Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 109

Whether it's forums, discussion boards, fan communities, or fan groups, the level of activity is usually tied to how many people are involved.

Clearly, Sheng Quan's fanbase is still going strong.

Within just two minutes, several replies had already appeared under the post.

【I can dance too—pick me!】

【Same thought as OP. Though I’m no expert, I did win second place in the first-grade dance competition at Qushui Elementary.】

【Oh, so dancing makes you special? My talent is spinning like a top while stepping on my own feet to fan Sheng Quan with the breeze. OP, you dare compete with me?】

【Singing and dancing are fine, but OP, you’ve got way too much competition.】

【Artists from all over the country are lining up for a chance at Sheng Quan’s attention. Someone, get this person a queue number!】

【Here you go! OP, your number is 888888!!!】

The gloom in Tu Zhu’s eyes deepened.

The replies kept pouring in. Though most were just playful banter, they also revealed something deeper—Sheng Quan’s legendary success stories had inspired countless people to chase after her, each hoping to be the next big discovery.

Yan Hui, Hua Qing, Yu Hongdou, Jin Jiu, Jiang Zhen, even the now-world-famous director Xu Man—all had been unearthed by Sheng Quan’s keen eye.

With so many success stories, it was no surprise that waves of hopefuls kept coming, desperate to replicate their achievements.

And Tu Zhu, the one who had posted this thread, was just one among thousands.

No—worse than that.

Others might still have a shot, but he had already lost his last chance.

Tu Zhu sat frozen in front of his computer, watching reply after reply pile up. His expression darkened, but then, a flicker of resolve flashed across his face.

He logged into his social media, found a contact, and sent a message:

One Bamboo: I want to ask about terminating my contract with the company.

Justice-Wang-Lawyer: Zhu, finally coming to your senses? You should’ve ditched that trash company ages ago. But breaking a contract comes at a cost—how much are you willing to sacrifice? Give me a number so I know what we’re working with.

One Bamboo: Everything.

Even though he knew full well that giving up everything might still not earn him this opportunity—that Sheng Quan might never even know he existed—he was willing to bet it all.

"Queue number 880,000? They really know how to exaggerate."

Sipping her milk tea, Sheng Quan scrolled through the posts in the "All Hail Sheng Quan, Endless Fan Creations" forum, while a sleek mechanical dog sat vigilantly by her side.

The backdrop was a garden so meticulously maintained it could pass for a luxury resort, complete with a fountain spraying elegant arcs of water and staff tending to the greenery in the distance.

From behind her, a tall, slender young man with black hair and striking blue eyes approached, carrying a tray of afternoon desserts. He set the plate—adorned with tempting cherries—gently beside Sheng Quan’s right hand, along with a tablet displaying visitor profiles.

Evan spoke respectfully, "Your guest has arrived."

As Sheng Quan skimmed the visitor’s profile against the soothing sounds of the fountain, she couldn’t shake the odd feeling that she was some kind of villainous tycoon from a popcorn movie—the kind who lived in a lavish mansion, commanded a loyal butler, and orchestrated corporate takeovers from her garden throne with a mere flick of her wrist.

Except instead of sinister schemes, her computer was filled with fan forums and gossip threads.

A small fraction of her time was spent scouting for talent through these channels.

Most of it, though?

—She was here for the drama, the hype, the recommendations, and the ship wars.

What else was a busy CEO like her supposed to do? These days, Sheng Quan’s schedule was packed back-to-back with meetings, leaving her only scattered moments to kill on forums.

And why so many visitors?

—"Sheng Quan, this is my nephew, Yang Yang. Come, Yang Yang, greet Sheng Quan properly."

A certain Manager Gu, whose company had a partnership with Starlight Entertainment, cheerfully pushed his nephew forward.

The young man, admittedly quite handsome, bowed deeply.

"Hello, Sheng Quan."

Sheng Quan smiled. "You’ve got a nice look."

The tall actor flushed with flattered surprise, even though Sheng Quan was only a few years older and spoke with the casual authority of an elder.

This was the Sheng Quan of Starlight Entertainment. To say Starlight dominated the entertainment industry would be an exaggeration—but not by much.

And the most astonishing part? Sheng Quan held absolute authority over Starlight. A single word from her could turn even an ant on the sidewalk into a superstar overnight.

