Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]

"Po Shui! Po Shui!!"

Amidst the roaring cheers, the members of the Po Shui team stepped onto the award podium.

Under the dazzling lights, they basked in the spotlight.

Beside them stood their teammates, trophies in hand, while the audience below erupted in enthusiastic applause.

This was esports—brief yet brilliant.

This moment would forever be etched into the hearts of every Po Shui member, even if one day they would retire and leave it all behind.

After delivering the standard award ceremony speech, the esports host handed over the microphone.

It was time for the winners to share their thoughts—a customary segment where players typically offered polite, rehearsed lines like, "We’d like to thank our parents, our teammates, and we’ll continue striving for greatness."

On paper, it was a straightforward routine. The host smiled on the surface, but internally, he was pleading, "Please don’t let anything go wrong, please don’t let anything go wrong."

Some might wonder—what could possibly go wrong at an award ceremony?

But esports players were young, fueled by passion and adrenaline. Hand them a microphone, and they’d say just about anything.

Especially since the organizers, Extreme Land, rarely interfered, allowing the players to grow even more "audacious."

There had been complaints about the terrible catering, winners bringing a snake onstage to "share the glory," and even impromptu performances for their fans. One year, an entire team of socially awkward players barely managed three sentences combined, no matter how hard the host tried to coax them.

Those incidents were tame. The real fear was someone dropping a bombshell during the ceremony.

Take last year’s championship team, for example.

A group of fresh-faced, seemingly well-behaved teenagers took the mic and declared, "Winning wasn’t surprising—our opponents were trash. Thanks for being so terrible and handing us the trophy."

The rival team, seated in the audience, immediately stormed the stage, ready to throw punches.

Fans of the champions weren’t about to stand by, but the opposing team had their own supporters. The two factions had always been at odds, and the hostility quickly escalated.

Chairs were flung, and what should have been a celebratory event devolved into chaos. Fortunately, the worst injuries were fractures—no lives lost—but the fallout cost the host his job.

It had been a prestigious gig, hosting a globally watched esports event, the pinnacle of his career. Yet, he’d been ousted over someone else’s recklessness.

This year’s host felt a sliver of sympathy—but not much.

After all, if the last guy hadn’t been fired, he wouldn’t be here now.

All he prayed for was a smooth ceremony. From the moment Po Shui secured their victory, he’d been on edge. Given the near-death state of Chinese esports before this, a sudden championship win was bound to stir up emotions.

To his relief, the Po Shui players stuck to the script—grateful, heartfelt, and tearful.

—"Esports was my dream. I never thought I’d stand on this stage. It was Captain Tan who lifted us up, taught us, crafted our strategies..."

—"Besides Captain Tan, I also want to thank Chairwoman Sheng. She appeared during Po Shui’s darkest hour, helped Captain Tan recover..."

—"I remember when I first started, no one noticed me. Back then, it was Captain Tan who..."

One by one, the players spoke, voices trembling, eyes glistening. Finally, the microphone reached Tan Chen.

The host had nearly relaxed—until Tan Chen offered a faint smile, his voice slightly hoarse:

"I also want to thank many people—my first coach, the teammates who fought beside me before my initial retirement, and my current team for believing in me."

He glanced at his young teammates, their faces brimming with emotion.

Then, his gaze settled on Sheng Quan in the VIP seats.

"Like them, I must thank Chairwoman Sheng."

Even under the blinding stage lights, Tan Chen’s presence remained undimmed. He bowed slightly toward Sheng Quan.

Only he knew the depths he’d been in before she arrived—a place where he’d thought his story would end in regret.

Sheng Quan, as usual, sat in the VIP section—not because she held shares in Extreme Land, but because the organizers treated all big spenders equally. Pay enough, and you could have as many seats as you wanted.

The scene felt familiar.

Sheng Quan often found herself in the audience, watching those onstage shine as they were meant to. And when they did, she’d cheer inwardly: More of this, please.

She knew what Tan Chen would say next.

Of all the people she’d supported, he was the one who’d truly reached his desired ending.

Tan Chen’s eyes reddened. He took a deep breath, facing the massive game logo ahead.

"Thank you, Chairwoman Sheng, for giving me this chance to stand here before my final retirement."

—Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Did Tan Chen just say he was retiring?

Right after winning a global championship?

Was he insane?

Since Po Shui’s founding, the team’s fanbase had exploded. The audience was packed with Chinese supporters—team loyalists and individual stans alike.

Now, shouts erupted from below:

"Bu Zhui!!! Don’t retire!!"

"Bu Zhui!!!!"

"We’ll always watch you compete!!!"

Having broken the ice, Tan Chen continued smoothly:

"My first retirement didn’t allow for a proper goodbye. That’s always been my regret. By fate, I got a second chance, but all things must end."

