Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

The next day, Sheng Quan boarded a plane again.

The driver—referred to as "Big Brother" by those around her—remained by her side as usual.

For the most part, he was a man of few words, and it was unclear whether by design or coincidence, his presence was often so subtle that one might barely notice him. After observing him for a while, Sheng Quan concluded that this was intentional. No matter where she went or what she did, his positioning was always calculated—both to remain inconspicuous and to ensure he could step in swiftly if danger arose.

Admittedly, after "flaunting her wealth," having a silent but highly capable bodyguard was one of the reasons she felt at ease traveling so freely.

Take this moment, for instance. The driver sat in the outermost seat, and every time a flight attendant approached, though his body remained still, Sheng Quan could sense the immediate tension in his muscles.

He had definitely served in the military.

Even on a plane, faced with a friendly and beautiful flight attendant, his vigilance never wavered. It wasn’t paranoia—just absolute professionalism when it came to her safety.

If Sheng Quan could sense it, the flight attendant certainly could too. Those who flew frequently encountered all kinds of passengers, and the moment the two boarded, she’d pegged him as a bodyguard.

Domestic bosses who traveled with bodyguards were rare. After all, society was peaceful, and surveillance cameras were everywhere. Unless someone’s wealth reached an extraordinary level, most would only bring assistants or subordinates on trips.

But flying with a bodyguard—one who looked exceptionally skilled at that—confirmed the rumors: Sheng Quan was every bit as extravagant as the internet claimed.

The flight attendant kept her thoughts to herself, maintaining a neutral expression, though she exchanged meaningful glances with her colleagues once she stepped away.

They’d noticed Sheng Quan the moment she boarded.

After all, the trending hashtag [#StrawberryTVMovesTalentShowFiveHoursEarlierAfterShengQuansComment] was currently blowing up online. In this digital age, who didn’t browse the web? At first, they’d wondered if it was just a case of shared names.

But once she stepped onto the plane, all doubts vanished. This was undoubtedly *the* Sheng Quan.

Her age, appearance, city of origin, and the "bodyguard" beside her—this was the young tycoon, no question.

Judging by their observations, she might even be wealthier than the rumors suggested. After all, the bodyguard exuded a level of professionalism that spoke volumes. So, was she flying to Xinan to attend that show, *Your Voice Awaits*?

Unbeknownst to her, the flight attendants were discreetly speculating about just how rich she was. Not that it mattered—Sheng Quan *was* wealthy, though strictly in the digital realm.

After the task was issued, she’d experimented. Online banking? No. Digital purchases? Also a no. This billion yuan could only be spent through forms of virtual currency that mainstream society didn’t recognize.

For example, if she tried to use online banking to shop, the cashier would politely direct her to scan a QR code. But if she attempted to pay with livestreaming tokens or voting credits from a talent show? The staff would still smile—before dialing the police or calling a psychiatric hospital to haul her away.

This billion was strictly confined to "currency the public doesn’t acknowledge."

Of course, dumping it all into livestreaming platforms was out of the question. Not that it was impossible—*Starlight* had plenty of characters, and sifting through livestreamers to find a few with decent moral values wouldn’t be hard.

But the real issue was that while splurging a billion might feel exhilarating, it wouldn’t maximize the money’s potential. Once spent, it’d be gone—adding nothing but another layer to her already "extravagant" image.

*Your Voice Awaits*, however, was different.

For one, Strawberry TV might be fading, but it was still a nationally accessible network. Second, the show leaned toward philanthropy. Investing this billion here struck the perfect balance—practical and socially impactful.

That said, this wasn’t her only option. With money in hand, she could do anything. Supporting Jin Jiu didn’t *have* to happen through this show alone.

True, she couldn’t spend this billion on herself—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t leverage it for other gains, whether for herself or her company.

Take, for instance, securing an entire network’s resources.

***

Strawberry TV seized Sheng Quan’s olive branch at lightning speed, moving so smoothly it was as if they feared someone might snatch it away.

They weren’t a provincial-level broadcaster. Though they’d enjoyed a brief golden age, the rise of digital entertainment had left their ratings in steady decline.

If this continued, they’d either be absorbed by rival networks or fade into obscurity.

No one wanted that—especially not for a station that had once thrived. So when the deputy director pitched the strategy upstairs, the station head didn’t hesitate long before approving.

Call it publicity stunting. Call it clinging to a lifeline.

As for whether a legacy station groveling before a young woman like Sheng Quan was undignified? When your ratings are in freefall, pride is a luxury you can’t afford.

For the higher-ups, this was a gamble—a chance to turn a bicycle into a motorcycle.

But for the *Your Voice Awaits* production team, it was like a miracle falling straight from the heavens.

As mentioned before, *Your Voice Awaits* had never been a priority for the network. Getting it approved had been a battle, and the budget was laughably small—with an ungodly 1:00 a.m. timeslot to boot.

In this hyper-competitive industry, talent shows were almost always livestreamed, giving audiences a sense of real-time participation. But who would tune in at *1:00 a.m.*?

