Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 39

After learning that the immersive "cultivation paradise" also belonged to Sheng Quan, the first thought of netizens was:

[So, after the movie finishes filming, can we visit? We’ll pay!]

[As long as the set stays, I’ll gladly buy a movie ticket to support it!]

[I’d kill to experience Ou Zheng’s life for a day—please, please, please!]

Sheng Quan’s early marketing for The Cultivator was initially met with skepticism from others. While emotional impact can drive impulsive spending, the movie wasn’t even finished yet. By the most optimistic estimate, its release was still at least five months away.

Using such an effective marketing strategy so early—what would be left for later? Modern audiences have short memories. Without sustained momentum, The Cultivator risked fading into obscurity.

But Sheng Quan proved that if the visuals were striking enough, people wouldn’t forget. Instead, they’d actively seek out every detail about the film during the wait.

Of course, they needed material to explore.

—"Most Chinese people harbor a xianxia (immortal heroes) fantasy—myself included."

Sheng Quan scrolled through a web novel page:

"So I threw money at online writers to commission xianxia stories, funded variety shows with xianxia themes, hired comic artists for short xianxia strips, and paid influencers for xianxia transformation videos. Makes perfect sense, right?"

Xu Man gave a thumbs-up, her admiration as straightforward as ever:

"You’re on another level. Others promote movies—you’re reviving an entire genre."

Yes, this was Sheng Quan’s grand plan all along.

—To bring xianxia, a genre long forgotten, back into the spotlight.

Xianxia’s popularity had waned? Worried The Cultivator would flop as a result?

Simple. Just reignite the genre’s hype.

Movie promotions thrive on momentum? Then keep the fire burning.

That was Sheng Quan’s logic.

Of course, this approach wasn’t for everyone—not many could afford to throw money around as recklessly as Chairwoman Sheng.

Lying sprawled on the couch with a lollipop in her mouth, Sheng Quan read a novel with zero regard for decorum.

"‘Reckless’? The people I picked are genuinely talented. Look, we’re already seeing results."

As a long-time consumer of fiction and media, Sheng Quan might not be a creator herself, but her discerning eye had been honed over years.

Plus, The Cultivator was a company project. With one word from her, teams of professionals would vet and select the most suitable collaborators.

As ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‍a flood of xianxia-themed works hit the market, even those who hadn’t witnessed the "transdimensional experience" might convert into fans.

And these fans would, in turn, spur the creation of even more xianxia content.

By the time The Cultivator premiered, theaters would be packed with eager xianxia enthusiasts.

Once Xu Man pieced this together, she felt both exhilarated by the "built-in audience" and a twinge of anxiety:

"You’ve set the stage so grandly—what if my final product doesn’t live up to it? All your money and effort on The Cultivator would go to waste."

If the movie turned out mediocre or flopped, Sheng Quan’s entire strategy would collapse.

Sheng Quan set her phone aside and looked over, baffled:

"Have I not seen your previous films? Even with shoestring budgets and limited resources, you delivered solid work. Now, with funding, equipment, and talent, how could your skills possibly fail?"

Xu Man smiled faintly but still hesitated. "You really believe in me that much?"

"If I didn’t, why would I invest so much?" Sheng Quan’s tone was firm. "I’m rich, not stupid. Investments are for profit. If you hadn’t shown me the highest potential return, why would I pick you out of all the directors in the world?"

This wasn’t just lip service. Even knowing The Cultivator would eventually succeed, Sheng Quan had thoroughly studied Xu Man’s past works before committing.

Seeing Sheng Quan’s genuine confidence, Xu Man finally relaxed:

"Some online comments got to me. You know how it is—compared to veteran directors, my credentials are still lacking."

Sheng Quan couldn’t resist poking Xu Man’s cheek as the latter sighed. Even sighing, the woman was effortlessly stunning.

This was an unspoken detail from the original novel. Xu Man might act carefree, but criticism weighed on her, stirring self-doubt.

The book never revealed this "weakness." To the public, she was always unshakable—even in her final moments, outnumbered and fatally wounded, she took down three enemies and left two severely injured.

Sheng Quan couldn’t tell whether the Xu Man in the book had simply concealed her feelings or if she had already "grown" by the time she appeared. But one thing was certain—it felt good to be able to help someone during their "growth" process.

"Isn’t this further proof of your talent? There are so many directors with more experience than you, yet I chose to invest in you specifically."

Sheng Quan had also experienced moments of self-doubt due to others’ opinions, and she had to admit, it was a terrible feeling. Back then, no one had comforted her, but at least now, she could offer that comfort to someone else.

"Don’t be upset. Your skills are the result of your own hard work—no one can take that away. And as long as you can look yourself in the mirror and say you’ve done your best, that’s what matters."

She patted Xu Man’s shoulder and asked seriously, "Do you feel you’ve done your best?"

Ever since The Cultivator officially entered pre-production, Xu Man hadn’t had a single day of rest, sleeping no more than seven hours a night—and that was only because Sheng Quan had enforced the rule after learning from Director Wan’s past mistakes.

