Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 34

After handling company affairs, Sheng Quan didn’t idle around. Instead, she turned her attention to *The Cultivator*.

A big-budget production with an investment exceeding hundreds of millions couldn’t just start filming overnight. The pre-production preparations alone had been ongoing for a while—scouting locations, storyboarding, budgeting, and planning—all of which were enough to give anyone a headache just hearing about them.

All these tasks had been overseen from start to finish by Yu Xiangwan, the supervising producer.

Yes, Yu Xiangwan was still the supervising producer for *The Cultivator*.

This came as a bit of a surprise to Yu Xiangwan himself.

Back when *The Road of Life* was being filmed, Chairman Sheng hadn’t even established her company yet. Now, Starlight Entertainment was brimming with talent, and *The Cultivator* had a budget in the hundreds of millions. Plenty of people were eager to prove their loyalty and dedication to her.

Yet, Chairman Sheng still chose him to be the supervising producer for *The Cultivator*.

This was undoubtedly a sign of trust.

Nothing was more reassuring than having one’s earnest devotion reciprocated—especially since he’d also been appointed as a vice president at Starlight Entertainment.

Some people might change their mindset after climbing to a high position, but Yu Xiangwan, with his stubborn and intense personality, certainly wasn’t one of them.

Even without reciprocation, he’d been fiercely loyal and single-minded. Now that his devotion was acknowledged? Xu Man had once secretly complained to Sheng Quan over the phone:

"Supervisor Yu treats your words like imperial edicts. You told him to take care of his health, so he strictly follows an early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine and watches his diet like a health fanatic. You once offhandedly praised his drawing skills, and now he spends every spare moment practicing art. At this rate, if you said the stars in the sky were pretty, I bet Supervisor Yu would grow wings just to pluck one down for you."

Sheng Quan didn’t know what to do with Yu Xiangwan either—it wasn’t like she could tell him, *"Stop being so obedient."* At least his health-conscious habits were a good thing, and since he genuinely enjoyed drawing, she let him be.

After months of hectic preparations, *The Cultivator*’s actor auditions were finally nearing their end. Sheng Quan happened to be coming to review the results of a previous raffle and decided to drop by for the final days of auditions.

As a xianxia (immortal heroes) film, *The Cultivator* wasn’t exactly met with optimism. If the director or producer had big names and connections in the industry, they might’ve been able to pull in some A-list stars to bolster the cast.

But Xu Man didn’t know any major celebrities, and as for Sheng Quan, the biggest star she’d personally interacted with was Hua Qing. Mostly, she kept a healthy routine, and Starlight Entertainment was financially secure enough that they didn’t need to chase investors, so she’d never bothered attending the industry’s endless, chaotic networking events.

Still, *The Road of Life* had been nominated for the annual Golden Orchid Awards, so she might get a chance to rub shoulders with more stars there.

Thanks to *The Road of Life*’s success and Sheng Quan’s rising reputation, despite xianxia films sounding like a risky bet, quite a few actors showed up to audition.

For one, the acting industry was overcrowded and hyper-competitive—getting any role was a win, let alone a big-budget production. Below the A-listers, everyone was eager for a shot.

Secondly, Sheng Quan’s recent track record spoke for itself. *The Road of Life* had proven her eye for talent, and in the short time since her arrival, she’d already propelled multiple people to stardom.

Take Jin Jiu—his *100 Million* project aside—or look at Yan Hui and Lin Aike. Yan Hui, already thirty, had languished in obscurity for a decade before skyrocketing under Sheng Quan’s wing. Lin Aike, after finally gaining some recognition, had been exploited by her former agency with a slew of terrible ads. Yet the moment she joined Starlight, not only did her fame soar, but her reputation also improved—she’d only taken on one high-end jewelry campaign since.

Crunch the numbers, and it turned out *no one* who joined Starlight had been left behind.

Of course, Starlight’s own solid foundation played a role.

As Sheng Quan had said before: with money in hand, she could attract top-tier talent, and the combined strength of these individuals was nothing to scoff at.

It wasn’t just actors who saw potential in following Sheng Quan—investors and firms felt the same.

When Xu Man had first tried securing funding, barely anyone had been willing to entertain the idea of a xianxia film.

