Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

"Is that Tu Zhu?"

"Tu Zhu?! Tu Zhu is here for the auditions? Quick! Get the camera! Make sure you get a high-definition shot of his face!"

"Did you catch the helicopter landing at the audition building earlier? There’s a chance Sheng Quan might actually be inside."

The hype around the holographic stage was evident just by the sheer number of paparazzi and reporters camped outside the audition building.

For most talent show auditions, ninety-nine out of a hundred participants are complete unknowns—hardly newsworthy for media professionals.

Yet this was only the preliminary round, and the building was already surrounded by crowds of people lying in wait. Some carried their own cameras, while others brought photographers along.

There were even savvy internet influencers seizing the opportunity to ride the wave of popularity, squatting nearby with their phones, live-streaming and commentating.

Wu Yun was one such influencer who’d come to capitalize on the buzz. Ever since his account, [Riding a Little Donkey], went viral for covering Sheng Quan’s fan-driven, big-budget investment in the drama The Path of Life, he’d struck gold overnight.

From then on, [Riding a Little Donkey] became the go-to account for all things Sheng Quan, tracking her every move and reporting on Starry Horizon’s developments in real time. His relentless coverage earned him a massive following among Sheng Quan’s fans.

Now, [Riding a Little Donkey] had grown into a heavyweight among influencers, and Wu Yun never forgot who he owed his success to.

To put it bluntly, Sheng Quan had countless fans, but when it came to loyalty, Wu Yun ranked in the top ten.

Was Sheng Quan just a celebrity to him? No—she was his bread and butter!

So the moment he spotted the helicopter, Wu Yun’s phone camera was already tracking its every move.

Of course, after capturing footage of his benefactor’s helicopter, he couldn’t miss Tu Zhu either—a controversial figure whose number of anti-fans could easily rival the top three in the entertainment industry.

Truth be told, Wu Yun didn’t usually follow idol culture, but in his eyes, Sheng Quan was his goddess.

And if his goddess was backing something, success was guaranteed.

Besides, the world’s first holographic stage?

Wu Yun had saved up some money by now, so the moment Sheng Quan’s holographic equipment hit the market, he splurged on a top-tier holographic simulator.

It wasn’t as advanced as a full holographic pod, but it was leagues better than a basic headset. To enhance his experience, he even signed up for a gym membership nearby, hoping that better physical fitness would improve his gameplay.

It didn’t take long before Wu Yun, now on a strict sleep schedule to optimize his simulator time, started feeling healthier. Naturally, he credited this improvement to his goddess.

So when Sheng Quan announced the holographic stage auditions, of course he was all in!

The area around the audition building was heavily guarded by Starry Horizon’s security, keeping the swarm of reporters and onlookers at bay.

The entire block had been rented out by Starry Horizon to ensure the preliminary auditions ran smoothly.

At first, some had scoffed at the extravagance—why rent an entire building just for initial auditions?

But once Wu Yun and the others arrived, they quickly realized Starry Horizon’s decision wasn’t overkill at all. In the short time they’d been there, the number of people entering the building could fill an entire train carriage.

"Tu Zhu… didn’t he just terminate his contract with his old company?"

As Tu Zhu disappeared inside, Wu Yun set his phone aside and whispered to his assistant—yes, he had an assistant now.

The assistant nodded. "Yeah, and it was a messy split too. Shenhua Entertainment released a statement hinting that Tu Zhu betrayed them, claiming they were the ones who made him famous, only for him to turn his back on them. They practically called him out by name."

"No wonder his Weibo got flooded again. But wasn’t he already popular before signing with Shenhua?"

The assistant shrugged. "Anti-fans don’t care about facts—they just want an excuse to hate. Tu Zhu’s fans are completely outnumbered now. His Weibo’s a warzone. But him showing up for the holographic stage auditions? That’s huge news!"

"Big news? Tu Zhu’s not even the headline here."

A voice suddenly cut in, startling both of them. They turned to see a man crouched in the corner, smoking. Wu Yun spotted the press pass around his neck. "You’re a reporter?"

He sidled up with an eager grin, all ears.

"Hey man, we just got here, and we’re not pros. What do you mean Tu Zhu’s not the headline? Are there other celebrities here too?"

The reporter stood, dusting himself off, and pointed at the building.

"Stick around and you’ll see. This place isn’t just ‘other celebrities’—if this show doesn’t blow up, I’ll wash my hair standing on my head."

Inside the audition building, Tu Zhu and Lawyer Ma quickly went through the registration process and received their number.

Tu Zhu removed his mask—the rules here required it for surveillance purposes.

Getting a number at a talent show audition was standard, but the problem was, this number was already at 1,800.

Large-scale auditions often saw tens of thousands of participants, but numbers were usually reset daily. 1,800 meant that, just today, a thousand people had already entered the building before him.

The staff member handing out numbers flashed a warm smile—one that grew even brighter after getting a good look at Tu Zhu’s face.

"Your assigned floor is the 36th, Room 10. The elevators are over there."

Tu Zhu took it in stride, but Lawyer Ma was another story. The moment they stepped into the empty elevator, he couldn’t hold back.

