Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 63

"The Interstellar War" officially began filming.

A few days into production, perhaps due to skepticism about "having C University students handle movie props," a certain well-known figure in the scientific research community, Professor Zhang, publicly voiced his opinion:

"I wholeheartedly support collaborating with C University students on this interstellar-themed film project. Those who claim this is inappropriate, saying these students will neglect their primary responsibilities—what exactly is their primary responsibility if not holed up in school just reading books? Scientific research requires continuous learning and hands-on practice."

"If someone is willing to offer this opportunity, investing real money to let them gain practical experience, they should be overjoyed. What’s wrong with helping with movie props? You’re getting paid well—did you think you wouldn’t have to do any work? If I were a student, I’d apply for this too."

Professor Zhang’s influence was so significant that after his remarks, the buzz around the project surged once again.

Though few directly mentioned "The Interstellar War," everyone could imagine the prestige the actors would gain once the film was released.

Today, the actor playing the male lead’s second-in-command (Ming Yi) scrolled through these highly trending videos, thinking to himself that President Sheng was a rare, selfless benefactor who didn’t care about money.

Just look—even such an esteemed figure acknowledged that President Sheng was providing students with a chance to learn through practice. Ming Yi interpreted this as: this research-related investment probably wasn’t profitable.

Now that was vision.

Ming Yi’s real name was rather unappealing, so he’d adopted a stage name. He was just an ordinary small-time actor.

His main reason for paying attention to President Sheng was simple: as a minor actor, he was acutely aware that "President Sheng was the financial backer for everyone in the crew," so he wanted to practice the art of flattery in advance.

But Ming Yi wasn’t just looking to ride coattails—he genuinely felt gratitude.

Before "The Interstellar War" received praise from the central authorities, landing this role had already sent him into a frenzy of joy. Even if sci-fi was a niche genre in China, this was the male lead’s second-in-command in a major production!

The budget was enormous, the male lead was Jiang Zhen—a rising star who had recently gained international fame—and the female lead was Hua Qing, a long-established actress whose career had soared even higher after joining Starlight Entertainment.

Even Yan Hui, currently at the peak of his popularity, was cast as the third male lead (though rumors said it was only because his schedule was too packed to take on a larger role). Ming Yi couldn’t help but feel a bit out of place, like a husky that had somehow wandered into a pack of wolves.

His agent reassured him, pointing out that "The Interstellar War" was produced by Starlight Entertainment—it made sense for their in-house talent to join the project.

"Look at the cast list—almost all the well-known actors are signed with Starlight, aren’t they?"

Ming Yi saw the logic and relaxed a little.

In the months leading up to filming, he holed up at home memorizing lines and meticulously rehearsing his expressions and movements.

Even if sci-fi wasn’t mainstream, with so many big names attached, the box office couldn’t possibly flop. Ming Yi knew this opportunity was once-in-a-lifetime, and he was determined to seize it.

Then, President Sheng was publicly commended by the central authorities—and "The Interstellar War" was name-dropped alongside her.

Overnight, the yet-to-be-released film became the hottest commodity in the industry.

Ming Yi: "…"

From that moment, he braced himself for the inevitable—being unceremoniously replaced.

But one day passed, then two. A month, then two. Finally, the crew notified him: it was time to start filming.

"The Interstellar War" hadn’t replaced him!

They hadn’t swapped him out for a bigger star!

After he joined the set, perhaps sensing his unease, supervising producer Yu Xiangwan assured him that even a famous actor who had offered to slash his fee for the role hadn’t gotten it.

All because President Sheng had decreed: unless under extraordinary circumstances, last-minute recasting was forbidden. No matter how big the star eyeing his role, as long as Ming Yi didn’t mess up, the part was his to keep.

Ming Yi was overwhelmed with gratitude.

Without exaggeration, at that moment, his admiration for President Sheng reached its peak.

Watching Ming Yi walk away, face alight with "joy, gratitude, and excitement," Yu Xiangwan was pleased.

As the supervising producer, he was swamped with work, but that didn’t stop him from seizing every chance to boost President Sheng’s reputation—especially since she had read the script and was particularly fond of the male lead’s second-in-command.

The character’s costumes and styling still weren’t extensive enough. A few more custom outfits should be added.

Yu Xiangwan swiftly calculated a plan, adjusting his glasses in a way that made him look even more like a refined scoundrel.

