I Became an All-round Artist

“Here, it’s for you.”

“What is it?”

“It has an egg yolk inside.”

After returning to Qin Province, Lin Yuan gave the candy-coated egg yolk to his sister, Lin Yao. Although it might have felt like he was merely regifting, at least it appeased her complaints.

Upon their return, Lin Xuan took both Lin Yuan and Lin Yao to move into their newly renovated villa! Though it was called a three-story villa, with the basement included, it was technically four floors in total.

On the first night in the villa, Lin Xuan couldn’t contain her excitement, snapping pictures everywhere to post on her social media. Lin Yao, on the other hand, immediately began searching for the perfect study room. She was also on winter break now, and since Lin Yuan would be returning to Qin Province's Art Academy for the next semester, she planned to live here as well.

For Lin Yuan, though, it didn’t make much of a difference. He settled into his bedroom on the third floor, which had a similar layout to his previous one, complete with a computer.

At the moment, Lin Yuan was sitting at his desk, researching the development of films on Blue Planet.

In Blue Planet’s film industry, Qi Province (formerly known as Qi Continent) was the benchmark. When it came to special effects, Qi Province's film industry even surpassed that of Earth’s Hollywood. The visual effects were so advanced that they could easily be mistaken for reality.

Perhaps because technology was so advanced, Blue Planet’s films seemed overly reliant on special effects, often at the expense of solid storylines. However, even though the stories were relatively weaker, compared to Earth, Blue Planet's film industry was undeniably more developed—much like how its music industry outshined Earth’s.

Another interesting point was that Blue Planet's film production system resembled that of South Korea on Earth. Screenwriters held enormous power in the industry. Actors didn’t dare to show any attitude toward screenwriters, and if they did, their characters might quickly meet an unfortunate end. Directors were also not allowed to change the script without the screenwriter’s permission. Even actors improvising their lines was seen as disrespecting the writer.

In some cases, investors would decide whether to fund a project based on the screenwriter alone. Top-tier screenwriters even had the authority to choose their own directors and cast. Lin Yuan found this system remarkably similar to South Korea’s industry on Earth.

There was a widely shared anecdote online that summed up this dynamic quite well:

“I have a screenwriter friend who wrote a historical drama. It was being filmed and aired at the same time. A third-tier actress, who had a close relationship with the director, started causing trouble on set. No one dared to challenge her because of her connections. But when she crossed the screenwriter, my friend told the investors, ‘Either she goes, or I go.’ The investors, valuing the script more than the director’s influence, sided with my friend. The actress was fired, and in the next episode, my friend wrote her character off—after putting her through hell. First, she had to flee through the rain, then she was thrown into a muddy pit, assaulted by bandits, and finally, she jumped off a cliff.”

This anecdote highlights just how powerful screenwriters were on Blue Planet. However, no matter how powerful they were, they weren’t the sole rulers of film production. In most cases, the industry operated on a dual-power system: the screenwriter and the director shared authority.

A strong screenwriter could wield enormous power, but a talented director could match them step for step. The balance of power between the two depended on their abilities and experience, somewhat akin to the dynamic in Hollywood on Earth.

As the saying goes:

In South Korea, screenwriters reign supreme. In Hollywood, directors hold the power. In China, it’s the actors who call the shots.

On Blue Planet, where there was no shortage of stars, screenwriters and directors stood at the top, with actors ranking just below them. It was similar to the music industry, where composers often held more influence than singers. For actors, not only did they have to answer to screenwriters, but directors also stood as formidable forces.

It was no surprise that the system wanted Lin Yuan to break into the film industry as a screenwriter. This role had immense potential.

After getting a clearer picture of the industry, Lin Yuan’s thoughts were interrupted by the system’s familiar prompt: "The host has returned to Qin Province and is ready to receive the silver treasure chest. Inside, there is a random script. Would you like to open it?"

Lin Yuan didn’t hesitate. "Open it."

The chest unlocked immediately. "Congratulations, host, you have received the script for Flirting Scholar."

Lin Yuan was momentarily stunned.

His first reaction: The system wants me to make another niche project.

Flirting Scholar was a classic example of a nonsensical comedy—a genre that was considered niche on Blue Planet. Although Blue Planet had a few nonsensical comedies, they were extremely rare. The genre was seen as too niche to gain mass appeal.

That made sense, though. After all, this world lacked figures like Stephen Chow or Jim Carrey, who were pioneers of nonsensical humor on Earth. Without their influence, it wasn’t surprising that the market hadn’t fully embraced this type of comedy.

But after thinking about it, Lin Yuan realized that this wasn’t such a bad situation. No matter how niche nonsensical comedy was, it couldn’t be more obscure than the sports fiction he had once written.

As for the historical figure of Tang Bohu—the protagonist of Flirting Scholar—there was no equivalent in Blue Planet’s history. The timelines had diverged, and many famous literary figures from Earth simply didn’t exist here. Only a few exceptional talents, like Li Bai, had managed to carve out their own place in this world's history, albeit with some alterations to their work.

But Lin Yuan wasn’t too concerned. The audience didn’t need to know who Tang Bohu was to enjoy the film. He could simply set the movie in a fantasy world. There was no need to alter the plot—the original was already a classic.

Considering the film’s setting and scale, Lin Yuan guessed that the production costs wouldn’t be too high. Given that he was primarily known as a composer, the studio likely wouldn’t allocate a large budget to his first film. This much he understood.

Besides, it would be nearly impossible to recreate the charm of Flirting Scholar without Stephen Chow. Chow’s performance had elevated nonsensical comedy to its peak. Without him, the film’s classic status and entertainment value would diminish significantly.

Perhaps this was why the system had provided some special tools for assistance. With these, Lin Yuan felt confident enough to give Flirting Scholar a shot.

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