"Holy crap, we came this early and we’re already at 1,800? How many people are auditioning? Did every eligible artist in the country show up?"

No sooner had he spoken than the elevator doors, mid-close, suddenly reopened. Both men looked up to see five tall, strikingly handsome boys in matching team uniforms step inside.

The moment they saw Tu Zhu, they froze.

Behind them, three equally stunning girls in similar uniforms entered, their eyes widening at the sight of Tu Zhu before politely smiling and greeting them in slightly accented Mandarin:

"Hello."

Tu Zhu and Lawyer Ma returned the greeting, and the group turned away—though their gazes kept flickering back to Tu Zhu.

They didn’t speak, but unease simmered beneath the surface.

Tu Zhu’s looks were too striking. For idols like them, he was a natural threat.

—Ding!

—Ding!

As the elevators arrived, the two groups stepped out and immediately began whispering among themselves in their respective languages.

"He’s from which country? He’s so stunning, I almost thought I was looking at a video game character."

"Oh my god, the competition is way too intense. How have I never heard of him before?"

A young man with silver-white hair frowned in thought before suddenly recalling: "I know him. His name is Tu Zhu, he’s from China."

Once he remembered Tu Zhu’s identity, his expression relaxed considerably.

"No need to worry too much. From what I know, he hasn’t performed on stage in a long time. His company doesn’t even let him use the practice studio anymore."

The others sighed in relief but were also curious. "How do you know so much about him?"

The young man smirked, a little smug. "I’ve been learning Chinese for a long time, and I keep up with news from China."

Under the admiring and impressed gazes of his teammates, he basked in the praise—though he also felt a twinge of guilt.

Well, the truth was, he’d learned Chinese mainly to slide into Sheng Quan’s private messages on Weibo, shamelessly promoting himself.

Sheng Quan’s reputation was far bigger than she realized.

Just the fact that she had single-handedly propelled international superstar Jiang Zhen to fame was enough to make artists worldwide dream of catching her attention.

Even though he was from Country V, he couldn’t help fantasizing about "being discovered by China’s Chairwoman Sheng and skyrocketing to success."

Unfortunately, the bigger Shenhua Entertainment grew, the less Chairwoman Sheng appeared in public. All he could do was console himself with daydreams.

Meanwhile, inside the elevator, Tu Zhu and Lawyer Ma were also discussing them.

Lawyer Ma was still reeling in shock.

"Wasn’t that the super popular three-member girl group from Country P? And those guys—they looked familiar too, like a boy group from Country V."

He was utterly floored. "Holy crap! They’re letting international contestants join too?"

Then, worry crept in.

If it were just domestic competitors, he’d have full confidence in Tu Zhu. But with international contestants in the mix…

To be fair, China’s idol industry wasn’t as polished as theirs—especially Country P, which practically specialized in producing idols with a powerhouse entertainment culture.

Before Shenhua Entertainment emerged, while people were busy trashing China’s entertainment industry—criticizing capitalists, celebrities, screenwriters, and directors—Country P’s entertainment scene was always held up as the golden standard.

Even Lawyer Ma, an outsider to the industry, couldn’t help thinking, "Damn, how are we supposed to compete with this?"

Tu Zhu, however, wasn’t surprised by the situation.

Any artist who dedicated their life to the stage understood that holographic performances would revolutionize the industry.

Unlike actors, idols were entirely confined to that small space—the stage. While performances could be recorded and shared, the real magic only happened live.

The passion, the energy, the shared excitement, the screams and cheers—on that dazzling stage, idols unleashed their charisma in motion.

But how many people could actually fit into a live audience?

And how much money did it take to set up a single concert?

Even if fans made it to the venue, unless they had prime seats, most would end up watching the performance on a screen. They might as well have stayed home for all the detail they could see of their idol’s face.

For fans who adored idols, the effort often didn’t match the payoff. Most didn’t mind at first, but over time, they’d drift away for one reason or another.

Like… his own fans.

Thinking of the hateful comments on Weibo, Tu Zhu closed his eyes.

One last try… Just one more time.

Even if no one would ever know how hard he’d fought.

——In the control room, Sheng Quan was watching the array of large screens displaying surveillance feeds from every floor.

Cameras covered every corner of the building—high-definition visuals, crystal-clear audio—ensuring that once selected contestants gained fame, editors could splice together footage for fan content.

Initially, the building management had resisted installing so many cameras. But when Shenhua offered to cover all costs, cooperation came swiftly.

Of course, of course! If you need extra security personnel, we’d be happy to assist!

And it turned out the cameras were absolutely necessary.

Less than three hours into auditions, every floor was already packed with people.

Her gaze lingered on the 36th floor, settling on Tu Zhu.

Chairwoman Sheng took a sip of her milk tea.

Damn. No matter how many times she looked, he was just so breathtaking.

Unlike the stiff expressions of actors with poor skills, or the gloomy aura she’d seen from him on set last time, the Tu Zhu in the surveillance footage—just standing there, waiting for his turn—was mesmerizing.

