Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 57

Faced with the widespread rumors like "Did you know? Sheng Quan is also xxxxx in the military district," Chairman Sheng could only sigh helplessly.

Elder Qin Guofu, however, remained unfazed: "They’re not entirely wrong. The military does hold you in high regard."

Sheng Quan’s reputation among certain military units was indeed excellent.

Opening a "green channel" for veterans’ employment was already a goodwill magnet, not to mention her arrangements for disabled veterans.

Rather than simply providing for them, she first hired instructors to teach them skills before offering job opportunities—this alone won over officers who worried about their soldiers’ post-service careers.

While the military couldn’t easily grant leave, they could certainly make phone calls. Most of the veterans who made it onto the list through Qin Guofu had one or two "old squad leaders" who kept a close eye on them.

By the second round of recruitment, the slots had become fiercely competitive.

After finally "snagging" a spot, the "old squad leaders" naturally followed up—asking about the company environment, how well the recruits were adapting, and whether they were learning anything.

To these questions, the trainees responded with enthusiastic praise. Though the training was tough, soldiers weren’t afraid of hardship. They were just thrilled to be learning marketable skills—while getting paid for it. Add in the advisors’ comparisons with other security firms’ benefits, and the recruits felt downright fortunate.

The cafeteria served nutritious, tasty meals; uniforms were provided; instructors were on hand for lessons; and injuries during training were promptly treated in the infirmary. Pass the exams, and they’d land high-paying jobs immediately.

The coaches and advisors were strict, but no more so than in the military. During breaks, everyone joked around like comrades. When they called home to share the news, their families rejoiced with them.

The advisors often emphasized: the company aimed for growth, but even if it folded someday, the skills they’d gained would still secure them decent jobs—maybe not at the current high salaries, but respectable ones nonetheless.

The military saw clearly how much effort Sheng Quan put into helping these veterans—and that her intentions were genuine.

No wonder the third recruitment round was another scramble. Word had spread far and wide, with officers across units vying to get their soldiers on the list.

The third reason for the military’s overwhelming goodwill? Sheng Quan’s generous donations of supplies and funds to certain units.

Yes, back during the Starlight Banquet in Country A, where she splurged to build hype, Sheng Quan made sure to donate double that amount domestically for every dollar spent abroad.

At the time, Lane thought she was throwing money into the wind, and Sheng Quan herself expected nothing in return.

But the recipient units remembered.

Already fond of her, their admiration skyrocketed.

Especially since Sheng Quan’s actions showed clear respect for the military—and who doesn’t appreciate being liked, especially when backed by tangible support?

"I heard it’s usually only when the government is directly involved that approvals move this fast," Qin Guofu remarked with pride. "Shows the state recognizes your contributions."

Ordinary approvals wouldn’t have raced through so swiftly, let alone granted permission to deploy a thousand troops for two months of filming—complete with access to military-specific equipment, including fighter jets and naval vessels.

In her past life, Sheng Quan hadn’t paid attention to military-assisted productions. But in this world, this was the highest level of support the armed forces could offer.

"So we’d better make it count," she told Xiang Wan and the crew. The assembled team nodded fervently, practically buzzing with determination.

With such cooperation from the military, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say Star Battle was being made with the armed forces’ backing.

No one was more thrilled than the screenwriter. Yes, she’d been established before, but never had one of her scripts attracted a production of this scale.

Pre-production budget already exceeded 1.4 billion. Starlight Entertainment had earmarked it as their flagship project for the coming year, with The Cultivator’s director Xu Man at the helm—and likely many of that hit’s now-famous actors joining the cast.

And now, military backing?!

While drafting the script, she’d oscillated between giddy excitement ("This will be huge!") and crushing realism ("The budget alone will scare everyone off"). By the final draft, pessimism had nearly won—but creators write first, think later. Despite juggling other projects and a year and a half of research, she’d stubbornly finished it.

The script was her heart and soul, so of course she wanted it to succeed—even if logic said the odds were slim.

Then, just a month after completion, a friend circulated it to major studios—and Starlight Entertainment called. The chairman loved it.

They’d film it, no matter the cost.

Next came a record-breaking sale price.

Then an invitation to join the production—with a jaw-dropping fee.

Before casting even began, teams of specialists were already consulting.

And now, military approval—tantamount to national endorsement.

The screenwriter was over the moon.