Not to mention, she currently held the reins of a project the entire world was watching: The Holographic Stage.

Naturally, every visitor lining up at her door shared the same goal—to secure even a sliver of that lucrative pie.

Sheng Quan didn’t mind.

No matter how mythic Starlight’s status in the industry, this was their first time organizing a stage production. She needed to ensure its success was flawless.

Every industry heavyweight who climbed aboard was another layer of security. They’d band together like mismatched steel plates on a ship, weathering any storm to protect their shared interests.

Of course, the "size" of those plates determined whether they’d be holding the ship together or just cheering from the shore. Manager Gu, today’s visitor, fell squarely into the latter category.

He knew it too, which was why he’d abandoned any hope of a stake in the project and instead tried to slot his nephew onto the stage.

Even a single appearance in such a massive production would be a career-defining opportunity.

Sheng Quan, of course… turned him down.

The guy was undeniably good-looking, but his skills were all in acting—his singing was mediocre, his dancing nonexistent. Sending someone with no stage talent would only burden Wu Ying, the project’s director.

Audiences wanted to see skilled performers compete, not a mascot awkwardly flailing through "I may not sing or dance, but my heart’s in the right place."

Having fielded countless similar requests since announcing The Holographic Stage, Sheng Quan handled it smoothly:

"The auditions are fully livestreamed. If Yang Yang can’t sing or dance, it’s just not going to work."

Manager Gu had expected this. But what could he do? This was his brother’s son. If he didn’t at least try, his parents would never let him hear the end of it.

Sheng Quan’s reputation for refusing to play favorites was ironclad. She had money, power, and zero tolerance for nepotism—even the biggest agencies in the industry wouldn’t sway her.

Since he’d braced for rejection, the disappointment wasn’t crushing.

But then, the young woman across from him—her demeanor radiating effortless confidence—added:

"How about this? We’ve got a drama in pre-production, The Boastful Heart. Yang Yang’s look fits one of the roles. Would he like to audition?"

"Of course, whether Yang Yang can pass the audition depends entirely on his own abilities."

Manager Gu immediately beamed with joy. The Heart of Glory was a major IP adaptation, and given Starry Brilliance's track record, it was bound to be a massive hit upon release.

His nephew couldn’t hide his excitement either.

With limited roles available, Starry Brilliance hadn’t opened auditions to the public, opting instead for internal selections. It was clear that if he nailed this audition, his career would soar to new heights.

Manager Gu readily agreed, "Thank you, Chairman Sheng. Rest assured, my nephew may not excel in everything, but his acting skills are top-notch."

Though they hadn’t secured a spot for his nephew as a stage trainee, both Manager Gu and his nephew left in high spirits.

"I’ve gotten you this opportunity—do you know how many people are fighting tooth and nail for a role in a Starry Brilliance production?"

After a moment’s thought, Manager Gu quickly added a warning,

"You’d better give it your all during the audition. The directors and screenwriters under Chairman Sheng are notoriously strict. If you mess up, they won’t hesitate to reject you."

His nephew, brimming with enthusiasm, replied, "Uncle, don’t worry. I know how important this is. I’ll give it my best shot and land this role."

"Uncle, I had no idea you even knew Chairman Sheng! When you said you were bringing me here, I was stunned. That’s Chairman Sheng we’re talking about!"

Flattered by his nephew’s admiration, Manager Gu felt a surge of pride. While he had collaborated with Starry Brilliance in the past and exchanged business cards with Sheng Quan, they weren’t exactly close.

This visit had only happened because his elder brother had begged him to try. He’d gone in expecting failure, but to his surprise, things had turned out better than expected.

Now he could report back to the family. If his nephew passed the audition, it would be his own merit. If he failed, well, that would be on him—no blame could fall on Manager Gu.

Perfect!

He had to admit, Sheng Quan might be young, but she handled things with remarkable finesse.

Anyone who’d earned the title of "Manager" in this industry wasn’t a fool. Since Sheng Quan had shown him such courtesy, he naturally had to return the favor.

As soon as he got into the car, Manager Gu called his assistant. "Isn’t Starry Brilliance currently collaborating with us? Tell Anzhen we can loosen the terms a bit further."

Building connections was all about give and take. With Starry Brilliance riding high, he wasn’t about to miss this chance to strengthen ties.

