Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

【Bound to Jin Jiu.】

Sheng Quan double-checked Jin Jiu's contestant number.

It was indeed 79.

The number 【79】 stood out to Sheng Quan because of a scene in the novel where Jin Jiu, after mastering a raspier but pleasant singing style, overcame his stage fright by participating in every singing competition he could find.

As mentioned before, the entertainment industry in "Starlight" was fiercely competitive. Someone like Yan Hui, whose looks would easily rank in the top five in Sheng Quan’s previous life, was considered merely above average here.

Not only were the performers under immense pressure, but production companies, directors, and behind-the-scenes teams were all pushing the limits. In such an environment, talent shows proliferated—big and small, covering everything from "Best Looks" to "Best Voice," "Most Stunning Dance," "Greatest Acting," and even "Top Martial Arts Performers."

After seven years of vocal training, Jin Jiu, at 23, signed up for a small singing contest hosted by a nearly defunct TV station. Unlike typical voting schemes where fans paid to support their favorites, this show promised that every vote would be donated to charity.

The charity in question was legitimate—fully transparent from its inception, ensuring every cent went where it was supposed to. This clever twist brought the obscure program some much-needed attention, proving that low budgets could still yield decent results.

Did Jin Jiu finally break free from his shadows and shine?

Of course not.

When his turn came, he froze on stage, failing to sing a single word before being swiftly eliminated. Yet, the novel noted that he wasn’t disheartened. Instead, after leaving the stage, he cast 790 votes for another contestant he admired.

At one yuan per vote, 790 yuan was nearly a month’s living expenses for Jin Jiu. After casting them, he quietly told himself: *This trip wasn’t a waste. That money is better spent on someone else.*

This moment was a big reason why Sheng Quan’s fondness for Jin Jiu evolved from "casual appreciation of a fictional character" to "deeply cherished."

After Jin Jiu’s tragic suicide, Sheng Quan couldn’t bear to reread earlier chapters, but other readers dissected his emotional journey in online groups. She once glimpsed a discussion suggesting that the decade following his vocal injury was marked by deep-seated insecurity—had someone reached out then, he might have overcome his mental barriers.

The middle decade was a slow erosion of hope, though he still clung to a sliver of it.

The final decade? Decades of exhaustion, deteriorating health, and the numbness of depression left Jin Jiu broken. By then, his parents’ deaths had shattered him, and performing became his last obsession.

And when that obsession was finally fulfilled, love—sudden and overwhelming, just like in his youth—came flooding in.

How could he not be terrified?

Now, though Jin Jiu’s voice could never fully recover and his scars remained, he was still in the most hopeful third of those thirty years.

The situation was somewhat like early-stage Wan Bao’s cancer.

Fatal, yes—but caught early enough to still be treatable.

Sheng Quan searched for news about Jin Jiu and, unsurprisingly, found only negativity: "terrible singer," "fraud of the music industry."

Further back, the headlines were all praise: *"A voice kissed by angels," "a healing tone brimming with emotion."*

Such was the entertainment industry—worshipping stars one day and tearing them down the next.

Virtually no recordings survived of Jin Jiu’s pre-injury voice. He’d never even released an album—just scattered videos and audio clips. Whether due to his former company’s interference or the passage of time, Sheng Quan could only find one or two fragments after extensive searching.

Curious about the voice that had once inspired such devotion, she listened—and realized the hype was real.

Even through distorted audio and grainy footage, the sheer beauty of his singing stunned her.

Sixteen-year-old Jin Jiu overflowed with raw talent, wielding his gifted voice with effortless grace. The emotions woven into every note were palpable, pulling listeners into the world of each song.

If a flawed recording sounded *this* good, how breathtaking must it have been live?

And yet, the novel’s Jin Jiu had, through thirty years of relentless effort, rebuilt a "divine voice" from the ruins of his damaged one. Had he not taken his own life, international acclaim would have been within reach.

*So close,* Sheng Quan lamented—then abruptly remembered she’d transmigrated into this world. Her sigh dissolved into a grin as she eyed the system’s funds: *100 million yuan.*

Time for a plan.

