In 2001, China Central Television (CCTV) was still the undisputed pinnacle of television viewership.
To have a show premiere on CCTV wasn't just a mark of prestige—it meant the drama had met a high standard in terms of production, storytelling, and thematic depth.
So naturally, not every drama could make it to CCTV.
But Chu An, ever shrewd, played a clever card—he leveraged the influence of the Aerospace Bureau to help "You Are My Glory" land a spot on CCTV.
Of course, it wasn't about the honor or prestige. Chu An didn't care much for that. What he did care about was what he needed most at the moment—money.
And it just so happened that, at the time, CCTV offered the highest licensing fees in the country—nearly double that of local stations.
In other words, as long as the quality passed muster, just the premiere rights could fetch double the normal rate.
And if it made it into CCTV's primetime lineup on Channel 1, the price would go even higher.
Zhang Yulan was doing some mental math:
CCTV's average per-episode acquisition rate for a first-run series was 100,000 to 150,000 yuan. If it aired during Channel 1's primetime, it could go above 200,000. For a 30-episode drama, a primetime slot could earn at least 6 million yuan.
And that's just for standard productions—top-tier projects could fetch far more.
Just last year, a Republican-era drama with a production cost of 24 million yuan had sold for an astounding 450,000 per episode.
If "You Are My Glory" reached that level, with its 32-episode run, that would be over 14 million yuan—enough to recover nearly half the investment from the premiere alone.
All she could say was—Chu An's strategy was brilliant. What others couldn't achieve after breaking their backs, he secured with a single move.
Meanwhile, Lu Mingze was also doing the math in his head.
He was practically obsessed with money by now. The moment he calculated 14 million yuan, he almost couldn't stop grinning.
If CCTV paid an advance, he wouldn't have to worry about funding "The Best of Us" anymore. He could shoot however he wanted. Heck, he could film lying down or even upside down.
He was already imagining casting two actresses for the female lead—one to act, and one to keep him company.
That big payday danced before his eyes like a hallucination.
But just as he was getting carried away, Chu An dropped a bomb on him.
"With the support of our leaders, we'll give this production everything we've got!" Chu An declared with enthusiasm.
"And for their trust—and for the support of our aerospace heroes—we, as soldiers under the banner of the broadcasting system, must show our commitment!"
Then he turned to Lu Mingze. "Wouldn't you say so, Director Lu?"
"Huh?!"
Lu Mingze was caught completely off guard. Seeing all the old bigwigs looking at him, what else could he say?
"Right, right! Absolutely! We must show our dedication!"
Chu An continued, "Then it's settled. If CCTV agrees to broadcast it, we're willing to reduce our asking price. First, to honor the trust of our seniors; and second, as a tribute from the entire cast and crew to our frontline aerospace heroes!"
Not a single word was out of place, but damn if it didn't sound good.
One of the leaders from the Bureau had actually been a bit irritated earlier, thinking Chu An had been too brazen—essentially using the Aerospace Bureau to force their hand.
Sure, Chu An had gotten what he wanted, but he'd left a bad impression.
Then suddenly, he flipped the script. Voluntarily lowering the licensing fee, pledging loyalty to the broadcasting system, aligning with leadership?
What a clever kid. He had a future.
But Lu Mingze? He was devastated. That 14 million? Gone—just like that.
An hour later, Chu An and the crew exited the Broadcasting Bureau.
Lu Mingze was just about to explode. This guy doesn't even care about money!
But before he could open his mouth, Chu An cut him off: "You're the one who agreed. Not my problem."
Lu Mingze almost coughed up blood. Me? I agreed?
Wait… he actually had agreed!
"That's because you set me up!"
"Then we need to have a serious conversation about this!"
Chu An ignored him.
Lu Mingze was the type who should be locked in a room with a script and left to go crazy with creativity. He didn't belong in the world of social maneuvering and politics.
Ideally, he shouldn't even be allowed to interact with people.
But reality was cruel. Chu An couldn't go it alone yet—he needed Lu Mingze's name as cover.
Basking in the sunshine of Shengjing, Chu An let out a long breath. The hardest step was behind him. The rest would be much easier.
…
Truth be told, what made today so successful wasn't just Chu An's flattery or rhetorical finesse. The real reason the national institutions gave their nod was something else entirely.
In the original version of You Are My Glory, the male lead Yu Tu was part of a lunar exploration project—which didn't fit the 2001 timeline of this alternate China's aerospace development.
So Chu An made a change—he turned Yu Tu into an engineer involved in the manned spaceflight program.
In this timeline, there were no Shenzhou spacecraft or Tiangong stations, but the trajectory was similar—here, the program was called Project Starcatcher.
By 2001, Starcatcher-2 had already launched.
