Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 108

It’s no exaggeration to say that idols across the nation are all competing for this opportunity.

In China, the so-called "lack of stages" doesn’t just refer to literal performance platforms, but more so to the scarcity of chances for idols to showcase their singing and dancing abilities.

Given the realities of the industry in China, unless they gain fleeting fame through talent shows, idols rarely get a real shot at success.

And perhaps it’s a cultural quirk—everything in China seems to prioritize speed over quality—even when idols do get their moment in the spotlight, they’re usually replaced within two years at most.

But now, stages and holographic technology have merged.

This isn’t just about holographic performances—it means that with this technology, Starlight Entertainment can effortlessly create countless stages and draw massive audiences whenever they want.

This massive investment by Starlight Entertainment has given everyone a glimpse of a bright future. While international groups might see this as a chance for glory, for Chinese idol groups, it’s nothing short of a lifeline.

"It’s really come down to a matter of survival."

Sheng Quan was reviewing stacks of documents.

In China, idols who rely on stage performances have always had low visibility. Even Sheng Quan, a seasoned fan with years of experience, had paid little attention to this scene in her past life due to the lack of exposure.

Without stages to perform on, audiences had no way to discover these idols—let alone become fans.

Though it had been four years since she arrived in this world, Sheng Quan’s perspective, knowledge, and demeanor had all undergone significant refinement. After all, wealth does wonders for one’s aura.

As it turns out, money really can keep time from leaving its mark.

Now, aside from the composed air of someone long accustomed to power, Sheng Quan looked just as youthful as when she first arrived—if not even more radiant.

Whether it was due to her constant mental rehearsals or another one of her "golden fingers," her memories of the original novel remained crystal clear.

But after four years, she had already mined nearly all the business-related information from the book. Since it was primarily an entertainment-focused novel, most of the plot revolved around domestic affairs, with barely any mention of idols.

Yet this time, System 006 had allocated a staggering two billion in mission funds. President Sheng simply couldn’t pass it up.

[Are you sure it’s two billion? In cash?]

President Sheng even wondered if 006 had glitched. After all, the billions spent on acquiring the esports club had been strictly earmarked for fixed assets.

A sum restricted to a single asset versus one that could be freely allocated—as long as it was spent on the mission target—the difference in value was obvious.

006 sounded almost smug: [My money-making skills are top-tier.]

Sheng Quan’s personal wealth had snowballed over time, and 006, with its relentless focus on multiplying funds, was no exception.

To put it bluntly, while Sheng Quan might not be the richest person in China—at best, she was the wealthiest in the entertainment industry—006’s funds could easily place it among the world’s financial elite if tallied.

But the system seemed blissfully unaware of its own extravagance, cheerfully reminding her: [Host, do your best on the mission! All my money is yours!]

Sheng Quan’s motivation soared: [I will!]

[I was originally planning to budget carefully for the holographic stage investment, but now? No need.]

Though she was already wealthy, who would ever complain about more money? Besides, building an empire was addictive. Every time her company expanded or her ventures turned massive profits, the sense of accomplishment dwarfed even the thrill of admiring a thousand beautiful faces.

The ultimate joy in life? Making money while surrounded by gorgeous men and women.

Especially when their styling, outfits, and screen time were all under her control. Bliss.

Sheng Quan took a sip of juice, her gaze lingering on a high-definition image on her screen:

"Tu Zhu…"

Wu Ying was the chief director of the holographic stage project.

At just twenty-eight, a graduate of a prestigious university, she was unusually young for such a high-ranking position.

But at Starlight, she was already overseeing a project with a budget in the hundreds of millions. If this venture succeeded, Wu Ying would likely be promoted to vice president before hitting thirty.

Even by the standards of her alma mater, her rapid rise at a major company like Starlight Entertainment was impressive enough to make her a role model for juniors.

Naturally, Wu Ying cherished her hard-earned position. Since the holographic stage project was greenlit, she had been hands-on with every detail, personally signing off on every major decision.

She ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‍had even postponed her vacation, planning to combine it with her year-end leave—proof of her total dedication to work.

