Just because I wrote "Zhu Xian," the school beauty sent me razor blades.

For the next few days, Lin Yuan hardly left his room.

Jiang Wanqing initially thought her son was rushing to finish some homework, so she considerately knocked on the door to deliver meals three times a day on time, and even added a glass of milk.

On the third night, she pushed open the door and found a stack of handwritten manuscripts spread out in front of Lin Yuan, densely covered with words, and a storyboard template on the laptop screen next to him.

"Xiao Yuan, are you... writing a script?"

"Hmm." Lin Yuan didn't even look up, his pen moving rapidly across the paper.

She didn't ask any more questions, silently placed the food on the table, and added softly as she closed the door, "Don't stay up too late, take care of your eyes. Mom supports you."

Lin Yuan waited until the door closed, then a slight smile curved his lips.

Since that night in the living room when they talked about making a movie, the two elders haven't asked a single question.

There was no questioning, no dissuasion, not even the kind of thing a normal parent would say, like, "Why are you making a movie when you're just a freshman?"

From October 2nd to October 6th, a full five days.

Lin Yuan polished the movie script that had been brewing in his mind for a long time from beginning to end.

Qian Xuesen.

The story begins with Qian Xuesen's years of study at MIT and Caltech in the United States. He was appreciated by Theodore von Kármán and became the youngest tenured professor at MIT at the age of thirty-six, with unlimited potential.

Then came the storm that changed everything.

The story begins with Qian Xuesen's years of study at MIT and Caltech in the United States. He was appreciated by Theodore von Kármán and became the youngest tenured professor at MIT at the age of thirty-six, with unlimited potential.

Then came the storm that changed everything.

McCarthyism swept across the United States, and Qian Xuesen was unjustly accused and his security clearance was revoked. Faced with these baseless accusations, he decided to abandon all the advantages he enjoyed in the United States and return to China.

After he expressed his desire to return home to U.S. Navy Under Secretary Daniel Kimbell, Kimbell uttered that famous line—

"He's worth five Marine divisions by himself. I'd rather shoot this guy than let him leave the United States. He's worth five divisions no matter where he is."

Subsequently, Qian Xuesen was detained, placed under house arrest, and monitored for five years.

For five years, he only ever thought about one thing.

Go back and build up our motherland.

The latter half of the script depicts the years after their return to China. There are no heroic battlefields, no rousing speeches, only the endless yellow sand of the Gobi Desert, and that generation of scientists erasing their names from all public records in the wind and sand of Lop Nur, dedicating their lives to this country.

When Lin Yuan wrote the last scene, his hands were shaking.

That scene had no dialogue.

Qian Xuesen stood on the Gobi Desert, with a mushroom cloud rising in the distance. Behind him was a group of equally silent people. The wind and sand lashed their faces, but they did not turn around.

On the night the script was completed, Lin Yuan leaned back in his chair and stared at the screen for a long time.

Then he saved the file, turned off the computer, and went to pour himself a glass of water.

The night outside the window was deep and quiet.

He recalled the frustration he felt watching TV that day, and the "war heroes" living in villas and those who turned the stories of martyrs into idol dramas.

Then he thought of Qian Xuesen.

Thinking of that generation.

They didn't have elaborate hairstyles, coffee and cigars, or live in luxury villas.

All they had was yellow sand, Gobi Desert, barren land, and a burning heart.

"It's time for more people to see this story," Lin Yuan said softly.

On the evening of October 6th.

Lin Yuan opened WeChat, took a deep breath, and sent a message to Fei Zhao.

[Lin Yuan: Sister Fei, there's something I'd like to talk to you about.]

After sending the message, he stared at the screen for about ten seconds before the other end replied.

[Fei Zhao: Say it.]

Efficiency remains high as always.

Lin Yuan thought for a moment and decided to get straight to the point.

Lin Yuan: I want to make a movie. I need investment from Tianxing.

The other side remained silent.

It wasn't the kind of silence that lasts three or five seconds; it was a silence that lasted almost half a minute before three words finally came out.

[Fei Zhao: Making a movie?]

Lin Yuan: Yes.

[Fei Zhao: You?]

Lin Yuan: Yes.

[Fei Zhao: You're a student who didn't even finish your first year of university?]

[Lin Yuan: Sister Fei, whether or not you finish your first year of university has no necessary connection to whether or not you can make a good movie.]

[Fei Zhao: Why do you want to make movies?]

Lin Yuan stared at the words and hovered his finger over the screen for a few seconds.

He can give many excellent answers.

Market analysis, business judgment, personal development planning, Tianxing Entertainment's strategic layout...

But he didn't choose any of them.

Lin Yuan: I want to share good stories with everyone.

send.

There was a moment of silence on the other end.

Then Fei Zhao replied.

[Fei Zhao: Send me the script first.]

Lin Yuan nodded and sent over the script of "Qian Xuesen," which he had polished for five days and five nights.

"Now it's up to you." He muttered to himself, looking at the success message.

Then he turned off WeChat and collapsed onto the bed.

Let's wait.

Twenty minutes later.

Lin Yuan's phone rang.

It wasn't a WeChat message, it was a phone call.

He glanced at the caller ID—Fei Zhao.

