Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

As Po Shui gained increasing attention, their undefeated yet heavily teamwork-dependent tactics became a hot topic of discussion.

Anyone could see that as the competition level rose, Po Shui's teamwork issues became more glaring.

This was inevitable—after all, everyone knew their current attacker was only a temporary replacement.

Consequently, most of the blame fell on Bai Xiangyuan.

It was around this time that Bai Xiangyuan began entertaining thoughts of a "Dragon King's Return."

But who could have guessed that instead of rallying behind the idea of "bringing Bai Xiangyuan back for victory," most esports fans were thinking, "If Po Shui loses, it’s definitely Bai Xiangyuan’s fault—let’s tear into him!"

Bai Xiangyuan: "…"

Proud and unyielding, he couldn’t stand being criticized.

The more Po Shui seemed reluctant to call him back, the more he found himself obsessively tracking every move of the club.

Top-tier one-on-one training equipment, an elite practice environment, lucrative salaries and bonuses, and the backing of none other than Sheng Quan herself.

Who didn’t know Sheng Quan’s reputation for extravagance when it came to people or projects she favored? Most remarkably, she was always willing to give opportunities to those she believed in.

Not long ago, Bai Xiangyuan had stumbled upon an entertainment rumor: while netizens were joking about the "Sheng Quan Summons" trend, Sheng Quan herself occasionally browsed these videos. If she spotted someone with potential, she’d have her company, Starlight Entertainment, extend an offer.

One pair of sisters, known for their comedy skits, had hopped on the trend. After Sheng Quan saw and approved of them, Starlight Entertainment quickly reached out, offering them an audition.

Though the results were still pending, the mere chance had already sparked envy among countless struggling actors and influencers.

After getting Starlight’s approval, the sisters released a few follow-up videos, instantly skyrocketing their online presence.

"Our 'Sheng Quan Summons' Video Got Liked by Sheng Quan Herself?!"

"Shocking! Starlight Entertainment Invited Us to Audition After the Chairman’s Like!"

"Audition Day—Massive Set! Heard This Film Is Starlight’s Flagship Project for the Next Six Months. So Excited!"

They might land the role and rise to fame overnight—or more likely, they’d fail the audition.

But they’d clearly seized the opportunity. Those three videos alone had catapulted them from obscurity to minor internet fame.

And all of it, just because of Sheng Quan.

How could Bai Xiangyuan not be tempted? Frankly, ever since the sisters’ videos went viral and their follower counts exploded, every online creator wished they could take their place.

Even if Tan Chen’s stubbornness would never allow Bai Xiangyuan’s return, Tan Chen wasn’t the one calling the shots anymore.

The real authority was Sheng Quan, the chairwoman.

Po Shui’s tactics required long-term coordination to avoid flaws. Even if their new attacker was strong, without at least a year of practice, they couldn’t perform at full capacity.

Bai Xiangyuan had been certain Po Shui would flounder without him—that was why he’d left without a second thought. A failing team posed no threat to him.

Now, he was just as certain: if Sheng Quan wanted victory, she’d have to bring him back.

And why would she spend a fortune on the club if she didn’t want to win?

Sheng Quan: What if I want victory… but not you?

When Tan Chen’s name appeared on the official roster, Bai Xiangyuan was so stunned he nearly crawled into his computer screen. Fans who knew Tan Chen were equally shocked.

Wasn’t Tan Chen Po Shui’s coach?

And didn’t he retire due to severe injuries? Could he even compete??

Some wondered if it was a case of mistaken identity and scrolled down to check the in-game tag.

Attacker: No Chase.

It really was Tan Chen.

Fans unfamiliar with Tan Chen’s injury history hurried to look it up.

Those who knew were flooding forums with disbelief and questions.

Once Bai Xiangyuan regained his composure, he immediately rushed to the forums, expecting backlash and outrage. After all, No Chase’s injuries were no secret.

And in esports… players getting flamed was the norm.

Bai Xiangyuan knew better than anyone. Despite Tan Chen’s calm, unbothered demeanor, every time he faced criticism or pressure, he’d hide away, chain-smoking in solitude.

If fans rejected Tan Chen now, would he back down?

But Bai Xiangyuan was disappointed.

The forums were buzzing—yet no one was hurling insults.

[No Chase retired years ago because of injuries. Is he even fit to play now?]

