Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

The negotiation team from Sheng Quan’s company arrived at the research institute, only to be met at the entrance by stern-faced military personnel standing guard.

They: "…"

Sometimes, they really forgot that the company they worked for was in the entertainment industry.

Generally speaking, when Chinese people saw fully armed military or police officers, their first reaction was usually, "So cool," or "They make me feel so safe." But remembering that they were here to negotiate…

They represented Starlight Entertainment. They represented President Sheng.

No matter who the "opposing party" in the negotiations was, they had to remain professional. From the moment they received the call until now, they had been meticulously organizing and memorizing relevant information—even reviewing notes in the car on the way here. They were fairly confident.

While internally burning with curiosity—Are those real guns? What kind of equipment is that? They look so cautious.—they maintained an outward demeanor of "We’re completely unfazed by this scene, totally calm."

On the surface, the lead negotiator simply smiled faintly and unhurriedly presented their credentials. "Here are our documents."

—They even checked IDs, fingerprints, and facial recognition. Somehow, it felt thrilling, like they were part of something big.

Once cleared for entry, the team followed their military escort down the wide path, taking in the heavily guarded surroundings—sentries stationed every ten steps, an impenetrable defense where "not even a mosquito could slip through." Secretly exhilarated, they also felt a subtle swell of pride.

How could they not feel proud? The company they served was negotiating directly with the government.

…Though it was a little strange for an entertainment company to be discussing compensation and benefits with the state over a research breakthrough. But then again, their bonuses had just tripled.

From a distance, Sheng Quan could see her negotiation team walking with vigor, expressions steady, strides firm—radiating confidence.

She had initially worried that a team accustomed to commercial negotiations might struggle here.

President Sheng nodded approvingly in her mind: As expected of the elite talent I handpicked and trained.

Reliable!

With the professional negotiation team taking charge, Sheng Quan successfully stepped back into a supporting role.

While experts conducted meticulous retesting of the "holographic technology," the negotiation team embarked on a week-long marathon of discussions.

This was normal. Though both sides were sincere, the stakes were high, and the details were numerous—this wasn’t something that could be settled in a thirty-minute chat.

For example, Starlight Entertainment originally had a comprehensive plan for holographic operations. Should they continue with it? If so, which specific branches of the holographic technology could they utilize?

Which aspects could be further researched? Which ones involved military applications? The state would undoubtedly continue its own research, but that raised questions about the existing prototypes from the institute and the scientists who had contributed to the project.

Sheng Quan was willing to release the researchers, but there was one problem: the key figure in all this, Ning Zhou, refused to leave.

This took everyone by surprise.

After spending just two days with Ning Zhou, anyone could see his obsessive dedication to research.

His poor health in the past wasn’t due to lack of exercise—it was because, while he followed routines strictly in other areas of life, once he immersed himself in research, he forgot everything else. Skipping meals and rest was common.

After Sheng Quan invested in him, she assigned him five assistants, and his two senior brothers also kept a close eye on him. Only then did his complexion regain its healthy glow, his body gradually strengthening.

All along, Ning Zhou had given the impression that he would gladly go wherever provided the right research environment.

"Wasn’t joining a state department always your dream?" His two senior brothers were utterly baffled. "I remember our mentor saying that was your goal."

This dream wasn’t unusual—most students at C University shared the same aspiration.

"It was."

After two years of working together, Ning Zhou had grown more comfortable around his senior brothers, no longer avoiding their gaze when speaking.

But now, he nervously averted his eyes, his fair, well-nourished face showing unease.

"I don’t… I don’t want to go."

After saying this, he turned to face the wall, refusing to turn back.

This was a clear sign of anxiety.

In the past, when Ning Zhou displayed this kind of distress, no one would respond. As a child, he had often felt this nervous, panicked emotion, but his family never offered comfort.

Over time, these episodes only made him feel worse—more frightened, more unsettled.

But he hadn’t yet realized, due to his difficulties with communication and emotions, that things were different now.

"It’s okay, it’s okay. If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to."

The moment his senior brothers reassured him, one of Ning Zhou’s ever-present assistants materialized beside him.

"Don’t worry, your wishes will absolutely be prioritized."

As he spoke, the assistant handed Ning Zhou his phone.

Ning Zhou disliked change, so he still used the same phone his parents had bought him when he started university. The good news was that by the time he enrolled, "dumb phones" were already obsolete—though this one was old and laggy, at least it was a smartphone.

