Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

Yuan Zixin proved her professionalism when, after receiving Sheng Quan’s directive to "make Yan Hui famous as quickly as possible," she didn’t question why but flew straight to the film set that same day. Within two days, she had crafted a comprehensive "work plan" tailored specifically for Yan Hui.

The plan included, but was not limited to, acting classes, posture training, dance lessons, line delivery practice, martial arts instruction, and vocal coaching. When Sheng Quan reviewed the thick, meticulously detailed schedule, just skimming through it made her feel exhausted on Yan Hui’s behalf.

"Such a packed schedule? Can Yan Hui handle this workload?"

Yuan Zixin quickly explained, "This plan was finalized after discussing it with Yan Hui. He himself believes he needs intensive training to improve."

When she first met Yan Hui, the first thing she did was enthusiastically clap him on the shoulder. Back then, she had helped him purely out of guilt—who could have imagined that ten years later, it would be Yan Hui who recommended her to Director Sheng?

Both Sheng Quan’s trust and appreciation, as well as Yan Hui’s referral, had filled her with boundless motivation, as if she’d downed ten bowls of adrenaline. Even though she hadn’t spent a single night in the company-provided dorm—constantly traveling for work—she was thrilled and utterly confident.

Now, she was fully embracing the same workaholic spirit as Gu Zhao, who would work through an IV drip if necessary.

Sheng Quan: "...As long as you’re happy."

After seeing off her newly work-obsessed subordinate, Sheng Quan’s mind drifted to Gu Zhao’s "no illness can stop me from working" attitude, prompting her to call Yu Xiangwan.

"Didn’t Director Wan mention he wasn’t feeling well before? I told him to get checked out—did he go? How’s his health now?"

She hadn’t forgotten that in *Starlight*, Wan Bao likely never got to enjoy the drama’s success because he had already passed away from illness. She had warned him during her visit to the set, but he didn’t seem to take it seriously.

Which made sense—career-driven minds naturally prioritized work above all else. Like Gu Zhao. Like Wan Bao. Like her in her past life.

The difference was, back then, she had no choice. As a diligent employee, her time wasn’t her own. But Gu Zhao and Wan Bao? They were simply addicted to their work, blind to everything else.

So instead of calling Wan Bao directly, she called Yu Xiangwan.

If she told Wan Bao, "Go get a checkup," he’d agree but then forget the moment he got busy. But if she told Yu Xiangwan, "Make sure Director Wan gets checked," even if the sky fell, Yu Xiangwan would make it happen.

Sure enough, Yu Xiangwan replied, "His condition isn’t great, but he’s been putting it off because of an important shoot. If you want him examined, I’ll take him for a full checkup today."

Sheng Quan authorized it: "Take him. I don’t want the director collapsing before the drama’s finished."

Yu Xiangwan agreed immediately. After hanging up, he summoned the assistant director and two martial arts coordinators.

Wan Bao was hunched over the monitor, unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes, a sickly pallor, and the general appearance of a freshly turned zombie. When Yu Xiangwan said his "condition wasn’t great," it was an understatement.

Even when Sheng Quan was on set, Wan Bao frequently pulled all-nighters, filming late into the night before jumping straight into daytime shoots.

While the cast and crew also endured long hours, most could rotate breaks. Wan Bao, however, sacrificed his own sleep to oversee every single scene.

Quality didn’t come from lax standards—it came from relentless pressure and high expectations.

Yu Xiangwan wasn’t one to waste time. He approached and called, "Director Wan."

The moment Wan Bao turned to answer, the two martial arts coordinators stepped forward, hoisted him out of his chair, and—

—the assistant director, who had just moments ago been handing him hot water and urging him to hydrate, slid smoothly into his seat.

Wan Bao’s sleep-deprived, overstimulated brain short-circuited.

What the—? A coup d'état?!

"What are you doing?? Stop messing around, we’re working!"

"You might have to pause the work for now," Yu Xiangwan said bluntly. "Director Sheng is deeply concerned about your health and has instructed me to take you for a full medical examination."

Without waiting for a response, he nodded to the martial arts coordinators. "Let’s go."

Wan Bao, bewildered, was turned around and marched off. "Wait, no—not now! I need to oversee this scene! Yu Xiangwan, are you listening? I said I’m not going! I’m fine, I just haven’t slept well the past couple days—"

Yu Xiangwan ignored his protests, signaling the coordinators to bundle him into the car before taking the driver’s seat.

—Zoom!

The black SUV sped off.

The crew watched it disappear, many breathing sighs of relief.

Sure, forcibly hauling the director off for a checkup sounded extreme, but Wan Bao’s condition had been worrying everyone. If the production had still been strapped for cash, his round-the-clock work ethic would’ve made sense—every day on set burned funds.