****

The *Road of Life* book fan group buzzed as usual—until a new message popped up:

【Liked. When does this show air?】

Most were confused, but a few recognized the username instantly: *Victory Is Assured!*

The legendary wealthy fan! The one who’d funded the series with a million!

After confirming it wasn’t an imposter, the group exploded.

【AHHHHH YOU’RE BACK!!!】

【Rich sis, need a human accessory? I’m house-trained and college-educated.】

【*frantic rubbing* OMG OMG OMG!!】

【I RACED HERE ON MY MOTORCYCLE TO GAPE AT YOU! IT’S REALLY HER!!】

【T_T You actually returned… I thought you’d abandoned this account!】

Amid the chaos, dozens scrambled to message friends:

【Sheng Quan’s online!! She’s back!!】

【Girl, I’m witnessing HISTORY right now!】

【She never left the group? Wow, sharing a chat with her feels surreal. Call me the Gossip Queen from now on.】

Meanwhile, the original poster, the girl who’d been replied to, was starstruck. Flustered, she typed back:

【I think it airs tomorrow? Today’s just pre-voting. Honestly, I’m just helping a classmate promote it—she joined for fun.】

Her friend had only signed up for the novelty of being on TV (even a tiny station counted). The girl had offered to rally votes as a joke…

…and somehow attracted *the* Sheng Quan, the woman whose "spend a million to fund a novel adaptation" stunt had spawned countless viral videos like *"How the Ultra-Rich Fandom"* and *"The Bonkers Reason a Tycoon Bought a Skyscraper."*

Sheng Quan had not officially debuted, but her Weibo account, which had never posted anything since its creation, already boasted a follower count surpassing many second-tier celebrities.

Moreover, numerous video bloggers and influencers had practically turned into human microscopes, digging up a long list of actors, directors, screenwriters, and even small entertainment company CEOs who followed Sheng Quan. While the names weren’t exactly earth-shattering, the sheer volume was enough to make an impression.

Industry insiders knew better—the list contained no major studios, A-list stars, renowned directors, or heavyweight screenwriters. After all, those who had no professional ties to Sheng Quan wouldn’t bother following her. The names that did appear were mostly third-tier or lower, and even those with some work under their belts were largely one-hit wonders.

But marketing accounts didn’t care about such nuances.

They thrived on hype, and rather than bluntly stating that "those following Sheng Quan are mostly small-time figures and cash-strapped companies," they preferred to cherry-pick the few semi-notable names from the list and exaggerate their significance.

For example: a third-tier actor who appeared in three shots of a moderately successful drama was hailed as a "breakout star of a hit series"; a director whose big-budget film barely turned a profit was praised for "box office earnings surpassing 100 million"; a tiny company was glorified as a "veteran entertainment firm with over a decade in the industry."

After hyping up these individuals, the narrative inevitably shifted to: "If even these people are following Sheng Quan, just imagine the staggering capital backing her," and so on.

One influencer’s exaggeration fed into another’s, until Sheng Quan’s image as an ultra-wealthy tycoon became so firmly cemented that no one questioned it.

Even though she had only appeared briefly, never followed anyone back, and never posted on Weibo, people still eagerly followed her updates, treating it like a front-row seat to observe a real-life billionaire.

But when she suddenly made an appearance, the first reaction was still: "Wait, is this for real?!"

Sheng Quan ignored the flood of messages (there were simply too many to reply to) and instead searched the group chat for the girl who had originally messaged her, responding:

**[This looks interesting! I gave your friend a like!]**

**[Where do you buy tickets, by the way? I searched but couldn’t find any sales page.]**

Before the girl could reply, other enthusiastic group members jumped in:

**[Small-scale productions like this don’t even sell tickets—most of the audience is just friends and family of the contestants.]**

**[Yeah, I’ve been a ‘family audience’ before. Sometimes, if they don’t have enough people, the production team even hires extras to fill seats.]**

**[Isn’t this from Strawberry TV?]**

**[Holy crap, I only noticed after the rich lady mentioned it—this talent show is insane! The live broadcast is at 1 AM. Who schedules a show at that hour?!]**

**[No money, that’s who. Just look at their formatting. Airing on Strawberry TV, already the least popular network, plus this godawful time slot? They’re doomed.]**

Sheng Quan typed again:

**[Oh, 1 AM? That’s a shame. I need my beauty sleep.]**

**[I was thinking of checking it out in person, but never mind—skin care comes first.]**

After casually chatting with the group for a while, she left and immediately called her marketing team.