Were his features sculpted by Nuwa herself? How could someone be this impossibly good-looking? Not in the way of Yan Hui, Jin Jiu, or Jiang Zhen, but in a way that made it impossible to look away.

So Chairwoman Sheng kept looking, completely unashamed of being so thoroughly captivated.

Tu Zhu was the kind of person who could dominate a "most gorgeous face" ranking even in a world full of beautiful people.

Her ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‍appreciation was only natural.

The beauty-loving Chairwoman indulged in the visual feast, reveling in the sheer pleasure of watching him.

At the same time, it only reinforced her determination to push forward with the holographic stage project.

Personal preferences shaped what people paid attention to. When she’d read the original novel, Sheng Quan hadn’t even remembered Tu Zhu.

Partly because he’d been a fleeting presence, with no depth given to his story.

But mostly because, in her past life, she’d never cared about idols.

Fans of actors could just turn on a drama and enjoy their idol’s top-tier acting in perfect clarity.

Fans of singers could pop in earbuds, lie back, and lose themselves in their idol’s music.

Even fans of comedians could laugh their hearts out, getting exactly what they wanted.

But fans of idols?

The explosive energy of a live stage wasn’t something they could experience anytime.

Even if they were willing to travel far, spend on tickets, venues had limited capacity—and good luck actually snagging a seat.

As a corporate drone, Sheng Quan had rarely had time, money, and energy to spare simultaneously.

Even something as simple as following actors had been too much effort. Her biggest hobby had been reading novels.

She could read during her commute, after overtime, while eating, even while bathing if she switched to audiobooks.

She’d always believed that, for overworked employees, fiction was the perfect pastime.

Chasing stars? Who had the time?

She didn’t even have the bandwidth to research which celebrities were least likely to have scandals.

However, when the stage merges with holographic technology, it means that any audience member can step into the holographic world and experience their favorite idol’s performance up close.

Sheng Quan’s decision to adopt a holographic stage wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment idea—it was the result of careful consideration from every angle.

From a fan’s perspective, a holographic stage is nothing short of a godsend. Just imagining it fills them with boundless joy.

And it’s not just live performances—there are replays too.

Fans can relive their idol’s radiant stage presence over and over, from the best possible vantage point, much like how Sheng Quan enjoys savoring her favorite novels during her commute.

Holographic technology and idol performances are like a mismatched pot and lid—once incomplete, now a perfect fit.

The idol industry, once a short-lived career with a glass ceiling, is poised for a revolution under holographic technology, propelling it to the forefront of the entertainment world.

And this "forefront" isn’t limited to just China.

That is Sheng Quan’s true ambition.

But for now, she needs to check in on the person she’s been supporting.

Tu Zhu stood quietly in the crowded hallway, unable to practice but mentally rehearsing every move.

Lawyer Ma bustled about—while his legal skills were merely above average, his social skills were nothing short of impeccable.

In no time, he was buddying up with Artist A, correcting Artist B’s dance moves, exchanging private contacts with Artist C, and even answering a few legal questions for Artist D.

He even managed to sweet-talk the security staff into revealing the location of the break room, returning triumphantly with two cups—a drink for himself and plain water for Tu Zhu, who needed to protect his voice.

Sipping his beverage, he eagerly shared the latest gossip:

"Did you hear? It’s confirmed—the person who arrived by helicopter earlier was none other than Chairwoman Sheng. Talk about an incognito visit!"

"And get this—everyone’s speculating why she’s here for the auditions. The most popular theory? She’s got her eye on a particular contestant and came just for them."

Tu Zhu listened in silence as he drank his water.

Having found the "Long Live Chairwoman Sheng, Endless Creations" forum, he was well aware of some of Sheng Quan’s habits. When he heard she had actually come here, his thoughts aligned with the rumors.

Everyone knew Sheng Quan had a penchant for personally scouting talent.

During his darkest days, before breaking free from his contract, Tu Zhu had fantasized about catching her eye.

But dreams were just that—dreams.

Given his tarnished reputation, the torrent of abuse flooding his Weibo comments, and the public’s relentless disdain that had ground him into the dirt…

Tu Zhu had long since stopped indulging in such fantasies.

Around him, others whispered or buzzed excitedly about Sheng Quan’s arrival.

Most idols were young and spirited, brimming with hope and imagination—just like Tu Zhu once was.

"I’m so excited! Maybe Chairwoman Sheng will personally oversee the auditions."

"This building has 43 floors—who knows which one she’ll show up on?"

"Ahhh, I’m so nervous! I really hope she’s the one judging me."

"Keep dreaming! But hey, I’ll dream with you!"

Amid the chatter, Tu Zhu stood motionless, like a stone sinking silently into a river.

"Contestant 1008, Tu Zhu, please enter Room 10."

Tu Zhu stepped forward, walking steadily toward the door marked with a "10."

He pushed it open—and froze.

Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm autumn glow over Sheng Quan. She met the gaze of the backlit young man at the door.

With a smile, she raised her left hand and gave a casual little wave—a simple, everyday greeting.

"Hello, Tu Zhu."