Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 116

"370 million?!"

The producers of rival talent shows airing at the same time as Guoxinghai nearly tore their hair out in disbelief:

"That's just the first day's viewership—not a week, not a month! Even accounting for duplicate accounts and repeated clicks, nearly 400 million plays is absolutely insane!"

It was worth noting that China's viewership metrics had undergone government regulation eight years prior. Back then, entertainment programs had resorted to all kinds of exaggeration and manipulation to inflate numbers, even boasting tens of billions in viewership.

But when the lies grew too outrageous, the state intervened, forcing the industry to clean up its act overnight. Since then, viewership numbers had returned to realistic levels. Even those who wanted to embellish their data only dared to quietly purchase a few legitimate clicks from bot farms.

After the crackdown, programs with over 100 million total views could already be considered "top ten in the industry."

And that was for total viewership.

If someone had told this producer just a few months ago that a talent show would rack up 370 million views on its very first day, he would have laughed in their face and walked away, convinced they were delusional.

But now, Ji Shan, the producer of Vote 188—a competing show—was on the verge of a breakdown:

"Isn't this Guoxinghai's first time running a talent show?! Even with a holographic stage, how could there possibly be so many young viewers nationwide?!"

Ji Shan knew full well that whenever Guoxinghai released a new drama or film, competitors would quietly steer clear of its release window—especially in cinema, where scheduled films often shifted dates to avoid clashing with Guoxinghai's blockbusters.

Logically, with Guoxinghai making such a grand entrance into the talent show arena, his company should have avoided going head-to-head with it.

The fact that they hadn’t wasn’t because the higher-ups had lost their minds—though, from Ji Shan’s perspective, it might as well have been.

They were simply gambling.

Everyone knew Guoxinghai had an almost flawless track record. Its first foray into stage performances had already whipped audiences into a frenzy of anticipation.

But anyone who had actually worked on a talent show knew how difficult they were to pull off. Market trends, screen time distribution among contestants, the challenge of coordinating large-scale productions—it wasn’t as simple as throwing a bunch of performers together and calling it a day.

If Guoxinghai stumbled, rival shows could swoop in, absorbing its disenchanted audience while simultaneously trashing Guoxinghai and promoting themselves.

Of course, it was still a risky move. Rumor had it that Sheng Quan had invested two billion into Guoxinghai. With that kind of money, even an ant could be turned into a giant.

But greed was a powerful motivator. Some couldn’t help but think—what if?

What if they got lucky?

Sure, Sheng Quan had dominated TV dramas and ruled the box office for years, but this was her first time dipping into talent shows. Surely even the great Sheng Quan couldn’t excel at everything?

Turns out, she could.

And she exceeded everyone’s expectations.

As Ji Shan imagined the impending reprimand from his superiors, he felt like calling an ambulance just to escape the stress. Such was the life of a corporate drone—no say in decisions, but first in line to take the fall when things went wrong.

Desperate to salvage his career, he forced a dry laugh and muttered to his subordinate:

"High first-day viewership is normal for a new show. People just want to see what the hype’s about. The real test is the second day—let’s wait and see."

The next day, Ji Shan stared at the screen displaying Guoxinghai's updated numbers: 450 million views.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure whether to think, "This show actually looks pretty good—maybe I should start watching it myself," or "Should I resign now or wait to get fired?"

Of course, these were just passing thoughts. While he did end up taking the blame, it wasn’t severe enough to cost him his job. He was chewed out in meetings, had his bonus docked, and was reassigned to another position.

After the meeting, his boss pulled him aside, patted him on the shoulder, and offered a stream of empty reassurances—something about how "everyone understands the situation" and how his talents were still valued, promising to reinstate him once the dust settled.

What could Ji Shan say? He could only grin and nod, declaring, "Of course, of course—I live and die for the company. Taking the fall is my honor."

