Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 56

Starlight Entertainment has launched a new project, packed with elements like interstellar themes, war, military life, special effects, patriotism, high technology, and even the mysteriously mind-bending concept of time travel—presented in a scientifically plausible way.

Upon hearing it was a major production, potential investors were left speechless: "…"

There was a time when China’s film industry was obsessed with investing in blockbusters crammed with multiple elements.

Some genius had the bright idea that if one element could bring success, why not pile on more and sprinkle in some star power? Surely that would guarantee a larger audience than any other film?

Absolute goldmine!

—And then the investors lost everything.

After a few such disasters, everyone wised up. The mention of "multi-element" projects now made them shake their heads: "Let someone else take the risk. I’m not touching it."

This wasn’t "multi-element"—it was "multi-flop."

After the massive success of The Cultivator, even though Sheng Quan had only invested in that one film, she earned the title of "Golden Touch" in the industry.

This circle is never short of people eager to follow the Golden Touch.

But now, Golden Touch Quan was investing in a "multi-flop."

"…Isn’t this too many elements?" whispered one film investor, who made a habit of tailing big shots, as he probed Mr. Wang for insights. "I heard you put in 20 million. Did you spot something special about this project?"

Mr. Wang chuckled and sipped his tea. "At my age, how would I understand such a novel concept? I’m just following Chairman Sheng’s lead."

"Twenty million isn’t small change. You just threw it in without a second thought?" The investor was still hesitant.

At this, Mr. Wang couldn’t help but grin.

"In the past, I might’ve hesitated. But The Cultivator’s dividends padded my pockets nicely. Twenty million? Easy to spare."

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The investor: "…"

Pure, unadulterated bragging. He and Mr. Wang had been friends for years—not bosom buddies, but close enough to share drinks and dubious advice. Back when The Cultivator was seeking funding, Mr. Wang had not only invested himself but also recommended it to him.

At the time, he’d dismissed it, convinced that a xianxia film was doomed. He’d even tried to talk Mr. Wang out of it, privately suspecting the man had lost his marbles with age.

And now? Regret didn’t even begin to cover it.

Reading his friend’s conflicted expression, Mr. Wang smirked and huffed.

"I told you back then—don’t underestimate Chairman Sheng just because she’s young. She’s sharp. If she’s willing to drop over a hundred million on a project, she’s at least 80% sure it’ll pay off."

"Alright, alright, my bad. Here, a toast with tea—consider it an apology." Whatever his past doubts, he knew Mr. Wang had genuinely tried to include him in the windfall. He just hadn’t seized the opportunity.

After a sip, he sighed. "But honestly, I never expected The Cultivator to blow up like this. That young Chairman Sheng is something else—she even revived xianxia."

Mr. Wang’s pride swelled further. "That’s why I’ve got an eye for talent. I got on her radar before her company even took off. Sure, her presence is hard to ignore, but who was the first to cozy up? Me."

"Your instincts are top-tier," his friend conceded, raising a thumb before hesitating again. "But The Cultivator was still a single-genre project. This one… I’m still worried."

Mr. Wang didn’t push. He leisurely sipped his tea. "Up to you. I’ve already invested. Win or lose, I can take it."

His lack of persuasion only steeled his friend’s resolve. "Fine! I’m in too! Twenty million, same as you!"

Now Mr. Wang looked surprised. "Twenty mil? Not afraid of losing it all?"

"Last time I missed the boat. This time, I’m boarding early." Having made his decision, his friend relaxed. "Even if it only makes three-fifths of The Cultivator’s box office, it’s enough."

"Losing means 20 million gone. Winning? A golden goose. Worth the gamble."

While some, like Mr. Wang’s friend, gritted their teeth and jumped in, others took one look at the "multi-flop" and bailed.

"The script is brilliant, but the scale is just too massive. Has Xu Man gotten addicted to grand spectacles? The number of large-scale scenes here is absurd. If she loves this style, why not just make The Cultivator 2?"

"Exactly. The special effects budget alone is staggering. And now they need to film both modern and interstellar military scenes? This genre’s approval process is a nightmare. If it gets blocked, all that work is wasted."

