3. Pujiang Film Studio

Though located in the bustling city center, Little Red Horse Academy was remarkably quiet. The lush trees shielded it from noise, creating a sea of green visible through the windows, separating the academy from West Chang’an Street. It exuded the feeling of a hidden sanctuary amidst the urban sprawl.

Zhang Tan lay on his bed, eyes open in the darkness, reflecting on things—some from his past life, some from the present.

But dwelling on them was futile; he resolved to live well in the days ahead.

He closed his eyes, turned over, and soon fell asleep.

The next morning, a flock of small birds perched on the branches outside his window roused him. It was a mulberry tree with abundant branches—a rare sight in the city. Zhang Tan stepped onto the balcony, inhaling deeply. The air was fresh, surrounded by trees in every direction, all green. Yet looking up, he could see the nearby high-rise buildings and faint sounds of passing traffic.

This was truly a good place.

While the academy had been lively most of the night, daytime brought a profound quiet. Zhang Tan laced up his running shoes and jogged through the courtyard.

His body was a bit weak and needed exercise. After ten laps, Aunt Huang arrived and stood watching him run by.

“Good morning, Zhang Tan. I brought you breakfast,” she said.

Zhang Tan stopped, wiped the sweat from his brow, and took the breakfast bag. He looked it over and smiled. “Wow, this looks hearty! I see rice balls—thank you, Aunt Huang. You still remember my favorite.”

Pleased by the compliment, Aunt Huang smiled too. “Of course I remember. Your grandmother’s rice balls were the village’s specialty. When I was little, they were my favorite.”

They chatted and laughed all the way back to the teaching building. Zhang Tan returned to his room first, showered, ate breakfast, then headed to Aunt Huang’s office where a faint aroma of tea lingered. Two cups of clear tea sat on the coffee table, and the purple clay teapot gurgled softly as the water boiled.

Aunt Huang briefed him on the academy’s situation.

The Night Academy had been running at a loss for a long time—income failing to cover expenses—and the account balance was dwindling. It needed a cash injection.

Since its transformation into a night academy, maintaining financial balance had been difficult. On one hand, the number of enrolled children had dropped by more than half; on the other, the fees were low.

“How many children are currently enrolled?” Zhang Tan sipped his tea, somewhat bitter, just enough to cut through the lingering greasiness and sweetness in his mouth. He still wasn’t used to the sweetness of Pujiang.

“There are thirty now, and that number usually stays around there—no big changes. Because the night academy doesn’t operate on semesters but weekly terms, one or two weeks at a time, there’s a lot of turnover.”

Zhang Tan nodded in understanding. Without teaching tasks, the night academy’s primary function was daycare. Some parents were busy with work and often worked overtime in the evenings, so they placed their children here temporarily, paying weekly—quick and convenient, affordable for common folk.

He wondered what his grandparents had been thinking when they turned a perfectly good, formal academy into a night academy, resulting in money-losing operations.

“How much money is left in the account?” Zhang Tan asked.

Aunt Huang handed him the ledger. “One hundred thousand.”

Seeing Zhang Tan study the ledger carefully, she hesitated a moment before continuing, “That should be enough to keep the academy running for about half a year.”

Zhang Tan nodded, returned the ledger, drained his tea, and stood to leave. Before stepping out, he said, “Don’t worry. The money will be transferred to the account when the time comes.”

He went upstairs to his room, sat at his desk, opened the window, and turned on his computer to browse job listings.

He had no money now—maybe he had before, but it was all spent. Checking his bank card, less than ten thousand remained.

What he had said earlier was just to comfort Aunt Huang; he needed to find work as soon as possible.

On the train from Beiping to Pujiang, he had gained a detailed understanding of this world. Everything seemed both familiar and alien—for instance, the entertainment industry. In his past life, he was a screenwriter and had been deeply involved in it. Yet none of the movies or TV shows he knew existed here.

He opened a job site and searched for screenwriting positions.

The film industry was treacherous; talent alone was no guarantee of success. Like him—three times shortlisted for Best Screenplay but always a runner-up. Anyone claiming no external factors influenced the outcome was fooling themselves.

He could rewrite scripts he had written before or copy a masterpiece.

But even if he now wrote a version of "Infernal Affairs," sent it to a major director, or posted it on a forum hoping for a benefactor to discover him...

It was a fool’s dream. Based on his years in the industry, it was like finding a needle in a haystack—chances were slim.

A job posting appeared on his screen:

“Pujiang Film Studio is seeking two screenwriters. Competitive pay…”

Seeing “Pujiang Film Studio,” a vivid image of his grandmother’s palm fan surfaced in his mind. He remembered sitting on a small stool watching mecha warriors transform, his grandmother fanning him to chase away mosquitoes. He watched the animated films made by Pujiang Film Studio, and she looked at him with eyes full of affection.

In Pujiang, the top company in the film industry was undoubtedly Pujiang Film Studio—a century-old brand. Countless people had grown up watching their animations.

Across the nation, Pujiang Film Studio ranked among the top three.

“Please attach a script sample with your resume. A story outline is sufficient,” the job posting stated.

“Which script should I write?” Zhang Tan pondered, gazing at the mulberry tree outside the window.

Pujiang Film Studio’s greatest strength and core business was animation, producing many beloved and award-winning works both internationally and domestically.

The safest approach was to write an anime story script. Although Zhang Tan’s previous work had been live-action, not animation, the principles of scriptwriting were universal. Besides, he often watched anime and remembered at least some of them, like the hit show before his time travel, “This Hero Is Overpowered but Overly Cautious.”

He had analyzed that anime; its core and most creative element was the contradiction in the character’s traits—“very strong yet overly cautious.” Two opposing personality traits created intense dramatic tension.

Zhang Tan didn’t recall the precise plot—his memory wasn’t that sharp—but that didn’t matter. He had his own methods to expand the story, needing only to grasp the core creative idea.

For him, that idea was everything.

With the idea in hand, he could craft a compelling script.

Creativity was the most valuable asset.

He first outlined the eight essential story elements on his computer: character, desire, action, core problem, obstacle, outcome, positive value, and negative value.

Then, following the classic four-part structure of introduction, development, twist, and conclusion, he listed ten sequences, each developed according to the eight elements.

It was a formula—he didn’t have to rigidly follow it when writing, but it was helpful.

The sun moved from hanging at the window to behind him, the afterglow warming Zhang Tan’s back. At last, he finished a 10,000-word outline of a hero’s story and sent it along with his resume to Pujiang Film Studio’s recruitment email.

Having done all this, Zhang Tan hesitated briefly, changed clothes, and stepped outside.

At the academy gate, old guard Li greeted him, “Young Master Zhang, heading out?”

Zhang Tan replied, “Going to visit my grandparents at the cemetery.”

Old Li solemnly said, “Oh, that’s only right.”