By the end of March, the film industry in Great Zhou had finally settled back into calm.
Thanks to the final wave of fan enthusiasm, 'Spirited Away' wrapped up its theatrical run with a total box office of 6.3 billion yuan, not only claiming the top spot but raising the record by nearly 200 million.
No one knows how long this record will hold. Maybe, like in Jing Yu's previous life, it'll stand for 10 or even 20 years. But if Great Zhou's population continues to shrink and the aging trend worsens, it may take serious inflation and a massive hike in ticket prices before the record gets broken again.
Still, the biggest benefit 'Spirited Away' brought to Bluestar Media & Film wasn't just the box office profits—it was the elevated psychological position the company now held in the industry.
With both TV and film records in hand, Jing Yu had become an industry benchmark. Until someone breaks his record, his influence would loom over the entire field.
The most obvious proof of that? At the end of March, the company saw a huge surge in job applications from industry professionals.
Across Great Zhou, everyone knew Bluestar was still in a major growth phase. Talented people whose contracts had ended with old employers saw the writing on the wall—if you can't beat him, join him. Why fight a losing battle against Jing Yu when you could join his team, showcase your talent, and ride his success?
Working on Jing Yu's projects meant being part of a sure-win legacy. Why stick with your old studio, only to have your work crushed in comparison?
While execs at other film companies were racking their brains trying to figure out how to compete with Jing Yu, their most talented people were already plotting their escape.
And Jing Yu welcomed them.
Though he planned to cut back on personal output, he fully intended to increase the number of original works coming from his company.
By the end of March, Bluestar's TV, film, and gaming departments had all welcomed an influx of new staff.
April arrived.
Several self-produced TV dramas by Bluestar officially aired, once again in partnership with Yunteng TV. Among the premieres, the highest-rated show scored around 6%, while the other two landed at 5% and 4%, respectively—on par with this quarter's shows from the Big Six TV stations.
Bluestar's employees were a bit disappointed. But for the Big Six, who had been crushed by Jing Yu's dominance for seven straight years, this was a moment of revival. They immediately boosted their promo budgets, determined to reclaim the seasonal ratings crown.
Without Jing Yu personally throwing down, the Big Six still had strength. Even though Yunteng TV had gained a solid viewer base through years of collaboration with Jing Yu, these newer self-produced shows by his team lacked the overwhelming edge his own works had.
Jing Yu, for his part, took it all in stride.
"Take it slow,"
He said during the latest weekly meeting, offering calm reassurance to the head of the TV department.
Sure, if he wanted to, he could easily jump back in and wipe the floor with the Big Six again.
But honestly, he'd already taken every major honor in the TV world. He no longer had the motivation to keep showing off. What mattered now was giving his team a chance to grow.
As for the film division, this was where Jing Yu still kept a closer eye.
Most of the company's major film successes had come from scripts written by Jing Yu himself. Original in-house films were rare. Yet even so, five of his works had made it into the all-time top 100 box office list in Great Zhou.
The problem? The bar was now set so high, and the spotlight was so bright, that any misstep would be met with glee by critics and rivals.
Even if a new film didn't hurt Jing Yu's own reputation, a flop could crush the morale of the entire department.
"Without the boss, we're just useless nobodies!"
If that attitude took hold, it would drag the entire department down long-term.
Still, Jing Yu wasn't about to coddle anyone. He could be compassionate—but if someone couldn't deliver after being paid well, they were out.
"For the two films you're producing in the second half of the year," he told the team during the meeting, "I won't interfere with your shooting or creative process. But given our popularity and resources, I only have two expectations: Don't lose money, and score above average with audiences, critics, and the media."
Then, with a more serious tone, he added:
"People don't live forever. So the opportunities we get in life are limited. I won't pressure you as your boss—but if you can't demonstrate real talent…"
He didn't finish the sentence, but the meaning was clear.
The department leads breathed a sigh of relief. Jing Yu wasn't demanding huge profits—he just didn't want garbage films that would ruin the company's name. A perfectly fair request.
As for the game division, Jing Yu didn't set any immediate targets. Ongoing projects were proceeding smoothly.
However, he did form a special team tasked with studying the game and licensing potential of his past works. Series like 'Ultraman', 'Gundam', and others—he was confident there'd be new game titles for the next 10–20 years.
By the end of the April management meeting, company execs left the room with varying degrees of tension on their faces.
Only Cheng Lie and Jing Yu walked out relaxed.
Cheng Lie had been one of Jing Yu's original production directors and had worked himself to exhaustion in earlier years. But over the last year or two, he'd gradually pulled back from that pace.
Truthfully, at their level, how many things really required them to step in personally?
If Jing Yu wanted, he could fully check out. In the Great Zhou, some firms specialized in handling business operations for a fee.
Now that he had no new projects planned for summer or fall, Jing Yu was finally starting to feel free for the first time in a decade.
"I gotta say, Jing Yu, doesn't this feel kinda great?"
The two were heading out at 11 a.m. for a fishing trip, chatting in the car.