Stepping out of the office, he faced a mix of pitying and amused glances from colleagues. No matter how bitter or humiliated he felt, he had to swallow it all and pretend it didn’t faze him. The disappointment and heartache were his alone to bear.

And then—abruptly—just as he left the building, his phone rang.

The caller was a stranger.

By the time the call ended, Ji Shan’s mind had gone completely blank:

"You’re inviting me to join Guoxinghai’s production team?! Are you serious?!"

"Yes, you may come to Guoxinghai headquarters for an interview. This is Wu Ying speaking."

Sheng Quan walked into Chief Coordinator Wu Ying's office carrying a cup of coffee. She gently knocked on the already open door. Wu Ying, who was on a phone call, looked surprised to see her and quickly gestured an "okay" while continuing her conversation.

"Teacher Xing highly recommended you to me. We can discuss the specifics when you arrive on-site. Alright, I’ll send you the address right away."

After hanging up, she put down her phone and took the coffee Sheng Quan handed her. "Director Sheng, why are you the one delivering coffee?"

"I happened to be in the break room, so I thought I’d help Little Zhang with the errand."

Little Zhang was usually responsible for handling miscellaneous tasks for the production team, including delivering coffee to the staff.

Since the show officially began airing, Sheng Quan had watched as Little Zhang went from carrying coffee one bag at a time to pushing entire carts full of it. Now, the young man had leveled up to maneuvering multiple carts stacked neatly with coffee cups at once.

—It was a clear sign of just how much pressure the entire "Guoxinghai" team was under.

After all, these past few days were just the prelude to the show, barely scratching the surface, yet the overwhelming attention it had drawn suggested it was poised to become the crown jewel of all talent shows.

Because the response far exceeded expectations, many original plans had to be revised, and the workload instantly doubled. Led by Wu Ying, the production team was practically running nonstop.

So, they urgently needed to hire more people.

Wu Ying transferred Ji Shan’s resume to Sheng Quan:

"Ji Shan is highly skilled and has a steady personality. I’ve already scheduled an interview with him, and we should be able to finalize things by this afternoon."

Along with Ji Shan’s documents, several other candidates’ resumes were also pushed toward Sheng Quan—all of them top-tier professionals capable of coordinating large-scale projects like this.

Sheng Quan skimmed through them with a smile. "You handle it. I trust your judgment."

Wu Ying felt a warmth in her heart. "Thank you for your trust, Director Sheng. I’ll do my best to fill these critical new positions properly."

In reality, when the "Guoxinghai" project was first planned, the number of staff Sheng Quan approved had initially struck many as excessive.

Though it was a big project, the maximum number of contestants was only 600—hardly enough to justify such a large team.

But at Xingmang, Director Sheng’s word was law. Even though some thought it was a waste of resources, they figured they could always cut back once things got underway, so the plan was eventually approved.

Now, not only was there no need to reduce staff, they actually needed to hire even more people.

Wu Ying never voiced these thoughts aloud, but privately, her admiration for Sheng Quan only grew.

Many of her friends and classmates envied her job’s salary, benefits, and career prospects, but what she considered her greatest luck was having Director Sheng as her boss.

Though Director Sheng rarely micromanaged the company’s operations, when it came to major decisions, she never made a wrong call.

Sheng Quan: Well, actually, I just have the luxury of being reckless with money.

Her nature leaned slightly toward caution—over-preparing never hurt. And more often than not, that extra preparation paid off when it mattered most.

Since she had two billion at her disposal, she could afford to hire ten times the staff if needed. So why not be overprepared?

Of course, Sheng Quan’s contingency plans weren’t limited to just staffing.

"So many photographers?!"

"So many lighting technicians?!"

"So many makeup artists?!!!"

Ji Shan couldn’t stop looking around in awe as he toured the production set.

Now he understood why every contestant on "Guoxinghai" looked absolutely flawless. With this level of meticulous, all-around preparation, even an average person could be polished into looking like a minor heartthrob—let alone the already outstanding contestants!

