Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 77

After finishing her practice, Grandma He continued posting online: 【Sheng Quan yyds】.

Sheng Quan, who was browsing the forum at the time, saw this post, but she would never have guessed that it was written by an elderly woman who usually relied on a wheelchair to get around.

She was happily rewatching her favorite scenes and checking out various expert fan edits.

Lin Aike, who had no recent work commitments, finally had some free time to relax. After seeing Sheng Quan’s social media post, she replied: 【I want to watch it too! I’ve been so busy I haven’t had the chance yet】.

Sheng Quan responded: 【Come to my place, we’ll watch it together】.

As a devoted film enthusiast, the first thing Sheng Quan did after moving was set up a private home theater.

While it wasn’t extravagantly large, the viewing experience was top-notch. Since it was officially certified, she could pre-order new releases, and the film’s hard drive would be delivered straight to her doorstep.

No need to leave home—just sit back and enjoy blockbusters to her heart’s content. Absolutely amazing.

Sheng Quan’s favorite pastime was curling up in her private theater and binge-watching classic films. As someone who had transmigrated into this world, she hadn’t experienced many of its iconic movies, TV shows, or novels. It felt like a hamster stumbling into a treasure trove of snacks—pure bliss.

This time, with Star Wars, she indulged in multiple viewings at home.

First, she watched the MAX version, then the 3D version, followed by the 4D version.

Basically, she enjoyed it from every possible angle, over and over again.

But happiness is best shared. After treating herself, she naturally invited friends to join the fun.

Since the airing of The Path of Life, Lin Aike’s career had been on the rise. Ambitious and driven, she had capitalized on her momentum after joining Starlight Entertainment, packing her schedule full for nearly every month of the year.

Occasional gatherings were limited to filming breaks, where the cast and crew would squeeze in meals or spa sessions.

This was the first time Lin Aike had visited Sheng Quan’s new home.

Compared to Starlight Manor, Sheng Quan’s place wasn’t enormous, but for a high-end apartment in a city where even tiny homes cost a fortune, it was still impressive—especially since it was a sprawling villa with front and back gardens.

“It’s starting to feel a bit cramped,” Sheng Quan admitted as she led Lin Aike downstairs to the theater, chatting along the way. “I might move again soon.”

It might sound like a humblebrag, but the villa really was getting crowded.

After all, she wasn’t the only one living there.

With a place this big—gardens to maintain, two cleaning staff, a live-in chef, six bodyguards, plus Brother Jiang, and occasionally her secretary and assistants staying over—the headcount easily reached double digits.

It had been manageable before, but with more security personnel, space was becoming an issue.

That said, reducing her security detail was out of the question. As her assets grew both domestically and internationally, she frequently traveled for business—like her recent trip to K-country for the Kio acquisition.

Being outside her home country always made her uneasy, especially since there had been conflicts before the deal. While such tensions weren’t uncommon in business—winner takes all—you never knew when someone might act recklessly.

And even without the Kio situation, flaunting wealth in a foreign country always carried risks.

Drawing from her past life’s corporate battles and bizarre encounters, Sheng Quan lived by one rule: never bet on “impossible.”

In this world, anything could happen.

Case in point—she had transmigrated into a novel, hadn’t she?

With Brother Jiang by her side 24/7, she had managed the K-country trip without incident. But upon returning, she decided her security team could use a few more members.

As the saying went, all fear stemmed from insufficient firepower. Surrounding herself with an army of tall, capable bodyguards ensured not even a mosquito could get close.

“But isn’t it hard to find a suitable place? I haven’t heard about any new luxury properties on the market,” Lin Aike remarked.

Despite her hectic schedule, she never missed out on internet gossip—truly a master of balancing work and play.

Sheng Quan nodded. “Yeah, so I’m still looking. Here, want some popcorn?”

Truthfully, aside from the lack of new listings, there was another reason for her delay: she was short on funds.

Fortunately, Star Wars was now in theaters, and judging by its current momentum, it was guaranteed to dominate the box office. Its overseas release was also receiving rave reviews, surpassing even The Cultivator in sheer unstoppable hype.