During the establishment of the Ten Great Immortal Palaces, Xu Man had led the crew across the country, filming in remote mountains, camping under waterfalls, encountering snakes in the grass, and enduring leech bites. The mosquito bites on her skin never had time to fade before she was flying back for promotional events, then rushing off again to resume filming after live broadcasts.

Reading about a genius director’s glory was one thing, but witnessing it firsthand made it clear—no success came without sweat and sacrifice.

Sure enough, when Sheng Quan posed the question, Xu Man’s gaze instantly steadied. "I’ve done my best."

"Then there’s no problem," Sheng Quan said.

Xu Man couldn’t help but hug her. "Thank you! I know what to do now!"

And with that renewed energy, she filmed for eight straight days, completing the most challenging large-scale scenes.

To express her gratitude, Director Xu, now free from her earlier uncertainty, insisted on dragging Sheng Quan to watch the most thrilling fight sequences, even promising her the best viewing spot in the future if she enjoyed them.

Sheng Quan sighed, "Stop picking up bad habits from Yu Xiangwan."

But despite her words, she ended up watching the most intense fight scenes for several days in a row.

In Sheng Quan’s previous world, well… fight scenes were rarely impressive, and actors who didn’t use stunt doubles were even rarer. There were exceptions, of course, but they were few and far between, and most never gained much fame.

This world was slightly better—at least the entertainment industry was fiercely competitive, with everyone eager to maintain their physique.

Even the hundreds of extras here were all good-looking and in great shape.

Most were highly motivated, too, taking body conditioning and martial arts classes with intense focus. When they weren’t filming, they practiced together in groups.

And for those who weren’t initially enthusiastic? The moment they realized that Sheng Quan, the biggest investor on set, loved watching fight scenes, they suddenly discovered a deep passion for martial arts training.

After all, there was already a shining example right in front of them—Yuan He.

Yes, that nineteen-year-old boy with exceptional combat skills, the one Sheng Quan had spotted at a glance.

Before joining The Cultivator, Yuan He had been just another minor extra, though his fight scenes stood out enough that he often landed roles where he got beaten up or served as a stunt double.

Most crews didn’t care if an extra got genuinely hurt, and since Yuan He frequently took such roles, his body was always covered in bruises. On bad days, the pain lingered for days, but he couldn’t afford hospital visits—rubbing on some medicated wine was his only remedy.

He was willing to endure hardship, but his talent alone wasn’t striking enough to catch anyone’s eye. Without intervention, he’d likely have remained a high-level extra for life.

During training, Yuan He was the most diligent of them all, practicing every move to perfection even though his role barely required it.

Some had mocked him—Why bother? You’ll only get a few seconds of screen time.

But then, Sheng Quan noticed how beautifully he wielded a sword and gave him a role with substantial dialogue and fight scenes.

After a talk with supervisor Yu Xiangwan, Starlight Entertainment sent someone that very day to sign him on the spot.

Starlight Entertainment—Sheng Quan’s company!

The envy among the other extras was palpable.

Though Starlight had been around for less than a year, every artist under its banner was at least moderately famous, and their roster was astonishingly small compared to other agencies. That meant any newcomer had a high chance of being groomed for success.

To the extras, Yuan He’s rise was nothing short of meteoric.

The most frustrating part? Yuan He was terrible at flattery. Knowing Sheng Quan was his benefactor, his idea of gratitude was to train even harder—clumsy, earnest, and utterly devoid of sweet talk.

When praised, he’d just grin sheepishly, then redouble his efforts without a single polished word.

The other extras watched in agony.

If you don’t know how to suck up, step aside! Let us take your place!

Driven by the hope that "If I work hard enough, maybe Sheng Quan will notice me too," every extra in The Cultivator gave their all—no matter how lax they might have been in other productions.

Especially when Sheng Quan came around to observe, the actors' performance levels could skyrocket from 100% to 150% in an instant. Their eyes burned with unwavering determination during fight scenes—give them a demon-subduing staff, and they’d practically soar into the sky to vanquish monsters on the spot.

Xu Man dubbed this the "Sheng Quan Effect."

She couldn’t help but ask curiously, "When you promoted Yuan He, did you already foresee this happening?"

Sheng Quan replied, "...I really just thought his fight scenes were good and decided to give him a hand."

Seeing Xu Man’s skeptical "Really? I don’t buy it" expression, Sheng Quan sighed. "Do you think I plan ten steps ahead for everything?"

Xu Man nodded.

Sheng Quan: "..."

Fine, she did have that habit.

Back when she was a corporate drone, it was for the sake of her salary. Now? It was her own venture—of course she’d put even more heart into it.

System 006 had issued the mission days ago, but Sheng Quan still hadn’t settled on a candidate for sponsorship.

The Cultivator was destined to be a massive hit. If she could place her next beneficiary on this rising ship, it’d be a win-win.

But The Cultivator was unique—finding someone who fit all the criteria wasn’t easy.