He even recognized several big names in the industry. That photographer over there—wasn’t that the notoriously hard-to-book Miss Wang?

And those makeup artists were absolute legends in the field, yet here they were, huddled together discussing how to perfect stage makeup to highlight each contestant’s strengths.

After taking it all in, Ji Shan fully grasped why "Guoxinghai" had exploded in popularity like never before: Xingmang was essentially producing a talent show with the same precision and quality as a blockbuster film.

Audiences weren’t blind—they could tell, and they were responding accordingly.

The only thing he couldn’t figure out was how Xingmang had managed to gather the absolute best in every field of the entertainment industry for a single talent show.

It was nothing short of a miracle.

Wu Ying remained completely unfazed throughout the tour. Only after Ji Shan had marveled at everything—even praising the trees lining the set for their photogenic elegance—did she finally pull out the contract she’d prepared in advance.

Ji Shan hesitated. "I’m still a bit unsure about switching jobs. I might need some more time to think it over…"

Wu Ying smiled. "No problem, Teacher Ji. Take your time. In the meantime, would you like to review the contract?"

Ji Shan took the contract and stared at it, his gaze freezing in place.

The salary… how much was this… Holy crap, this much?!

Wu Ying continued, "Teacher Ji, what do you think of the contract? If there’s anything you’re not satisfied with, we can discuss adjustments."

Ji Shan: "…"

Slowly, very slowly, he swallowed.

Ji Shan: Now I finally understand why so many big names are willing to come here.

He cleared his throat lightly. "Ahem, it’s good, really good. I’ll take my leave now."

"I can see the production team is quite busy, so I’ll go straight to my current company to complete the resignation process and start working here tonight."

"I already have an idea in mind—I’ll draft it on the way and send it to your email. Let’s aim to get our show’s viewership to 600 million!"

The contestants had no idea the production team was aggressively recruiting.

The 600 participants were split over two days, each performing for one minute before being assigned to their dormitories to rest. The initial dorm setup was four to a room, with the groupings pre-arranged by the production team.

Everything seemed perfectly normal—until they left the venue and temporary lodgings for the dorms and encountered a massive crowd of cameramen.

The less experienced contestants buzzed with excitement, some even striking poses for the cameras. Meanwhile, those who had participated in other shows were stunned.

"I’ve been on Leap Singing—a huge production—and even they only had twenty cameramen in total," Ming Qin couldn’t stop glancing at the cameramen lining both sides of the path and ahead, whispering to her roommate.

"Just walking this stretch, we’ve already passed at least forty cameramen, and that’s just on this route."

Her sharp-eyed roommate tsked in amazement after a few glances.

"They’re using Io cameras—those are famously high-quality but insanely expensive. I couldn’t afford one even if I pooled all my savings, but Guoxinghai’s crew has one for every cameraman!"

Another roommate, confused, quickly asked, "Is that a good thing?"

"Of course it’s a good thing! These cameras are ridiculously good at capturing people. And look at the lighting crew—their positioning and numbers mean the footage will be flawless."

After all, they’d joined the show for screen time. With this many people dedicated to filming them, how could they worry about not getting enough exposure?

Ming Qin nodded in agreement. "Absolutely, lighting makes all the difference."

Many talent shows barely bothered with proper lighting or makeup for the average contestants early on, focusing only on the already-famous ones and leaving the rest as mere background.

Ming Qin wasn’t famous—she’d been on two shows before, always the one meant to make others shine.

Sure, it had stung, but that’s just how the industry worked. If you hadn’t made it big, you got what you got.

When she signed up for Guoxinghai, she’d only hoped to make a brief appearance. Just being on a show like this was more than enough for her, and she’d braced herself to play the supporting role again.

But to her surprise, the moment she entered, she was floored by the sheer number of makeup artists Guoxinghai had.