Talent plus effort—that was the norm among Starlight’s executives. Most had climbed the ranks through sheer grit, whether young or seasoned, and their salaries had doubled (or more) as a result.

Wu Ying’s earnings were particularly staggering for her age, leaving her peers in the dust. When hard work paid off so visibly, she couldn’t help but pour even more into it.

Most people don’t find joy in their jobs, but Wu Ying was an exception. Just thinking about her title and paycheck was enough to make her float with happiness.

Lately, though, the ever-optimistic Director Wu had begun to dim.

"Running out of funds again?"

The holographic stage wasn’t just about building a single platform—it was a global venture. Starlight planned to establish venues worldwide, with the top three contestants from domestic competitions going on international tours.

True to Sheng Quan’s "thorough" approach, these venues were meant for long-term use, which meant even more expenses.

And since this was a global spectacle, every element—from personnel to equipment—had to be top-tier. The company wasn’t about to splurge only to deliver a shoddy production.

The scale was so vast that even with Wu Ying stretching every penny, she kept having to request additional funding.

Caught between the project’s demands for perfection and the company’s tightening budget, Wu Ying was stuck in a headache-inducing tug-of-war.

She knew Starlight’s cash flow wasn’t limitless—aside from this project, the company was bankrolling two big-budget films simultaneously.

The situation was clear: they’d expanded too far, too fast, and now the money was running short.

That day, Wu Ying was once again mentally crunching numbers between bites of lunch, each calculation making her feel more suffocated.

Not from choking—just sheer frustration.

Suddenly, a notification dinged, followed by a flurry of incessant pings from the group chat.

Her first thought was that something had gone wrong. She quickly pulled out her phone, only to see her colleagues erupting in celebration.

"Two billion?!"

"Is this for real?!"

"Holy crap, am I dreaming?!"

"The director is a legend! I was just hoping for ten million and calling it a day!"

Two billion?!

Wu Ying hurriedly checked her private messages. Sure enough, there was a message from the company. The moment she opened it, five bold characters glared back at her:

Upper limit: two billion!!

Wu Ying: "…"

At that moment, it felt like she could finally breathe again.

Visions of promotions, raises, becoming a company VP, and ascending to the peak of her career flashed before her eyes.

She clutched her phone tightly, never imagining the company would approve such an astronomical budget in one go.

This was easily one of the highest-funded projects in the company’s history.

She remembered the dilemma she faced when submitting her resume—torn between Starlight Entertainment and another industry giant.

In the end, it was her senior, already working at Starlight, who convinced her:

"Starlight is an entertainment company. Sure, global recognition won’t come easy, but the best part is—you get out what you put in. A single ounce of effort yields an ounce of reward, a hundred ounces a hundredfold."

"When problems arise, the company steps in. They don’t dump everything onto the employees. That alone makes me want to stay at Starlight for life."

Back then, Wu Ying thought her senior was exaggerating. But now? She couldn’t be more grateful she’d listened and joined Starlight.

Though, she disagreed on one point.

Global recognition… Why couldn’t Starlight achieve that?

In a small entertainment agency, a young man sat expressionlessly scrolling through the barrage of comments on his phone.

He couldn’t have been older than seventeen or eighteen, with features so finely crafted they could easily top the charts in an industry obsessed with looks.

Even just sitting there, he’d attract hordes of admirers based on his face alone.

Of course, the hate was just as plentiful.

"Tu Zhu, why are you reading comments again? I told you not to!"

His manager snatched the phone away, frowning at the flood of vitriol on the screen. "Every celebrity has haters. If you obsess over this, how will you ever make it?"

Even without his phone, the young man’s face remained blank. "They’re not wrong. My acting is terrible. I ruin every role. It’s normal for them to criticize me."

The manager waved it off. "So what if your acting’s bad? With a face like yours, you’ll still have armies of fans."

"We’re in the business of selling looks."

Tu Zhu’s dark, lifeless eyes met his. "I don’t like myself."