Sheng Quan had no idea about this development, though she could guess. After all, she’d been "entertaining all sorts of visitors" lately.

But whether they were powerful allies or minor players like Manager Gu who could only offer small favors, her stance remained firm: collaboration was fine, but no backdoor placements on the stage.

No amount of influence or fame could sway her.

This talent show was exactly that—a competition where contestants had to rely on their own skills to fight their way to the top, with no behind-the-scenes manipulation.

It was a grand spectacle, and Sheng Quan intended to make it the best it could be.

Even for Starry Brilliance, constructing a holographic stage was a monumental undertaking.

She wasn’t the only one busy—every department at Starry Brilliance was working overtime. Wu Ying, the project lead, had visibly lost weight from the stress.

Gu Zhao barely left his desk except when negotiating with other companies.

Well, to be fair, he’d never left his desk much before either, as if he planned to work in that office until the end of time.

With her team pushing so hard, Sheng Quan couldn’t afford to slack off either.

With that thought, she took another sip of tea and turned her attention back to Tu Zhu’s profile on her screen.

Or rather, the Tu Zhu of this moment.

It had been several years since she transmigrated into this world. By now, she’d met most of the characters who’d been prominently featured in the original novel. The book had focused mainly on actors and singers, with little mention of idols.

It was only because Sheng Quan had memorized every word of Starry Brilliance that she’d even noticed Tu Zhu’s existence.

Tu Zhu’s fate in the book was suicide, though the text heavily implied he’d actually been murdered.

Many characters in Starry Brilliance had died by suicide. While Sheng Quan had once joined other readers in cursing the "heartless author" for crafting such tragic endings, they’d all had to admit that, given the circumstances, those characters’ choices made sense.

The author had given them hearts full of passion and dreams to chase, composing their stories like beautiful melodies.

Honestly, in her past life, Sheng Quan had never been one to idolize celebrities—real people were too unpredictable.

What she’d loved about the book was knowing these were just fictional characters, artists who would never disappoint their fans.

Yet it was precisely because of this that the characters’ quiet, despairing ends felt so painfully believable. No one could say, "This plot makes no sense."

Because the author had gifted these characters with admirable qualities but placed them in a world that crushed their spirits.

When hard work was met with "This role goes to so-and-so’s relative," when talent was dismissed with "Your name isn’t big enough," when potential was wasted because "If you can’t make money for the company 24/7, you’re useless"—most people would eventually compromise. But not these characters.

They were born to shine, yet trapped in a world devoid of light. Their fates were sealed.

They fought, they struggled, they tried to stand against an entire industry. And when they’d exhausted every last ounce of strength, they either faded into numbness or leaped into the abyss.

So Sheng Quan never criticized the logic of the story. Instead, she’d raged, "Why couldn’t you write about changing the system? Was it so hard to add a character who could fix things?!"

Of course, the author had ignored her. That bastard had probably known the ending would infuriate readers—from the very first chapter, they’d never interacted with fans.

At first, readers had praised the author’s "mysterious, untouchable aura." Later, their admiration turned to curses: "You planned this all along, you—[expletive]!!"

Tu Zhu’s ending had been just a fleeting moment in the book, seen through another character’s perspective. Compared to the rest of the story, his appearance was so brief it was easy to overlook.

While reading, most had assumed Tu Zhu’s role was simply to help the protagonist, Lan He, avoid a trap.

But now, in this living world, as Sheng Quan studied Tu Zhu’s file, the book’s description of his fate flashed through her mind:

Lan He woke up, restless after a sleepless night spent debating whether to attend that party—something about it felt off. The first notification on her phone hit like a punch to the gut: [Tu Zhu committed suicide last night].

——She was stunned, then realized that Tu Zhu had actually sent her a message the night before: ["I've discovered something. Don't attend the gathering the day after tomorrow. (This message has been deleted from my records. No need to reply.)"]

——At that moment, Lan He’s tears suddenly streamed down her face. She couldn’t even explain to herself why she was crying. She and Tu Zhu weren’t close—they had only collaborated once before. Many in the industry were like this, each busy with their own lives, rarely meeting, having each other’s contacts but never reaching out.