But the moment word got out that Sheng Quan was backing it, not only did new investors come knocking, but even those who’d outright rejected them before suddenly changed their tune.

…Only to hesitate again after seeing the budget.

Mainly because, by the looks of it, a hundred million might not even be enough.

"The script is solid, and even if it’s xianxia, it’s worth a gamble—but do you *have* to go this big?"

"With this setup, even two hundred million might not cover it."

"Special effects alone will burn through most of the budget."

"Can’t you shoot most of the outdoor scenes on a green screen instead of hauling the crew all over the country? That’s a money pit."

"Ten immortal palaces? The set design costs alone are insane. Can’t you trim it down to, say, three or five?"

"There are way too many minor roles. Look, I’ve got a godbrother—slot him in as the third male lead, and I’ll chip in more."

This was the kind of headache directors hated most—a bunch of semi-clueless investors waving cash around like they were gods, expecting ten dollars’ worth of spectacle for every penny spent.

In the past, Xu Man would’ve had to grit her teeth and explain why the budget was necessary, why certain scenes *had* to be shot on location, why the script couldn’t be arbitrarily trimmed, and why talentless "godbrothers" or "godsisters" couldn’t just buy their way into the cast.

But now? She stood her ground: *Take it or leave it.*

"Actually, the production budget is quite sufficient. Chairman Sheng will continue investing as needed, so there’s no need for concern on that front."

That shut the smaller investors right up.

Xu Man: *So satisfying.*

From graduation until now, this was the first time she’d ever faced investor teams with her spine this straight.

Feeling that Sheng Quan deserved all the credit, Xu Man enthusiastically bought her a cup of boba tea and brought it over to where Sheng Quan was observing the final auditions.

"Thanks~"

Sheng Quan’s vibe was a far cry from your typical casting director. Though seated behind a table like everyone else, hers was laden with snacks and fruit, her chair outfitted with a cushion Yu Xiangwan had thoughtfully placed earlier, and now topped off with a drink hand-delivered by the director herself.

Even though she’d deliberately chosen a corner seat, any actor stepping into the room could instantly tell who held the most sway here.

As for whether anyone minded her snacking while others worked?

Nope. Not only did no one complain, but they also seized every chance to subtly curry favor.

I mean—come on. The top investor of the entire production.

It wasn’t just that Sheng Quan often treated the crew to food and drinks; the sheer aura of "Biggest Backer" and "Chairman of Starlight Entertainment" was enough to have people lining up to welcome her.

With her own tasks mostly wrapped up, Xu Man sat down beside her with her own boba tea and glanced at the impeccably peeled pomelo in front of Sheng Quan—and Yu Xiangwan, still meticulously peeling another beside her.

*Wow*, she thought, amused. *Talk about dedication.*

She wasn’t a newcomer, and from the moment she started working with Yu Xiangwan, she could tell he was a tough, unyielding figure. Later events only confirmed her initial impression.

With such a large production crew, conflicts were inevitable. But those who crossed Yu Xiangwan learned their lesson the same day—he didn’t let grievances linger overnight.

No, to be precise, it wasn’t about crossing Yu Xiangwan—it was about jeopardizing Sheng Quan’s interests.

Xu Man stood firmly on Sheng Quan’s side, so she never experienced Yu Xiangwan’s ruthless methods firsthand. Still, she’d heard the whispers—how he appeared calm and refined on the surface, yet played dirtier than anyone when it came down to it.

And yet, here was the very same Yu Xiangwan, the supposedly cold and calculating producer, now gently peeling a pomelo for Sheng Quan with a look so tender it would make those he’d disciplined drop their jaws in disbelief.

Sheng Quan turned to Xu Man. “Are those investors still bothering you?”

“Yes, endless complaints. They want in but are terrified of losses, worried the project’s too ambitious to sustain. The moment I mentioned you’d increase your investment, they all shut up.”

Sheng Quan didn’t say, “Then let’s cut them out and have me invest alone.” By now, she was half an industry insider herself and knew filmmaking wasn’t like TV production—there were far more hurdles to clear.

Take distribution, for example. Starlight Entertainment was still too green in that area. If she took full control, it’d be a massive effort with minimal payoff.

