Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 99

After the global tournament concluded, Sheng Quan swiftly entered a period of bountiful rewards.

Esports truly burns through money, but when it hits the profit phase, the returns are equally staggering.

It’s worth noting that esports fans in this world span the entire globe.

They don’t subscribe to the mindset of "if it’s not my country, I won’t support it." Even when Chinese esports was at its lowest, there were still massive numbers of fans—though they simply supported foreign teams instead.

That said, most esports fans in this world still hold their own convictions. In an era of global entertainment, various forms of amusement have taken on special significance.

While they might switch allegiances to foreign teams during regular seasons, when it comes to international tournaments like the global championship, the majority still rally behind their home country’s representatives.

But that support hinges on one condition: their national team must make it to the finals. Sometimes, if their favorite team ends up facing their country’s squad, fans feel torn, as if they’re being split in two, unsure which side to root for.

In recent years, Chinese esports fans haven’t had to grapple with this dilemma, giving the impression that they weren’t particularly active in the scene.

Otherwise, sponsors wouldn’t have hesitated even as the Breaking Waves team climbed the ranks.

Even foreign brands were reluctant to invest in China, often dubbed the "esports wasteland."

But after this year’s global tournament, the world finally witnessed the fervor of Chinese fans.

Post-event, news outlets worldwide rushed to publish their reports:

"Polar Champions: China’s Breaking Waves Team Takes the Crown"

"Team Captain Announces Retirement on Awards Stage"

"Chinese Fans Flood City O, Mayor Awards Sheng Quan ‘Annual Contribution Award’"

"Tourist Boom in City O as Mayor Hastens Museum Repairs for Visitors"

Indeed, while the championship going to a Chinese team was noteworthy, the real headline for many nations was: How do your team’s fans outnumber everyone else’s?!

Some players who stayed behind to explore the city were baffled:

"Why are there so many tourists in City O, and why did the Breaking Waves’ owner get a contribution award?"

Even if it’s because of the fans, shouldn’t the team be the ones honored?

A teammate, clearly an avid internet user, explained: "Apparently, multiple people can receive V Country’s Annual Contribution Award. The owner got a separate one because she praised City O’s tourism on social media."

The questioning player grew even more confused: "So what if she praised it? I did too—where’s my award?"

The teammate deadpanned: "Can your praise attract hundreds of thousands of tourists?"

The player: "???"

"How many?!"

"Hundreds of thousands?!"

"It really is packed out there."

Sheng Quan stayed in City O’s landmark hotel, as always in the top-floor suite, leaning by the window with a telescope in hand.

Gazing at the sea of people below, she clicked her tongue. "Can V Country even handle this many visitors?"

Jiang Lu, standing beside her, reassured her: "No need to worry. Though V Country isn’t large, its capital, City O, is more than capable of accommodating the crowds."

Nodding, Sheng Quan opened Weibo and chuckled at the trending topic: "Tourists Flock to Sheng Quan’s Photo Spots in V Country."

Since the finals were held in City O, competing teams usually arrived a few days early. But with accommodations not covered by the organizers, most only came about ten days in advance.

Fans who bought tickets would arrive based on their schedules, with the earliest showing up around two weeks prior.

Breaking Waves was different. With Sheng Quan’s deep pockets, the entire team arrived in the picturesque but modest country a full month ahead—equipment in tow.

While Tan Chen and the others trained daily at the hotel, Sheng Quan happily explored the small, scenic nation.

Over the past few years—aside from the hectic first year after her transmigration—Sheng Quan made sure to travel at least five times annually.

For shorter trips, she stayed domestic: admiring landscapes straight out of ink paintings, scaling awe-inspiring snow-capped peaks, traversing plateaus, and galloping across endless grasslands on horseback.

Generally, travel isn’t always enjoyable—unless you’re wealthy.

And since Sheng Quan was very wealthy, she enjoyed every single trip.

After soaking in the scenery, she’d retreat to a mountaintop hotel with panoramic views. When climbing high-altitude peaks, she was accompanied by seasoned guides and a full medical team. Riding across the grasslands? Jiang Lu and his team were always nearby, ready to ensure her safety.

She never had to fuss over itineraries, prep exhaustive packing lists, or rush through every local attraction like a checklist.

Director Wan Bao once asked her during the filming of Stellar War: "You’re already this rich—why do you still work?"

Sheng Quan’s reply: "Because only by working hard can I truly savor my leisure time."

