Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

**Voting in the Semifinals**

Sheng Quan didn’t cast a single vote, yet Jin Jiu’s tally remained firmly at the top of the leaderboard.

His story made it impossible not to root for him, his looks drew in legions of fans smitten by his visuals, and most importantly—his voice was ethereal, standing out like a dream amid the competition. Even those watching remotely through live broadcasts couldn’t resist pouring their votes his way.

Jin Jiu watched the numbers climb rapidly, his gaze sweeping over the sea of twinkling lights from the audience. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, all he did was bow deeply, the corners of his eyes reddening.

That bow ignited the crowd’s fervor. Fans raised their light boards higher, screaming his name with all their might.

**"Go, Jin Jiu!"**

**"Jin Jiu, you’ve got this!!!"**

The live chat exploded with similar cheers:

**[Jin Jiu, fighting!]**

**[Even my mom said he sounds amazing. Ugh, he should’ve blown up seven years ago.]**

**[Seriously, so good. Can’t even imagine how stunning his voice was before his throat was injured.]**

**[Seven years… seven whole years wasted.]**

**[Keep going! We’re here for your voice!]**

Sheng Quan smiled as she watched Jin Jiu finally claim the recognition he’d always deserved.

Jin Jiu glanced her way again, his eyes shining—no longer hollow but brimming with joy and excitement. There was a hint of disbelief in his gaze, a cautious hesitation, as if silently asking Sheng Quan: *Can I really have this?*

*…Can I really be loved like this?*

When their eyes met, Sheng Quan lifted her light board. Though her voice was lost in the roar of the crowd, her lips formed the words clearly enough:

**"Jin Jiu, you’ve got this!!!"**

And then, the man on stage broke into a grin—small, but bright enough to reveal a glimpse of sharp canines.

That moment, surreal in its beauty, later became one of the most iconic images in the industry.

---

**After the semifinals**, all contestants boarded a bus back to the training base for a week of preparation before the finals.

Jin Jiu sat beside An Baixing, a glittering headband reading **"Go, Jin Jiu!"** perched atop his head—snagged from the stage after an overexcited fan had thrown it up. He’d meant to just carry it, but An Baixing had insisted on putting it on him, and Jin Jiu hadn’t resisted.

From the moment they boarded, Jin Jiu kept sneaking touches to the headband, as if reassuring himself it was real.

An Baixing, meanwhile, hadn’t stopped talking since they’d gotten on the bus. Even though Jin Jiu was the one who’d taken first place, An Baixing acted like *he* was the winner, chattering nonstop:

**"You have so many fans! Okay, sure, mine aren’t as many as yours, but there were still at least twenty screaming my name when I sang. Guess our performances in the preliminaries really pulled in some attention, huh? After this show, we’re gonna be *stars*!"**

**"Man, once I’m famous, I’m holding concerts. Sing a few songs, then just vibe with the crowd. Oh! Hey, we should team up! You handle the vocals, I’ll work the crowd. Unstoppable duo—wait, huh?"**

The self-proclaimed "little songbird of Sheng Quan" finally shut his mouth when he realized Jin Jiu had dozed off against his shoulder.

Awake, Jin Jiu often came off as aloof—An Baixing had joked more than once that he was like a "shut-in mushroom." But asleep, with exhaustion softening his delicate, pale features and the faintest smile on his lips, An Baixing suddenly remembered: *This guy’s only 23.*

A year younger than *him*.

The realization that he was technically the "older brother" here made An Baixing pause. Instead of shoving Jin Jiu away, he carefully draped his jacket over him, turning the sleeping singer into a "blanket-wrapped mushroom."

Amused by his own metaphor, An Baixing leaned back, happily daydreaming about his future stardom—until, still propped against Jin Jiu, he too drifted off.

---

**Jin Jiu dreamed.**

In the dream, he saw someone who looked like him… but also didn’t.

The man was at least fifty, his hair stark white, wrinkles carving deep lines into his face. Yet even aged, he carried a worn charm—except for his eyes.

Empty.

Like a corpse puppeting its own body.