Meanwhile, Ming Yi’s nerves had settled. Walking on air, he carefully embraced his first-ever "supporting male lead" role.

With no scenes scheduled for the day, after the opening ceremony, he was free to explore the set.

And what he discovered left him awestruck.

The set was massive.

The green screen stretched endlessly.

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The filming equipment was unlike anything he’d seen before.

The crowd was enormous.

That pillar was impressively tall… Wait, what was that?!

"Holy—"

His assistant, assigned to him after he landed the role, gasped behind him.

The two stood before what they’d mistaken for a "pillar," only to realize it was one leg of a colossal mechanical hound.

Towering, menacing, oozing sci-fi grandeur.

"That’s a prop for the mechanized beast scenes—not real," a props technician called out from behind the structure, busy touching up the paint. "Be careful not to bump into it. Damaging it means more touch-ups."

"Just a prop? It looks insanely real." Ming Yi exhaled in relief. "This must be the work of the same team behind the Ten Great Celestial Palaces, right? The realism is next-level."

He recalled the news he’d seen earlier and glanced up at the giant mechanical hound. "This isn’t the one mentioned in the reports, is it? The project President Sheng invested in, made by those students?"

Ming Yi knew nothing about scientific research, but if students had built something this massive in just two and a half months, that would be mind-blowing.

The props guy chuckled. "Of course not."

Ming Yi: Right, that made more sense.

Then the technician gestured to the left.

"Those over there are the students’ work."

They turned to see three sleek, metallic-black "hounds," each about human height, their heads encased in iron cages, limbs powerfully built. Laden with filming gear, they moved in a disciplined line, effortlessly sidestepping a crew member carrying a box.

Ming Yi and his assistant: "…"

They stood dumbfounded, watching as three mechanical dogs—each several times larger than a human—marched steadily toward the green-screen tent set up by the film crew, lined up in position, and then slowly "sat down."

Staff members emerged from the tent, calling over colleagues to unload the items strapped to the dogs' backs. After patting the mechanical heads and saying something, the three "giant dogs" slowly rose again, turned around, and headed back the way they came.

"This… this was made by students???"

Ming Yi was completely stunned.

And he wasn’t the only one. Chen Aihong was equally shocked.

"To achieve this in just two and a half months—Gu Shuyue is an absolute genius!!!"

She couldn’t help but be excited. Even if she had started researching this project from scratch, there was no way she could have achieved such results in such a short time.

Though these mechanical dogs could only perform pre-programmed actions—like the transport of heavy loads along a fixed route, as Ming Yi had just witnessed—their obstacle avoidance, agility, and sensor responsiveness far exceeded Chen Aihong’s expectations.

It wasn’t that she thought it was impossible. It was just… too fast. Unbelievably fast.

She wanted to ask Gu Shuyue how she had managed to produce such an impressive prototype in such a short time.

Faced with the inquiry from this renowned senior researcher, Gu Shuyue was both excited and a little shy. Her cheeks flushed slightly, and after a few seconds of hesitation, she blurted out two words:

"Money."

Chen Aihong: "…"

Sheng Quan, who had been leisurely sipping a glass of juice, looked up and remarked,

"Don’t be so modest. If money alone could produce results like this, I’d already be surrounded by mechanical dogs."

Even though Gu Shuyue was usually reserved in front of both a senior researcher and her benefactor, Sheng Quan’s humor made her laugh. She smiled sheepishly and explained,

"It really was because of the funding. I’ve been researching this for ten years, but I could never afford large-scale experiments—only small ones, bit by bit. That’s why progress was so slow before."

As she spoke, her eyes sparkled with excitement and reverence as she looked at Sheng Quan.

Chen Aihong was puzzled. Sheng Quan and Gu Shuyue had only met a handful of times. Even as a financial backer, was this level of admiration really necessary?

Then she heard the young student eagerly explain:

"I never expected President Sheng to release the entire research grant at once! With that money, we could finally buy materials we’d only dreamed of—high-end sensors, signal markers…"

Sheng Quan suddenly understood. It wasn’t that Gu Shuyue had created a miracle in two and a half months.

Rather, it was a decade’s worth of accumulated breakthroughs, finally unleashed by the sudden influx of funding.

The money had been well spent. Extremely well spent.

But Gu Shuyue was only in her early twenties. If she’d been researching for ten years… that meant she’d started in middle school. Truly, talented people were impressive from a young age.

