Translator: Ink Hub
Editor: Yoog

Records of the Bai’s Return chronicled the turbulent lives of three generations of the Bai family. Spanning seventy years, the story followed the clan through its peaks and valleys until its ultimate demise under the crashing waves of a changing era.

The family’s destiny was tightly bound to the times. In the middle chapters of the story, besides the Bai family itself, the narrative also focused on several other prominent families orbiting them.

The Bais had built their fortune on the salt industry. The first generation of ancestors had traveled to Liaodong to reclaim land and obtain salt permits, and from there, the business grew until they became famous merchants in the Huizhou region, a legacy that lasted for centuries.

However, as eras shifted, the past glory of the Bais had faded. The descendants could only guard their ancestral mansion while running a modest grain and rice business. Yet, as the saying goes, a starved camel is still bigger than a horse. Though the Bais were not what they once were, they remained a prominent local family with a reputation to uphold, possessing various shops, farmlands, and other assets. Even if the family wished to live out their days in peace, others constantly coveted their properties.

The current generation of the Bai family consisted of three brothers. The eldest, Bai Cheng, married the daughter of a county official and took over the family business, but his talent for trade was mediocre at best. The second brother, Bai Xin, had studied abroad; he spent his days criticizing the family for being feudal and preaching about freedom, yet he never spent a single cent less of the family’s silver. As for the youngest, Bai Tong, his personality was reckless and blunt; he felt physically uncomfortable if he didn’t cause some kind of trouble every ten days or so.

If one were to name the most capable member of this generation, it was actually the eldest daughter, Bai Mei.

The story of Records of the Bai’s Return began with Bai Cheng being swindled into a bad business deal.

Bai Cheng was determined to restore the family’s glory, but his ambitions far exceeded his abilities. Once this deal failed, the Bai family was forced to sell shops and land to cover the emergency. Even then, there was still a massive deficit in silver. Their relatives and former business partners refused to lend a hand, and even Bai Mei’s arranged marriage fell through.

It was only then that Bai Mei discovered that her fiancé had played a part in the scheme that swindled her brother.

This was merely the story of the first generation in Records of the Bai’s Return. The stories of the second and third generations were equally complex.

The original novel was incredibly thick. Lin Ji made a list of every character that appeared, writing a brief introduction for each, and the list alone filled an entire notebook.

Among the first generation, the focus was primarily on Bai Mei and her three brothers.

This type of classic literary work was indeed difficult to adapt, but it had one major advantage: the narrative structure was exceptionally clear. Lin Ji didn’t need to worry about the historical background, the timeline, or the sequence of events, as the original author had already laid everything out with crystalline clarity.

Lin Ji’s first task was to construct the plot outline for the drama.

Of course, before building the plot, Lin Ji had to reflect on his own perspective of the work.

There are a thousand Hamlets in a thousand readers’ eyes. The characters in Records of the Bai’s Return all possessed a certain level of complexity; one could not simply judge a character as purely good or bad. Different readers viewed the work through different lenses: some saw it as a classic anti-feudal masterpiece, while others believed the author was using the story as a metaphor for his own life, reminiscing about the lost glory of his own clan.

To find the right positioning for the series, Lin Ji went through all the materials he had on hand. This task alone took him several months.

Lin Ji read various academic papers related to Records of the Bai’s Return, most of which were only a few pages long. The current academic consensus on the work was fairly fixed, revolving around a few specific angles. In the beginning, Lin Ji read the papers carefully, but later he became more casual, only picking out those with novel viewpoints and skimming over those with repetitive arguments.

In total, Lin Ji summarized several thick notebooks’ worth of information.

He usually preferred typing when writing scripts because it was faster and helped him concentrate, but when taking notes, he preferred handwriting. Writing by hand helped deepen his memory. Unfortunately, because he was dealing with a massive tome like Records of the Bai’s Return, Lin Ji’s arm would ache every day by the time he finished organizing his notes.

Since the publicity department had given him enough creative autonomy, Lin Ji didn’t hold back. While organizing the materials, he invited two renowned scholars to serve as consultants for the project. Whenever he encountered something he didn’t understand, he would call them for advice.