**"Why?"** the man murmured, voice hollow. **"I got everything I wanted. So why am I still… not happy?"**

The room was silent as a morgue. Tablets and bottles of medication covered the desk, a pharmacy’s worth of psychiatric drugs. Jin Jiu recognized them; he took similar ones now, though his own treatment was going better thanks to his cooperation.

The man sat motionless for a long moment before standing, grabbing pen and paper, and scribbling something down.

He seemed used to talking to himself. Walking to the balcony, he peered down—then laughed, soft and broken.

**"Good. At least here… I won’t hit anyone. Won’t be a burden."**

He slowly climbed onto the railing, the height below seemingly inconsequential to him. Sitting atop it, he tilted his head back to gaze at the pitch-black sky and murmured to himself:

"It's so dark."

The sound of the door being rammed echoed from outside, along with muffled shouts, but he could no longer hear them.

Staring into the dark sky, he released his grip and fell backward.

Jin Jiu desperately reached out to grab him but only saw the look of relief in the eyes of the falling figure.

In that instant, time seemed to freeze.

The falling man saw Jin Jiu.

He seemed startled, his lips parting as if he wanted to ask something—or perhaps, in that fleeting moment, he understood everything.

The fan headband on Jin Jiu’s head slipped off, and the falling man caught it, clutching it protectively against his chest.

Holding the headband, he smiled, finally at peace.

—**Thud!**

The door burst open. A man with streaks of gray at his temples rushed in with security in tow, brushing past Jin Jiu before leaning desperately over the railing.

—**"Jin Jiu!!!"**

—**"Hurry! Call an ambulance!! Now!!"**

Hearing his name, Jin Jiu froze. He stood there in a daze, staring at the man in his forties or fifties, puzzled by the familiarity of his features.

"An… Baixing?"

—**"Right here!!"**

Jin Jiu slowly opened his eyes, untangling himself from his jacket, only to see An Baixing beside him, grinning smugly:

"I *told* you my charm is irresistible. You were dreaming about me, even saying my name in your sleep! So? Did you dream I became a superstar? C’mon, spill—what did you see?"

Jin Jiu wanted to tell him about the dream but found he could barely remember it.

The only thing that came to mind was: "In the dream… we were friends?"

**"WHAT?!!"**

An Baixing nearly shredded his vocal cords:

"What kind of nonsense is that?! Are we *not* friends now?! We share beds, fight side by side—'a hundred years to cross the river together, a thousand to share a pillow'! *I* put this headband on you! And when your fang fell out, *I* glued it back on!!"

After his rapid-fire rant, he magnanimously "forgave" Jin Jiu’s slip-up:

"Alright, I’ll let it slide this time. Now, tell me—are we friends or not?"

Jin Jiu hadn’t been close to anyone in a long time. Uncomfortable, he shrank deeper into his jacket, looking like a little mushroom again.

His voice was soft but firm: "Yes."

"Exactly! I *knew* no one could resist me." Satisfied, An Baixing slung an arm around Jin Jiu’s shoulders. "From now on, you stick with me. Sure, you’re in first place, but my votes aren’t far behind. Who knows? Maybe I’ll pull off an upset in the finals."

An Baixing had every right to be confident. Even the show’s director, Zhou Weigang, marveled at his luck.

They’d launched an obscure little talent show, only to reel in a big fish like Sheng Quan.

The contestants, initially so unknown they’d barely scraped together eighty participants, turned out to be full of surprises—over a dozen showed real promise, with at least five standing out as exceptional.

Jin Jiu was the undisputed top performer, but among the other four, only one had joined as a favor. The rest? Pure gold.

An Baixing was one of them. He’d coasted through the preliminaries but exploded during the show’s intensive training—thanks partly to the upgraded mentors after the program gained traction.

Though only the live performances aired, the team was already planning post-show edits.

This was the new norm in cutthroat entertainment: use live broadcasts to test the waters, then expand the recorded versions with behind-the-scenes footage—training montages, rivalries, friendships, staged games for drama.

*Sing With You*’s budget had skyrocketed, yet no one at Strawberry TV complained.

Its commercial value had far surpassed costs. After the preliminaries, advertisers flooded in; the semifinals brought even more deep-pocketed sponsors. By the finals? The frenzy would be unstoppable.

But profits were secondary. What mattered was reviving the once-stagnant network.

