Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

The Polar Global Championship had nearly become a worldwide spectacle, with every nation equally invested—media coverage, public attention, and universal acclaim.

Except for Huaguo.

The enthusiasm for the Global Championship in Huaguo was the polar opposite compared to other countries. Esports fans here perfectly embodied the saying, "If you can’t have what you love, turn against it."

Since it was clear Huaguo would never make a name for itself in the Global Championship, why bother paying attention?

No wonder major esports clubs were gradually collapsing. Huaguo’s esports fans were truly capable of losing all hope and withdrawing their support entirely.

With no audience, media coverage dwindled—fewer broadcasts led to declining interest, which in turn meant even fewer viewers. And so the vicious cycle continued.

Esports was also a youth-dominated industry. As the "old guard" moved on and no "new blood" replaced them, the scene quickly withered.

Wu Liuqing was one of those "turned" fans.

Back when Huaguo’s esports scene was still glorious and thriving, she had dived into the world of competitive gaming like a mouse into a rice bin. The fierce competition among teams, the dazzling variety of talent—even the domestic qualifiers before the Global Championship were as exhilarating as chugging an ice-cold soda on a sweltering summer day.

Wu Liuqing had her favorite team. She spent generously on them—buying tickets, joining fan clubs, watching them climb step by step toward victory.

She witnessed firsthand her team’s hard work, their rise, their glory, and ultimately, their dazzling triumph on the world stage.

The cheers from the fan meetup that day nearly shook the entire stadium.

But what goes up must come down—a truth every esports enthusiast knew.

Yet, the fall came too fast.

Wu Liuqing watched as the newly crowned champions were discarded by their own club like tools no longer needed. Some were forced into excessive promotions, others loaned out to different teams, and some outright banned from domestic competitions.

Since the Global Championship was held only once every three years, the clubs saw no point in "wasting time" on these "aging" players.

Fans like Wu Liuqing, who had witnessed their team’s glory days, were arguably the most loyal and devoted in Huaguo’s esports history.

And then, the team they loved was disbanded.

The once-celebrated players either vanished without a trace or switched careers altogether. Their social media accounts, once platforms for fan interaction, remained under the control of the clubs.

These players—once hailed as prodigies, as geniuses, as the pride of the nation—were squeezed dry of their last drop of value and then tossed aside like trash.

Who could stand for that?

When Sheng Quan reviewed the records, she couldn’t help but marvel at the clubs’ audacity.

Sure, esports was about winning, but it was also about camaraderie. A team that had both victory and unity deserved at least a dignified retirement, even if they couldn’t compete in the next Global Championship.

Tan Chen offered some context about the situation back then.

To put it bluntly, the major clubs had too many shareholders, leading to internal power struggles. And as esports became a lucrative industry, it attracted investors with deep pockets but no long-term commitment.

They were in it for a quick profit, with no qualms about destabilizing the entire market.

Club management was a mess—nepotism ran rampant, with relatives of influential figures asserting their authority. Most esports players were young and unwilling to tolerate such disrespect, but these "relatives" couldn’t care less about the clubs’ well-being.

Some went even further, eyeing the fresh-faced "prodigies" with ill intentions. But players who could compete at the highest level weren’t pushovers—they had pride. Who would endure such humiliation?

Take Lang Zhong, for example. Despite her youth, her track record was impeccable. Before Sheng Quan acquired DE, she had noticed Lang Zhong while watching match footage.

As the team’s assassin-class player, Lang Zhong’s maneuvers were always sleek and lethal. She once pulled off a stunning triple kill against three nearly full-health opponents—while still in the training camp.

With proper nurturing, she could have achieved so much more. Yet, because of a "facilities manager," she was forced to leave DE.

And this was during esports’ decline. One could only imagine how often such things happened at its peak.

No wonder fans abandoned the scene entirely.

To put it in terms Sheng Quan understood—imagine reading an 800-chapter novel where the protagonist triumphs gloriously, only to trip and die miserably in the final chapter, with 8,000 words dedicated to describing their gruesome demise.

