Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 121

Six hundred contestants stood on a stage large enough to accommodate them all, gazing down at the scene below in near disbelief.

Sheng Quan was already lying inside her holographic pod, joining them in admiring the sea of glowing star signs lighting up the venue. Each sign bore a contestant's name in elegant, shimmering fonts—so dazzling they resembled eternal stars in a galaxy that never faded.

In reality, star signs of this quality would be prohibitively expensive. But in the virtual world, they cost just ten cents.

In this era of inflation, ten cents might as well be free. Even students with the tightest allowances could easily spare that amount.

And for just ten cents, these star signs came with customizable designs—elaborate patterns crafted by designers who had poured their creativity into them at President Sheng’s request, complete with sparkling effects impossible to replicate in the real world.

Who could resist that?!

The audience assumed this was a generous perk from the game developers, since both Polaris and Guoxinghai were backed by President Sheng.

So they happily indulged in a shopping spree. One "big spender" even dropped nearly two yuan to buy over a dozen different star sign designs.

No need to worry about carrying them all—this player had thoughtfully customized their in-game avatar as a woolly mammoth. Even with dozens of signs hanging off them, their massive frame had no trouble handling the load.

Though it seemed like an extravagant gift, earning President Sheng the title of "Player-Loving CEO" among fans...

—She still turned a profit.

Ten cents might sound negligible, but multiply that by hundreds of millions of players, most of whom spent more than just ten cents? Virtual items had no material cost—these dazzling star signs were simply copied and pasted in the game.

Selling them was like the sweet little cake handed out at Sheng Quan’s celebratory events—small but satisfying.

Of course, her goal wasn’t just to make money.

Right now, that mammoth player who splurged two yuan was in the audience—though "audience seats" were impossible to spot in the ocean of people. Undeterred, they raised their trunk, proudly displaying a star sign for Lan He.

Their long, curled tusks each bore a sign too—Ge Ling on the left, Miemie on the right—while their voice never stopped cheering:

"Lan He, you’re the best!! Go crush the competition!!"

"Ge Ling, my goddess!! Awooo!"

"Miemie, don’t back down!! We’ve got your back!!!"

Complete with voice modulations.

It was a full-blown split-personality spectacle.

The good news? They weren’t alone. Plenty of other fans were just as enthusiastically "divided," since holographic accounts allowed three users to take turns logging in—perfect for big events like this.

Though the venue glittered with star signs, at least sixty percent of the cheering crowd were casual onlookers.

Humans naturally love a spectacle, especially internet-savvy netizens.

Even Sheng Quan, when goofing off online, often stumbled into lonely livestreams where creators poured their hearts out to an empty room.

She’d toss them a free "heart"—not out of kindness or charity, but because it cost her nothing and might brighten their day.

—Just a small gesture.

Here, the contestants’ nervous energy was palpable. And with star signs priced at just ten cents, plus the infectious excitement of the stage, why not join in?

So they bought a sign, offering a little support.

"Once they buy a star sign, everything changes."

Sheng Quan took a sip of cola, chatting quietly with Yu Xiangwan.

Yes, holographic pods were that indulgent—she could even enjoy an ice-cold cola in-game, complete with a lemon slice on the rim.

She didn’t worry about eavesdroppers; private chats in the game were secure, and she could mute the roaring crowd if she wanted.

(She didn’t. Just turned the volume down.)

"Most of these viewers are just here for the fun. But sometimes, all it takes is one small connection."

Even virtually, Yu Xiangwan’s gaze never left Sheng Quan. He smiled softly, refilling her glass despite the game’s instant-refill feature.

"And you’ve given them that connection."

"That’s my name!! They’re calling for me!!"

The contestant, Gan Su, trembled with excitement.

He was one of Guoxinghai’s less noticeable participants—not because he lacked talent. Truthfully, every contestant here had earned their spot.

But he had no prior fame, and while solid in every way, he simply couldn’t compete with the show’s standout prodigies.

His skills weren’t as flashy as the top players. He lacked the wit of Contestant A, who charmed everyone with banter, or the endearing naivety of Contestant B. He couldn’t deliver sharp, meme-worthy one-liners like Contestant C.

Even the show’s clumsiest sixteen-year-old had a dopey charm that made others want to help him.

—"In a competition like this, skill matters, but so does screen presence. When talent is equal, it’s all about winning the audience. If they love you, they’ll keep you around."

That was the advice a veteran had given him before joining.

Too bad he had no idea how to apply it.