This was her first life as a "rich second-gen," and while she lacked experience, she’d observed plenty of wealthy heirs in her past life. Barring a few nouveau riche exceptions, most had their own careers and pursuits.

Life couldn’t be all play; if it were, the joy would eventually fade.

It was like how Lin Aike, while filming, had to strictly control her diet—boiled meat and greens, not a drop of oil in sight. When Sheng Quan visited the set, Lin’s eyes would gleam at the sight of a fried chicken leg, as if she might pounce on it.

She’d even coined a life truth: "If I could eat one normal home-cooked meal right now, I’d instantly feel pure happiness."

But once filming wrapped and Lin had time to rest and recover, with no strict diet enforced, her cravings vanished.

After an initial two days of bliss, even her favorite dishes became mundane.

For Sheng Quan, balance was key. With both work and play in her life, she found lasting happiness.

She’d even curate travel destinations for her employees after her own trips. This time, she was pleasantly surprised to find that V Country—never before featured on any "recommended travel lists"—was an unexpected gem.

Though small and rarely visited, the country’s hospitality was top-notch, prices were reasonable, and its foreign landscapes offered a unique charm. Clearly, the locals had invested heavily in tourism, maintaining both natural and man-made attractions impeccably.

Safe, fun, and affordable—after deciding to make it Starlight Entertainment’s next overseas retreat, Sheng Quan casually praised it on Weibo.

Her Weibo account had gradually become a platform for sharing daily life. Though she was somewhat of a public figure, no one dared to dictate what Chairman Sheng could or couldn’t post. Whenever Sheng Quan came across something delicious, binge-watched a show, or nurtured a new plant, she would share it on social media—and her posts always garnered enthusiastic responses.

When celebrities posted things like, "This biscuit is delicious, highly recommend!" fans might suspect it was a paid promotion. But when Sheng Quan did the same, brands would flood her comments with offers like, "If you like them, we’ll send you ten boxes!"—and no one would accuse her of advertising. After all, who could possibly afford her endorsement fees?

It was also undeniable that Sheng Quan’s tastes aligned with the masses. What she liked, most people tended to enjoy as well. Observant netizens noticed that while she never publicly criticized anything—be it food or TV shows—her silence spoke volumes. Starlight Entertainment, for instance, didn’t produce hit shows every time. With so many projects under such a large company, a few flops were inevitable. Yet, while Sheng Quan might casually mention other shows, the bad ones never earned so much as a whisper on her feed.

This indirectly proved one thing: she only praised what she genuinely liked.

And let’s face it—if someone as wealthy as Sheng Quan ate or used something, at the very least, it had to be safe and healthy, right?

Before long, her Weibo became a go-to destination for recommendations. Take that biscuit she praised, for example. It was from a niche brand that prioritized quality ingredients, with a rich, creamy flavor, but struggled with low profits and couldn’t afford marketing. Then, out of nowhere, Sheng Quan’s endorsement sent hordes of people buying boxes upon boxes, single-handedly resurrecting the brand.

Of course, that was an exceptional case—the biscuits were genuinely good, which explained the explosive response. Other smaller recommendations didn’t fare as well.

So even Sheng Quan herself was caught off guard when her casual praise for O City’s tourism—along with a few photos—sparked an unprecedented frenzy. Previously, she’d complimented other places without much fanfare, but this time was different.

E-sports fans, already riding the high of the Chinese team’s victory at the global championships, flocked to O City in droves, provided they had some spare cash.

Fortunately, V Country had prepared in advance. Otherwise, Sheng Quan might’ve had to urge everyone to travel responsibly—though she suspected that, given the internet’s penchant for chaos, such a plea would only fuel more enthusiasm.

By now, the comments under her Weibo post were completely overrun:

"So beautiful! Thanks for the rec, Chairman Sheng. Just in time for my annual leave—taking the whole family there!"

"I’m already in V Country! Was planning to leave after the finals, but since you say it’s fun, I’m staying!"

"AHHHH Po Shui is unbeatable! Chairman Sheng is unbeatable!! V Country is amazing!!"

"Just booked my flight. See you soon!"

"LOL, I’m at the Grand Canyon right now, and it’s packed with Chinese tourists. At night, we all sang and danced around a bonfire—Chinese songs only. Even the locals got swept up in it! (Pic 1) (Pic 2)"

"Holy crap, just checked hotel prices in O City—they’re dirt cheap! But I’ve never been abroad. For those already there, is it manageable without speaking the language? Are the locals friendly?"