[Sure, he was amazing back then, but esports is a young person’s game. Still, this must be a last resort!]

Just ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌‍days ago, these same fans had been hurling creative curses left and right.

Now? They were measured, even supportive.

[NO CHASE NO CHASE!!! MY WHOLE YOUTH!!!]

[Wait, the coach knows the team’s tactics better than anyone! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?]

[I just need to know—are Tan Chen’s injuries healed? If not, is he really okay to compete?]

[Trust Sheng Quan. No way she’d let someone who can’t play take the role. He must be fully recovered.]

Bai Xiangyuan: …No way. Esports fans are being this civil??

In truth, even Tan Chen was caught off guard.

He knew his situation: a veteran, forced into retirement by injuries, years out of competitive play—every disadvantage a pro could have, he had.

He could’ve predicted the fans’ resentment. Even at his peak, he’d had dedicated haters.

When Sheng Quan returned, she found Tan Chen online.

She’d just flown back from the film set. This project wasn’t particularly challenging, and funding wasn’t an issue—but the timeline was tight.

A movie could wrap in under a month, but a blockbuster? Impossible.

Fortunately, pre-production had been underway for a while. Sets, props, and the lead actors were ready. Now, they just needed to finalize the remaining roles and start shooting.

With Yu Xiangwan overseeing things, Sheng Quan wasn’t worried. Still, she’d flown back to check, ensuring everything was perfect before returning to the team.

It wasn’t that she, as the boss, had to accompany the team during competitions. Chairman Sheng Quan was simply witnessing a global tournament for the first time—such a lively, grand event was something she wouldn’t miss for the world.

Taking in the scene, Sheng Quan chuckled, "You forbid Chen Mo and the others from going online, but you don’t impose the same ban on yourself."

"You’re back."

"I banned them because I know they can’t handle the criticism."

Tan Chen replied casually, handing Sheng Quan a glass of water. Over time, he had noticed her fondness for hydration—this "water" encompassing all kinds of fruit juices and beverages.

Whether busy or idle, Chairman Sheng was often seen sipping on some drink. Her young, beautiful assistant had even taken it upon herself to learn how to prepare all sorts of beverages, ensuring they were as safe and healthy as instant noodle factory standards, so Sheng Quan could indulge without worry.

Accepting the glass, Sheng Quan asked, "So you can handle it, then?"

Tan Chen smiled. "I’m used to it. What professional esports player hasn’t been flamed?"

As he spoke, he clicked into a forum to check the latest updates. He intended to skim past mentions of his name, focusing only on relevant discussions, but his eyes caught something unexpected in that brief glance.

It wasn’t the usual barrage of insults he had braced himself for.

Tan Chen froze, hesitated for half a second, then clicked into the thread.

No insults.

No hostility.

People were simply discussing his injury status, while his fans enthusiastically shared his past achievements and glory.

Had they… just accepted him like that?

Sheng Quan took a sip of water, observing Tan Chen’s stunned expression as he stared at the screen. "Why do you look so shocked?"

Tan Chen slowly lifted his gaze, his eyes bright as they met hers. "No one’s insulting me!"

Sheng Quan: Clearly, getting flamed is the norm for esports players.

Tan Chen’s excitement was palpable—his usual composed, world-weary demeanor shattered in an instant, as if he’d stumbled upon some hidden treasure.

Sheng Quan remained unfazed. "Isn’t that a good thing?"

Tan Chen: "It is, but it’s also strange. How is no one flaming me?"

As he spoke, his gaze, which had just returned to the screen, shifted back to Sheng Quan.

Under his scrutiny, Chairman Sheng sighed. "...Fine, it was me."

Truthfully, it hadn’t been difficult to arrange. On one hand, Chinese esports had long thirsted for victory, and fans weren’t keen on attacking the last remaining hope, Team Breakwater.

Of course, some wouldn’t care either way.

So Chairman Sheng took the simplest, most direct approach—she outright purchased the gaming forum most frequented by Breakwater’s members.

Who knew forums could even be bought and sold? Sheng Quan felt like she’d discovered a whole new world.

Tan Chen had suspected as much. He opened his mouth to thank her, then hesitated, realizing he’d already expressed gratitude countless times—words felt too flimsy now.

After a long pause, Team Captain Tan finally murmured, "You know, if I were being flamed online right now, it would actually boost Breakwater’s popularity even further."