Then the author abruptly ends the story and plugs their new book: "The old protagonist is past their prime, so here’s a new one! They’re all fictional characters anyway, so what’s the difference?"

Who wouldn’t lose their mind?

Sheng Quan swore that if she ever encountered such an author, she’d break her "no all-nighters" rule, slap on a "post-all-nighter recovery mask," and spend the entire night furiously arguing in the comments.

She might even swear off the genre entirely, refusing to so much as glance at another synopsis.

But there was a solution.

If she stumbled upon a similar story by another author—one that delivered satisfaction from start to finish—she might hesitate at first, but once she gave it a chance, her faith in humanity would be restored.

The same logic applied to esports.

The legions of disillusioned fans no longer trusted clubs that treated players like disposable assets. But Po Shui Club was brand new.

All she had to do was make sure they saw it.

And that’s where the power of money came in.

Overnight, news of [Po Shui Advances to Global Semifinals] flooded every platform.

The strategy was simple: "If you’re online, you’ll see it."

"Won’t this kind of bombardment just make people resist it more?" Xu Man, who was involved in the promotional campaign, asked. Her fame, both domestic and international, was substantial—a single congratulatory post from her could drive massive traffic.

Xu Man had grown rapidly over the past two years. Her skyrocketing reputation had opened doors to bigger opportunities, and though she’d initially been overwhelmed, she followed Sheng Quan’s lead and enrolled in classes to keep up.

Now, with more experience under her belt, she could spot the potential flaw in this saturation strategy:

"Old-school esports fans in Huaguo are already resistant. Won’t this push them further away?"

"In any other industry, or with any other team, maybe."

Sheng Quan was confident. "But in esports, seeing victory wins half the battle. We deliberately held back on coverage earlier just for this moment."

"And besides, we still have our ace in the hole, don’t we?"

As the publicity team had hoped, overnight, news of "Breaking Waves Advances" was plastered everywhere.

"Advancing to the semifinals?! Is this for real?!" Esports fans who had left the scene purely because domestic teams couldn't secure victories saw the headline and suspected it might be clickbait. After all, it had been years since a Chinese team made it to the semifinals.

One skeptical netizen hesitantly opened the official website to confirm. After verifying the news with a mix of excitement and disbelief, they hurriedly searched for updates on the Breaking Waves team.

What they found were stories like "small team struggling to survive," "fighting their way through qualifiers with outdated equipment," "the entire team sharing just one budget device," and "hopes dashed by a critical mistake from their attacker."

It seemed like a dead end—until the "coach stepped up to shoulder the blame and take the pressure," followed by "appearing on variety shows to earn maintenance funds" and "the coach entering prize fights to scrape together rewards."

Then, in a dramatic turn of events, Sheng Quan, the chairman of Starlight Entertainment, attended an offline event for Star Wars in Fangcheng, where the variety show was being filmed.

Breaking Waves' dire situation was transformed—

This series of events read like a thrilling underdog novel, complete with twists, turns, and a villain (Bai Xiangyuan), perfectly hitting all the right notes for the audience.

Especially for the disillusioned veteran esports fans.

Used to headlines about clubs exploiting players, they were stunned to see Breaking Waves operate this way. They felt both exhilarated and wary—could this all be too good to be true?

Before they could even voice their doubts, a flood of skepticism had already erupted across platforms, with comments like:

"LOL, so what if they made it to the semifinals? Do they really think a domestic team can win? Breaking Waves? Never heard of 'em. Are they even famous?"

Sheng Quan wasn’t upset.

—Because she had orchestrated it.

Xu Man was right about one thing: the public loves to rebel. If she didn’t post these comments herself, someone else would. But by doing it first, she triggered the backlash she wanted.

It’s like posting on a forum asking, "Any recommendations for a good domestic skincare brand?" The response is hit or miss.

But if someone posts, "There isn’t a single decent domestic skincare brand. So disappointing," the replies will instantly flood in—angry users listing brands, effects, and price points to prove the OP wrong.