But with other investors and firms sharing the pie? That changed everything. Once the cake was collectively owned, Sheng Quan wouldn’t need to lift a finger—everyone would scramble to make their shared investment shine.

Their stakes wouldn’t be too large, of course. They just wanted a slice, not the risk. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be so hesitant now.

Though she wasn’t physically present, Sheng Quan had been receiving Yu Xiangwan’s reports and knew exactly where the budget for *The Cultivators* was going. After a pause, she asked:

“Did they object to building the Ten Great Immortal Palaces set?”

“Oh, massively.” Xu Man could understand their concerns. “If we go for full-scale sets, the budget for that alone would be astronomical. But those palaces are pivotal to the story—if we skimp, the visuals will suffer.”

Sheng Quan smirked.

Just as she’d expected.

She glanced at Yu Xiangwan, who immediately understood. Wiping his hands, he stood up.

“Chairman Sheng, I’ll take Director Xu and the investors for a tour.”

Xu Man: “?”

A tour? Of what?

Sheng Quan finished the pomelo Yu Xiangwan had just handed her and answered casually:

“The Ten Great Immortal Palaces.”

***

“You’ve already started building the exteriors?”

“In *Shanghai*? Isn’t that way too expensive? No wonder your budget’s so bloated.”

They still had to humor Sheng Quan—after all, as the primary investor, she was the one shouldering the biggest risks. And the location *was* conveniently close, so it wouldn’t waste much time.

Though the fact that it *wasn’t* remote was, in their eyes, a huge problem.

The audition site wasn’t in downtown Shanghai, but it wasn’t in the suburbs either. Building filming structures here? The land lease alone would be outrageous.

“At least pick the outskirts—no, scratch that, you shouldn’t be building in Shanghai at all! Find some cheap rural town. Doing it here is just burning money! Director Xu, this spending is completely unnecessary.”

It wasn’t that they were being nitpicky—their concerns *were* valid. Most film sets were built on leased land, only to be torn down after shooting wrapped.

In other words, the money was literally being thrown away.

So even as Xu Man’s head throbbed from their complaints, she could only deflect by citing Sheng Quan—because the budget *was* absurdly high by any standard.

Forget the lease costs; just constructing sets realistic enough to pass as genuine would be a colossal expense. Some productions even went mad with authenticity, building fully functional structures.

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To these investors, Xu Man was clearly one of those madmen.

The “mad” Xu Man: “…*I* didn’t pick the location.”

She and Yu Xiangwan had a clear division of labor as the production’s top leads. Scouting and construction were his domain.

As she surveyed the area, her mind automatically calculated the exorbitant lease costs. By the time she finished mentally crunching the numbers, she was nearly hyperventilating from imagined financial pain:

“Producer Yu, what’s going on? Why build here? The lease… the budget…”

Yu Xiangwan remained as unflappable as ever. Outside Sheng Quan’s presence, he wore his usual faint smile—deceptively mild, but unmistakably unapproachable. “You’ll understand when we arrive.”

They were practically there already. In the distance, a bustling construction site sprawled before them: cranes towering over the grounds, swarms of workers (at least several hundred by rough estimate), excavators, concrete mixers—

And the skeletal frameworks of the palaces themselves, their sheer scale awe-inspiring even in their unfinished state.

Xu Man’s eyes lit up instantly.

No director could resist such a set.

The moment she saw it, budgets flew out of her mind. Grinning widely, she was already envisioning shot compositions:

“Wow, this is incredible! The finished product will look amazing—it’s practically real already…”

A mustachioed investor rep beside her: “…Director Xu, look closer. This *is* real.”

Yu Xiangwan nodded. “Correct. Chairman Sheng’s philosophy is to do things properly. Every structure is built to actual architectural standards with genuine materials. Rest assured, all permits are in order.”

The investors: *That’s not what we’re worried about.*

“Our concern is the cost! Building on such expensive land, only to tear it all down later? That’s pure waste!”

Yu Xiangwan adjusted his glasses. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“The Ten Great Immortal Palaces won’t be demolished.”

“Not demolished?” The group collectively balked. “She can’t just decide that unilaterally! Does she even know how much the lease on this land costs per month?”

Yu Xiangwan’s smile remained polished. “I believe Chairman Sheng is well aware.”

“Because the land belongs to her.”