Lin Yuan sat up straight and answered the call.

"Sister Fei."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, then Fei Zhao's voice came through, his tone different from usual.

It wasn't the kind of confident, business-like tone, but rather something else... Lin Yuan couldn't find the right word to describe it for a moment.

It felt like an aftershock after being hit by something.

"I've finished reading it," Fei Zhao said.

"Um."

Another silence.

"What you wrote..." Fei Zhao took a deep breath, "is definitely not comparable to the movies on the market."

Lin Yuan didn't speak, waiting for her to continue.

"Patriotism, the fate of the nation, and the spirit of science—you twist these three threads together seamlessly." Fei Zhao spoke more slowly than usual, as if recalling something as he spoke. "Especially the latter half, those scenes after returning home—the Gobi Desert, Lop Nur, those people whose names were erased from all public records—my palms were sweating when I watched them."

"The part about Qian Xuesen's five years in the United States is also well written," she continued. "You're not writing about a perfect hero; you're writing about a person with flesh and blood. He had anger, grievances, and resentment, but in the end, he still chose to return. This restraint is far more powerful than direct emotional appeal."

Lin Yuan's lips curved slightly.

As expected, Fei Zhao's aesthetic sense is on point.

"So," Fei Zhao's tone returned to its capable tone, "what are you planning to do?"

Lin Yuan had already made up his mind.

"I need Tianxing to provide funding, venues, a production crew, and actors," he stated clearly. "Also, please find me a seasoned executive director to work with me."

"What are you responsible for?"

"Overall control and directing," Lin Yuan said. "The executive director is responsible for on-set coordination and administrative tasks. Simply put, I control the direction and quality, while he controls the schedule and execution. Working together, we're the most efficient."

Fei Zhao remained silent on the other end of the phone, seemingly making a quick assessment.

"What about the timeline?" she asked.

"We'll assemble the team, cast actors, scout locations, and start preparations within a month," Lin Yuan said confidently. "Two months for filming. One month for post-production—editing, music composition, color grading, some special effects, and final review."

"Four months," Fei Zhao quickly calculated in his mind.

"Yes," Lin Yuan said, "It will be released just before the first day of the Lunar New Year."

"The first day of the Lunar New Year." Fei Zhao repeated these three words, "The Spring Festival film season?"

"right."

"Do you know what the Spring Festival film season means?" Fei Zhao's tone became more serious. "It's the most competitive period of the year. All sorts of blockbusters are crammed in, and every inch of screen time in theaters is precious. You, a freshman director, are going straight into the Spring Festival season for your first film?"

"It's precisely because it's a Spring Festival film that it's worth going," Lin Yuan said. "During the Spring Festival, a family sits in a movie theater and watches a film about family, country, and dedication—this scene itself is the best stage for this story."

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

"I need to discuss this with Tianxing's board of directors," Fei Zhao finally said. "An investment of this scale cannot be decided by me alone."

"I know."

"But I'll turn it down." Fei Zhao's tone suddenly became firm. "This script is worth turning down."

Lin Yuan felt a weight lifted from his heart.

"Then when you return to Beijing tomorrow, come to Tianxing," Fei Zhao added. "I have an appointment with the board of directors to discuss this in person."

"Okay," Lin Yuan said.

"And another thing," Fei Zhao's tone suddenly changed, "Did you really spend the entire National Day holiday writing this script?"

"……right."

"No wonder you didn't participate in the Nebula Ranking in October," Fei Zhao sneered. "I thought you were really going to take a break; turns out you've jumped into an even bigger pit."

"Sister Fei, how can you call this a trap?" Lin Yuan laughed. "This is called—"

"Shut up." Fei Zhao hung up the phone immediately.

Lin Yuan looked at the disconnected call screen and smiled.

Great, the first step is done.

After hanging up the phone, Lin Yuan stretched and casually opened the author backend on the Red Eggplant Literature Network.

The bright red number on his private message list made his pupils shrink.

Unread private messages: more than 2.

Lin Yuan scrolled down and found that the comments section wasn't much better—the comments under the latest chapter had already reached over three hundred pages, with the most popular comments all urging for more updates.

He casually clicked on a few—

[Fellow Immortal "Failed Tribulation Tonight": You old scoundrel! You didn't update even once during the seven-day National Day holiday! Could you have abandoned the story?]

[Fellow Immortal "Biyao, Wake Up": It's been seven days. I've gone from anticipation to anger, from anger to despair, and from despair to indifference towards everything.]

[Fellow Immortal "Master Chef of Dazhu Peak": You old fool, do you know how I spent those seven days?]

[Fellow reader "Survivor of Grass Temple Village": I suggest that Red Eggplant introduce a "Bonus for Missing Authors" feature, with the reward deducted from the reader donation pool.]

Lin Yuan looked at the screen full of wails and a smile involuntarily crept up his lips.

The immortals are already incredibly hungry.

He flexed his fingers and opened the word processing software.

Fine.

Now that the movie project has taken its first step, I'm in a good mood, so I'll add a few extra chapters tonight to reward these loyal fans who are eagerly waiting for more.

The sound of keyboards filled the quiet room again.

The moon outside the window is very round.

The old scoundrel from Mount Akina is back again.