It all felt like a dream. Even rewriting scenes to incorporate actual military tech and advanced weaponry was a joy.

The headache? Adjustments weren’t just military-related. The futuristic sci-fi elements—originally pure imagination—now faced scrutiny from the very experts they’d painstakingly recruited.

In her first draft, the interstellar setting’s tech was easy: centuries removed from today, she’d let creativity run wild.

But these experts debated "future interstellar technology" with dead seriousness, hurling jargon-filled arguments in endless meetings.

As the lead writer, she and her team had to attend, take notes, ask questions—and at least pretend to follow along.

Their initial "This is amazing!" enthusiasm lasted precisely two meetings before devolving into "Just end me now."

Even Sheng Quan, who usually loved to join in on the fun, attended one of the discussions and never showed up at similar meetings again.

The last time she ran into the scriptwriting team, Sheng Quan patted her shoulder sympathetically and said, "Hang in there, you guys can do it!"

The scriptwriter: "..."

She really wanted to say she couldn’t, especially after Sheng Quan reviewed her nth draft of the high-tech elements and suddenly exclaimed with excitement:

"You know, if we hired someone to actually develop a real prototype, wouldn’t that save us a lot of trouble during filming?"

The scriptwriter: "..."

She weakly reminded her, "...If a working prototype existed, the experts probably wouldn’t be arguing so fiercely. Even they haven’t been able to develop it."

Sheng Quan still seemed intrigued. "If the experts can’t do it, maybe someone else can? What if we nurture talent nationwide? Imagine if we could pull it off—while others use fakes, we’d have the real thing. Doesn’t that sound amazing?"

The scriptwriter: "..."

If not for the fact that Sheng Quan often treated her to meals and drinks, bought her cat a massive climbing tower after petting it, and was the biggest investor in the production, she might’ve blurted out three burning questions:

Do people use fakes because they don’t want the real thing?

Are ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‍scientific breakthroughs something you can just ‘nurture’ into existence?

Do you even realize how incredibly accomplished the experts you’ve hired are?

Of course, she didn’t say any of that.

Maybe it was because of those messy reasons, or maybe because, despite all the internal complaints, when she really thought about it… it did sound pretty satisfying.

After working together, the scriptwriter concluded that Sheng Quan did have a naive side (in her opinion)—otherwise, she wouldn’t have greenlit her script in the first place.

When she wrote this grand, ambitious story, she never imagined it could actually be produced.

And now, Sheng Quan was holding her hand, eyes sparkling with excitement as she said:

"Right, Qin Qin? That’s exactly what I thought when I read your script. Before this, I’d never considered investing in scientific research. But your story made me realize how worthwhile it is. If any of my investments lead to real breakthroughs, you’ll have played a part in it."

"Even if we don’t succeed right away, nurturing scientific talent is still a good thing."

With her soft hands clasping hers and those sweet words in her ears, the scriptwriter instantly melted and switched sides.

"If you’re not worried about the investment going to waste, then it’s worth a try. We’d need to set up a research scene for filming anyway."

Then, she learned that Sheng Quan had hit it off with one of the expert consultants and, in a bold move, decided to donate to the expert’s alma mater for "charitable education support."

Not only that—she also planned to select a student research project at the university to fund.

The scriptwriter: "???"

Wait, if you’re investing in research, shouldn’t you target established or semi-established projects?

College students???

Meanwhile, students at the prestigious university heard about the upcoming donation ceremony.

At first, most of them weren’t particularly interested.

Their school had produced plenty of high-achievers, and it wasn’t uncommon for successful alumni to return and donate.

Just as everyone was about to go back to their own business, news broke that the donor—a wealthy businesswoman—intended to select a few student research projects to sponsor.

"So what? Alumni have done this before. There’s way more demand than supply, and even if you get picked, the funding isn’t much. Not worth the hassle."

Students with ongoing projects were mostly indifferent when classmates told them.

"We’re better off applying for the school’s funding. If our project gets approved, that’s a solid 200,000 yuan! Why that look? You turning your nose up at 200,000 now? That’s a huge amount!"

"By the way, how much is this donor planning to invest?"

The classmate: "A hundred million."

The student: "..."

Other students: "..."

The sourc𝗲 of this content is freēwēbηovel.c૦m.

Two seconds later, a deafening shout erupted in the dorm:

"A HUNDRED MILLION?!!!!!"