Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

Though holding a massive sum of money, Sheng Quan ultimately chose one thing first: sleep.

No matter how big the world was, her routine came first. Staying up past midnight just to wait for a financial settlement was already pushing her limits.

The next morning, after breakfast, Sheng Quan lounged in her luxurious bed, scrolling through various online platforms.

The buzz around her identity as the 【Rich Book Fan】 hadn’t died down—if anything, it had only grown. Since she still hadn’t clarified whether 【Huaxing Building】 actually belonged to her, people continued to speculate and debate endlessly.

As the saying goes, official statements could never compare to the thrill of uncovering the truth firsthand.

But now that most of the details had already been dug up, it was time for her to make an appearance.

In the group chat for "The Path of Life," although Sheng Quan hadn't spoken since the first wave of trending topics, what was once just a lively group had exploded into chaos.

Countless onlookers had flooded in, sending so many join requests that the group owner’s phone froze from the notifications. In the end, they had to set the group to 【No New Members Allowed】 just to restore some peace.

Honestly, the group owner had remarkable integrity—otherwise, they could’ve easily set up a 【Paid Entry】 system and made a small fortune.

Online, some people were even offering high bounties for the group’s QQ number, just to get closer to the drama. Whether anyone succeeded in buying their way in remained a mystery.

However, since the account 【Victory in Hand】 had been offline ever since, some speculated that the rich fan had abandoned it to avoid attention. As days passed, the initial excitement in the book fan group gradually faded, and conversations returned to their usual mix of randomness.

When Sheng Quan finally checked in, she saw the girls jumping between topics within minutes—from admiring the nice weather outside to discussing travel destinations, from begging for likes on a classmate’s post (No. 77) to gushing about cute guys and little girls they’d seen, and sharing random pictures with “Isn’t this pretty?”

Her attention snagged on the plea for likes, which came with a link. Clicking it, Sheng Quan was met with a poorly designed webpage, bizarre visual choices, and rows of photos that looked like mugshots—each person sporting questionable styling choices.

Was that supposed to be smoky eye makeup? It looked more like someone had smeared dirt over their eyelids.

And why was that clearly young girl given a mature makeup look?

Scrolling down to contestant No. 79, Sheng Quan paused at the photo of a guy with a bowl cut, his face caked in dark powder and an eyepatch that practically screamed “pirate cosplay.” Her gaze lingered on the name beside it: **Jin Jiu**.

Even after so long, just seeing that name sent a jolt through her—the kind that made her want to curse the original novel’s author.

Now she remembered why this singing competition sounded familiar. It was one of the countless shabby programs Jin Jiu had been forced into.

Jin Jiu—the quintessential underdog from 《Starlight》.

A natural-born singer, Jin Jiu had been blessed with looks, talent, and a voice so stunning it was once described as “kissed by an angel.” At sixteen, he was poised to ride the wave of the industry’s golden era—until envy drove someone to poison him, destroying his voice beyond repair.

Though the perpetrator was swiftly caught, the truth was buried by powerful backers, and Jin Jiu’s angelic voice was lost forever.

Sheng Quan remembered how absurd that plot point had seemed—until a quick search revealed real-life cases just as cruel. It was a harsh lesson in the dark side of the entertainment world.

And Jin Jiu learned it even harder.

At his peak, everyone adored him. His boss treated him like a son, his agent acted like a protective older brother, and fans showered him with love.

But the moment his voice was gone, the “boy genius” became just another disposable face.

His boss turned on him, trapping him with sky-high contract penalties and forcing him to perform while still recovering. The once-kind agent became a tyrant, squeezing every last cent from Jin Jiu through endless concerts and fan meets.

Even his fans abandoned him. Each performance—each ticket sold under false pretenses—turned their love into disgust. The narrative was set: Jin Jiu was a scammer, leeching money from his supporters. Never mind that he never saw a dime of it. Never mind that he wasn’t even sixteen yet.

On the day of his birthday, a bouquet of flowers appeared on his desk. Exhausted but touched, he hugged it close—until he read the card:

*“I regret ever loving you.”*

In that moment, his heart froze over.

Jin Jiu tried to end his life that night. His parents stopped him, their tears searing into him. And in their grief, he realized: If he wasn’t afraid of death, what else was there to fear?

The next day, he walked into his boss’s office with a paper cutter. Smiling, he dragged the blade across his own skin, again and again, blood pooling at his feet.

Terrified, the boss let him go without a fight—even tossing him 3,000 yuan as “compensation” to get rid of him.

Jin Jiu was free. But the boy who had once shone like the sun now carried chains of trauma that would weigh on him for decades.

In the novel, he vanished for thirty years.

Thirty years of grinding to heal his voice. When perfect pitch proved impossible, he reinvented himself—studying techniques, adapting his style, masking every flaw with sheer skill.

The bright-eyed prodigy became a shadow, his face etched with quiet sorrow. Even side-by-side with old photos, few would recognize him.