Infamy was still fame.

And if he clinched victory in the finals, all that criticism would instantly transform into praise and applause.

Tan Chen knew Sheng Quan had used this exact strategy before to promote Breakwater, with remarkable results. After their semifinal win, the team’s official account had amassed a staggering number of followers.

This time, all she had to do was let things unfold naturally.

She didn’t even need to hire trolls to criticize her own club, like last time.

Tan Chen couldn’t understand why she’d chosen to prevent this "pressure-then-praise" cycle instead.

Sheng Quan, however, answered without hesitation:

"No one enjoys being insulted. The previous promotion was for the entire club, so it didn’t matter. But letting you endure months of abuse just for clout? That shouldn’t happen."

Shouldn’t it?

Tan Chen fell silent.

Sheng Quan was right—no one liked being flamed.

If he truly hadn’t cared, he wouldn’t have clashed with trolls in the past. The very fact that he’d retaliated proved how much their words had stung.

Because he knew too well the ache of being despised, the countless sleepless nights, Tan Chen had immediately shouldered the blame whenever Bai Xiangyuan made a mistake.

He’d always told himself: It’s fine. You’re used to it. Just some harsh words—they won’t kill you.

But now, Sheng Quan was telling him he shouldn’t have to endure it.

Noticing Tan Chen’s dazed expression, Sheng Quan pretended not to see and continued, "Besides, if you win the championship, the hype will explode anyway."

She then asked, "Captain Tan, do you think we can win this time?"

Tan Chen took a slow, deep breath. In that moment, he seemed to see it again—the memory of his first encounter with Sheng Quan, back when they’d faced off in the individual tournament.

Could they win?

His fingers lightly brushed his right wrist, where pain-relieving bandages no longer wrapped the skin. Though expensive treatments had restored some function, his hands would never return to their peak condition.

Yet when he looked up again, the usual calm steadiness in his dark eyes had been replaced by a familiar, blazing ambition:

"Of course."

"I promise you—we will win."

And so it came to pass.

When Tan Chen stepped in as Breakwater’s main attacker, the team didn’t weaken as some fans had feared. Instead, they became unstoppable.

Victory was no longer a distant dream—it was etched into the records of Chinese esports history.

With each successive win, the domestic esports scene revived, drawing in more and more spectators, all awaiting the final showdown.

Fans were ecstatic. Golden Orange TV, which had secured the broadcasting rights, was even more thrilled.

After the first victory, cheers erupted everywhere.

After the second, celebrations spread like wildfire.

By the third win, all that remained was prayer.

Just one thought consumed them all: Win. Win. They must win.

Of course, they weren’t the only ones thinking this. The nation fielding the final opposing team shared the same sentiment.

"Breakwater’s Tan Chen has an old injury—I saw him massaging his wrist before the match."

"Rumor is he originally retired due to that injury. He only returned after treatment and rehab. Can he really handle this level of intensity?"

The audience’s concerns weren’t unfounded. The large screen clearly showed Tan Chen straining under the pressure of high-speed maneuvers.

His eyes were hidden behind a blindfold, but his face grew visibly paler, sweat trickling down his temples.

Soon, informed spectators realized the truth: Tan Chen’s injury had flared up again.

This wasn’t surprising. Even after recovery, esports players were usually advised against returning to competition precisely because intense gameplay could easily reaggravate old wounds.

Yet no one had expected it to happen during the final match.

The crowd erupted in murmurs.

Some prayed for him to push through.

Others hoped he’d collapse.

On the livestream, Breakwater was clearly being overpowered.

The outcome seemed all but decided.

Until the very last moment, in the midst of a chaotic team battle, Tan Chen—who was supposed to be on another route—suddenly emerged, striking with precision. The moment he appeared, the rest of the team instantly fell into seamless coordination with him.

One hit!

Two hits!

Three hits!

The kills and teamwork unfolded so swiftly it was almost impossible to react.

In just three seconds, the tide of the battle turned completely.

At the Golden Orange platform, the former in-game parrot commentator, recommended by Sheng Quan, stared at the screen in exhilaration, his voice nearly hoarse from shouting.

With a roar that could shatter his vocal cords, he bellowed:

"Congratulations to our country's Breaking Waves team!!!"

"Victory!!!!!!!!"