He had already decided that once filming began, he would bring the consultants onto the set to provide guidance throughout the entire process.

The story of Records of the Bai’s Return spanned the transition between the late imperial era and the modern age, sitting at a historical crossroads. The original novel contained numerous descriptions of the environment, including the architecture, the clothing, and utensils used by the characters. For these scenes, the adaptation had to achieve the highest possible level of historical restoration.

To this end, Lin Ji spent his own money to buy several large volumes on architecture, culture, and costume. As a screenwriter, while he wasn’t responsible for physically recreating the scenes, providing clear annotations in the script would save a lot of time during production.

* * *

While confirming Lin Ji as the screenwriter, the publicity department was also busy looking for a director. From the very beginning, they had their sights set on Director Hu Weiyi.

Hu Weiyi was an established veteran director in the industry, specializing in period dramas and long-form epics. In his early years, his debut work had shocked the industry, nearly sweeping all the newcomer awards at various ceremonies. Following that, he released several epic television series that were both critically acclaimed and ratings hits.

However, in recent years, Hu Weiyi had rarely made any public appearances.

This was mainly because audiences no longer enjoyed dramas with heavy atmospheres. The current trend favored either sweet romance dramas or “cool” power fantasies. Even when it came to serious dramas, viewers didn’t want the protagonists to carry too heavy a burden.

Of course, it was also because Hu Weiyi couldn’t find a suitable script.

Just as the quality of actors had plummeted, the quality of screenwriters had also taken a nosedive in recent years. Screenwriters were too busy piling persona traits onto actors to make the protagonists look dazzling, often neglecting the basic logic of the story.

The genres Hu Weiyi excelled in were a true test of a screenwriter’s skill, so most writers avoided them. Combined with his picky personality—he always had to say a few words when he saw a bad script—the famous director had gradually become a homebody.

It wasn’t that Hu Weiyi was short on money; if he ever really needed cash, he could still direct large-scale televised galas.

Hu Weiyi listened calmly as the publicity department explained their intent. The moment he heard the title, he suspected he had misheard, and he couldn’t help but repeat it, “Records of the Bai’s Return?”

“That’s right, it’s Records of the Bai’s Return.”

Hu Weiyi remained silent for a long time. “You found a screenwriter?”

The previous production crew for Records of the Bai’s Return had actually approached him before, but at the time, he was busy filming another series and couldn’t find the time, so he had turned them down.

Later, he had watched from the sidelines as that version of the drama became a laughingstock. As a director, he naturally felt it was a pity.

“We’ve found one,” the other party replied with a smile. “The screenwriter’s name is Lin Ji. I wonder if you’ve heard of him?”

Hu Weiyi usually didn’t like browsing the internet, nor did he communicate much with his peers. “I haven’t heard of him. How old is he? What scripts has he written?”

“Screenwriter Lin is 27 this year. He has written—”

Without waiting for the other party to finish, Hu Weiyi hung up the phone decisively.

Was this a joke?

A drama of the caliber of Records of the Bai’s Return was being handed to a 27-year-old kid?

Back when he filmed his epics, which of his screenwriters hadn’t been decorated with awards? Forget 27; even 35- or 36-year-old writers might not be able to handle Records of the Bai’s Return!

If they couldn’t find anyone, they could just not film it. Why did they have to ruin a perfectly good book!

The more Hu Weiyi thought about it, the angrier he got. He put on his glasses and used his old computer to type in Lin Ji’s name. There was a profile of Lin Ji online, and the first thing Hu Weiyi saw was God of War Returns Home.

Hu Weiyi: “…”

What on earth is this?

“It’s normal for web dramas to be low quality,” Hu Weiyi muttered to himself. “I need to see how his satellite dramas turned out.”

Lin Ji’s only satellite drama so far was Code 11. Hu Weiyi approached the series with a critical eye, but after finishing just the first episode, he had already identified several highlights.

“This episode doesn’t count. Let’s see the rest.”

Without even realizing it, Hu Weiyi binged ten entire episodes. For a director like him who was used to making dramas, he could tell within just a few episodes whether a show was truly captivating.