His hands ached—old injuries flaring up, despite the extensive treatment Sheng Quan had arranged. Without her, he wouldn’t have lasted this long.

So Tan Chen smiled as he spoke, grateful for this final match.

Under the radiant lights, he drew the perfect close to his esports career.

—"I announce the permanent retirement of esports player Bu Zhui."

The host, who’d just started relaxing: ???

The Global Championship had been held for so many years, yet this was the first time someone announced their retirement right after winning the award. How was this any different from an actor quitting the industry right after winning Best Actor, or a singer retiring after being crowned King of Songs?

Instinctively, his gaze drifted to Sheng Quan in the audience: You’re the boss, aren’t you going to do something about this?

Not only did Sheng Quan not intervene, she naturally raised her hands and started clapping.

The people around her immediately followed suit, applauding with as much enthusiasm as possible. It wasn’t that the international audience members who didn’t know her were being polite—it was just that everyone seated around her was part of her entourage.

Five bodyguards, two assistants, and even Brother Jiang was clapping earnestly on the side.

As everyone knew, applause was contagious.

As the applause erupted from this corner of the front row, the rest of the audience joined in.

Amid the thunderous applause, Tan Chen handed the microphone back to the host.

The host: "...Well, at least it’s better than publicly insulting an opponent and starting a brawl."

On the trending list, as Tan Chen’s words spread, the original hashtags #PolarisGlobalChampionshipVictory and #PolarisReallyBreaksTheIce were quickly joined by #NoChaseAnnouncesRetirement.

In front of a television in a certain city in China, a former teammate raised his glass in a toast to Tan Chen on the screen:

"Congratulations on fulfilling your dream."

In ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‍an esports club, a young coach shook her head with a smile, seeming both impressed and envious. "He really kept his word."

Back at the Polaris Club, the coach who had been called back grinned as he wrapped tape around his hands. "That brat still remembers this, huh?"

—"The retirement age keeps getting younger these days. I wonder if we’ll be retiring in a couple of years too. Tan Chen, how long do you think you’ll keep competing?"

—"Me? Who cares how old I’ll be? Players retire eventually. But if I really have to retire, I want to announce it on the awards stage at the Grand Finals."

The bold and unrestrained teenager joked around with his teammates, while their coach, who hadn’t been fired yet, simply watched them with a smile.

In the prime of their youth, full of energy and dreams, the young players listened to Tan Chen’s grand declaration:

"If I’m going to leave, I’ll do it at my most glorious moment. Just watch—next season’s championship will be ours."

Sheng Quan looked at Tan Chen on stage as 006’s voice chimed in her ear: [Ding! Host has successfully altered the fate trajectory of the sponsored individual by 100%.]

[Ding! Calculating career achievement percentages for sponsored individuals. Rankings are not based on order.]

Sheng Quan: So meticulous.

[Tan Chen: 100%]

[Chen Mo: 100%]

[Zhou Ke: 100%]

[Hua Niao: 100%]

[...]

The Polaris Club was massive, housing far too many people. As 006 continued listing names with robotic precision for a full two minutes without finishing, Sheng Quan started to worry it might get tired (Do systems even get tired?).

"Maybe just send me a spreadsheet directly?"

006 immediately stopped: [Good idea.]

The system’s reward funds had always been managed by 006, and creating spreadsheets was no trouble at all. Soon, Sheng Quan received an extremely, extremely long list.

The final tally showed an average career achievement rate of 52% among all members—a surprisingly high score. Sheng Quan had expected the percentage to drop below 30% due to the sheer number of people.

A pleasant surprise indeed.

Sheng Quan was quite pleased. She had chosen esports precisely because the industry moved fast, but from another perspective, career achievements in esports also skyrocketed quickly.

Take the Polaris team, for example. Winning the Global Championship was the pinnacle of success in their field. Whether in their own eyes or in the eyes of others, it was undeniably a 100% achievement.

The rebate funds arrived, instantly making President Sheng filthy rich.

After a brief moment of joy, she turned her attention to herself. "006, what’s my current career achievement percentage?"

006: [Host’s career achievement: 31%.]

Sheng Quan: Heh, higher than I expected.

She figured the mechanical dog had given her a significant boost, and large-scale global events like the Polaris Club had further elevated her reputation.

With the calculations complete, 006 enthusiastically invited Sheng Quan to try her luck with a prize draw.

Sheng Quan: "Let’s wait a little longer."

006 was puzzled. "Wait for what?"

Sheng Quan typed out a message on her phone to Xingmang.

"Wait for the movie’s release."

And then—it would be time to unveil the full-scale holographic technology.