Sheng Quan had never forced him to upgrade (even though the phone was painfully slow, Ning Zhou didn’t use social media anyway). She had bought him a phone case to cover the scratches on the back.

The moment the phone was in his hands, Ning Zhou, who had just been visibly distressed, quickly calmed.

He carefully traced the kitten design on the case and slowly turned back around. Seizing the opportunity, the assistant asked:

"Do you want to work for a state department?"

Ning Zhou nodded silently.

The assistant: "Are you worried the new environment will feel too unfamiliar?"

Ning Zhou shook his head.

Then he lifted his gaze, still clutching his phone gently, and looked toward the meeting room. "Where’s President Sheng?"

The assistant: "President Sheng will be here soon. You can tell me—it’s the same."

Ning Zhou glanced at him, then lowered his eyes again. "It’s not."

The assistant: "…"

Ah~ Ning Zhou’s way with words remained as unique as ever~

Fortunately, Sheng Quan made a habit of checking in daily, and it wasn’t long before she appeared, holding a glass of lemon water.

Her communication style with Ning Zhou had always been direct—and oddly enough, it worked smoothly.

Sheng Quan cut straight to the point: "They say you don’t want to leave. Why? Wasn’t that your life goal?"

Ning Zhou looked at her. This time, he was willing to set his phone down, but he couldn’t articulate the reason himself. "I just don’t want to go."

Sheng Quan figured it out: "Is it because you feel the project isn’t finished yet?"

Ning Zhou thought for a second, then nodded. "I promised you I’d achieve mass production."

"I can complete it within six months."

Ning Zhou finally realized why he had been reluctant to leave, feeling both happy and stubborn as he insisted, "We agreed on it first."

This "we" referred to him and Sheng Quan.

As for "they," it naturally meant the national research department he had always yearned to join.

Sheng Quan wasn’t the least bit surprised by Ning Zhou’s way of thinking.

But then again, it made sense—Ning Zhou had Asperger’s syndrome. While the condition greatly affected his social interactions, it also made him more clear-minded than most people in some ways.

To him, one was one, and two was two.

He was the type who could bluntly say "I don’t like you" to someone’s face because, in his eyes, it was no different from stating "I’m hungry" when his stomach growled.

Sheng Quan didn’t bother trying to reason with him or change his mind. This was a principle Ning Zhou had always upheld, and since there was no need to force him into anything, why break it?

Still, President Sheng couldn’t help suspecting that the tragic fate Ning Zhou suffered in the original storyline might not have been solely due to toxic materials—perhaps he had also been deceived by others.

After all, when they first met, he had already been answering questions with unwavering honesty. Now, after just two years of knowing each other, Ning Zhou had become like a trusting stray cat, willingly exposing his soft underbelly to her.

If she had slightly less scruples, all she’d have to say was, "Yes, we agreed first, so you should stay and keep working for me forever," and Ning Zhou would nod earnestly in agreement.

Without even guessing, Sheng Quan knew that Ning Zhou must have gone through a lot in the original story.

Like every fresh graduate stepping out of campus, naive and unsuspecting of others, he had offered his trust unreservedly—only to be seen as "easy to bully" or "easy to fool." Just like the unlicensed taxi drivers at train stations who prey on young, inexperienced faces.

After being cheated and tricked a few times, most young people would quickly toughen up, just as Sheng Quan once had. But Ning Zhou’s condition made it impossible for him to learn and adapt in this regard.

President Sheng: So, it really is better to leave him under the state’s protection.

She gently patted Ning Zhou’s shoulder, earning his trusting gaze in return.

"Yes, we agreed first," she said. "So how about this—once mass production is possible, you can go report to the national department. Okay?"

Ning Zhou’s eyes lit up. Having this seemingly insurmountable dilemma resolved made him happy. "Okay."

And so, negotiations extended for another round due to Ning Zhou’s decision.

Though Sheng Quan wasn’t directly involved in the talks, nearly all the compensation terms required her approval. With eight meetings a day and various subsidiaries involved, even top executives like Gu Zhao had to participate.

Amidst their bustling activity, employees at Starlight Entertainment couldn’t help but wonder what was happening, especially seeing their usually low-profile management suddenly in constant motion.

Their first thought: Is President Sheng up to something big again?