At this point, Hu Weiyi didn’t know that Code 11 was adapted from real-life events. He only felt that the pacing was excellent and the plot logic was very tight. He searched the internet and discovered that Lou Zhi was a real historical figure.

Now, Hu Weiyi regretted hanging up the phone so quickly.

But he remained stubborn, believing that to know if a drama was truly good, one had to watch it from beginning to end. He decided to finish the entirety of Code 11.

The first twenty episodes had already hooked him, but by the final ten episodes, the brilliant plot had him slapping the table in admiration!

This was a truly great piece of work!

If this screenwriter named Lin Ji could write Records of the Bai’s Return with the same level of quality as Code 11, then perhaps handing the adaptation to him wasn’t such a bad idea.

Hu Weiyi hesitated for only a few seconds before calling back the number from before. “I’ll take the job, but I need to see the script first.”

He hadn’t filmed anything in years, and his hands were itching to get back to work. As long as there was a decent script, he was willing to spend the entire year living on set.

* * *

What Hu Weiyi didn’t expect was that his simple request to “see the script” would result in a wait of several months.

He communicated with Lin Ji through the publicity department. For the first two months, Lin Ji’s response was that he hadn’t started writing yet. Hu Weiyi comforted himself, thinking that since the scope of Records of the Bai’s Return was so vast, it was normal for the preparation work to take a long time.

However… Lin Ji still hadn’t started in the third month. In the fourth month, it was the same.

As summer turned to autumn and the leaves on the roadside turned yellow, Hu Weiyi still hadn’t seen the script he was waiting for.

Could it be that Lin Ji simply couldn’t write it and was intentionally stalling?

Hu Weiyi waited anxiously until December. Finally unable to contain himself, he managed to get Lin Ji’s number from someone and sent a very serious text message: [When will the script be ready?]

When the phone buzzed, Lin Ji thought it was a scam message. He occasionally received those “Ji, long time no see, how are you?” texts followed by a suspicious link.

Lin Ji didn’t reply, so the other party actually followed up: [Hurry up and write!]

Lin Ji: “?”

Even scammers are working 996 these days?

So, Lin Ji replied: [Transfer me 50, and I’ll write it right now.]

The other party didn’t reply, and Lin Ji thought that was the end of it. But… a few minutes later, his Alipay account received a transfer of exactly 500 yuan.

The note from the sender read: [Giving you ten times the amount. Write 10 episodes.]

Lin Ji: “?”

Where did this idiot come from?

It was only much later that Lin Ji learned the “idiot” who sent him the money was likely the director of Records of the Bai’s Return, who was annoyed that he was writing too slowly.

Lin Ji, however, felt his progress wasn’t slow at all. He had thoroughly mapped out the character relationships and the plotlines. All that was left was to fill in the story.

If he didn’t do the preparation work properly, he would have to stop and look up materials while writing, which would be even more troublesome.

But since the other party was in such a hurry, Lin Ji planned to write two episodes for him to look at and listen to their feedback.

He was familiar with the name Hu Weiyi; he had watched the man’s dramas shortly after transmigrating here.

Two weeks after Lin Ji received the windfall of 500 yuan, Hu Weiyi finally received the scripts for the first two episodes of Records of the Bai’s Return.

The moment he got the script, Hu Weiyi solemnly put on his glasses, washed his hands, and opened the first page with a stern expression.

Half an hour later, he flipped from the last page back to the first and read it all over again. His stern expression had completely softened.

This time, Hu Weiyi didn’t make any strange demands, nor did he pick out five or six flaws in the script. His tone on the phone was crisp and decisive.

“I’m in.”

NOTES
A starved camel is still bigger than a horse (瘦死的骆驼比马大): A Chinese idiom meaning that even a wealthy person or family in decline is still better off than an average person.

996: Referring to the common work schedule in companies (9 AM to 9 PM, 6 days a week).

“Transfer me 50” (V我50): A reference to the “Crazy Thursday” KFC meme in China, often used jokingly as a response to scammers or in random social interactions.

💝 Support the Team

possible odoabuchi

✍️ Translator

☕ Buy Me a Coffee