At that hour, not only would the contestants be exhausted, but the judges and even the audience would struggle to stay awake. Picture this: a singer pouring their heart out onstage while the judges nod along—and the crowd snores in the background.

But complaints were pointless. The market was saturated with similar shows. Strawberry TV alone was airing *four* competing talent programs at the same time.

The others had hefty budgets, top-tier production, and famous judges. What did *Your Voice Awaits* have? A makeup artist who turned contestants into pirates?

The poor show had no choice but to endure its cursed timeslot, clinging to the faint hope that *maybe*, against all odds, it would strike gold.

And then—it actually *did*.

Suddenly, the show was flooded with online attention, and in an unprecedented move, its airtime was shifted *five hours earlier* to the prime 8:00 p.m. slot. What kind of divine luck was this?

All because of a single sentence from Sheng Quan.

The producer knew full well the network had ulterior motives—but that didn’t stop him from wanting to enshrine her in gold and light incense in her honor every day.

Although the sudden rescheduling of the program threw the original timeline into chaos—notifying mentors, contestants, and audiences alone was enough to make everyone's heads spin—the entire team was buzzing with excitement amid the frenzy.

Especially since the online hype around this incident continued to grow.

Strawberry TV might have been on its last legs, but the general public didn’t know that. To them, this was proof of Sheng Quan’s immense influence—so much so that a major network would shift its programming just to please her.

Posts and tweets speculating about her identity multiplied overnight. Some estimated her net worth to be in the hundreds of billions based on her ownership of Huaxing Building. Others theorized she belonged to a powerful family, and a few even insisted she was royalty from some small country.

The last theory was so outlandish that it was universally dismissed as a joke.

**BigRascal:** *"Let’s be real, even the king of a small country probably isn’t as rich as Sheng Quan."*

**WaterLover:** *"True. Small countries aren’t as wealthy as people think—apart from a few exceptions, most don’t have much national capital to begin with."*

**FishTastesGreat:** *"Just Huaxing Building alone is enough to outshine them all."*

**KiwiDreamer:** *"By the way, is anyone watching 'Sing for You' tonight?"*

**NameChangerDaily:** *"Already camped in front of the TV, waiting for 8 PM."*

No wonder the production team was electrified—Sheng Quan wasn’t a celebrity, but she might as well have been. Her influence was staggering. When she expressed love for *The Road of Life*, the original novel was flooded with new readers and gifts.

When she invested in a drama, audiences lined up to watch it before filming even wrapped.

When she plucked Yan Hui from his food stall, he became an overnight sensation as the "handsome pancake guy"—without a single acting credit to his name.

After news broke of her purchasing Huaxing Building, *The Road of Life* cast saw their popularity skyrocket all over again.

Marketing accounts adored the wealthy book fan, Ms. Sheng. Despite never appearing in public, she single-handedly fueled countless video channels and blogs.

If Sheng Quan actually showed up at *Sing for You*, wouldn’t this be her first public appearance?

To say tickets for *Sing for You* had become priceless wouldn’t be an exaggeration.

Anyone with free time wanted in on the action, and aspiring artists or influencers hoping to become the "next Yan Hui" scrambled for tickets. After all, the internet had already pieced together Yan Hui’s lavish treatment—though his contract details remained secret, everyone knew his agency had assigned him three personal assistants.

Even his cameo in *Crane Blossom* had been dug up by netizens.

*The Road of Life* wasn’t even finished, yet he’d already landed a role in another well-funded production—such generous resources made green with envy.

Everyone knew Starlight Entertainment had only signed Yan Hui so far, meaning the company’s entire roster of opportunities was his alone. The idea of being the second, third, or even fourth signing? Irresistible.

*Sing for You*’s audience seats went from "nobody wanted them even for free" to "impossible to get." Many netizens complained about the swarm of spectators making tickets scarce, while contestants’ friends and family reported offers to buy their spots at exorbitant prices.

Insiders chimed in under pseudonyms:

**MetaphysicsFail:** *"Of course tickets are impossible to get. It’s not just curious onlookers—industry people are the ones really desperate for them."*

**PeaPod:** *"From what I’ve heard, a lot of folks are pulling strings at Strawberry TV—some want seats near Sheng Quan, others are begging producers to sneak them into the contestant lineup."*

**VioletEyes:** *"Not just small-time artists, either. A friend in production told me directors hunting for investors are also after tickets. If they can secure Sheng Quan’s backing, they’ll get both funding and fame."*

**BornHandsome:** *"I know at least two rookie idols whose agencies dressed them up to mimic Yan Hui’s style before seating them in the audience. I won’t spell out what they’re after—you can guess (laughs)."*

These insider scoops were met with enthusiastic responses.