What the public didn't know was that Starcatcher-3 and -4 were scheduled for launch the following year. And in early 2003, Starcatcher-5 would carry the first Chinese astronaut into space.
That timing aligned perfectly with Chu An's plan to release You Are My Glory in summer 2003.
So when Chu An spoke of honoring the aerospace workers, it wasn't just talk—it was precisely timed and perfectly placed.
That's why the old aerospace experts readily agreed to support the show.
They, too, wanted the world to see: China's space program was second to none.
"Sigh…" Chu An muttered under his breath. "Now there's pressure. We have to make this a good show."
With a rip, he tore the script in two.
Lu Mingze flinched. "What are you doing?! Don't freak out!"
He thought Chu An had snapped and was ready to walk away.
If Chu An really bailed, Lu Mingze would be completely lost.
Yes, the project was greenlit, and it had national backing. But what about The Best of Us? What about the deep pit Tian Du had left behind?
To be honest, Lu Mingze still had no idea how they'd ended up in Ningyuan prepping a new drama. He didn't even know what the next step was.
"Xiao Chu!" He didn't even dare call him "Chu Ten Bucks" anymore—didn't seem respectful enough.
"I was just venting. I wasn't really mad."
Chu An gave him a disgusted look. "I know. Why are you so nervous?"
"Then why did you…?"
"What did I do?" Chu An asked, genuinely confused. "Do all you artsy types have such wild imaginations?"
He tossed the shredded script into the trash.
"Print out new copies. Add some lines to the cover."
"Add what?" Lu Mingze asked.
Chu An said coolly, "National Broadcasting Administration Key Production Project. CCTV 2003 Flagship Drama. Jointly Produced by the National Aerospace Bureau."
Then he clapped Lu Mingze on the back.
"You said you needed money, right? Let's go get some."
…
Up until now, Chu An had realized that the biggest difference between the two worlds might be this: in this timeline, the internet and gaming industries were more advanced than in his previous one.
Here, the internet began going mainstream in the mid-90s, and internet cafés took off around 1997—a couple years ahead of his old world.
The result? A booming gaming industry.
Shengjing E-Route Network Culture Co., Ltd. was a company that specialized in licensing popular foreign online games.
Chu An shed his usual charm and politeness. He stormed in with Lu Mingze, and five minutes later, they were sitting across from the company's CEO.
No nonsense: "I'm the screenwriter. He's the director. Here's the script."
The CEO was stunned, staring at baby-faced Chu An, then at the renowned director Lu Mingze. He wasn't thrilled, but with Lu's reputation, he had no choice but to look.
One glance at the cover, and he nearly fell over—Broadcast Bureau, Aerospace Bureau, CCTV?
These were gold-plated endorsements. You'd have to be insane not to take notice.
Then he flipped through the script—and it got even more unbelievable. A mainstream patriotic drama, with so many gaming elements?
He got it instantly.
Looking at Lu Mingze, he asked, "Director Lu, are you here for a sponsorship deal?"
Lu Mingze kept a deadpan expression and simply pointed at Chu An.
Chu An had prepped him earlier: just act aloof and let him do the talking.
The CEO thought, Classic. All big directors have an aura.
He turned to Chu An. "One thing—your script's game elements lean more toward competitive esports. We mostly handle MMORPGs. Isn't that a mismatch?"
Chu An smiled. "It can be an MMORPG."
He got it.
The CEO nodded. The guy's the writer—he can make anything work.
Without hesitation: "1 million. Just switch the game in the script to ours."
Chu An replied, "Draw up a letter of intent."
Just like that. Straightforward and effective.
The CEO immediately regretted it—I overpaid! But it was too late to take it back.
Still, for 1 million yuan, the chance to embed their game in such a major show? Absolutely worth it.
He couldn't stop smiling. This was going to be huge.
…
As they left with the signed agreement in hand, Lu Mingze still felt like he was dreaming.
"One million? Just like that?"
Chu An glanced at the contract, unimpressed. "A million? He wants naming rights for the in-show game with just a million?"
Lu Mingze said, "Hey, a million's not bad!"
That was pretty much the going rate for product placement in those days.
But Chu An just scoffed, "Let him keep dreaming."
He dragged Lu to the next office building—home to a local game development company.
Interestingly, this world had no Blizzard, and thus no Warcraft. But this company, called Greenfield, was developing an RTS game eerily similar to Warcraft.
Their main competitor? A game very much like StarCraft.
Chu An once again bulldozed his way in and met with Greenfield CEO Xiang Lintao.
"I'm the screenwriter. He's the director. Here's the script. And here's E-Route's sponsorship letter."
The CEO was stunned yet again. With national endorsements, a famous director, and a prime-time slot on CCTV—plus the game tie-in—how could anyone say no?