But now, with Sheng Quan’s investment, there was no need for such urgency. Why push himself to the brink?

The logic was obvious, but on a set, the director’s authority was absolute. Only Yu Xiangwan, with Sheng Quan’s backing, could pull this off.

Lin Aike, who had just arrived with her script, witnessed the scene and exhaled in relief.

Her tip-off to Sheng Quan hadn’t been in vain. She’d seen too many cases in the industry—people like Wan Bao, burning the candle at both ends, eating irregularly, and drowning in stress. Minor illnesses festered into major ones; major ones turned terminal.

She could only hope Director Wan’s condition wasn’t serious.

***

Director Wan was furious! Director Wan was agitated! Director Wan wanted to teleport back to the set!

A man obsessed with his craft, suddenly ripped away from it, was on the verge of cursing up a storm—if only he dared.

But when the test results came in, his anger and frustration dissolved into stunned confusion.

"Malignant tumor…"

He looked up, dazed. "Isn’t that… cancer? I have cancer?!"

The martial arts coordinators hadn’t expected this outcome either. When ordered to escort Wan Bao for a checkup, they’d agreed partly out of concern for his health—but also because Yu Xiangwan controlled the budget. With his approval, they’d had no qualms about manhandling the director.

To put it bluntly, without Sheng Quan’s intervention, no one on set would’ve forced Wan Bao to get examined.

And Yu Xiangwan? He didn’t care about anyone—except Sheng Quan.

After Sheng Quan expressed concern for Director Wan's health, he spared a fraction of his attention to assess the director's condition—though it would be an exaggeration to say he genuinely cared from the heart.

At this moment, among the four people present, Yu Xiangwan was the most level-headed.

"There's no need to worry too much. It's still in the early stages. Didn’t the doctor just say so? The tumor is still small, and its location won’t complicate surgery. The chances of a full recovery after removal are very high."

Wan Bao finally snapped back to reality: "Right, right, just a surgery will fix it..."

The doctor’s words echoed in his mind, but out of everything, he only retained one phrase: "Thankfully, it was caught early."

"Thank goodness—thank goodness you dragged me here for the check-up. If it had gotten to the late stages..."

As everyone knows, tumors are highly treatable in their early stages, but the odds worsen over time. By the late stages, treatment becomes nearly impossible.

The two martial arts instructors also felt as though they’d stepped into a surreal day—how had they gone from "defying the director" to "saving the director’s life"?

Meanwhile, Yu Xiangwan seized the opportunity to boost Sheng Quan’s reputation: "This was all at Chairman Sheng’s instruction. She was deeply concerned about your health. Of course, as an investor, she wants to see an outstanding production, but more than that, she prioritizes your well-being. You know how much Chairman Sheng values talent."

"She knew this would upset you, but she was so worried about your condition. When she called me, she made it clear—your health matters more than any delay in filming."

Of course, Sheng Quan had never said any such thing.

But that didn’t stop Yu Xiangwan from delivering the words with perfect sincerity to Director Wan.

Originally, he had planned to take the blame if Wan Bao turned out fine, claiming that Sheng Quan had merely expressed concern while he had acted on his own to force the director to the hospital.

But now that Wan Bao had been diagnosed with a malignant tumor, all credit naturally went to Sheng Quan.

After Yu Xiangwan’s carefully crafted speech, Wan Bao was moved to tears.

And why wouldn’t he be? This was cancer, after all.

One could say Sheng Quan had saved his life.

As the investor, all she needed was for the production to run smoothly and yield results. Even if he dropped dead on the spot, Sheng Quan—with her wealth and the current filming progress—could easily replace him with a new director.

And yet, he had been angry earlier. What a disgrace he was.

Seeing that the effect had been achieved, Yu Xiangwan tactfully wrapped things up, picking up his phone: "Now that the results are in, I’ll report back to Chairman Sheng. She’s probably still waiting, and I wouldn’t want to keep her anxious."

This final touch was the masterstroke.

Wan Bao’s emotions—fear, confusion, gratitude, relief—all surged at once. He hastily stood up, rubbing his hands sheepishly: "I—I’d like to speak with Miss Sheng too. I need to thank her properly. If it weren’t for her, I might have really..."

Meanwhile, Sheng Quan was leisurely soaking in a bubble bath, binge-watching dramas with a face mask on, when Yu Xiangwan’s call came through.

"Malignant tumor? Early stage? That’s good. If the doctor says surgery can remove it, then reassure Director Wan and make sure he focuses on treatment."

No sooner had she spoken than Yu Xiangwan presumably handed the phone to Wan Bao, who responded in a voice thick with emotion, bordering on tears:

"Miss Sheng, thank you. You saved my life. I never imagined you cared so much about me. From now on, you’re my goddess. I swear I’ll follow you forever, stay by your side—"

Sheng Quan: "?"