The manager sighed. Sometimes, you just had to admit—talent wasn’t universal. Tu Zhu had debuted through a survival show, outshining every competitor in singing and dancing.

But acting? No matter how hard he trained, he couldn’t improve. His stage presence was god-tier, yet the moment cameras rolled, he turned into a wooden doll.

That was the entertainment industry for you. A pretty face guaranteed fans, and Tu Zhu had plenty—despite having no notable works. A shameless person would’ve reveled in it. But Tu Zhu? It only made him miserable.

His acting was so bad that even before the haters piled on, he’d already condemned himself. No matter how many acting classes he took, progress was nonexistent. It was like he was born without the acting gene—his performances were irredeemably awful.

The manager had given up, urging Tu Zhu to just take the money and run. But day by day, Tu Zhu grew quieter, more sleepless.

"I’ve figured it out. I’m not an actor. I want to be on stage."

The sudden declaration caught the manager off guard. "What stage? How long do you think an idol’s career lasts? Two years tops before you’re washed up."

"Don’t stress about acting. Your schedule’s packed—seven or eight projects this year. You’ll improve. And even if you don’t, the fans won’t care."

Tu Zhu had expected this response.

His pitch-black eyes bore into the manager. "You know where my talent lies. On stage."

"Before, you said there were no stages in China. Now Starlight Entertainment has holographic performances. I want in."

He spoke calmly. At just eighteen, his delicate features still held traces of youth, but his eyes were devoid of light.

The manager remembered how different he used to be.

Before signing with the company, those beautiful eyes had burned with passion. He loved singing, loved dancing, lively as a deer leaping through the woods.

But he’d signed too young. Once the company had him, it was like throwing him into a pit of fire.

At first, Tu Zhu had resisted. But trapped by the weight of his contract and the company’s relentless pressure—both carrot and stick—he’d eventually surrendered.

Years passed without a single stage performance.

The company treated him as nothing more than a cash cow. While they profited massively, Tu Zhu amassed hordes of anti-fans—"the talentless hack clinging to the acting industry."

It wasn’t an exaggeration to say even A-list actors didn’t have as many haters. His social media was a cesspool of curses and vitriol daily.

The worst part? Tu Zhu believed every word. The confidence and joy he once had were long gone, replaced by crushing self-loathing.

The manager studied him. Tu Zhu was stunning—the kind of looks people called "heaven-sent." Not in an androgynous way, but breathtakingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful.

That face had won him legions of fans… and just as many haters.

Yet now, that radiant face was shrouded in gloom. A person’s aura changed their appearance. Even with the same features, Tu Zhu no longer had that jaw-dropping allure.

His fanbase was hemorrhaging because of it. And every loss only piled more weight onto his already broken spirit.

The manager knew—Tu Zhu was crumbling.

And now, he was trying to save himself.

Under that faint glimmer of hope in Tu Zhu’s gaze, the manager forced himself to harden his heart. He looked away, unable to face the fallen star.

"No. The company’s already taken payment for your roles."

There was another reason, unspoken: the company feared Tu Zhu would leave if he regained his fame. Right now, despite the relentless hate, he was still trapped, still profitable.

But if he truly spread his wings? What would they have left to control him?

The light in Tu Zhu’s eyes dimmed to nothing.

"I want to go." freeweɓnovel.cøm

He whispered softly, "I really want to go."

His pleading gaze made the agent uneasy. When the agent’s eyes skimmed over Tu Zhu’s wrists, hidden beneath long sleeves, they flinched away as if shocked.

He knew—beneath those sleeves lay scars, one after another.

Tu Zhu was drowning.

And yet, he had refused the plea for help.

The agent closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to turn away. "I'm leaving. I’ll keep your phone for now. Come get it when you’ve calmed down."

After the agent left, Tu Zhu walked to the computer and sat there blankly for a long time. Half an hour later, he cautiously glanced back to ensure no one was at the door before finally turning on the computer.

In the "President Sheng’s Mighty Legacy of Countless Creations" forum, a new post appeared:

"Does President Sheng really only sign people based on talent? What if someone can sing and dance? I’m a really good dancer."