Gan Su didn’t consider himself a natural on camera. Compared to the others—multitalented, already accomplished—he had to admit: if he were a viewer, he’d root for them too.

So before stepping onstage, he’d braced for silence.

But now...

He saw them.

Dozens of star signs, flashing his name.

"Gan Su!"

"Gan Su!! You’ve got this!"

"Go for gold!!"

For a second, he thought he was hallucinating.

His nose stung with emotion.

"I have fans!! I actually have fans!!!"

The usually reserved young man nearly jumped out of his skin, giddily sharing the moment with his fellow contestants.

The stage hadn't officially begun yet, but the holographic structure was enough to display all the contestants before the audience's eyes.

A spectator holding a star sign with [Gan Su]'s name was cheering along with the crowd. Truthfully, she had barely watched any live broadcasts before—some preferred slice-of-life content, while others loved grand spectacles, and she belonged to the latter.

The only reason she carried Gan Su's star sign was because she liked its design and the way it sparkled... It was clearly a freebie from the organizers, and as someone who had spent hundreds on in-game purchases, she wasn’t about to miss out on such a good deal.

Under the username [Laozi Shudaoshan], she shouted a few times before muttering impatiently about why things hadn’t started yet. Then, she noticed the young man on stage waving excitedly in her direction.

[Laozi Shudaoshan] was momentarily stunned.

Looking closer... Ah! The contestant named Gan Su was really looking at her, interacting with her.

He waved with such enthusiasm, as if afraid his supporters below wouldn’t see him. After a while, he even bowed deeply in gratitude, his face lit up with pure, unadulterated joy.

Before this, [Laozi Shudaoshan] had no real impression of Gan Su. She had only chanted his name because others were doing it, and she wanted to blend in.

But now, as she watched the dazzling stage and the very contestant on her star sign gazing at her with disbelieving, tear-moistened eyes—

—[Laozi Shudaoshan] felt an odd, tender warmth bloom in her chest.

This emotion spurred her to raise her hands high again, the glittering star sign flashing—

"Gan Su!!!! You’re the best!!!!"

At that moment, she admitted it—Gan Su, the contestant she had randomly picked, actually seemed pretty great.

Well, alright then. Maybe she’d casually follow him for a bit.

Many in the audience shared the same journey of realization.

Before stepping onto the stage, none of the 600 contestants of [Guoxinghai] had dared to expect much in terms of fan support.

—A certain someone surnamed Sheng, who preferred to remain anonymous, would never admit this was her deliberate doing.

In any case, with zero expectations, the young contestants were greeted by a sea of star signs.

At that moment, their excitement nearly reached its peak.

At this age, what couldn’t impulsive youngsters do when overwhelmed? One contestant, whether from tripping or sheer exhilaration, even kowtowed to the audience on the spot.

Though the "contestant publicly paying New Year’s respects" drew roaring laughter, many spectators who had initially come just for the spectacle found themselves pleasantly surprised, reciprocating the passionate energy radiating from these stunningly attractive youths.

Right then, their emotions aligned perfectly.

—He/She is grateful.

—He/She needs me.

In that fleeting instant, as they received the contestants’ unreserved responses, a genuine connection formed between them and the "contestants they supported."

Enthusiasm is contagious—especially when it’s sincere.

The audience was instantly ignited, shouting the names on their star signs at the top of their lungs, waving them fervently as if they were true fans, pouring out their support without restraint.

"Tiantian! Tiantian!!"

"Wuwei, you’ve got this!!!!"

"Ahhhh Ji Shi, you can do it!!!"

All 600 contestants had their own fans, and not just a handful either.

This was unheard of in other talent shows, where there were always "fodder contestants"—those who existed to pad runtime or highlight the more outstanding participants.

The cameras would never linger on them; the audience would never notice them. Their most memorable moment would be a single tear at their elimination.

But [Guoxinghai] completely overturned the traditional talent show formula.

The atmosphere was no longer just casual spectating. Everyone was immersed, their cheers so deafening it felt like the roof might blow off.

—If the roof hadn’t been a game model, that is.

Ji Shan, sporting a panda avatar, watched everything unfold from the second-floor viewing area, overwhelmed by the roaring energy, almost to the point of fear.

Though he had joined the production team midway, he’d done well and wasn’t ostracized by his colleagues despite his previous affiliation with the "rival camp."

Thus, he too was granted access to the holographic stage as an observer.

Ji Shan had come purely to learn and appreciate, expecting a massive influx of spectators.

After all, it was a holographic stage—even if he weren’t part of [Guoxinghai], he’d have bought a helmet just to witness it. fгeewebnovёl.com

But what he hadn’t anticipated was [Guoxinghai]’s ability to retain these viewers.