While many factors contributed to Strawberry TV’s turnaround, even the station head admitted: **"We owe it all to Sheng Quan."**

Currently, it seems like the benefits are overwhelmingly skewed in their favor, with Sheng Quan’s biggest gain merely being the rise to fame of Jin Jiu.

Perhaps she herself doesn’t mind, but Strawberry TV takes it very seriously.

In a partnership, how can only one side reap the rewards? Only when Sheng Quan also secures substantial benefits can the two parties logically remain tied to the same ship.

As for nonsense like, "Well, we got our share, so who cares if she got hers?"—uttering such words would only earn a furious scolding from the station head. Not only does Sheng Quan have the power to lift them up and the means to knock them down, but behaving this way would also deter future collaborators.

With this clear understanding, it’s no exaggeration to say that if Sheng Quan makes a request, the entire Strawberry TV would go all out to fulfill it.

As a result, with the finals approaching, Zhou Weigang temporarily set aside all other tasks to focus on just one matter:

"Has the submitted quota approval come through yet?"

The staff member in charge of the application promptly replied:

"It’s been approved—at the highest level."

"That’s good."

Zhou Weigang breathed a sigh of relief. This had actually been their oversight. Earlier, because *Sing with You* was so unpopular, they hadn’t applied for a high voting quota, fearing the broadcasting authority wouldn’t approve it.

His caution had been reasonable—after all, for a small, struggling talent show, requesting a high quota might raise suspicions of money laundering.

But who could’ve predicted this underdog program would skyrocket to fame overnight?

The result was the now-viral joke: "Chairman Sheng wanted to vote but could only top up 100,000."

Fortunately, netizens were treating it as a meme rather than blaming the production team for poor planning. Even Sheng Quan, though exasperated at the time, didn’t give them a hard time—she simply asked them to secure the highest approval as soon as possible.

Zhou Weigang wasn’t worried about the approval. With *Sing with You*’s soaring popularity and all voting proceeds going to charity, the broadcasting authority would be insane not to approve it.

Beaming, he said to his friend, "Just the preliminary and semifinal rounds have already surpassed 20 million in total votes. By the finals, we could easily break 50 million."

Not a penny of that money would end up in his pocket, but the success of this show guaranteed a bright future for him—and, in fact, the entire production team.

His friend was none other than Yu Hongdou, originally brought in to lend the show some star power.

Yu Hongdou had her own fanbase and was only there as a favor to Zhou Weigang, using her influence to draw viewers. But fate had other plans—the struggling show suddenly became a sensation.

Not only did she no longer need to help attract an audience, but she also ended up benefiting from the spotlight. With her genuine talent, two rounds of performances had earned her a flood of new fans, and now she, too, was glowing with excitement:

"More than that. *Sing with You* has become *the* stage for visibility. Mark my words—what we’ve seen so far is just the warm-up. By the finals, plenty will be willing to spend big for fame."

"True, this is a golden opportunity to shine," Zhou Weigang conceded. Their show’s charitable angle had started as a unique feature, but now that it was a hit, the collision of popularity and philanthropy changed everything.

Celebrity philanthropy was always a hot topic. While donations usually capped at a million or two, this stage was different.

Yu Hongdou predicted, "Someone will definitely donate over 10 million."

"It’s not just about fame. A huge donation would make both the voter and the contestant the center of attention. Ma Wei’s backers at Wansheng won’t miss this chance."

"By funneling major funds to Ma Wei, he’d instantly shoot to the top of the rankings, gaining a surge in popularity, while the donor would steal the spotlight. A few well-placed media pieces, and it’s a win-win."

Zhou Weigang mentally reviewed the remaining contestants:

"Then there’s Geng Xiangqian. During the semifinals, he held up An Baixing’s light board—trying to position himself as a ‘senior stan.’ The old man’s pushing eighty but still knows how to chase clout."

Unfortunately, An Baixing, his chosen "hype target," hadn’t even noticed him. When it was his turn, An had cheerfully waved to the audience without the expected "humbled and tearful" reaction, leaving Geng Xiangqian’s name barely mentioned.

Zhou Weigang suspected the few posts about "Even Elder Geng loves An Baixing!" were bought bots.

