Ten minutes later...
"Huh… this one's surprisingly decent?"
It was a sweet and aesthetically pleasing romance drama.
She found herself immersed in the story—an experience she hadn't had in a while.
She glanced at the credits:
Screenwriters: Kanzaki Yusuke, Kiyota Sanji.
Her expression instantly changed.
Kiyota Sanji.
The nephew of Akasaka Yoshitoki, the Deputy Director of the Production Department.
"Never mind."
With his name on it, this project would be fought over by other producers.
Even if it was just a web drama, as long as enough money was poured into the production, it would almost certainly land among the top-performing shows on SakuraNet.
Projects like this, where even before airing, you could already see it doing well and earning accolades for the cast, writers, and producers—
She had no chance of getting her hands on it.
"Next."
Ikumi sighed and reached for the next file.
Her pale, slender fingers pulled out a neatly packaged script and unsealed it.
The title leapt out:
'Rurouni Kenshin'
That name stood out immediately—too unique not to.
Though initially intrigued, she didn't expect much.
After all, scripts were dry—no music, no visuals.
They didn't have the rich narration and inner monologues that novels offered.
But for a well-trained producer, reading text was enough to visualize entire scenes in the mind.
And so, just five minutes into reading the 'Rurouni Kenshin' script...
Ikumi's expression began to change.
Her gaze shifted from distant and detached—
To draw in and captivate.