"I’m not risking it. If it were The Cultivator 2, I’d invest in a heartbeat. But this project? Too many hurdles."

Compared to those wavering or outright rejecting the project, investors who’d backed The Cultivator all chipped in to some degree.

First, like Mr. Wang, The Cultivator had lined their pockets, leaving them flush and willing to spend.

Second, they weren’t just investing in a project—they were investing in Sheng Quan herself.

Sheng Quan was… an interesting case. In daily interactions, she was all smiles, often delegating negotiations to subordinates while she listened quietly.

She seemed like any other young woman—sipping milk tea, inviting Director Xu out for fun, basking in good weather, watching actors film big scenes.

But when it mattered, she was unshakable.

The Cultivator’s production hadn’t been smooth sailing. Films never are. Yet no matter the crisis, even when seasoned investors like Mr. Wang showed nerves, Sheng Quan calmly handled everything.

And her inner circle? Fiercely loyal.

Leading the pack were Yu Xiangwan and Gu Zhao—one guarding the set, the other the company, leaving no vulnerabilities.

When The Cultivator exploded in popularity and overshadowed Iron-Willed Boss, a high-budget project Qingniao Entertainment had spent over a year and immense resources on, 70% of the industry expected Xie Wanzhao to retaliate.

But she didn’t.

Not only did Xie Wanzhao avoid targeting The Cultivator, she even publicly praised it. The move left jaws on the floor.

However meteoric Sheng Quan’s rise, most still saw Xie Wanzhao—a veteran of the entertainment world—as the stronger force.

Yet Xie Wanzhao had conceded.

Her stated reason? "The film industry needs change. We should collaborate to create better movies."

But most read it as her knowing something the rest didn’t.

What exactly?

It might be Sheng Quan's family background.

Or perhaps it's her capabilities and methods.

In any case, rather than believing this to be a "friendly concession," they were more inclined to see it as "having no choice but to yield."

This inevitably led some overthinking business owners to speculate—and their speculations weren't entirely baseless. Hadn't Sheng Quan recently spent a fortune in Country A to purchase the iconic Jones Manor?

Moreover, she had even managed to gather so many of Country A's elite to attend her banquet. Almost every international celebrity who received an invitation showed up. Many couldn't help but wonder if she had connections to Country A's political circles.

Those with business ties in Country A naturally sought to get closer to Sheng Quan.

Even though Sheng Quan herself insisted, "What political connections? I'm purely a Chinese national—I just happened to make some friends at the banquet."

But the more she downplayed it, the more people became convinced there had to be something to it.

So, even though most weren't optimistic about her upcoming sci-fi film, investments kept pouring in—mostly from those hoping to "buy a familiar face" with their money.

While individually these amounts weren’t huge, collectively they added up to a staggering sum.

Sheng Quan flipped through the financial details, shaking her head in amusement:

"No wonder they say connections are everything. Just one Starlight Banquet—I didn’t even invite them—and here they are, throwing money at me."

Yu Xiangwan placed a bowl of freshly washed cherries in front of her with a smile. "They’re already thinking about next year’s Starlight Banquet."

"Exactly. They’re all shrewd operators."

Sheng Quan popped a cherry into her mouth, savoring it with half-closed eyes. "This works out perfectly. With so many sharing the costs, I can focus on other things now."

Not to mention these smaller contributions, Xie Wanzhao alone had boldly invested 100 million—though paid in installments, it was a clear testament to her trust in Sheng Quan.

Even for major corporations, mobilizing such large liquid funds required careful planning. For Xie Wanzhao, this investment in Starlight was nothing short of a high-stakes gamble.

Admittedly, securing these funds had significantly eased Sheng Quan’s pressure.

Her own 300 million was earmarked for other ventures. If she had to shoulder the film’s entire budget alone, she wouldn’t have been able to pursue anything else for the next six months.

The script was penned by a renowned screenwriter, with Xu Man set as the chief director. Wan Bao, now mostly recovered, would also join the directing team. The production crew was in reliable hands.

Sheng Quan’s focus, however, was on cutting-edge technology.

In Starlight, there was a scene where a film crew shooting a sci-fi movie consulted various experts in the field. At first, the production team could follow the discussion, but soon it became utterly incomprehensible.