The more he thought about it, the more his head ached. "When the show was flopping, no one remembered our network. Now that it’s a hit, everyone’s crawling out of the woodwork."

"If they steal Chairman Sheng's spotlight, our station director will probably have a heart attack. Right now, he’s dead set on currying favor with Chairman Sheng—no, I mean, on securing a long-term, stable partnership."

Yu Hongdou burst out laughing at her friend’s bluntness. "You and your habit of always telling it like it is. But honestly, it’s refreshing. Now that *Sing with You* is a hit, even if you never learn to sugarcoat things, you won’t be sidelined again."

She also hoped Sheng Quan wouldn’t come out on the losing end. After all, Sheng Quan was the one who single-handedly propelled *Sing with You* to success, making her something of a benefactor:

"Look on the bright side. Chairman Sheng owns Huaxing, so her liquidity must be solid. I’ve never met her personally, but it’s clear she knows what she’s doing. She wouldn’t let anyone else pluck the fruit from a tree she planted herself."

Sheng Quan was indeed plucking fruit—literally.

But it was at a countryside orchard, where she and Ming Qi were straining on tiptoe to reach the high-hanging ones, their faces lighting up with triumph whenever they succeeded.

Yuan Zixin: "…"

There were perfectly ripe, low-hanging fruits right beside them. He couldn’t fathom why they insisted on making things difficult for themselves.

"A little challenge makes it fun," Sheng Quan said, emerging from the orchard with Ming Qi. She took the documents Yuan Zixin handed her, skimmed through them, and signed with satisfaction. "Good. Let’s proceed with this plan. Has *The Crane’s Blooming Years* finalized its premiere date yet?"

"Yes, next month. They’re pushing for it before students go back to school, so they’re cutting it close."

"No worries. With Mr. Wang’s shrewd oversight, nothing will go wrong." Sheng Quan accepted a tissue from the driver, wiped the peach in her hand, and took a crisp bite. "Mmm! Delicious."

Yuan Zixin reported his latest findings: "Wansheng has assembled an analytics team specifically to predict how many votes you’ll allocate during *Sing with You*’s finals."

"An analytics team?" Sheng Quan nearly laughed. "I’ve heard of analysts for business negotiations, but never for charitable donations."

In the entertainment industry, celebrities’ donations usually followed a rough benchmark. If Wansheng really wanted to one-up her, their best bet would be to announce an astronomically high figure outright.

But forming an analytics team? That reeked of a cheap tactic—just barely edging her out, like donating 32 million if she donated 30.

She could understand wanting to ride her coattails for clout, but Wansheng wanted all the glory without paying the price. Since when did the world work that way?

No wonder Gu Zhao always looked at Wansheng like it was "destined for bankruptcy."

Yuan Zixin, however, thought Wansheng’s stingy approach might actually work.

"This team might actually nail your liquidity range. Should we prepare countermeasures?"

"Don’t bother. Let them play their games. I’m curious to see what conclusions they’ll draw."

Sheng Quan wasn’t being overconfident. She wasn’t some greenhorn—company assets and liquid cash were two entirely different things. If Wansheng had 100 million in liquidity, she’d stand on her head and wash Gu Zhao’s hair.

Even if, by some miracle, they *did* have that much, they’d never pour it all into charity.

Especially since she had Gu Zhao, her "inside man" at Wansheng, who confirmed that even if the top brass dipped into personal funds, they’d scrape together 40 million at most.

Forty million was nothing to scoff at, but Sheng Quan had *100 million* ready to go.

These would-be fruit thieves were only paving her path to victory.

When she got into the car, she found a bag of freshly picked peaches waiting in the back seat.

Yu Xiangwan wasn’t around—this was her executive assistant’s doing.

Unlike the overworked company secretary, the assistant’s role was simpler: manage documents, track schedules, arrange meetings, and… buy the peaches the chairman had praised earlier.

Sheng Quan didn’t *need* an assistant, but since Gu Zhao had sent one over, she might as well enjoy the convenience.

After all, even with Gu Zhao as her all-capable CEO, she couldn’t just laze around all day. Major corporate decisions and key document sign-offs still fell to her, and an assistant streamlined everything.