"Answering the call: Currently at the hotel. Felt a bit lost with the language barrier during the day, but the streets are full of Chinese tourists, so it’s not too scary. By evening, the staff had switched to Mandarin speakers—apparently, V Country’s government hired them urgently to make our trip smoother. The locals are super welcoming, and even though it’s a small country, they’ve mobilized their entire security force to keep tourists safe. Verdict: Worth a second visit."

"I chatted with a local who asked why so many of us suddenly showed up. Told them it was because Chairman Sheng, Po Shui’s boss, recommended it. Their shocked faces will live in my memory forever."

"Same here—got the exact same reaction. Priceless."

V Country was, understandably, stunned.

Typically, host nations of global tournaments would see a tourism boost after the event. The hosting rights were awarded based on the previous year’s winning team’s nationality.

While teams at the global championships were jokingly referred to as "national teams," they weren’t officially state-sponsored—except in V Country’s case. Their winning team had been government-trained, with state-funded equipment.

From the moment they secured hosting rights, V Country had poured three years of preparation into leveraging the global finals to kickstart their tourism industry.

It was their only shot. Small and economically limited, they had no other avenues for growth.

As the finals approached, the entire nation grew anxious. Their meticulous planning was meant to ensure visitors had such a great experience that they’d return or spread the word, boosting future tourism.

Their biggest fear? That audiences would leave right after the matches, dismissing the country as too insignificant to explore. So, from the moment the venue opened, they’d bombarded social media with promotional campaigns.

Never in their wildest dreams did V Country’s government imagine their initial worry—"What if we don’t get enough tourists?"—would morph into "How do we handle this overwhelming influx?"

Hundreds of thousands of Chinese tourists.

All because of one remark from the championship team’s owner, Sheng Quan.

If there were a "National Contribution Award," the mayor would’ve gladly handed it to her on the spot.

V Country wasn’t the only one reeling—other nations were equally shocked.

Sheng Quan knew the phenomenon wasn’t solely her doing. Multiple factors had aligned:

First, China hadn’t clinched a victory in so long that Po Shui’s win ignited an electric fervor among e-sports fans. In that euphoric state, visiting the championship’s host country felt like a natural next step.

Second, many Chinese spectators were already in V Country for the finals. With China’s massive population—and heightened hopes for victory this year—the stands had been packed. For them, extending their stay for sightseeing was just a bonus.

Third, V Country’s affordability, coupled with their three-year tourism overhaul, had created a budget-friendly, tourist-ready environment. An overseas trip this cheap, during a holiday? Chinese travelers jumped at the chance.

And most crucially—Chinese people loved a good crowd. A destination this fun, this affordable, and swarming with fellow countrymen? Even first-time travelers saw it as the perfect opportunity to dip their toes into international travel.

In short, it was a perfect storm—every element converging at once.

The volume of domestic tourists is actually much larger, but domestic travel simply doesn’t attract the same attention from other countries.

However, others don’t see it that way. All they notice is how a single remark from Sheng Quan, the owner of a Chinese esports club, managed to draw hundreds of thousands of tourists to Country V.

Hundreds of thousands of tourists.

What kind of influence is that?

And when you consider Sheng Quan’s age—she’s only in her twenties.

There are so many wealthy people in the world, so how is it that she alone possesses such immense public appeal?

What’s even more astonishing is that Sheng Quan doesn’t just rally Chinese travelers—she’s also summoned a massive wave of international tourists to visit Country V.

According to journalist interviews, these tourists are all fans of Sheng Quan.

They’ve even planned their trips meticulously: after touring Country V, they intend to make a detour to China, because based on Sheng Quan’s past Weibo posts, she’s praised Chinese tourist spots far more frequently.

Back in China, Sheng Quan read the foreign media coverage and thought, “…Since when do I have foreign fans??”

He Xi, standing nearby, replied, “They probably came over from Jiang Zhen’s side.”

Sheng Quan suddenly understood.

Ah, Jiang Zhen—that explains it.

If every celebrity in the entertainment industry has their own unique “constitution,” then Jiang Zhen, at his age, is the type who’s destined for explosive fame. Give him the right role and script, and he’ll bring the character to life, rapidly amassing a devoted fanbase both at home and abroad.

As for Sheng Quan’s “constitution”… Well, let’s just say that nearly every fan of the artists under her management naturally becomes half a fan of hers.

Not to the level of true devotion, but whenever she posts on Weibo, these fans show up more enthusiastically than her own followers—some just to help their favorite idols gain exposure, others because they followed the trail and discovered Sheng Quan wasn’t so bad herself.