After much effort, they finally managed some basic communication. During note-taking, the screenwriter casually remarked, "Is this kind of technology still beyond our country’s capabilities?"

One expert sighed regretfully, "If only Ning Zhou were still alive—he might have pulled it off. This was his initial proposal."

Who was Ning Zhou?

How old was he?

The book never specified, and readers naturally wouldn’t dwell on such a passing mention. Still, a few idle readers searched the text for Ning Zhou’s name and found a brief reference earlier—during the screenwriter’s research phase. It only mentioned that, due to funding shortages in his early research, Ning Zhou had resorted to using toxic materials in his experiments.

Despite precautions, his health deteriorated after achieving results.

Even after being recruited into a state-classified research unit, where a team of top medical experts meticulously cared for him, the short-lived genius Ning Zhou ultimately succumbed to illness.

And yes, Sheng Quan was one of those idle readers.

The book never revealed his age or location, so after transmigrating, all she had to go on was his name and that convoluted research project.

Truthfully, she couldn’t even recall the full name of the project—just that if she saw it again, she’d recognize it. But memorizing it? Impossible.

So lately, Sheng Quan had been buried in scientific research papers and projects, stuck in a perpetual state of "Wow, this looks impressive—but I don’t understand a word."

She couldn’t even use the phrase "short-lived genius" as a search parameter. In the research world, making breakthroughs at forty still counted as young.

While Sheng Quan’s wealth could easily hire experts, she refused to give up before production officially began.

Mainly because, though the book never stated it outright, a researcher whose death left so many experts grieving—one deemed worthy of a state-assigned medical team—dying due to subpar materials was just too tragic.

Cross-referencing the book’s sparse timeline clues, she was certain Ning Zhou hadn’t yet joined the classified unit.

In fact, he might still be in the process of using—or not yet using—those toxic materials.

So even if it strained her eyes, she had to keep searching.

Chairwoman Sheng, with all her wealth, simply couldn’t bear to see talent wasted.

The moment Yu Xiangwan left, Sheng Quan dove back into her sea of books.

The difference was, while reading used to feel like swimming, now it felt like drowning every second.

"Ugh, but this is impossible to find…"

The wealthy but scientifically illiterate Chairwoman set down the book, rubbing her temples.

"Honestly, searching for 'Ning Zhou' directly might be faster than trying to find that term."

006: [System query indicates 36 individuals nationwide named Ning Zhou.]

Sheng Quan: "…"

She decisively closed the book. "Let’s just search by name. I recall the public security database allows nationwide name checks, filtered by city. We’ll go through them one by one."

Anything was better than staring at these incomprehensible texts!

People should stick to their own expertise.

Just then, her phone rang—Adviser Qin calling.

Instantly, Sheng Quan’s frustrated expression brightened.

Calling this late?

The favor she’d asked him about must have borne fruit.

When the new project Interstellar War was announced and the production team began recruiting staff, news suddenly broke:

The film had secured military approval for certain scenes to be shot on base.

Not only that—the military would even lend equipment for filming.

Everyone: "…"

When Mr. Wang’s friend heard the news, his heart nearly stopped.

"And not just one military district—multiple?! This film’s clearance is guaranteed!"

Mr. Wang was equally stunned, but seeing his friend’s reaction, he feigned composure.

"I told you. Sheng Quan kept denying her foreign connections for a reason."

"Turns out, her real backing is right here at home."

A friend glanced at the group chat and said, "Chairman Sheng Quan mentioned that she had previously collaborated with the military for about half a year, so the approval process went smoothly this time. Someone asked, but she insisted she has no military connections and told everyone not to speculate."

Sheng Quan's tone was so earnest that he was starting to half-believe her.

Mr. Wang smiled confidently. "See, this is what you call true modesty. People with real influence stay low-key."

His ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‍friend was startled. "You mean...?"

Mr. Wang raised an eyebrow at him, and the friend suddenly understood. "Got it, got it."

"Since Chairman Sheng says she has no military background, we’ll just pretend we genuinely believe her."

The thought of boarding this 'big ship' made it impossible for him to suppress his grin. Still, he made an effort to show his stance:

"Stay low-key, low-key."