Sheng Quan had known this tactic for a while but rarely used it.

—Because it usually meant catching strays.

Sure enough, the accounts posting those comments were swiftly dogpiled. The good news? Sheng Quan wasn’t the one posting (she couldn’t possibly handle that volume). Her PR team and hired trolls took the heat.

And it worked. The fighting spirit of esports fans was nothing to scoff at.

Meanwhile, the Breaking Waves team, thrilled to hear about the online support, buzzed with excitement. During the season, they were usually barred from the internet to avoid distractions.

But they were young—who wouldn’t want to see how people were cheering for them?

Tan Chen was usually easygoing, but at critical moments like this, he was strict. No matter how much the team begged, he refused to budge.

That is, until clever Chen Mo spotted Sheng Quan’s arrival and turned on the charm.

Sheng Quan, predictably, caved and handed over her phone. "If you really want to look… but I’d brace yourselves first."

The team blinked. "For what? Coach said everyone’s supporting us."

Sheng Quan: "...They are supporting you."

Chen Mo brightened instantly. "Let me see! I wanna see how they’re cheering us on!"

This was so exciting! So many fans defending them! The feeling of being treasured was incredible!

Chen Mo eagerly scrolled through the comments.

People were defending Breaking Waves.

With terrifying efficiency.

Some took the logical route: "Oh, ‘just’ the semifinals? Show us your stats, then. If you’re so good, step up! We won’t stop you!"

Others offered "helpful" advice: "LOL, do you even know how long it’s been since a domestic team made it this far? If your internet’s that slow, maybe go cool off in a well for six months."

And ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌‍then there were the "gentle" encouragers: "You , talking big when you’ve done all! Spouting nonsense at a time like this—hope the team stays offline so they don’t have to see your @#$%!!!"

Chen Mo: "..."

The teammates crowding around her: "..."

The adorable fanbase in their minds had just morphed into a horde of 6’5", bearded giants. Wait, no—judging by the usernames, plenty of giantesses were in the mix too.

Sheng Quan chuckled at their shell-shocked expressions and took back her phone. "Cut them some slack. They’ve been bottling this up for years."

Tan Chen, leaning against the doorframe mid-rehab, sighed. "Don’t tease them too much."

He shooed Chen Mo and the others back to training. "Focus now. After the tournament, you can browse all you want."

The team shuffled off, casting longing glances over their shoulders before settling into their stations.

While they trained seriously, Bai Xiangyuan—now all but erased from Breaking Waves’ collective memory—was weathering a storm of backlash.

Previously, he’d only faced scattered mockery. But with Breaking Waves’ semifinal breakthrough, hordes of new fans dug up his past.

Even his current team, Tian Zhan, left him exposed to the onslaught.

The more Breaking Waves succeeded, the more Bai Xiangyuan’s departure looked like idiocy.

The worst part? No one from Breaking Waves even bothered to gloat.

It was like they’d forgotten him entirely.

That stung more than any insult.

Refusing to believe it, Bai Xiangyuan found solace in the anti-Breaking Waves comments online. He joined in, predicting they’d flounder in the semifinals.

Not that he wanted to trash them—he couldn’t make a dent alone. He just clung to one hope:

That Breaking Waves, desperate to win, would beg him to return. Their tactics relied on synergy, and his replacement clearly couldn’t match him.

As more eyes turned to the team, sharp observers noted the issue: the substitute was falling behind. Not for lack of skill—the playstyle just didn’t fit.

Years of ingrained understanding couldn't be replaced overnight. Early matches were manageable, but the semifinals? Every game would be a hundred times harder.

So Bai Xiangyuan waited.

Breaking Waves’ strategy was too unique.

Who else could they possibly turn to but him?

Until, under the watchful eyes of the public, the official website of Poshui replaced the substitute player who had stepped in earlier.

A new icon was unveiled, displaying its contents for all to see.

Attacker: Tan Chen.