Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 86

Sheng Quan could tell that Tan Chen deeply cared about his teammates. Whenever he spoke of them, his voice carried a warmth and gentleness.

She was almost certain now.

Tan Chen wasn’t just a naturally gifted professional player—he also possessed remarkable talent as an esports coach.

It was obvious. How could a small team like Polar Waters coincidentally have every member be a top-tier genius in the industry?

Though the novel barely mentioned Tan Chen, her recent research into esports hadn’t been for nothing. Most professional players started young, so those who achieved great results often became coaches for major clubs after retirement.

After retiring, Tan Chen had been hired as a coach by one of the three biggest clubs, but he resigned after just three months, taking with him Bai Xiangyuan, an overlooked trainee.

Later, he formed the small Polar Waters team, gathering young players around Bai Xiangyuan’s age, patiently waiting for the global tournament held every three years.

Years of gossip-digging experience allowed Sheng Quan to easily find forum posts from that time. Though she couldn’t piece together the full story, it was clear that Bai Xiangyuan hadn’t shown any exceptional talent back then.

So how had he become the "Rookie King" now?

And in the novel’s brief mentions, everything had unfolded as Tan Chen wished—Polar Waters climbed the ranks, gradually becoming the center of attention.

Perhaps this small team couldn’t strike it rich overnight, but they would at least no longer need Tan Chen to sacrifice his health for money.

So why, in the end, did Tan Chen still succumb to his injuries?

Sheng Quan thought of a possibility and asked, "Have you ever considered returning to the competition?"

"Since you’re still registered in the team, you could still compete, right?"

Tan Chen paused, then in reality, gave a faint smile tinged with regret but also a hint of acceptance:

"I used to think about it. Honestly, right after retiring, I dreamed almost every night of competing again. But looking back now, I’ve long come to terms with how things ended. It was just… a bit of lingering reluctance."

Sheng Quan didn’t ask why Tan Chen felt reluctant.

Though this was their first meeting, she could guess that it wasn’t retirement itself he couldn’t accept.

Perhaps, as a once-ambitious young man, he had wanted to leave with a smile after winning a championship.

Not to be sidelined by his club, denied even the chance to compete during his prime, only to be loaned out repeatedly until his body gave out.

She asked again, "So, you’ll never return to the stage?"

"No," Tan Chen answered firmly.

After a moment, he added with a chuckle, "Besides, there’s no need for me to compete now. Let the younger players take the spotlight."

There was even a trace of pride in his voice.

Sheng Quan couldn’t help but ponder. Tan Chen’s stance was resolute—he had regrets, but he knew he couldn’t return.

And despite his seemingly reckless playstyle, Tan Chen was actually meticulous, calculating every step.

So in the original story, when Polar Waters was soaring, what had happened to trigger Tan Chen’s fatal injury?

As she lost herself in thought, Lie Yan, noticing her silence, chimed in:

"See? Boss, I told you—this guy’s like a mother hen with his chicks."

Tan Chen maneuvered his game character to kick him:

“We agreed only the winner gets to accompany her. Why did you insist on tagging along?”

“Isn’t it because the boss said she wanted to learn about esports?” Lie Yan deftly dodged, grinning. “You’re the type who can’t squeeze out half a word even if beaten with a stick. What if you can’t explain what she wants to know properly?”

“See, I’m talkative—chatting is my specialty. Consider it a buy-one-get-one deal. The boss already agreed, so you should be secretly thrilled to have me helping out.”

With that, he made his bulky bear character flash a heart at the two of them.

Sheng Quan couldn’t help but laugh at Lie Yan’s antics.

She could tell Lie Yan was worried Tan Chen’s reserved nature might upset her, the big boss, so he’d come along to smooth things over. “That’s right, I agreed to it.”

Lie Yan immediately acted as if he’d received some divine decree, gleefully bouncing his character around Tan Chen.

Sheng Quan checked the snowflakes accumulating in her gourd. “I’ve almost got enough snowflakes. I’ll head to the mountaintop to collect them—it’s a solo mission, so you two don’t need to come up.”

Once she left, Lie Yan sidled up to Tan Chen. “I really think the boss of Wo Jiangshan has high hopes for you. You should seize the opportunity—she’s a big spender who dropped 200 million in the game!”

“Isn’t your team lacking a sponsor? Go for it!”

Tan Chen sighed. “She increased her investment because she believes in me. How can I turn around and ask for funding? She mentioned she’s in the film industry and a complete novice in esports. Wouldn’t that put her in an awkward position?”

