By late July, it had been 20 days since 'Rurouni Kenshin: Trust & Betrayal' premiered.
Its daily box office had now dropped below 10 million.
Still, its total earnings had crossed the 1.06 billion mark.
With ten more days left before it was pulled from theaters, industry analysts generally predicted the final box office would settle between 1.1 and 1.2 billion.
Based on current projections, 'Trust & Betrayal' had already locked in the top spot for the summer box office. The second-place contender, 'Original Sin', was still hovering around 700 million—no way it could catch up in the final ten days.
Jing Yu and his company, Bluestar Media, had officially made a name for themselves.
The media couldn't stop talking about him.
At the same time, film investors were showing up at his door in waves—everyone hoping to grab a slice of his success.
Now, it's not like 'Trust & Betrayal' had made Jing Yu a household name overnight. That's never how it works, not even with the most viral hits. But this film had definitely burned his face and name into the minds of most moviegoers across Great Zhou.
Becoming a true film star or legendary director takes more than just one or two projects. But as a first step into the movie world, 'Trust & Betrayal' was so strong it made investors sense something more.
A lot of them were offering very generous terms—though without exception, they were all proposing long-term partnerships. Jing Yu had just gotten out from under Yunteng TV's umbrella; there was no way he'd tie himself down again so soon.
"But if we reject them all flat out... they might try to sabotage us later," Cheng Lie said with concern.
"Doesn't matter," Jing Yu smiled. "I'm not handing them an easy win just because of a hypothetical threat."
He understood the game—some films intentionally take on capital partners, not for the money, but because of the resources those partners bring to the table.
For example, if a distributor or cinema chain has invested in a film, of course, they'll give that project priority when it comes to marketing and theater slots.
Letting others invest was a kind of strategic exchange.
Same reason it's hard for wholly self-funded studios to grow big—you're locked out of the bigger machinery.
But these people? They were just here to cash in. Opening with, "I promise you X amount if you sign an 8- or 10-year deal with us."
No thanks.
"Anyway, starting tomorrow, we're going on the nationwide promo tour for 'Love Letter'." Jing Yu shifted the conversation.
"There are a lot of people in the industry—both film and TV—just waiting for us to fail," Cheng Lie said.
"They're going to be disappointed." Jing Yu replied flatly.
"But Jing Yu… what do you think 'Love Letter' will actually do at the box office?" Cheng Lie asked curiously.
To him, Jing Yu was still full of mystery—but there was one trait he truly admired:
Jing Yu's judgment.
Sure, his screenplays were good, but what really made his work pop wasn't necessarily better writing than all the other Great Zhou writers. It was that his themes, storylines, and creative angles were just... different.
It was like everyone else on the street was selling barbecue skewers, and then suddenly there was one shop selling refreshing tofu pudding. Of course, it would stand out.
Everyone knows that standing out is a good thing. But pulling it off? That's another story.
Trying something new has a cost. A single drama could cost tens of millions to make. If your "bold and innovative" storyline turns out to be a poison pill for viewers, and the show flops hard, you're done. No one will touch you again.
That's why so many creators would rather do nothing than risk doing something wrong.
Which is exactly why so many of Great Zhou's TV dramas and movies have grown so formulaic in recent years. Cookie-cutter plots, predictable twists—maybe people complained, but they still watched.
But Jing Yu was different. Every script he brought forward broke the mold.
Name one screenwriter in Great Zhou who dared to write a story about Go, let alone one with a thousand-year-old ghost mentor. Sure, there were racing shows, but who had ever done a hill climb underdog story where the protagonist's girlfriend started with a sugar daddy? Who else could even dream of 'Steins;Gate', with its layered timelines and mental gymnastics? Or 'Rurouni Kenshin', with its tone and narrative miles apart from Great Zhou's traditional historical wuxia?
Every one of his projects took the road less traveled. Some were risky, sure—but always calibrated just right. He combined conversation-starting elements with marketable execution, as if he already knew how the audience would react.
It was like… all his scripts were already tested by the market before they even got made.
To Cheng Lie, there was only one explanation: Jing Yu's market instincts were simply too sharp.
"'Love Letter', huh?" Jing Yu paused, then smiled.
"Hard to say what the box office will be. But…"
"The reviews? I guarantee they'll be just as good as 'Trust & Betrayal'—maybe even better. I'm hoping this one lands me some awards."
"Good enough for me!" Cheng Lie exhaled, visibly relieved. He poured them both a glass of sparkling water.
"It's only July 26, but I'm already feeling cocky from what you just said. Let's go ahead and toast—here's to 'Love Letter' becoming the next big hit!"
July 27th
It had now been 20 days since 'Rurouni Kenshin: Trust & Betrayal' released.
But the attention of Great Zhou's moviegoers had shifted.
The public's eyes were now on the Qixi Festival lineup.
Movies in Great Zhou were tightly tied to the holiday calendar.
War epics for Army Day. Emotional comedies for Spring Festival. And for Qixi—the traditional lovers' holiday? Naturally, the box office would be filled with romance films.
Qixi wasn't as big as the summer season, and the time window was shorter, too.
As a result, there were fewer releases—ten new films in total, including 'Love Letter'.
Among them, 'Love Letter' ranked fourth in terms of total production budget.
The film with the largest investment came from a well-known romance screenwriter, Huang Zhiyu, and a top director, Wang Ander—together, they created 'Summer Dream', which had a budget of 110 million.
This was their second time collaborating. Two years ago, during the same Qixi period, they released a romance film called 'Sea Serenade', which grossed 722 million and took the crown for that year's Qixi box office.
To this day, that record still stands as the highest-grossing Qixi Festival film in Da Zhou history.
Of course... that "highest ever" title had some caveats.