Her time in Xinan hadn’t been all leisure, either. After the orchard outing, she returned to her hotel and plunged straight into a sea of books:

*Corporate Transformation and Management Innovation*

*China’s Talent Strategy*

*Macroeconomics*

Some were Mr. Wang’s recommendations, others Gu Zhao’s. Some were Chinese, others foreign—altogether, the stack was formidable.

Xinan wasn’t a bustling city, with limited entertainment options, which made it perfect for focused study.

As that analytical genius from the preliminaries had rightly said:

*A wealthy person’s time is precious.*

The show and other matters didn’t require her attention—her company’s professional team naturally handled everything, analyzing the current situation for her. Her time was spent managing the company, indulging in leisure, and most importantly, improving herself.

To be honest, reading was exhausting, especially books outside her field. For the first hour, Sheng Quan felt like banging her head against the wall in frustration. But after pushing through the first ninety minutes, she gradually found some enjoyment in it.

006 couldn’t understand why its host insisted on forcing herself to slog through every word when it was clearly so difficult for her.

【As long as you keep completing tasks, you’ll never run out of money.】

It boasted about its exceptional money-making skills.

【I know,】 Sheng Quan took another bite of a peach, as if hoping the fruit would somehow absorb the knowledge into her system. 【But since you’ve given me this wealth, I have to manage it properly.】

【Not just manage it—I need to make it grow, then use that growth to generate even more. That process alone is meaningful.】

A business-minded person is never satisfied with the status quo.

The key difference was, in the past, her hard work and studies only enriched her bosses. Now that she was the boss herself, her attitude toward learning had completely changed.

After two and a half hours of reading, Sheng Quan set the book aside to stretch. Just then, her assistant knocked on the door:

“Chairwoman, your dance instructor has arrived.”

While others were busy analyzing and speculating about how much money she could possibly spend, Sheng Quan happily spent an hour dancing.

After her dance session, she took a half-hour break before jumping into a video conference.

Once the meeting ended, she checked the time—6 p.m. sharp. Dinner, followed by a relaxing bath while catching up on dramas and skincare. By 10 p.m., Chairwoman Sheng was nestled in her luxurious bed, drifting off into a peaceful sleep.

Meanwhile, in faraway Shanghai, an analysis team that had been debating intensely all afternoon and late into the night finally reached a preliminary conclusion:

“At most, she can only spend 35 million.”

In Xinan, on a hotel balcony, a once-popular but now slowly fading celebrity was on the phone:

“Two million. As long as it shifts the spotlight back to me, it’ll be worth every penny.”

In the hotel room next door, another call was being made:

“Sheng Quan didn’t vote in the semifinals—she’s probably saving it all for the finals. The audience is speculating how much she’ll spend in the last round. From what I’ve heard, at least three people are planning to compete with her. The showdown is going to be explosive!

Don’t worry, I paid top dollar for a prime seat. I’ll capture Sheng Quan’s entire voting process live. The total votes have already surpassed 20 million. If they go all out in the finals and push it past 100 million, this show will blow up! We’ll be the first to break the news. Oh, and remember to reimburse me for the ticket…”

In a room below hers, an influencer was anxiously analyzing the seating chart:

“From this angle, I can get Sheng Quan’s side profile. That spot gives me a front view, but only for a second. And since we can’t move around during the last five minutes of voting, what’s the point of shooting her back? Fine, I’ll stick to the side view.”

That night, countless people lost sleep over her, and countless more had her on their minds.

Yet the very subject of their obsession slept soundly.

Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, gently rousing her awake.

Sheng Quan slowly opened her eyes, sat up, and stretched.

Early to bed, early to rise—pure bliss.

After checking her increasingly radiant complexion in the mirror, she began her morning routine with satisfaction.

After nearly a month of buildup, today was finally the day to reel in the net.

And she wasn’t the only one looking forward to it—online spectators were buzzing with excitement.

The moment the livestream began, a flood of comments poured in:

【I’m here, I’m here!】

【Support Jin Jiu!!】

【Yu Hongdou forever!】

【Where’s Chairwoman Sheng? Her beauty is unmatched!】

【An Baixing An Baixing An Baixing!】

【Look at all the gorgeous people around Sheng Quan—who do I even envy first?】

【Hostess girl’s back! Come here, let me kiss you!】

Only eight contestants remained in the finals.

