Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

Xu Man was desperately short on money.

Even though she had produced an impressive work during her college years, and the three films she directed after graduation had all been well-received—making her a rising star in the director's circle—while other directors struggled to secure investments of a few hundred thousand, she had no shortage of backers willing to pour in millions or even tens of millions.

Yet, she was still broke.

Because the project she wanted to shoot next was a xianxia film.

And if a xianxia film was to achieve the desired visual impact, it required money—lots and lots of money.

Just her vision of "shooting at least 70% of the scenes on real locations" alone was a financial black hole. And real locations didn’t mean fewer special effects—in fact, given the genre, the demand for CGI was even greater.

Despite Xu Man’s solid track record, those with deep pockets didn’t have faith in her, and those who did couldn’t afford to back her ambition.

In this world, Chinese xianxia had fallen out of favor, at least in the film industry. Even during its golden age, it had mostly thrived in TV dramas rather than on the big screen.

Most investors weren’t big risk-takers. They preferred safe bets over gambling.

If Xu Man had been making a comedy or another suspense-horror film—her usual forte—securing a hefty budget wouldn’t have been an issue. But xianxia? It was like trying to build a skyscraper on flat ground.

Xu Man could only sigh at such skepticism. "I’m not just good at suspense-horror—I’m good at a lot of things. I just happened to make two films in that genre before."

She might seem carefree on the surface, but at heart, she was still a director. Like Wan Bao, she wanted nothing but the best for her work—better, and then even better. Compromise wasn’t in her vocabulary.

To scrape together funding, Xu Man had already endured too much humiliation. At the time, it might’ve seemed bearable, but looking back, it was nothing short of heartbreaking:

"Standing while others ate, forcing a smile when ignored, drinking until I threw up—none of that even mattered. But then there were those *ssholes who tried to proposition me, saying they’d invest if I slept with them. Ugh! As if I’d ever lower myself to that!"

Drunk and emotional, Xu Man vented her frustrations before clutching a wine bottle and bursting into tears:

"I don’t want to settle for less! It deserves to be grander, more spectacular! If only I could make it the way I envision it, the whole country—no, the entire world—would see how incredible Chinese xianxia can be!"

Sheng Quan knew her words weren’t just empty dreams.

In the original story, Xu Man had been forced to cut corners due to budget constraints. Though the film became a massive hit upon release, even gaining traction overseas, the shoddy special effects, cheap costumes, and lackluster props gave foreign media an excuse to mock Chinese cinema as "backward."

That criticism became a thorn in Xu Man’s heart.

She knew—this film could have outshone every international release of its time. But without enough money, it ended up a half-baked spectacle.

Xu Man swore she would one day make a film that would stun the world, proving that China was more than capable of setting global cinematic trends.

But before she could realize that ambition, tragedy struck, and she passed away.

Now, the still-living Xu Man sat with her face flushed from alcohol, her glassy eyes fixed intently on Sheng Quan. After several clumsy attempts, she finally managed to grab Sheng Quan’s hand:

"Do you believe in me? Or are you just investing because of my looks? Or… because we’re friends? God, I can’t believe I have a friend this rich. I wouldn’t even dare dream of this."

The drunken beauty clung to her hand, whining sweetly, and Sheng Quan felt like she was floating on cloud nine.

She shamelessly admired Xu Man’s beauty, but her business-minded side remained intact:

"I believe in you. Just focus on making the film—don’t worry about the money."

Xu Man still seemed dazed. "Are you sure? It’ll cost at least 100 million—and that’s the bare minimum. You’re really sure?"

Seeing her swaying unsteadily while still trying to calculate expenses, Sheng Quan steadied her. "Yes, I’m sure. Don’t worry about it."

"Alright, no more drinking. Time for bed—we’ve got contracts to sign tomorrow."

Xu Man had always been beautiful, and over the years, she’d faced her share of unwanted advances. That was why she never allowed herself to get drunk in unfamiliar settings. But this time, with Sheng Quan beside her, she let herself down glass after glass without a second thought.

The moment Sheng Quan mentioned sleep, her eyes fluttered shut, and she passed out almost instantly.

The next morning—

Xu Man woke up in confusion, blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings.

A hotel?

She bolted upright, her first instinct being to check her own body.

"Awake?"

Sheng Quan, who had been gaming in the living room, walked in at the sound of movement. "Get up. We’ve got contracts to sign today."

At the sight of Sheng Quan, Xu Man relaxed—then froze. "Contracts? What contracts?"

"For investing in your xianxia film. Did you black out last night?"

Xu Man’s eyes widened. "A hundred million?!"

Sheng Quan nodded. "Yep. Minimum."

Xu Man: "…Why does she make it sound like she’s buying a cabbage?"

Then it hit her—Sheng Quan had recently splurged 100 million on a singer.

She really had that kind of money!!

It finally dawned on Xu Man:

She—she—she—had just landed herself a sugar mommy!!!