**"There are already screenshots circulating. Just amplify this a little—not too much, though. We’ve got more moves planned later."**

Once the marketing team got to work, she dialed Mr. Wang and asked if he had any connections at Strawberry TV.

Mr. Wang had been in the industry for years. Forget Strawberry TV—he had contacts in even the top-tier networks (though whether those contacts held any real influence was another matter).

Naturally, he asked Sheng Quan what this was about.

She replied nonchalantly, **"Nothing major. There’s a show I’m interested in, and I was hoping you could help me get a ticket."**

Getting a ticket was such a trivial matter—why involve someone of his caliber?

But if Sheng Quan wanted him to be the middleman, he’d be insane to refuse. He immediately assured her, **"Leave it to me, no problem at all,"** and promptly called his contact at Strawberry TV.

This contact happened to be a deputy station director, who readily agreed to the ticket request but couldn’t help asking, **"This show’s production team is a disaster—even our own network barely pays attention to it. Who’s this for?"**

Even if he hadn’t asked, Mr. Wang would’ve volunteered the information. Sheng Quan could’ve easily gotten a ticket through anyone else—the fact that she’d approached him meant she wanted her name dropped.

The moment he mentioned **"Sheng Quan,"** the deputy director’s expression shifted. **"You mean the one making waves lately?"**

Big networks might not care much about Sheng Quan—her wealth didn’t affect them—but for struggling small stations like Strawberry TV, it was a different story.

Mr. Wang proceeded to sing her praises (while also subtly emphasizing his own close ties to her, mentioning how she’d even sold him an entire floor at a steep discount).

Finally, he wrapped up: **"She’s still young, after all—probably just enjoys these youth-oriented shows. Since she asked me personally, do me a favor and give her the best seat in the house."**

The deputy director was more than happy to oblige.

After hanging up, he mulled it over and decided this was too big an opportunity to waste. Pulling out his phone, he searched for the obscure talent show’s name alongside Sheng Quan’s—and sure enough, discussions were already popping up.

He sat silently, staring at the screenshots, lost in thought.

A few minutes later, he switched to his contacts and made another call: **"Station chief, it’s me…"**

That same night, the hashtag **#ShengQuanSaysTooLateSoSingingWithYouMovesUpFiveHours** trended.

Accompanying it was an official post from Strawberry TV, where a staff member cheekily added:

**[If 8 PM is still too late for Sheng Quan, we can adjust it even earlier.]**

Watching the hashtag climb, Sheng Quan remarked to Gu Zhao (now freed from IV drips and able to work with both hands), **"Strawberry TV knows how to seize an opportunity."**

Gu Zhao wasn’t surprised. **"If they don’t fight now, they’ll collapse for sure."**

Sheng Quan: **"I expected them to play along, but not this enthusiastically. They’re willing to make themselves the supporting act just to prop me up. Sharp operators, aren’t they?"**

**"If they’re going to cooperate, they might as well go all in. At this point, if you said you fancied someone at the network, they’d probably wrap that person in a gift box with a bow and deliver them to your doorstep."**

Gu Zhao’s tone remained as calm and robotic as ever, even as he said something utterly outrageous:

**"Naturally, if you ever had such a desire, I’d ensure it was fulfilled."**

Sheng Quan choked. Did everyone in this industry have the same problem? Yu Xiangwan was like this, and now Gu Zhao too.

Honestly, given their personalities, if she ever joked about wanting *them*, she half-expected they’d voluntarily climb into gift boxes themselves.

Gu Zhao might not be certain, but Yu Xiangwan definitely would—that guy would probably even tie a ceremonious little bow on the box.

Good thing her resolve was firm, or she might have fallen into corruption.

Chairman Sheng took a moment to steady himself, then stood up and stretched. "I’m going to watch the talent show tomorrow. The company’s in your hands."

"Everyone says I’m extravagant—well, it’s about time I showed them just how extravagant I can be."