During her re-reads, Sheng Quan’s favorite arc was always Jin Jiu’s comeback. On days when work drained her, she’d revisit that chapter like a shot of adrenaline.

He took jobs as a janitor at music schools just to eavesdrop on lessons. He devoured every interview, every performance, practicing relentlessly.

The book summarized it in a few lines. But behind those words were thirty years of unyielding grit.

Sheng Quan’s favorite part of the novel was when the protagonist succeeded in compensating for his lost talent through sheer diligence. Whenever she was exhausted from overtime work or overwhelmed by professional frustrations, she would revisit that segment repeatedly, as if drawing strength from it.

It’s no exaggeration to say that for a time, the character Jin Jiu was the emotional anchor that helped Sheng Quan endure her grueling workload. His influence even played a role in shaping her gradually maturing personality.

He taught her that survival alone wasn’t enough—one had to truly live. He made her understand that not every endeavor in life yields results, but the process must always align with one’s conscience.

Yet, tragically, even as Sheng Quan grew stronger and wiser under Jin Jiu’s influence, Jin Jiu himself harbored a fatal flaw.

Being abandoned overnight by everyone who once adored him left deep psychological scars. Though his singing offstage was flawless, the moment he faced an audience, he couldn’t suppress the memory of those words on the card:

*—I regret ever liking you.*

Like a curse, the sentence haunted Jin Jiu’s mind relentlessly.

To overcome it, he signed up for every singing competition he could find, no matter how obscure or poorly produced. He forced himself to perform, again and again.

Then, at the age of 46, the singer who had framed him decades earlier was exposed for unrelated crimes, and the truth about Jin Jiu’s past finally came to light. When former listeners returned, proclaiming their love and admiration, Jin Jiu realized he felt no joy.

He didn’t blame his fans. He just felt… tired.

Thirty years of his youth had slipped away in relentless struggle. In those three decades, he had aged, his parents had passed, his former manager was gone—everything seemed like a relic of the past.

Now, Jin Jiu could finally return to the stage.

When his voice—refined by decades of technique, no longer the raw instrument of his youth—resounded once more, his resurgence was meteoric.

Overnight, the world remembered his name.

After thirty years of obscurity, Jin Jiu became a sensation again. He regained adoring fans, newfound acclaim, and awards that cemented his status as a true legend of music. It seemed as though everyone loved him once more, fervently and unshakably.

Then, on an utterly ordinary day, Jin Jiu took his own life by slitting his wrists, leaving behind a brief note:

*—I’m sorry you ever loved me.*

This ending wasn’t a narrative cop-out. During *Starlight*’s serialization, readers were furious, but Sheng Quan didn’t join the online mob cursing the author.

First, the ending had wounded her too deeply. Second, as painful as it was, she couldn’t deny its cruel logic.

Many readers shared her perspective. Though heartbroken, they acknowledged that for Jin Jiu, death was release. Thirty sleepless nights were condensed into a single line in the novel, but for him, they amounted to three decades of exhaustion and agony.

From the beginning, the author had made it clear: Jin Jiu craved love.

His upbringing, marked by long absences from his parents, left him emotionally starved. The passionate, unconditional love of his fans filled that void—and in return, he gave them tenfold devotion.

When that love was abruptly rescinded, he was lost.

Gained overnight, lost overnight.

So when it returned, he couldn’t rejoice. He only feared its inevitable loss again.

As the book conveyed, he was too weary. He had waited too long.

And so, he chose to preserve the love he had—by ending his life.

Sheng Quan understood. But understanding didn’t ease the ache.

While reading about Jin Jiu’s abandonment, she had been tempted to flood the comment section daily with declarations of her unwavering support.

But now he was gone. She couldn’t even leave a comforting comment.

Her despondency grew so palpable that her notoriously stingy boss hesitantly asked if she’d been dumped—offering an unpaid day off to “recover.”

She refused, channeling her grief into a furious work spree. Whether it was her visibly seething aura or fear she might quit, her boss relented by evening, granting a *paid* day off.

The once-beloved passages of Jin Jiu’s perseverance became unbearable to revisit. Only by forcibly burying the memories did Sheng Quan emerge from that “soul-crushing” state.

Eventually, she quit her job to pursue her own ambitions. She kept reading *Starlight*, but never revisited the earlier arcs. Each time the pain resurfaced, she reminded herself: *It was Jin Jiu’s choice. Let it go.*

Still, she couldn’t help grumbling: *That hack author really had a track record for tragic endings.*

*If only I’d held on a little longer to curse them twice before…*

Now, Sheng Quan tapped her phone screen, studying the image of Jin Jiu—dressed absurdly as a pirate captain—and the caption noting his age: 23. Slowly, she smiled.

This wasn’t the timeline from the book. He was alive.

This was Jin Jiu, untouched by thirty years of silent suffering.

Vibrant. Real.

And currently wearing a pirate costume.

**[006, bind the second beneficiary: Jin Jiu.]**