Yes, retain.

Not just in the holographic stage, but in the [Guoxinghai] talent show itself.

Anyone in the industry knew that in entertainment, everything was fake—except data. With data, you could have anything.

And what was data? Click rates, view counts, or more fundamentally—the audience below.

Audiences were the most passionate, yet also the most fickle. Most watched shows without ever committing to a contestant, observing with a detached, godlike indifference.

Stick around? Show enthusiasm? They had too many shows to watch—why cling to one tree when the forest was endless?

Yet [Guoxinghai], with just one move—the [One-Cent Star Sign]—had forged a bond between most viewers and the show.

Even if they had only come for the spectacle, once the holographic stage ended, these now emotionally invested spectators would likely follow the show into the live broadcasts, layering [Guoxinghai]’s view counts higher and higher.

Of course, not 100% would stay, but even 30% would mean victory for Xingmang.

A resounding victory.

Ji Shan’s panda eyes widened in shock. He was terrified by the sheer scale of the show’s impact—something he’d never encountered in his comfort zone.

This was domination. A blatant, overwhelming domination of the entire industry.

Then he remembered he was now on Xingmang’s side and instantly relaxed.

President Sheng...

Just ten days into its broadcast, [Guoxinghai] had already reached the pinnacle of talent shows.

What would she do next?

The dazed panda’s gaze lifted to the sky, where a virtual figure casually waved a hand. Though the gesture was effortless, it instantly plunged the heavens into darkness.

Amid the audience’s gasps and the gradual hush, only ten contestants remained on stage.

—Snap!

Spotlights illuminated them.

The contestants had likely been warned they were the first to perform, so they showed no stage fright. As the music swelled, they began moving in sync.

—​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‍Boom!!

The seemingly ordinary, ornate stage suddenly expanded, vibrant colors streaking across its surface like living entities, rearranging into a dark palette that matched the first group’s gothic theme.

"Whoa!!"

"Holy—!!"

Under the astonished gazes of the audience, the stage suddenly took flight, moving in perfect sync with the performers' steps—rising and falling rhythmically with every heavy stomp.

Ji Shan's eyes widened like a panda's, even though he had known beforehand that the holographic stage would be nothing like a traditional one. But witnessing such breathtaking visual transformations left him utterly spellbound.

The soothing background music abruptly surged into intensity as the performers—each blessed with long legs and flawless looks—stomped hard on the stage, only for it to flip upside down in an instant.

The climax of the song was also its simplest and catchiest part—just hit the high notes, and you were golden.

The audience tilted their heads back, watching the inverted performers sing in unison:

—"1! 2! 3!!! We gaze at the fireworks!!!!!"

—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!!!

As the stage abruptly righted itself, a dazzling explosion of fireworks burst forth from behind.

And there they were, singing under that radiant shower of sparks, every spectator treated to the perfect view.

This surreal fusion of reality and fantasy was nothing short of dreamlike—bewitching, bizarre, and utterly mesmerizing.

"AHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

The crowd went wild!

The stage began morphing again. Originally circular, it now stretched and elongated, transforming into a path that snaked right through the audience.

The performers sang and danced their way past the spectators, so close it felt like a mere stretch of the hand could touch them.

One particularly playful performer grinned as he sang, reaching out as if to interact with the crowd.

"1!!!! 2!!!!! 3!!!!!!"

The audience roared along, their voices nearly drowning out the music.

They were completely off-key, their singing devoid of any melody, but the sheer passion in their voices threatened to pierce the heavens.

The final line of the song was belted out in this frenzy:

—"We gaze at the fireworks!!!"

Every performer dropped to one knee in perfect sync, their eyes sparkling, chests heaving with exhilaration.

—BOOM!!!

—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!!!

Almost simultaneously, fireworks no longer confined to the stage erupted overhead—the kind that, in the real world, would require permits, exorbitant budgets, and vast open spaces to set off.

Yet here, above the holographic stage, they burst forth without restraint.

The first performance concluded in a spectacle that left everyone breathless.

Ji Shan's panda eyes were even more dazed than before.

This was just the first act.

And yet… it was already… this incredible…

Like the rest of the audience, he stared dumbfounded at the fireworks display—too beautiful to exist in reality.

It was stunning.

Radiant.

So radiant that it illuminated the upturned faces of the crowd.

So radiant that it lit up President Sheng in the VIP section, applauding enthusiastically.

And so radiant that it shone a light on the future of the entertainment industry—