Cheng Lie casually flipped through the stack of documents Jing Yu had prepared. Page after page was filled with exaggerated concept art and the names of three major projects:
'Ultraman'?
'Attack on Titan'?
'Mobile Suit Gundam'?
To be exact, the Ultraman version Jing Yu chose was Tiga, and for Gundam, it was the SEED version.
With Jing Yu's current reputation and status, he couldn't possibly start with the foundational world-building versions of these series. He had to pick the versions that had already garnered massive acclaim in his past life. As for the earlier lore of Tiga and SEED, those could always be revisited later in the form of prequel spin-offs. It wouldn't impact the current narrative at all.
Of course, the names of the shows didn't matter much to Cheng Lie — what stood out immediately was their genre.
Just like 'Neon Genesis Evangelion', these were giant robot and monster battle series.
"Nice, Jing Yu. You've finally stopped obsessing over romance dramas and figured out what kind of works the audience is actually willing to pay for!"
Cheng Lie was visibly excited. Among all the projects Jing Yu had directed — making him a household name across the Great Zhou — nearly half of Blue Star Film & TV's profits came from just two titles: 'Neon Genesis Evangelion' and the 'Fate' series.
While the television ratings of these two weren't significantly higher than Jing Yu's earlier romance hits, the revenue from merchandise and licensing had skyrocketed by a factor of ten.
Even if the critical reception wasn't always stronger, audiences were just more willing to spend money on this genre's merchandise.
And this was a commercial company, not a charity — it had hundreds of employees to feed. Jing Yu obviously cared deeply about Blue Star's long-term growth, so commercial viability had to stay front and center.
"I've always known what kinds of works have commercial value and which ones are just critically acclaimed," Jing Yu replied with a smile. "But to really maximize a project's potential, you need the right environment and a capable team. If I'd brought out these three a couple of years ago, our company might not have been able to market them properly."
Cheng Lie nodded. That reasoning made perfect sense.
Even great works need the right platform and the right people. No matter how good 'Neon Genesis Evangelion' was, if it aired on some obscure channel with no marketing budget, it would've flopped.
Nowadays, the company was hiring people every month — and not just rookies, but seasoned professionals from film, TV, and gaming industries who came drawn by Jing Yu's reputation. While the total staff size was still under 400, the talent quality was light-years ahead of where it had been three years ago.
"So, what's the plan now?" Cheng Lie asked.
"These three works — I won't act in any of them. None of the roles fit me. Our company currently has only four contracted actors: me, Yu Youqing, Tang Rui, and Xia Yining. I'll consider giving them minor guest roles depending on the project," Jing Yu explained.
"In other words, all major cast members will be newcomers — but they'll be signing exclusive talent contracts with the company."
If it were someone else, Jing Yu wouldn't agree to be locked into a multi-year contract. But this was his work — his casting decisions. Look at Tang Rui — now a household name in the Great Zhou. But without Jing Yu's 'Fate' series, she would've just been another unknown college student. Ten different people could've played Artoria, and all ten would've shot to fame — it just so happened to be her.
So under these circumstances, Jing Yu had every right to impose tough contract conditions. Willing ones could join; unwilling ones, he wouldn't force. That alone already set him apart from those ruthless drama industry capitalists in the Great Zhou.
"What's the projected investment?" Cheng Lie asked.
At that question, Jing Yu paused for a moment.
The company currently has about 3 billion yuan in liquid assets — a fortune Jing Yu had accumulated over six or seven years from works like 'Hikaru no Go', 'Initial D', 'Rurouni Kenshin: Trust & Betrayal', the 'Fate' series, 'Evangelion', and more.
It looked impressive, but because most of the IPs were still relatively "young," their full commercial potential hadn't been unlocked yet.
Jing Yu wasn't short on money, but this was still his war chest — prudence was necessary. These three projects were money pits. You could easily burn billions into something like Avatar — just one three-hour film.
Ultraman had been a tokusatsu show in his past life, which made it cheap to produce — but the trade-off was lower visual quality. Jing Yu wouldn't go brain-dead with this; he'd still use practical effects for some shots, but full VFX for others where necessary.
But 'Attack on Titan' and 'Mobile Suit Gundam'? Those were going to be full-scale effects-heavy productions — even if it was only season one.
"Total investment shouldn't exceed one billion yuan," he said at last. "Ultraman and Attack on Titan capped at 300 million each, Gundam at 400 million. I'll try to keep total production within that range."
Cheng Lie felt a chill down his spine.
This was exactly Jing Yu's style — committing more than a third of the company's entire capital just like that.
"Understood. I'll take the documents, register the trademarks and IP rights, and then look into assembling the production crews and contacting VFX vendors."
"Yeah, thanks. You're the only one I can trust with this. I still have to finalize worldbuilding, draw model blueprints, character designs, and write the scripts for all three series," Jing Yu sighed deeply.
Profitable projects were always the most exhausting at the pre-production stage. Even though he was multi-talented, the workload was still enormous. He usually stayed out of the company's external affairs, but that didn't mean he was some hands-off CEO — he was the company's core engine. From conception to creation, his assistant — who made a respectable salary — was often completely useless at this stage. Only Jing Yu could power through this workload.
The next day, after Cheng Lie left, the company held a meeting where a tiny bit of information was revealed.
By afternoon, word had spread among all Blue Star Film & TV employees that Jing Yu had something big in motion. By evening, all six of the Great Zhou's major TV stations — plus Yunteng TV — had heard the news.
The early leak summarized it in two sentences:
Three major productions. Estimated total investment: one billion yuan.
But the pressure this exerted on the industry was crushing.
In the entire Great Zhou TV industry, only Jing Yu had the confidence to take on single-series productions costing over 200 million yuan. Any other network or production company attempting a project at that scale would be gambling — not planning.
Even if they could break even, the return on investment would likely pale in comparison to what Jing Yu could pull off.
It's not that the Big Six lacked funds — but they had to consider both breakeven points and ROI.
And yet Jing Yu wasn't just doing one.
He was doing three.
At once.
Are you even human?