——"Her ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‍impression of Tu Zhu was vague. She only remembered that when he debuted, he smiled often. Then Tu Zhu gradually faded into obscurity, was attacked by anti-fans, struggled to terminate his contract with his company… and eventually, Tu Zhu slowly regained fame…"

——The weather was scorching, but Lan He felt icy cold all over. She sat on the bed, hugging herself tightly. She wondered—did Tu Zhu really commit suicide? The Tu Zhu who fought to stand up again even at his lowest, the Tu Zhu who discovered something wrong and kindly warned her… would he really take his own life?

——Suddenly, she recalled her first meeting with Tu Zhu. A young man with features so exquisite they seemed unreal, smiling brightly and confidently, reaching out his hand with effortless cheer: "Hello, I’m Tu Zhu."

Lan He didn’t attend that gathering in the end. Instead, she quietly began collecting information about it, spending five years to uncover the truth behind the event.

The gatherings lured celebrities in, drugged the targeted individuals, took compromising photos, and blackmailed them. The chosen celebrities were carefully selected, which was why these "gatherings" had remained undisturbed for so long.

The book described how this scandal sent shockwaves through the industry. Though the entertainment world was chaotic, it was still under government oversight. Break the law, and you’d still face consequences.

As for Tu Zhu’s death, the book didn’t explicitly state the cause, only mentioning that it was still under investigation. But most readers could guess—Tu Zhu, who had discovered the truth and still took the time to warn others, Tu Zhu, who had just clawed his way back from rock bottom… how could he have committed suicide?

Originally, the truth behind Tu Zhu’s death should have been gradually revealed through Lan He’s perspective. After all, the people behind the gatherings had been arrested—it was only a matter of time.

But before Lan He could do anything, she died in a car accident, and the plot swiftly shifted to a new character.

Yes, Lan He was dead.

At that point, Sheng Quan was practically ready to rage in the comments section. Lan He had faced suppression, been blacklisted—an actress forced to play detective. It was the perfect setup for a revenge thriller.

And then, halfway through her revenge, she died in a car crash.

By then, the story was already in its rushed finale, but some of the author’s die-hard fans tried to justify it, calling it "realistic"—how accidents always come without warning.

Sheng Quan: What the f— kind of realism is this?!

Back then, her anger had been mostly directed at Lan He’s fate. She hadn’t paid much attention to Tu Zhu, since his role began and ended with his death—the main storyline had revolved around Lan He.

Readers mourned him briefly, then moved on.

Sheng Quan had only picked up on two things: one, Tu Zhu had been a top-tier star before his death, and two, he was a good person. Otherwise, why would he warn Lan He, someone he’d only worked with once?

Now, looking at the photo in the dossier—a Tu Zhu whose gloomy expression dulled his striking beauty—she clicked open a video on her computer.

It was from Tu Zhu’s time on I Love to Fly, the show that catapulted him to fame as the center of the debut group.

In the video, sweat glistened on his forehead from dancing. His peach-blossom eyes were tinged red at the corners, long lashes fluttering as he gazed brightly into the camera.

When he danced on stage, it was like he was radiating light.

It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that the moment Tu Zhu appeared, even his competitors couldn’t help but look his way.

Sheng Quan had seen plenty of beautiful men and women, but even she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Tu Zhu as he effortlessly commanded attention.

No wonder he had amassed legions of fans the moment he debuted. Even after terminating his contract and struggling in an industry with few performance opportunities, he still managed to make a comeback.

His talent was undeniable.

Sheng Quan had pored over the dossier on Tu Zhu countless times—his past competition videos, his acting roles, behind-the-scenes clips from his dramas.

She had even gone to observe him from afar for a day, watching the eighteen-year-old finish work and quietly settle in a corner to study his script, murmuring lines to himself and practicing expressions.

He was clearly willing to put in the effort. But just as clearly, Tu Zhu had no natural talent for acting. No matter how much he practiced, his expressions remained stiff, a far cry from the dazzling performer he was on stage.

If the industry remained as unforgiving to idols as it had been, Tu Zhu’s career would likely peak at the level described in the book, no matter how hard he tried.

But now, Sheng Quan had the power to reshape the entire industry.

She was curious—with her intervention, just how far could idols rise in China’s entertainment scene?

How many miracles could this unfamiliar territory in China’s entertainment industry create for her?

Sheng Quan closed the dossier.

["006."]

006: ["I’m here."]

["The candidate for this opportunity is confirmed."]

["Sponsor: Tu Zhu."]