**EmmaGrillMaster:** *"LMAOOOOO is this the ‘stand-in strategy’?!"*

**NoseHairRomance:** *"Copying Yan Hui’s whole aesthetic is next-level hilarious."*

**FakeNapQueen:** *"I watch shows for the stars, while stars watch shows hoping *she* notices *them*… is this the difference between me and the elite?"*

**XuJi:** *"Am I the only one jealous of the ticket holders? I wanna see Sheng Quan in person too (cries)."*

**PureSongFan:** *"So… 'Sing for You' is basically an audience-seat casting call now?"*

**LazyRoll:** *"Don’t forget the contestants trying to weasel their way in. This isn’t just about the audience."*

**TruthLovesCandy:** *"Okay, I was gonna skip this and go out tonight, but now I *have* to watch this circus."*

At this point, *Sing for You*’s actual premise and contestants were irrelevant—everyone just wanted to witness this once-in-a-lifetime spectacle.

Netizens flaunted their tickets online, each post flooded with envy. Influencers, ever pragmatic, leveraged the hype for clout.

Even if they secretly hoped Sheng Quan might "notice" them, their main goal was riding the wave.

Before the show even aired, their follower counts had already surged just from posting about their tickets—even if those followers were only there for behind-the-scenes tea.

Though the audience hadn’t been let in yet, recording clips like *"Waiting to enter, so hyped!"* or *"The rumors were true—look who’s here!"* guaranteed massive engagement.

What started as an offhand remark by Sheng Quan in a book fan group had snowballed into a full-blown cultural moment.

Many predicted this would be the most attractive audience in the show’s history.

While early hype might have been fueled by strategic leaks and mixed truths, once the show became *the* event, fiction turned to fact.

Now, even lesser-known artists were scrambling for tickets. Like influencers, they recognized that Sheng Quan’s presence had transformed *Sing for You* into pure exposure gold.

Just like with *The Road of Life*, even if they never caught her eye, simply appearing in the audience would guarantee scrutiny from the internet’s eagle-eyed sleuths.

In the entertainment world, visibility meant victory.

At three in the afternoon, Sheng Quan stepped off the plane, followed by her driver who wheeled her luggage behind her.

No sooner had she gotten into the car than Yuan Zixin’s call came through:

“Chairman Sheng, *Sing with You* is currently trending at number four on the hot search list.”

“Good.” Sheng Quan took off her sunglasses and leaned against the car window. “What about those actors I asked you about? Have they arrived?”

Yuan Zixin confirmed, “They’re all here, and their seats have been arranged. Ming Qi will be seated next to you. Don’t worry—I handpicked these artists myself. They’re moderately famous, have decent reputations, and their contracts are about to expire, so the company won’t be liable for any termination fees.”

Though she assumed the marketing team had already briefed Chairman Sheng, Yuan Zixin decided to add a reminder:

“If possible, I’d suggest casting as many votes as you can during the show. It *is* a charity program, after all… From what I’ve heard, several artists are planning to donate heavily to grab attention.”

Sheng Quan chuckled. “Relax. Do you really think I’d let someone else steal the spotlight after pushing *Sing with You* to this level?”

Yuan Zixin immediately felt reassured.

After all, Sheng Quan was the one who had single-handedly revived a show so obscure it had been practically nameless, turning it into a nationwide sensation. First, she drew attention to herself, then leveraged Strawberry TV’s eagerness to please for a second wave of hype.

In the third stage, she instructed artists planning to jump ship to Starlight Entertainment to buy seats, mixing truth and rumors so skillfully that the public couldn’t help but buzz about the “talent showcase” and “spotting familiar faces in the audience.”

And now, the final stage—all that hype feeding back into itself.

Whether the public had been interested before was debatable, but now they *definitely* were. Every aspiring celebrity and attention-seeker would claw their way into those audience seats.

And at the center of it all? Sheng Quan.

After hanging up, Yuan Zixin took a deep breath, feeling as though a weight she’d carried for over a decade had finally lifted.

For the nth time, she thought: *This company is going places.*

Their boss had money, brains, and ambition.

She needed to work hard—maybe one day, she could rise to Director Gu’s level!

Yuan Zixin daydreamed happily to herself.

Who knows? Maybe she’d even earn the honor of having “a home in the office.”

The only question now was how much Sheng Quan planned to donate on *Sing with You*. Since others were already scheming, it might come down to a bidding war.

Blending in never made headlines like a grand, show-stopping gesture.

—*Buzz.*

Her phone vibrated twice. A friend had sent over the estimated donation amounts those artists were considering. Yuan Zixin frowned.

*Twenty million?*

The usual charity donations in the industry capped at a few million at most. These people were *really* going all out to steal the show. She could already picture the headlines: *“XX Artist Donates 20 Million! Dominates the Night!”*

She seriously wanted to fly over and kick them.

Yuan Zixin quickly forwarded the figures to Sheng Quan. Though she knew her boss was loaded, she couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy.

After all, this wasn’t like investing in *The Road of Life*, where returns were guaranteed. This was charity—every cent spent would be gone for good.

With some uncertainty, she wondered:

*Would Chairman Sheng… really donate over twenty million?*