They would perform in reverse order of their current rankings, meaning Jin Jiu, who was in first place, would take the stage last.

During the performances of the eighth and seventh-place contestants, the audience didn’t notice anything unusual.

But when the sixth-place contestant appeared, and their votes suddenly skyrocketed from five million to fifteen million, shock rippled through the crowd.

【Holy—check the leaderboard! That 10 million came from a single account!】

【Isn’t that that guy?!】

【Damn, 10 million. Just like that.】

【Absolute madman, respect.】

Then they realized—they hadn’t seen anything yet.

As the contestants took the stage one after another, the leaderboard was dominated by big spenders.

Ten million. Twenty million. Twenty-five million.

And these weren’t anonymous donors—they were well-known figures, from industry veterans to celebrities, all suddenly radiating an overwhelming passion for charity. Every one of them seemed to be shouting, “I will contribute to this noble cause!”

Until Ma Wei made his appearance, the vote count was suddenly skyrocketed to forty million, courtesy of Hua Qing from the same company.

The faces of the previously enthusiastic voters instantly darkened.

The artist beside Hua Qing smiled politely and muttered under her breath, "You really don’t want to let anyone else play, do you? Forty million—how could you even afford that?"

Hua Qing flashed a perfectly rehearsed smile, her voice barely audible through gritted teeth:

"I don’t have that kind of money. It’s the company’s."

Her fellow artist clapped along with the crowd, continuing their hushed exchange:

"Well, your company just made a fierce enemy of Xing Mang. I wonder if Chairman Sheng will counter with an even bigger move."

She doubted Sheng Quan would actually spend forty million. After all, it was cold hard cash, poured into charity—no matter how symbolic the gesture, it was still just money thrown at making a statement.

Wan Sheng’s preemptive strike with forty million was likely meant to pressure Sheng Quan into backing down.

Since Sheng Quan hadn’t started voting yet, there was no sunk cost on her part. She could easily walk away without a fight.

That was the logical conclusion, but the audience—fake as they were—couldn’t help but glance subtly in Sheng Quan’s direction.

She didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the forty million. She smiled, clapping along, even tilting her head to accept a small bite of cake from Ming Qi.

A creeping unease settled in Hua Qing’s chest. Though it wasn’t Jin Jiu’s turn yet, she already sensed that the company’s carefully laid plans weren’t going to unfold as intended.

Maybe it was time to jump ship. Wan Sheng was clearly declining, and the two big bosses were letting their personal grudges against Director Gu bleed into business matters. Mixing personal vendettas with work? That was a disaster waiting to happen.

Her thoughts were still racing when Jin Jiu took the stage.

He looked nothing like the contestant from the preliminary rounds. If the semifinals had been his first glow-up, now, standing under the spotlight, he practically radiated brilliance.

How much of it was the lighting technician’s doing was anyone’s guess, but when his siren-like voice filled the air, even Hua Qing had to admit—he was undeniably talented.

Natural talent wasn’t scary. What was terrifying was someone like Jin Jiu, whose gift had been crushed, only for him to rebuild it from scratch. Anyone could see his potential, and no wonder Sheng Quan was personally backing him.

—Yeah, definitely time to switch companies.

Jin Jiu’s votes soared, quickly surpassing thirty million. And these were purely fan votes—proof of just how many supporters he’d won over in three rounds.

All of it, meticulously crafted by Sheng Quan’s influence.

Eyes instinctively turned to Sheng Quan. Even the cameras couldn’t resist panning toward her.

Under the weight of the crowd’s gaze, she tapped the voting panel.

On the giant screen, Jin Jiu’s numbers skyrocketed.

The internet erupted. Paparazzi sneaking photos nearly toppled out of their seats. The livestream chat exploded with screaming caps-lock reactions. The director blinked hard, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks. The station manager lunged toward the backstage monitor.

The hostess stared up at the voting display, her heart threatening to burst.

On the official program website, Sheng Quan’s username leapt to the top of the finals leaderboard, displayed boldly for all to see:

**[Victory Secured: 100 million votes]**