Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

When the votes hit ten million, the audience erupted with chants of "666." At twenty million, they cheered, "Insane! Insane!" Thirty million had everyone on their feet, and by forty million, screenshots were already circulating online.

And then, Sheng Quan dropped a hundred million.

The sheer magnitude of the number left everyone stunned.

What does a hundred million even mean?

Stacked in hundred-yuan bills, it’d take a truck to haul it.

Left in a bank, the interest alone could sustain an average family for a lifetime.

If you played the lottery, the top prize might be ten million—so a hundred million meant hitting the jackpot ten times over.

Yet for Sheng Quan, it was just a single tap on the screen.

【AHHHHHHHHHH!!!】

【OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD】

【A HUNDRED MILLION!!!! A HUNDRED MILLION!!!!!】

The audience instantly transformed into a chorus of screaming fans. If they'd been awed by forty million before, now their eyes were glued to that staggering nine-digit figure.

Jin Jiu stood frozen in shock, staring up at the massive screen.

Backstage, An Baixing nearly choked on the peach in his mouth: "Holy—a hundred million? I wouldn’t even dare dream that big."

Director Zhou Weigang clutched the arm of the person next to him, legs wobbling: "A hundred million… This is going viral. Absolutely viral!"

"Right?! A single vote worth a hundred million! I can’t even imagine—this’ll take over the internet!"

"No, it’s more than that!" Zhou Weigang might have struggled in his career, but his instincts were sharp—otherwise, with his mouth, he’d never have lasted this long. His mind raced:

"The platform’s already been cleared for transactions. That money’s going straight to national charities. With Sheng Quan’s donation hitting nine figures, how do you think the state media will cover this?"

His hands trembled with excitement, words tumbling out faster:

"Entertainment shows never get positive coverage from official outlets—it’s always criticism. But if *People’s Daily* or other state media praise us? Our show, our network, will have the government’s stamp of approval. No, wait—"

Zhou Weigang’s gaze locked onto Sheng Quan in the audience. She sat composed, as elegant as ever. Suddenly, it clicked:

"That’s it. She planned this from the start. That hundred million? She always meant to spend it."

A staffer frowned. "From the start? Even fifty million would’ve crushed the competition."

"She didn’t just want to win—she wanted everyone else to look like extras. You know the saying, ‘Better to be the head of a chicken than the tail of a phoenix’? Well, Sheng Quan didn’t even bother with the chicken. She went straight for the phoenix’s crown."

There was admiration in Zhou Weigang’s eyes—and relief.

This wasn’t some underhanded scheme. Sheng Quan’s move was blatant, almost too simple.

She hadn’t stopped others from trying to steal the spotlight because she *knew* no one could outshine her.

Even if someone were reckless enough to bid over a hundred million, who had that kind of liquid cash on hand?

Who’d have thought Sheng Quan had a hundred million ready to burn—and donated it without blinking?

Certainly not the two shareholders of Wan Sheng.

When they saw the livestream clip, neither was drinking, yet they still choked on air:

"Is Sheng Quan insane?! A HUNDRED MILLION?!!"

"She could’ve done anything with that money, and she threw it at some no-name singer?! If she’d just said she liked that type, I’d have sent her ten myself!!"

Frantic, they pulled up the official charity site partnered with *Sing with You*. Sure enough, the donation was there.

They exchanged a glance, mutual despair in their eyes.

No fakery. Sheng Quan had really donated a hundred million.

The urge to cry was overwhelming. *If you were going to donate a hundred million, why didn’t you say so sooner?!*

Their forty million had drained personal accounts and company reserves—all based on the assumption that no one else had significant liquid funds.

Who the hell expected Sheng Quan to pull out a hundred million?!

Their high-stakes gamble had failed instantly, achieving nothing except hastening their already-crumbling company’s downfall.

"Enough," Chen Xuanzheng forced himself to focus. "We need to figure out how to apologize to Sheng Quan."

Someone who could casually donate a hundred million wasn’t someone Wan Sheng—teetering on collapse—could afford to cross.

He Qi knew that, but bitterness still clawed at him: "Will it even matter? Gu Zhao works for her now. Who knows what he’s been saying about us? Just the thought of facing that smug bastard makes my blood boil."

"Or what? Pick a fight with Sheng Quan? You feel like tangling with someone who throws around a hundred million? Is your pride worth *that* much?"

He Qi: "…Point taken. Let’s arrange the apology."

Not once did the thought *"She cost us forty million—this means war!"* cross their minds.

They might have been mediocre CEOs, but they weren’t stupid.

Only an idiot would provoke someone with that kind of cash.

Meanwhile, on the national charity platform, the total donations suddenly spiked.

As mentioned earlier, charity in Starlight Entertainment’s world was tightly regulated. After a nationwide embezzlement scandal, all organizations were required to operate with full transparency—every cent in and out was publicly logged.

This system had its flaws, but it remained in place. Any citizen could check the details of any charity’s transactions.

The benefits were undeniable. Donors could track their contributions to the exact project, fostering trust and encouraging repeat donations—even small ones.