“Besides, didn’t you hear earlier? The boss didn’t spend 200 million just for fun. She’s clearly aiming for Polar’s perpetual shares.”

Tan Chen often followed Polar’s news and was well aware of this.

This year, Polar’s official player reward event promised that the player with the highest in-game points would receive perpetual shares in Polar.

Naturally, points were calculated based on spending—every top-up, every extravagant in-game purchase translated into points.

Lie Yan’s eyes widened. “Damn, just for those shares? They’re barely worth anything. Two hundred million could buy so much else.”

“The boss must have her own plans.”

Tan Chen didn’t fully understand it either, but even though they’d only crossed paths in the game, he could sense Sheng Quan had a strategy behind her spending.

“She seems like the type who enjoys herself but never wastes a single penny.”

He paused, then added quietly, “During that last match, she genuinely believed I could win.”

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That’s why he hadn’t considered Lie Yan’s suggestion to seek investment from Sheng Quan.

Because he felt her goodwill, he didn’t want to burden someone who’d shown him kindness.

Lie Yan clicked his tongue. “You talked for just half an hour, and you already figured out her personality? I couldn’t tell anything except that she’s loaded.”

Tan Chen didn’t stop gathering snowgrass. “In gaming, observation is fundamental.”

“No wonder you didn’t notice.”

“Yeah, right.”

Lie Yan crouched down to help, then suddenly realized, “Wait—are you saying I suck at games?!”

“I never said that.”

“You totally implied it. I knew it—from the moment we met, I could tell you were sly.”

And then, gradually, he’d grown quieter.

Tan Chen fell silent for a few seconds before saying, “Lie Yan, thank you.”

Lie Yan had witnessed every shift in him, yet this “gaming buddy” never pried or commented, simply dragging him into matches as usual.

“No need. We’re close, aren’t we? But seriously, after that match, it’s like you came back to life.”

Lie Yan sighed dramatically.

“If I’d known beating me up would energize you, I’d have let you do it ages ago. What a shame.”

Tan Chen: “If you want, I can beat you up again.”

Lie Yan: “…I’m out!”

After the banter, both of them were in good spirits.

For Tan Chen, the financial pressure had eased thanks to that “massive boost,” and in the real world, his team, Po Shui, was gaining traction thanks to the livestreamed variety show.

The small, struggling team had already gained some fans after their impressive winning streak in matches. If not for Bai Xiangyuan’s mistake in the last match, Tan Chen’s original plan was to secure sponsors this month.

Unfortunately, the loss had made hesitant sponsors even warier.

That was why Tan Chen had pushed himself to the limit, grinding through tournaments. But now, things were looking up—the show’s broadcast had soothed the fans’ disappointment, and the next match would turn the tide.

Moreover, he would almost always see Sheng Quan online whenever he logged into the game. Along with Lie Yan, the three of them didn’t chat much anymore, but teaming up to play together still gave Tan Chen a rare and enjoyable stretch of carefree leisure.

Sheng Quan was having a great time too.

Even before meeting Tan Chen and the others, she had already found the game incredibly fun. But now, with two veteran players at a god-tier level guiding her, every challenge became a breeze. Dungeons felt like walking through unguarded territory, and they even uncovered all sorts of hidden gameplay mechanics.

In ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‍short, Chairman Sheng was practically floating with joy.

In the real world, she wasn’t idle either, constantly comparing various assets. The only thing she couldn’t figure out was why, in the original storyline, Tan Chen’s injuries had escalated to such a severe degree.

Right now, they were admittedly a bit short on funds, but it wasn’t as if they were on the brink of collapse, desperately in need of a big investor to save them from imminent doom.

Even if Sheng Quan didn’t invest, other backers would start stepping in within a month—all part of Tan Chen’s carefully laid plans.

—Until Tan Chen didn’t log in for three straight days.

It was only after asking Lie Yan that Sheng Quan learned Bai Xiangyuan, the player whose mistake had cost them the last match, was trying to leave the team. Tan Chen had been dealing with the fallout all this time.

She asked, “Do you have his number?”

Lie Yan’s eyes instantly lit up, and he swiftly handed over the contact—the whole exchange took less than two seconds.

That day, Tan Chen, sitting listlessly on the steps, received a call.

“Actually, I’m not just dabbling in film and TV stuff.”

Sheng Quan glanced at the acquisition contract in her hand. “I never mentioned this, did I? I might be a newcomer.”

“But that doesn’t stop me from owning an esports club.”