***

[Bound Beneficiary: Xu Man]

006 was no longer the naive, inexperienced system it had once been. It had learned a lot—for example, just how long film production could take:

[Host, movie shoots take ages. If you’re binding Xu Man, the career feedback that extends your lifespan won’t come quickly.]

[Which is why I’m going all-in.]

Sheng Quan had it all figured out:

[If I don’t change the current situation, just scraping by with a month or two of extra lifespan at a time means I’d have to successfully sponsor someone new every few months.]

[One misstep, and I’d be out of time. So I need to tighten my belt and stockpile a reserve.]

006 didn’t quite get it. [Tighten your belt?]

[Meaning, for the next several months—maybe even half a year—I’ll keep reinvesting in Xu Man. While she’s not yet generating lifespan returns, I’ll have the company push the first two beneficiaries to maintain steady career growth and keep my lifespan stable.]

Sheng Quan wasn’t the type to sit idle and wait for things to happen.

In her past life, even when saving money, she’d spread it across investments—anything to keep it from stagnating.

Because money left untouched was money losing value.

She wasn’t after huge profits—just enough to outpace inflation.

The same logic applied to her lifespan. A buffer of a few months wasn’t enough. One accident could wipe her out.

So Director Sheng decided: instead of waiting passively, she’d take charge.

[For a director, making a great film doesn’t guarantee fame. But making an internationally acclaimed one? That’s a whole different story.]

China's entertainment industry has always lagged behind that of other countries, a fact even the Chinese themselves reluctantly admit.

But who would willingly acknowledge that their own home falls short compared to others?

If a single Chinese-produced work could dominate internationally, the entire nation would eagerly rally behind it, celebrating and elevating its success.

And the film Xu Man is set to direct—if adequately funded—could shine brighter than most people dare to imagine.

【There’s one more thing.】 Sheng Quan signed her name on the contract: 【Honestly, this situation bothers me too. We *do* have talented directors, writers, and actors—plenty of them.】

She shook hands with Xu Man, watching as the ethereal woman before her grinned so widely her teeth nearly disappeared. Sheng Quan couldn’t help but smile too.

The good news? She was now in a position to shatter that very status quo.

***

Sheng Quan invested in a film titled *The Cultivator*.

The news spread like wildfire, accompanied by one staggering detail: the investment amount.

One hundred million yuan.

A fellow investor who’d been closely tracking Sheng Quan nearly spat out his tea:

“A hundred million?! *Another* hundred million?! How many installments?”

The friend delivering the news wore an expression of pure envy, sourly adding, “No installments. Paid in full upfront—and rumors say there might be more later.”

His bitterness was justified; he, too, was a director.

The friend lamented, “Who knows how Xu Man managed to convince Chairwoman Sheng? I can’t even scrape together ten million, and Sheng Quan just handed her a hundred million in one go!”

“It’s a xianxia fantasy film—a genre that’s practically *ice-cold* at the box office! Chairwoman Sheng must be new to the industry, doesn’t know the market. Ugh! Why couldn’t *I* have been the one to cross paths with her?”

The sum was staggering, and the fact that it wasn’t staggered—just dumped all at once—left every director green with jealousy.

Upon hearing the news, he’d seriously considered sprinting to a plastic surgery clinic to morph into Xu Man’s doppelgänger and steal her place as the recipient of Sheng Quan’s largesse.

A hundred million? Forget surgery—he’d have gotten a *gender swap* for that kind of money.

The investor, however, wasn’t jealous of Xu Man. He was fixated on one detail:

“So, after donating a hundred million, Sheng Quan just… pulled out *another* hundred million in liquid cash? Good god. No, no—I need to call Wang Zhengzheng. A figure like this? I *have* to get connected.”

In the entertainment industry, money is everything.

And Sheng Quan had just proven, with cold hard cash, that she had *plenty* of it.

Her private number was guarded like a state secret, but word had spread that Wang Zhengzheng had latched onto Starlight Entertainment’s Sheng Quan. Plenty had sneered at him for it before.

A man of his age, with his reputation and clout, groveling before a woman barely out of her twenties? Smiling like a sycophant, practically begging to be her sworn sibling? *Tch.* The sheer desperation was pitiful.

Then Wang Zhengzheng leased an entire floor of Huaxing Building at a jaw-dropping discount. A few critics fell silent.

When Sheng Quan dropped a hundred million in donations during *The Voice of You*, the remaining naysayers promptly swallowed their words.

And now, after she invested another hundred million in Xu Man—a young director with only three historical dramas to her name—those same critics were suddenly tripping over themselves to fawn over her.

Wang Zhengzheng’s phone rang off the hook as desperate connections begged for introductions, offering favors, flattery, and promises in exchange for even a *glimpse* of Chairwoman Sheng.

Companies flocked to Starlight, clamoring for partnerships.

On the rare occasions Sheng Quan appeared at the office, the visiting executives’ smiles would instantly warm by eight hundred degrees.

Even dining at a hotel, strangers would rush to cover her bill, just to murmur their name in hopes of leaving a favorable impression.

This frenzy didn’t fade with time. If anything, it intensified.

Because *The Road of Life* aired.

And it exploded.