Du Xiuli, a charity worker, took pride in seeing funds reach those in need.

That day, she was reviewing records when a colleague’s hushed-but-excited voice cut through the office:

"One person donated a *hundred million*?!"

Du Xiuli frowned. "Focus on your work."

"Director, look."

The young man hurried over, unable to contain himself—

**Document Translation:**

"The student aid donation platform suddenly received a large donation. During verification, it was discovered that a single individual had contributed 100 million yuan."

Upon hearing this, Du Xiuli was visibly shocked.

Having assets worth over 100 million wasn’t uncommon in China, but donating such an amount in one go—who was this bold figure?

"A talent show?"

"Right, one focused on charity. They’ve coordinated with us before, so the funds were directly deposited. I’ve just confirmed everything—the process was flawless, following all regulations."

The only thing the young man was unsure about was: "A donation this massive could easily be highlighted as a model case. But since the show acted as a third-party intermediary, do we commend the program or the individual?"

Du Xiuli wasn’t certain either.

In all her years of work, this was the first time she’d encountered a single donation of this scale. There wasn’t even a precedent to follow.

She stood up decisively. "I’ll consult the higher-ups. Carry on with your tasks."

100 million yuan.

It would be inexcusable not to recognize it.

While the institution held meetings to discuss this unexpected windfall, Sheng Quan was greeted by a swarm of reporters the moment she stepped out after the show.

Truth be told, the media had tried cornering her twice before, but she’d always slipped away through another exit.

This time, however, she willingly let herself be caught.

It was her first direct interaction with the press.

Prior reports about her had been from paparazzi snapping covert photos, their headlines wildly exaggerated, practically screaming "clickbait":

*"Sheng Quan Embraces Two Men in Luxurious Hot Spring Getaway"*—when in reality, she was simply soaking in the springs while her driver and assistant waited outside.

*"Sheng Quan and Ming Qi Stroll Through Market, Sparking Engagement Rumors"*—the article claimed Ming Qi’s contract was expiring and he’d inevitably join Starlight Entertainment.

*"Sheng Quan’s Jaw-Dropping Luxury Car Stuns Onlookers"*—the photo showed her sipping soy milk in her car while a passerby gawked and snapped a picture.

—She still suspected that "passerby" was just a paparazzo in disguise.

Naturally, the entertainment media was thrilled to finally interview her.

It would’ve been even better if she weren’t shielded by a towering bodyguard who looked like he could take on a whole crowd.

Her assistant had tried stepping in, but his modest height and build rendered him invisible to the eager reporters.

Sheng Quan patted her dutiful driver, who promptly moved aside, revealing his previously obscured boss.

Meanwhile, at Starlight Entertainment, Gu Zhao sat behind his desk, watching Sheng Quan’s composed response to the question, *"Isn’t donating 100 million for votes a bit excessive?"*

"If it were just any show, of course I wouldn’t invest this much. But since every cent goes to charity, I see no issue."

"Yes, I adore Jin Jiu. Initially, I stumbled upon his past performances by chance, but the more I learned about him, the more I admired him. Of course, I’d love for him to join the Starlight Entertainment family—I’ll be discussing that with him soon."

"I also want to thank *The Voice of You*. I’m actually quite frugal—no, really! I’m stingy enough to only add one egg to my jianbing. But this is the first platform I’ve encountered where every penny spent helps underprivileged children. It lets me wholeheartedly support the artists I love, knowing my enthusiasm directly benefits others. That’s truly remarkable."

"Did the show adjust its schedule for me? Haha, would you believe me if I said I had no idea? I only found out through trending topics. Truthfully, I just mentioned I’d attend no matter how late it ran—partly for Jin Jiu, but also because the show’s charitable mission is incredible. Blending entertainment with philanthropy is no small feat."

"It often feels like the public assumes the entertainment industry is all chaos. But I believe great works, artists, and programs can inspire positivity. I hope to see more shows like *The Voice of You*—uplifting, entertaining, and socially impactful."

After a barrage of questions, another reporter asked:

"100 million is no small sum. Do you think you’ll regret tonight’s decision?"

Sheng Quan faced the camera with unwavering certainty. "No."

"My favorite line from Qin Heng in *The Road of Life* goes: *'You can be a happy good person—because doing good inherently brings joy.'* That resonated deeply with me."

"I can say with absolute confidence that donating this 100 million has made me happy."

Gu Zhao watched as the screen cut to the reporter, an uncharacteristic ease flickering across his expression.

This 100 million would undoubtedly soften the scorn of those who’d underestimated Starlight Entertainment.

Suddenly, they’d all be eager to befriend and collaborate with the fledgling company. As for its 23-year-old CEO? After Sheng Quan’s donation, even if she were thirteen—or three—they’d still flock to her, chanting *"Chairman Sheng."*

Take Wansheng, for instance. Gu Zhao was certain Chen Xuanzheng and He Qi would materialize in Starlight’s office within three days, warmly reminiscing about the "good old days."