Generally, as a company grows, employees tend to pay less attention to the chairman, especially one who doesn’t micromanage. After all, "the distant magistrate is no match for the local official."

Most workers care more about their immediate superiors than a chairman they rarely interact with.

In some subsidiaries, employees might not even know their chairman or CEO’s name. But at Sheng Quan’s companies, she was undeniably a star figure.

Her principles, generous employee benefits, and massive online fame combined to create what people called the "Sheng Faction."

President Sheng trending on social media? Praise her!

President Sheng making big moves? Take pride in it!

President Sheng buying an esports club? Support it!

This unity, with everyone pulling in the same direction, left competitors green with envy—though some dismissed Sheng Quan’s approach as too erratic.

Starlight Entertainment clearly needed heavy investment to avoid stagnation, yet here she was, suddenly reviving a dying esports team.

Now, with all her companies in motion and everyone involved tight-lipped (thanks to NDAs), not a single leak emerged.

What could this mean? Wasn’t this exactly how things looked when a company was in trouble?

Some began speculating: Had the usually shrewd and deep-pocketed President Sheng finally stumbled?

After all, while people joked that China’s entertainment industry was split between showbiz and esports, the former had thrived in recent years while the latter withered.

Though many privately doubted, none dared say a word to Sheng Quan’s face. Even if she wasted three billion, Starlight Entertainment remained a top-three company, and her personal wealth still dwarfed theirs.

Not to mention, the now best-selling robotic dogs were practically golden geese!

Of course, while no one openly criticized, brands previously negotiating partnerships with the Breaking Waves Club began hesitating.

Broadcasting rights for the team’s matches, once fiercely contested by major TV stations, now saw wavering interest.

In the end, the rights went to Golden Orange TV—the only station that never wavered, offering generous terms with unwavering sincerity.

"Golden Orange TV?" Sheng Quan mused upon hearing the report. "Wasn’t that where Captain Tan’s team appeared on a variety show before?"

He Xi nodded. "Yes, they’ve been very earnest."

Sheng Quan had researched Golden Orange TV before. Though more established than Strawberry TV, its competitiveness had noticeably declined in recent years.

"Such favorable terms?" After reviewing the details, she understood Golden Orange’s determination—they were desperate to climb back into the top three.

Under normal circumstances, Breaking Waves wouldn’t have secured such high-tier treatment. But with Golden Orange betting on them as their comeback hope, they accommodated every possible request.

Sheng Quan had expected to negotiate hard for this level of support, yet Golden Orange proved even more eager than Strawberry TV.

Truly, ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‍every industry had its gamblers.

If successful, this would be a win-win—though Sheng Quan stood to gain more either way. Naturally, she reciprocated the goodwill:

"Add a clause—the Breaking Waves team will fully cooperate with Golden Orange’s promotional efforts."

At Golden Orange TV, reactions were mixed. Some executives celebrated, while others grumbled.

"After investing so many resources, all we get is the team’s cooperation in promotions? With these resources, we could’ve hired A-list celebrities!"

"Don't even talk about how they could become overnight sensations if they advance. Our country's teams haven’t made it to the semifinals in years! Sure, President Sheng is a golden touch in the entertainment industry, but that magic can’t possibly extend to esports, can it?"

The station director silently sipped his coffee. He knew the other person meant no harm—their opposition was purely out of concern for the network’s interests. Making this decision had already put immense pressure on him.

If they failed, it would be a total disaster.

But with Golden Orange TV’s standing on shaky ground, it was better to go all-in rather than fade into obscurity. Success would bring glory; failure, at least they’d have tried to seize the best opportunity available—the global championships.

The agitated executive stormed off but then paused, dialing a foreign friend in the breakroom—someone who specialized in esports coverage.

"Po Shui?"

The friend, having lived in China for two years, replied directly in Mandarin: "Never heard of 'em. Why d’you ask?"

After the executive explained, the friend sighed sympathetically. "Man, this is tough. You’ve got no idea—this year’s competition is insane. Just from Country A alone, there are two ridiculously strong teams, absolute beasts."

"Your country’s teams already struggle, and with this year’s lineup? I’d say the odds are slim."

The executive: "..."

Yeah, those two years his friend spent in China? They were in the Northeast.

After hearing the global esports outlook, he was utterly disheartened.

Then, the qualifiers resumed.

Just as domestic esports fans had grown accustomed to keeping their expectations low—

The Po Shui team clinched victory.