Other shows typically skimped on makeup artists, forcing one artist to handle dozens of contestants, leading to rushed, inconsistent work.

That’s why the already-famous contestants stood out more—they often brought their own makeup artists, leaving the rest to share subpar resources.

For the average contestant, ending up on camera with a botched look was just part of the deal.

Yet Guoxinghai ensured every contestant had ample time with a makeup artist. Before stepping onstage, Ming Qin nearly cried when she saw her radiant reflection in the mirror.

—Then she and the makeup artist frantically dabbed tissue paper under her eyes to blot away tears that might ruin her makeup.

Even right before her performance, the makeup artist was still tweaking details, making sure she looked her absolute best.

Ming Qin didn’t let her down—she delivered her one-minute performance flawlessly.

In that moment, without a phone, she had no idea viewers were flooding the comments with "Is that Ming Qin? She looks stunning!" or that her pitifully small follower count on Weibo was steadily climbing.

All she felt was gratitude—gratitude for joining this show.

And now, seeing the overwhelming number of cameramen and lighting technicians along the way, that gratitude was reaching its peak.

"By the way, what’s next for us?"

The fourth roommate, who’d been silent until now, spoke up: "Learning choreography under the mentors’ guidance."

"In three days, we’ll perform on the holographic stage for the first time, and the audience will cast their first votes."

Ming Qin glanced at Tu Zhu, her quiet but magnetically eye-catching roommate, feeling a little flustered by the attention.

This was Tu Zhu we were talking about. Sure, he had a lot of haters, but the combined fame of the three of them still couldn’t measure up to his.

Ming Qin felt the thrill of "I’ve just met a celebrity," but he mustered up his courage and extended an invitation to Tu Zhu:

"Then how about the four of us practice together later?"

If this were any other show, he might not have been so forward. After all, survival programs were all about fighting for screen time, and teaming up with someone more attractive and famous than you usually didn’t end well.

But the fair treatment from the production team had put him at ease.

Without unfairness, there was little room for resentment or other negative emotions. Faced with someone as undeniably talented as Tu Zhu, he was more than willing to extend a friendly hand.

Tu Zhu stared at his roommate, who had just invited him, hardly able to believe it.

During his last survival show, everyone had been polite on the surface, but beneath it all, he’d keenly sensed the subtle undercurrents of exclusion and dislike.

Even ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‍though it was only their first day together, the hostility had been palpable. Back then, except when he was on stage, he’d often found himself wondering, "Do people really hate me that much?"

And that thought had only grown heavier after his fall from grace.

But now, he realized all three of his roommates were looking at him with nothing but warmth in their eyes.

Tu Zhu felt a mix of timidity and quiet joy.

In the past, he would’ve hesitated, reluctant to accept. But now, remembering the approving smile Sheng Quan had given him during auditions, he lowered his gaze slightly and nodded. "Okay."

"Great! Let’s go then! Just so you know, I’m amazing at learning choreography! But I’m slow, so don’t get impatient with me!"

"Really? Perfect! I’m terrible at it—take me with you!"

The most lively of the four immediately wedged himself between the others, slinging his arms awkwardly over their shoulders. "Not to brag, but I’m pretty good at picking up dances too! How about we make it a little competition later?"

"Deal! Let’s do it!!"

The friendships of youth always came on fast and fierce, especially since Sheng Quan had handpicked three cheerful, talkative roommates for Tu Zhu.

With three social butterflies in one room, the conversation quickly jumped from "the competition" to "outfit changes" to "what’s the best fabric for underwear" and finally landed on "which place serves the best hot pot."

Tu Zhu lingered at the edge of the group, letting himself be swept along as he listened to his roommates’ lively chatter. He stayed quiet, not interjecting, just following.

But as the young man walked beside them, the heaviness in his eyes gradually gave way to a faint sparkle—one that belonged to someone his age.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his footsteps grew lighter too.