Wan Bao’s voice abruptly cut off, replaced by Yu Xiangwan’s smooth, magnetic tone:

"Pay him no mind. Director Wan only slept two hours last night, and today’s shock has left him a bit disoriented."

Sheng Quan instantly understood: "Artists, right? How’s the production going? Any estimate on when filming will wrap?"

"About three more months. Don’t worry—even with Director Wan’s condition, the crew will keep running smoothly."

Supervisor Yu was as dependable as ever.

Sheng Quan felt reassured: "Good, I’ll leave it to you. Once filming ends, come back to the company. You’re our first employee, after all, and it’s been so long since you’ve visited."

"Understood. I’ll return as soon as we wrap."

Yu Xiangwan agreed warmly, exchanged a few more pleasantries, and hung up.

Two months...

His expression softened as he recalled Sheng Quan’s praise, but when his gaze shifted to the disheveled, sleep-deprived Wan Bao staring at him expectantly, it cooled again:

"Director Wan, don’t worry about the production. I’ve checked—you’ll be able to resume work a month after surgery. It won’t delay filming much."

Wan Bao: ...Actually, I was going to ask if Miss Sheng was worried about me.

Unaware of the director’s thoughts, Sheng Quan was relieved to hear that Wan Bao’s malignant tumor was caught early, with a high chance of recovery.

Then she went back to her drama marathon.

Time ticked away until 11:57 PM.

Sheng Quan checked the clock and turned off the TV.

She rarely stayed up late—now that she was a wealthy chairwoman, health and maintenance were priorities. Her routine was strictly lights out by 10 PM, up at 7 AM, all to preserve her luscious locks.

But tonight was different.

It was the last day of the month.

The system’s settlement was due at midnight.

For such an important moment, she had to set the mood.

Wrapped in her bathrobe, Sheng Quan grabbed a wine glass, stepped onto the balcony, and gazed at the glittering cityscape. She raised the glass—

—then poured herself some ice-cold cola.

She even fished out two ice cubes from the fridge, dropped them in, and stuck in a straw.

Full ceremonial vibes.

[Ding! Monthly settlement begins now.]

006 solemnly announced her achievements:

[First beneficiary’s career progress: 16.2%]

[First beneficiary’s favorability toward host: over 80%]

[Settlement in progress: Host’s lifespan extended by 92 days. Monetary return: 4.21 million.]

Sheng Quan had already guessed most of this. Her real focus was: [What about my earlier request?]

[Per host’s application, after system review: Host’s ownership of a small company is deemed conducive to better supporting beneficiaries. Due to the successful completion of the first task, the system approves the use of rental income for company operations—strictly limited to internal expenses, no external purchases permitted.]

Just as she’d expected.

Sheng Quan had long suspected the rules had flexibility. For instance, when she’d first tested the waters by using "meeting Yan Hui" as an excuse to splurge, as long as 006 approved, it was fine.

Using system funds to start a company and hire Yu Xiangwan had also gone smoothly—after all, both the company and its employees contributed to the beneficiaries’ futures.

This time, her company rolled out generous employee benefits, motivating the staff to work even harder. For the sponsored individuals under their wing, having the backing of a corporation was a significant advantage for their future development.

The constructed **[Wish Force]** of System 006 lacked concrete thought. Sheng Quan even suspected that the **[Wish Force]** had become synonymous with 006 itself. Aside from its rigid rules, any borderline use of the system’s funds would be approved as long as it benefited the sponsored individuals and 006 gave its nod.

She aggressively recruited employees and enhanced welfare packages, essentially gambling on whether the system would deem her actions effective for advancing sponsorship work—and thus approve her request.

And she won the bet.

Just as she had every single time in her past life.

Sheng Quan took a sip of ice-cold cola as a little reward for herself: *"Thank you, 006."*

The ever-serious 006 responded in its usual formal tone: *"You're welcome! Host has indeed performed excellently~"*

It continued its announcement: *"Second month’s sponsorship fund: One billion."*

Sheng Quan paused, her wine glass halfway to her lips: *"That much?"*

006 patiently explained: *"Because the host requested ‘lots of money,’ I applied for it. However, there are restrictions—this one billion is limited to online spending only and cannot be used in the real world. In other words, the host can only spend it on the internet, but the cashback will be real-world cashback~"*

Sheng Quan slowly took another sip of her ice-cold cola.

In an instant, countless titles of those over-the-top "tycoon" web novels she’d read before flashed through her mind.

*"Being the Big Spender in Livestreams," "The Tycoon System: Smashing a Billion," "Starting with a Billion: Streamers Kneel and Call Me Daddy,"* and so on.

She rubbed her temples, forcing those bizarre titles out of her thoughts.

One billion.

How on earth was she supposed to spend it all?