Lost in thought, Sheng Quan’s gaze unconsciously landed on Yuan He, who was currently suspended on wires, executing a sharp, gravity-defying descent with icy precision.

Then, her eyes slowly lit up.

Once Yuan He finished filming, Sheng Quan casually strolled over, striking up a conversation.

"Yuan He, that last take was excellent."

The praise caught the young actor off guard the moment he landed. Still green and easily flustered, his eyes sparkled with shy excitement. "Thank you, Chairwoman Sheng."

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Sheng Quan patted his shoulder approvingly.

Don’t misunderstand—she wasn’t considering Yuan He.

Though he was impressive, reaching 100% career success would be a stretch for him.

What she wanted to ask was: "You seem to have solid fundamentals. Did you teach yourself?"

The guileless young man answered without hesitation. "When I first started, a martial arts instructor noticed I was struggling and taught me a few moves."

He paused, then added, "He also showed me how to protect myself on set, but I didn’t get to learn much before the crew changed."

Sheng Quan smiled. "Oh? A martial arts instructor, huh? If he taught you, he must be quite skilled. What’s his name? Do you know how to contact him?"

On the set of A Flower’s Tale, a black-clad stuntman let out a pained cry before collapsing to the ground, twitching a few times before going still.

"Cut!"

The director clapped. "Good, that’s a wrap. Everyone, go eat."

The stuntman clutched his stomach as he slowly sat up, still recovering, when an ice pack was tossed into his lap.

He picked it up and pressed it to the sore spot, then looked up at the newcomer with a grateful smile. "Thanks, Master Jiang."

Jiang Zhen frowned slightly at how much effort it took for the man to stand. Popping a lollipop into his mouth, he reached out and hauled the stuntman up effortlessly, his strong arms easily bearing the other’s weight.

"Didn’t I teach you? How to disperse the impact."

The stuntman winced but shrugged it off. "It’s fine. This way looks better on camera. If I perform well, maybe I’ll get more scenes."

"Your body’s the only one you’ve got. Don’t abuse it just because you’re young."

Despite his scolding tone, Jiang Zhen supported the man as they walked. "Come on, let’s get some medicated oil on that."

"I can handle it myself, Master Jiang. You should go grab lunch before it gets cold."

The stuntman tried to pull away, but Jiang Zhen easily held him in place.

With his buzz cut and intimidating aura, even his helpful words came out like a threat: "Quit fussing. Without proper treatment, you’ll be in agony tonight."

"But the lunch break—"

"I’m having instant noodles today."

After treating the young man’s injury and enduring his repeated thanks, Jiang Zhen clicked his tongue in mock annoyance. Before leaving, though, he fished out a sausage from his pocket and tossed it to him.

"Eat up."

As he walked away, he glanced back and added,

"Next time, remember—disperse the force."

The sausage might not have been much, but the cost was clear: Jiang Zhen’s beef-flavored instant noodles would now be missing its perfect companion.

The set conditions were rough. Finding a random spot, he settled on a wooden plank and dug into his meal, pressed for time.

Two extras watched from a distance, whispering gossip:

"Master Jiang’s got those broad shoulders, narrow waist, and legs for days—not to mention he’s handsome. Why’s he a martial arts instructor instead of acting?"

The veteran extra lowered his voice. "You didn’t know? He used to be a stuntman, even had some fame back then. Rumor has it he was insanely dedicated. But during a shoot, his wire snapped—fell from high up and was disabled for years. The production refused to take responsibility or compensate. They say he was bedridden for ages."

"What?! Why didn’t he sue?!"

The veteran extra shook his head: "He sued, but it was all in the past. It just turned into a drawn-out mess. Teacher Jiang Zhen apparently spent five or six years bedridden, pushing through rehab and training—no one knows how much suffering he endured to recover to the state he’s in now."

"But by the time he got better, the era of martial arts actors was over. Who even wants martial arts these days? Those who still do it either work as stunt doubles or extras. Even if they’re hiring, they’re looking for young faces—who’d pick someone pushing forty? He’d trained in martial arts since he was a kid—switching careers isn’t that easy. So, well… this is all he can do now."

They whispered behind his back as Jiang Zhen finished his instant noodles—sans ham—at lightning speed, tossed the cup into the trash, and strode off without a glance back.

The younger extra shrank nervously. "Uncle, I think he glanced our way. I heard Teacher Jiang trained in martial arts since childhood—his hearing’s crazy sharp. Do you think he heard us?"

The old extra hesitated. "...Nah, no way. We’re too far away."

Jiang Zhen had indeed heard, but he didn’t care. He’d long grown numb to such talk.

Just as he was about to get back to work, the assistant director suddenly rushed toward him, phone in hand, face lit up with excitement.

Even though the path was wide, Jiang Zhen instinctively sidestepped slightly.

In a film crew, you had to be sharp—everyone was busy, and blocking the way meant delays, which often earned you a scolding.

But the moment the assistant director spotted him, his eyes brightened, and his syrupy tone sent shivers down Jiang Zhen’s spine:

"Jiang Zhen!! There you are! Quick, come here—someone’s looking for you."