As she mused, Chen Aihong turned to her in astonishment:

"You released the entire grant at once? All three million??? In one go?!"

Sheng Quan took another sip of juice. "Yeah, the project’s expensive. I assigned oversight, so I just disbursed it all at once. Is that not allowed?"

Chen Aihong: "…It’s allowed, but large grants are rarely released in full like that."

Three million. All at once.

What a legendary boss.

If not for her self-restraint, Chen Aihong might have grabbed Sheng Quan and begged her to invest in her own projects.

Gu Shuyue felt the same way.

She had long wanted to establish her own research project, so she’d done plenty of asking around. The most common complaint from senior researchers was how difficult it was to secure funding—even after approval.

Though two and a half months had passed, the exhilaration of receiving the grant still burned inside her. Even with oversight, this was the greatest show of trust she had ever experienced.

So for the past two and a half months, she and her team had worked tirelessly, determined to repay President Sheng’s faith.

A fully functional robotic guide dog couldn’t be developed so quickly. But with ample funding, they had managed to create an imposing, film-ready "transport dog" that could carry heavy loads.

Gu Shuyue watched Sheng Quan with bright eyes, eager for her thoughts on the prototype.

And Sheng Quan’s thoughts? They were overwhelmingly positive.

The first time she saw those three towering, fierce-looking mechanical dogs, she’d almost wanted to take one home as a pet.

Sure, they looked intimidating—but who could resist a cyberpunk-style mechanical dog with a reinforced muzzle, glowing lights at night, and an aesthetic straight out of Interstellar Wars?

The props department had been overjoyed to have these three marvels on set from day one.

"Xiao He told me every cent was spent where it should be." (Xiao He was the supervisor assigned to Gu Shuyue’s project.)

Sheng Quan continued, "To produce results this fast, you must have been burning the midnight oil. I’d like to offer some additional support."

President Sheng’s support was always straightforward:

"Starting this month, every member of your team will receive a 5,000-yuan bonus. You’ll get 15,000."

Gu Shuyue’s eyes widened.

A quick note: Though scientific research is highly valued, the salaries of early-career researchers—especially fresh graduates—are often modest.

As for students? Let’s not even go there.

Five thousand was already generous. Fifteen thousand?

For Gu Shuyue, that number translated to nearly four times her father’s monthly salary.

And here she was, still in university, already earning that much.

"President Sheng, I…"

For a moment, she was too overwhelmed to speak.

Three months ago, she had been lost, questioning whether her decade of dedication had been worth it. Now, not only could she pursue her research without restraint, but she was also being rewarded beyond her wildest dreams.

Her parents would be overjoyed when they found out.

"Your future achievements will only grow from here," Sheng Quan said, patting her hand. (These were the hands of a future great scientist!) "Keep working hard, and with tangible results, there’s no limit to what you can earn."

"Stay motivated. We’ll have rewards for every milestone you hit."

If anyone else had said this, it might have sounded like empty promises. But coming from Sheng Quan? It carried weight.

Gu Shuyue nodded fervently, all her gratitude condensed into one phrase: "Thank you, President Sheng!"

"No need for thanks."

Sheng Quan gave her hand another pat before Gu Shuyue left the café, her heart brimming with hope for the future.

Brimming with excitement, she dialed her family’s number:

"...Yes, 15,000. It’s real. Every month..."

—Outside, ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‍through the glass, Sheng Quan watched as Gu Shuyue walked down the street, chatting animatedly on the phone and playfully brushing her hands against the leaves along the path. The sight made her smile.

"Truly incredible. C University really is full of hidden talents."

"Yes," Chen Aihong also looked over, her face filled with warmth and anticipation. "That child has a bright future ahead of her."

Sheng Quan fell into thought. "Should I invest more in her? I can’t shake the feeling that she’ll bring me a huge surprise. It really was the right decision to invest in students back then. Professor Chen, do you think I should look for more students to invest in?"

Chen Aihong paused for a moment.

She asked, "Do you know Academician Zhang Hong?"

Sheng Quan snapped back to attention. "Of course I do. He praised me just a couple of days ago—how could I not know?"

The old man was nearly ninety, yet he still kept up with the latest news and even spoke up in her defense. She had been thoroughly stunned.

Professor Chen, now 55 and highly respected in her field—having turned down countless offers from major corporations—sat up straight with dignified composure.

"He was my teacher, so strictly speaking..."

She cleared her throat and concluded,

"I’m also a student."