Gu Nanyan invested a great deal of thought into the script, instructing Sister Li that she would rather not film at all than work with a poorly written script.
After another month of revisions and approvals, the crew finally began shooting.
The director of Starlight Brilliance was the renowned filmmaker Yu Mincai.
Yu Mincai was famous for two things: his talent and his love of money.
He was undeniably gifted, having won nurous awards in his youth, but he was also notoriously rcenary—willing to film anything as long as the paycheck was big enough, even if the script was garbage.
A month into the project’s formation, Yu still hadn’t joined the set, spending his days idly wandering around.
Industry friends ca to inquire, asking Gu Nanyan how much she had paid him.
Director Yu smirked mysteriously. "Confidential. Let’s just say the number is very satisfying."
Everyone laughed at his response.
One of his close friends, a well-known producer in the industry, disapproved of Yu’s money-driven attitude. "Keep this up, and you’ll ruin your reputation. Who’s going to hire you then?"
Though harsh, the words rang true.
In recent years, fewer quality projects had co Yu’s way. Most offers were from low-budget crews or cash-grab productions.
Yu chuckled dismissively. "Money is money. I can’t be bothered to care anymore."
He downed a large glass of liquor, his expression weary.
The producer sighed, recognizing the pain behind Yu’s indifference.
This wasn’t the Yu Mincai of the past—the passionate young director who had vowed to create aningful art.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have won so many awards.
But the entertainnt industry was ruthless, and a principled man like Yu couldn’t survive its cutthroat nature.
After repeatedly rejecting a certain investor—refusing to pander to so-called "traffic stars"—he was frad.
The project he poured three years, his entire savings, and his soul into was sabotaged upon release, relegated to midnight screenings while online sar campaigns tore it apart.
The failure left him bankrupt, and he even had his leg broken in retaliation. To this day, he walked with a slight limp.
From then on, Yu changed. He took any job that paid, no questions asked.
His ambition was gone—all he wanted was to survive.
Still, his talent remained. Even with terrible scripts, he could salvage sothing watchable, which kept him in demand.
But churning out subpar work eventually tarnished his reputation. Compounded by his worsening alcoholism—often showing up on set drunk—major productions stopped calling.
Starlight Brilliance was likely the biggest project he’d landed in years.
"Have you read the script yet?" the producer friend asked. "This one’s well-funded, and with Xu Yuhe joining as the male lead, you might actually turn things around."
Yu shook his head. "Haven’t seen a single draft. It’s been a month, and I still don’t have the initial version."
Another friend chid in, "I heard Gu Nanyan is extrely strict about the script. She hired professional screenwriters and even brought in experts to review it."
"That’s dedication," the producer remarked. "Let’s just hope she doesn’t start rewriting it on a whim."
Actors like Gu Nanyan, who wielded absolute authority on set, were every director and producer’s nightmare. They often demanded script changes to hog all the dramatic highlights, turning coherent stories into disjointed sses.
Given Gu Nanyan’s skyrocketing fa, backed by the wealthy and influential Zhan Family, she could afford to be reckless.
The producer worried she might reshape the script into so cringe-worthy Mary Sue fantasy.
Now that would be a joke.
"Why worry when I’m not?" Yu shrugged. "She hands the script, I film it. Whatever she wants, she gets."
Just then, he received a notification—the final script had been sent to him.
Curious, his friends begged for a peek.
Yu refused. Despite his tarnished reputation, he still had professional integrity. No leaks, not even to close friends.
He squinted at the script docunt on his phone, expecting to skim casually. But within minutes, he was engrossed.
He straightened in his seat, reading intently, and at one point even exclaid, "Brilliant!"
His friends’ curiosity peaked. "Co on, Yu, just one look! I won’t tell a soul—you know I’m tight-lipped."
Yu tucked his phone away. "No way. Confidential."
The producer laughed. "Look at him. Must be a solid script."
Yu’s eyes glead. "Not just solid—exceptional."
"That good?" the producer raised an eyebrow. "Gu Nanyan didn’t add more scenes for herself?"
Yu shook his head. "Not only did she not add scenes, her role isn’t even the largest. She gave most of the standout monts to others."
Stunned, the producer muttered, "Gu Nanyan’s dead serious about this script."
Others were equally surprised. "I heard she turned down all endorsents and public appearances, completely ignoring easy money.
Now she’s not even monopolizing the script’s highlights.
What’s her ga? Charity work?"
The group burst into laughter at the idea.
The entertainnt industry was a battlefield of ambition—no one entered it for altruism.
The producer speculated, "She’s got a mastermind behind her. Probably the Zhan Family guiding her. They must really value their future daughter-in-law."
Yu didn’t care. "Whatever her reasons, this script is gold. Haven’t touched anything this good in years.
Fair warning, folks—I’m making a coback. No more drinking invites. I’m going into seclusion until filming wraps."
With that, he grabbed his phone and left, ignoring their protests.
His friends teased him for being easily impressed—like a starving man dazzled by his first decent al in ages.
The general consensus was that the script was decent, but not that extraordinary.
Industry insiders knew Starlight Brilliance was built around Gu Nanyan’s vision, despite the team of seasoned writers.
How much depth could a young woman—who hadn’t even attended a top university—bring to the table?
At its core, it was still just another idol drama.
Poor Yu. He’d been deprived for so long that even this seed like a feast.
How far the mighty had fallen.
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