"What does?"
"This lifestyle. Taking it easy! You used to push yourself too hard. You've already achieved everything, and yet you were still grinding on the front lines. Come on, man—billionaire CEOs in film don't eat box lunches on set unless their girlfriend's the lead actress. And you? You starred in Great Zhou's highest-grossing film. That's just… unreal."
Cheng Lie was half-laughing, half-proud.
"Yeah, I guess there's only one like me in all of Great Zhou."
"And chilling like this? Fishing in the morning? It's amazing. Most people hustle their whole lives just to reach this point—where they can work for fun, not survival."
"True," Jing Yu nodded, "but I know myself. I can't keep this up for long."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"If the industry ever catches up to the quality of work I can produce, then sure—I'll stay home, watch shows, play games. That'd be great. But unfortunately, the gap's still too wide. So my hobby might just be… bringing more of those games into this world."
"I still don't get it."
"To put it simply—for someone like me, there are only two true passions: experiencing a legendary TV/game, and sharing it with more people."
"I know myself well. This fishing life? Two weeks, max—and I'll be bored out of my mind."
"So you're saying…"
"Yeah. I'll rest and have fun for a few months. But once 'Pokémon' and 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' launch, I'll probably return to creating."
"But wait… aren't you getting married to Yu Youqing in the second half of the year? Are you gonna work during that time? Isn't your wife gonna be mad?"
"Eh? How do you know about that?"
"Yu Youqing told me! You already booked a trip next month to visit her family."
"Getting married doesn't mean quitting work. I'll just cut back—maybe 5–6 hours a day instead of 16. That's easy to manage for someone like me. Honestly, staying home all day at my age? I'd rot."
"Fair enough. With your talent, spending your 30s just playing mahjong, traveling, and napping… yeah, that'd be a waste. Low-intensity creation is good for your fans and your own mental health."
"By the way, Cheng-ge—you've been single since I met you in your 30s. Now you're in your 40s. Still staying solo?"
"Don't start with me. You think you're all that just 'cause you're getting married? Just wait. Once you're hitched, you'll see. My freedom? You'll wish you had it."
Jing Yu saw the look on his face—he'd clearly been nagged by his parents a lot. So Jing Yu wisely dropped the subject.
The two friends drove off toward the lake, chatting all the way.
April passed with Jing Yu in full slacker mode.
He fished for a week with Cheng Lie, then traveled for two weeks around Great Zhou with Yu Youqing.
When he got back, he didn't go to the office at all—just stayed home for over ten days, catching up on all the games he hadn't had time to play in the last three years.
Then came May.
As planned two years ago, Jing Yu would marry Yu Youqing after 'Pokémon' and 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' were released.
Their launch dates were set for August and September, so the wedding was scheduled for October.
But first, he had to formally propose.
Yu Youqing's father had passed away. Her mother ran a flower shop in Lan City.
After Yu Youqing became a national star, her mom's business boomed. She'd expanded to six or seven flower shop branches, all thanks to her daughter's fame.
While her income was nothing compared to Jing Yu or Yu Youqing, she was living well.
Jing Yu had met her many times. She was warm and easy to talk to. But this time, when he brought up the marriage proposal—
Her reaction was huge. Jing Yu had never seen her so emotional.
Yu Youqing trusted him—but it was only natural for others to worry.
A billionaire CEO, top actor, and national heartthrob? Every mother would worry that her daughter might be played.
After Jing Yu officially announced his intent, the next day, her whole extended family arrived in Lan City—uncles, aunts, cousins, everyone.
Jing Yu could barely keep up. He handed out a reasonable amount of red envelopes—not too little, not too showy.
He was there to propose, not flaunt wealth.
All in all, things went smoothly. The wedding was set for late October.
After staying three days in Lan City, Jing Yu also took time to visit the graves of the parents of his original host body, whom he had never met.
Then he returned to Modo City.
Now, it was June.
The three self-produced TV shows had settled into their rankings: 2nd, 5th, and 7th for the season.
Not as good as Jing Yu's own dramas, but acceptable.
As for 'Spirited Away', it had launched on streaming platforms soon after its theatrical run. Within a month, it had reached over 200 million views.
Even just from online sales, the film had brought in 700–800 million yuan.
This early-year blockbuster had earned Bluestar over 2 billion yuan in net profits in just four months.
It sounded huge—but that's what a top-tier industry product should bring in. If even something like 'Spirited Away' couldn't make this much, it'd signal a serious problem in Great Zhou's film industry.
Development of spin-offs and licensing for 'Spirited Away' was already underway.
But Jing Yu didn't need to micromanage any of it. There was plenty of local talent in Great Zhou, and their original ideas for spin-offs might even surpass simple replicas of the source material.
Still, at this point, Jing Yu had no new shows airing.
His fans, now starving for content, had already turned their attention to the two games launching in two months.
With strong promotions and a huge global fan base from Bluestar's previous hits, both 'Pokémon' and 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' had surged into the top five of the global most-anticipated games list for the second half of the year.