Actually, given their personalities, they’d probably call first, spouting pleasantries like *"How’ve you been?"* and *"Let’s grab a drink."*

To be fair, their gamble wasn’t misguided—betting 40 million could’ve salvaged Wansheng’s decline.

They just hadn’t anticipated Sheng Quan’s 100 million.

As Gu Zhao mused, his phone rang.

He glanced down, then answered to Chen Xuanzheng’s jovial voice:

"Gu Zhao, it’s me. How’ve you been? Fancy a drink?"

Gu Zhao checked his watch.

"Quite well. Chairman Sheng treats me exceptionally. A drink sounds perfect—I’d like to discuss Hua Qing’s contract termination too."

Chen Xuanzheng’s face instantly darkened. "Hua Qing is one of Wansheng’s Four Rising Stars. You know how vital she is to us. We’re not handing her over to Starlight."

Gu Zhao arched a brow, leaning back in his chair with the air of a lengthy discussion—yet his words were clipped: "Then we’re done here. Goodbye."

"Wait a minute!" Even without seeing him, Chen Xuanzheng could already picture Gu Zhao's icy, expressionless face just from his tone. The mere thought made his spleen, liver, and kidneys ache in protest, but considering the company's current situation, he had no choice but to swallow his frustration and amend his words: "...If Starlight Entertainment wants it, we can negotiate. But these terms..."

Ten minutes later:

Gu Zhao pulled open his desk drawer and tossed a stack of files into the trash.

Secretary Zhang walked in with documents and stared in surprise at the discarded pile:

"Mr. Gu, are these no longer needed?"

Just last night, Gu Zhao had kept the team working overtime to prepare them.

"Throw them away."

Gu Zhao accepted the new files with visible satisfaction:

"For a long time to come, Starlight won’t face any malicious competition."

And that wasn’t all—they were about to experience a surge in public attention.

This massive donation would instantly capture the internet’s focus, far surpassing the previous minor buzz that barely scraped the third or fourth spot on trending lists.

A charity initiative within an entertainment program yielding such significant results carried immense social influence. For such a positive event in the entertainment industry, the media would spare no effort in extensive coverage.

Gu Zhao wasn’t just in a good mood—he was downright elated.

He felt the stark contrast between his time at Wansheng and now.

At Wansheng, he’d been dragging dead weight, where the exhaustion of work paled in comparison to the sheer frustration of dealing with his two former employers.

At Starlight, he could simply focus on his job. Sheng Quan not only gave him complete trust but also propelled the entire company forward in leaps and bounds.

The more Gu Zhao thought about it, the brighter his mood grew. He even decided to celebrate by working late—until 10 p.m.

His premature celebration turned out to be justified.

That 100 million yuan donation ignited a frenzy.

Media outlets scrambled for coverage. If they couldn’t interview Sheng Quan, they went after the production team. If the team was unavailable, they turned to audience members, and some even sought out the heads of national charity organizations.

As the director had predicted, this "righteous entertainment, merging fun with philanthropy" approach earned praise from authoritative media.

Statements like Sheng Quan’s—"A good show can inspire fans with positivity" and "Support your favorite contestants freely while also helping others"—were met with high acclaim.

Headlines like *Positive Energy in Fandom*, *Watch Good Shows, Sing Good Songs, Be Good People*, and *You Can Be Happy and Kind* flooded in.

Authority carried weight. Once media outlets that rarely praised the entertainment industry voiced their approval, other entertainment platforms quickly followed suit, showering the event with enthusiastic praise.

In an era of entertainment, not everyone pays attention to celebrity news.

But a personal donation of 100 million yuan? That was a headline eight out of ten people would click on.

And once they clicked, the domino effect began.

*Who is Sheng Quan?* Oh—a young tycoon. So rich! She owns Huaxing Building too? Let’s follow her.

*Who’s Jin Jiu?* His singing is incredible. Wait—his past was that tragic? And he still trained his voice back to perfection? So inspiring. Follow.

*What’s Starlight Entertainment?* Oh, Sheng Quan’s company. Who else is signed there?

*What’s* Life’s Journey*? Who’s Qin Heng?* Turns out Sheng Quan invested to preserve the original novel’s integrity. And who’s this "pancake stall hottie"? Yan Hui is so handsome! Lin Aike is stunning too. Those clips show great acting and styling—seems like a solid series. Bookmark it for later.

A chain reaction unfolded, bringing everyone and everything tied to Sheng Quan into the spotlight—some becoming household names, others gaining recognition, all drawing public interest.

Even those usually indifferent to celebrity gossip spared a moment of attention after seeing "100 million yuan donation."

Sheng Quan: a woman who signed an artist after buying a pancake, who invested in an adaptation to protect the original work’s quality, who casually donated 100 million yuan in a charity show.

How could anyone *not* pay attention?

Even Strawberry TV, with its sky-high viewership, had to admit—this 100 million was money well spent.

In an industry where attention is the most crucial yet elusive currency, Sheng Quan now had it overflowing.

That 100 million bought her...

—A moment in the *limelight*.