And let’s be honest—it’s not just Chinese netizens. People all over the world love jumping on a bandwagon.

Especially after the media started broadcasting this story.

The Global Esports Championship is the happiest time for international media outlets, because no matter what esports-related reports they publish during this period, fans eat it up. Even if they report that a certain player tripped while walking, fans will anxiously follow up, worried the player might have broken a hand.

But once the Global Championship ends, the media enters a slump.

Sure, what goes up must come down, but understanding that logic doesn’t mean they’re willing to accept it. So when a newsworthy story like this suddenly pops up—

Media outlets collectively: We HAVE to report this!

Even if the downturn is inevitable, delaying it day by day is worth it. And a headline like “One Person Influences Hundreds of Thousands”? That’s pure clickbait gold.

Add in Sheng Quan’s identity as the owner of Breaking Waves, this year’s Global Championship-winning esports team, plus Country V’s current tourism boom, and you’ve got a story that’s practically eyeball-magnetizing.

As soon as the reports went live, netizens worldwide were naturally curious.

[Is she a government official?]

[She’s just a businesswoman, not a celebrity?]

[I feel like I’ve seen her name somewhere before.]

[She’s insanely rich. My favorite actor is signed under her company—she owns the entire office building they work in.]

[Do you guys not know? She invested in Cultivator and Stellar War. The Ten Great Immortal Palaces in China? Built by her. And those super-popular robotic guide dogs? Also Sheng Quan’s.]

[Not just that—the Cultivator and Stellar War merchandise, the ones praised as industry benchmarks? All produced by Sheng Quan’s subsidiaries.]

You don’t realize until you look it up—then it hits you like a truck.

Netizens worldwide suddenly discovered that so many of the movies they loved, the products they used, were tied to Sheng Quan’s companies.

Which makes sense—most people, when they buy something, might glance at the brand, but who digs into who owns it?

One disbelieving comment: [Even the Chinese luosifen I love! That brand belongs to Sheng Quan!!]

(Though many had no idea what luosifen even was, that didn’t stop them from being amazed.)

As public curiosity about Sheng Quan grew, TV programs across countries began covering her.

Beyond her wealth and influence, what people admired even more was her sense of social responsibility:

[She’s less of a capitalist and more of a philanthropist. When China was hit by floods, Sheng Quan donated money, supplies, and even lent out film props—that’s when the robotic guide dogs first debuted. Later estimates suggested she spent at least tens of millions during that disaster.

The concept for the guide dogs came from Gu Shuyue, a third-year student at China’s C University. Student ideas rarely get taken seriously, but Sheng Quan was different—not only did she fund Gu Shuyue’s project, she also backed over thirty other student initiatives. And that decision paid off handsomely…]

There are plenty of wealthy people, but few like Sheng Quan. With just a little media push, someone who was only somewhat known domestically suddenly went viral overseas first.

No helping it—the accolades preceding her name were just too dazzling.

Let’s ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‍count a few:

Produced globally record-breaking films.

Close friends with genius director Xu Man.

Discovered and propelled megastar Jiang Zhen to fame.

Her VFX company is now world-renowned.

Built the Ten Great Immortal Palaces for a film.

Created robotic guide dogs for another.

Two record-shattering blockbusters within five years.

Invested in esports and immediately won a national championship.

Praised Country V in a Weibo post, and its tourism industry skyrocketed.

And most importantly—every venture under Sheng Quan prioritizes quality. Even the two poorly received dramas Starlight Entertainment released this year? They just didn’t fit the market. The cinematography, acting, and production values were still top-tier.

Take the robotic guide dogs—when they first launched, analysts predicted they’d be prohibitively expensive. But their price was so low people joked it was practically free. Anyone could see Sheng Quan was doing everything to keep costs down.

And while the basic, no-frills model was initially reserved for Chinese citizens with disabilities, as production scaled up, they’ve started rolling out internationally.

Not everyone worships the wealthy.

But someone who’s powerful, rich, and actively helping others? That commands respect.

At the Global Championship, Breaking Waves’ victory thrust both the team and their owner, Sheng Quan, into the global spotlight.

As each of her achievements was listed out, she instantly became an idol for countless netizens worldwide. The surge in followers on her social media was staggering.

And right at the peak of this attention—Sheng Quan posted an update:

[Full-immersion film Polaris: The Ultimate Player premieres globally June 21. Stay tuned.]