The guide mechanical dogs had already entered a smooth operational phase. The large stock of unsold mechanical dogs manufactured by Kio Company before its acquisition had all been repurposed for secondary production. With just a little patience, Chairwoman Sheng Quan would soon welcome a wave of cash flow.

Of course, it was also possible that as soon as the money landed in her hands, she would discover a new investment opportunity and couldn’t resist spending it all to generate even greater profits.

But it was too early to think about that now. After its release, Interstellar War hadn’t received excessive promotion, but the pre-release buzz alone was enough to propel an ordinary film into the spotlight—let alone one as brilliantly crafted as Interstellar War.

Just two days after its premiere, the internet was already flooded with fan-made videos edited from the trailers.

The most common praise from audiences was how immersive it felt.

Back when The Cultivator was released, fans had simply adored the film with fervent enthusiasm. But Interstellar War presented them with a tangible, believable future world that felt within reach.

At this point, even viewers who didn’t follow the film industry could clearly sense: this movie was destined to be a blockbuster!

[The planet explosion at the beginning was so realistic! I held my breath the entire time—it felt like actual footage!]

[Xu Man is truly a genius. He can make fantasy epics feel grand and emotional, and now he’s made a sci-fi film so convincing it feels like the future. I’m bad with words, so all I can say is: absolutely incredible!]

[I heard the production team collaborated with C University for research and development—many of the props were actually created for real. The developer behind the guide mechanical dogs mentioned in an interview that merchandise might be released later!]

[You expect us to buy movie tickets AND merchandise? Where’s the morality? Where’s the conscience? And most importantly—where’s the purchase link?!]

[Lan Cai’s decision to rescue Gu Li was so intense! Her face barely moved, but the subtle muscle tremors and that fleeting conflicted expression—wow, Hua Qing’s acting has skyrocketed since she switched companies!]

[Hua Qing’s performance was next-level, truly worthy of an award-winning actress. That scene where she opens the wine and makes her decision? The micro-expressions, the slow-motion intensity—damn it, I want to watch it a fourth time!!]

[Same! When she whipped out that mechanical lash—so cool! Queen, step on me! I’m officially a Hua Qing fan now!]

It wasn’t just Sheng Quan scrolling through Interstellar War reviews online—Hua Qing was doing the same.

The more she read, the happier she felt.

Before joining Starlight Entertainment, Hua Qing’s exhaustion had been painfully obvious. Under an inhuman schedule with almost no breaks, her performances in several consecutive projects had been lackluster, drawing waves of criticism and hate.

Her fans weren’t blind—they could see her deteriorating condition too. But no matter how much they raged against Wan Sheng, the exploitative company that overworked its artists, Hua Qing’s schedule remained packed.

In fact, during her first meeting with Sheng Quan at the live broadcast of Sing with You, she had been flying between daytime commitments and evening audience appearances, barely getting a few hours of sleep.

No one was made of iron. Even workaholics like Gu Zhao would burn out from prolonged labor, and Hua Qing was no exception—her body ached, her mind was drained, and at one point, she even developed psychological issues.

Back then, not even her fans—let alone herself—could have imagined she’d be where she was today.

After joining Starlight, Hua Qing’s schedule wasn’t overloaded, but she had been consistently taking classes. Over two years, she only starred in a few TV dramas, making her one of the less prominent figures in Starlight’s meteoric rise.

Ambition was human nature, and Hua Qing was no different. But she also knew the entertainment industry was ruthless about appearances. Female actors struggled to land leading roles as they aged—no matter how well they maintained their looks, they could no longer convincingly play young heroines.

Worse yet, in China, whether in film or TV, female leads over 30 were rare. Even though Hua Qing was still stunning, before joining Starlight, she had already stopped receiving quality leading roles.

After signing with Starlight, she witnessed the company’s growth firsthand—from a small, barely known agency to one teeming with young, talented artists and rising fame.

When the company announced Interstellar War, Hua Qing was stunned by the massive budget. The most she dared hope for was a supporting role.

Yet, to her shock, the company called her in to audition for the female lead.

Not just any female lead—the protagonist of a high-budget, meticulously crafted blockbuster.

Not a love interest for the male lead, but a fully fleshed-out character representing ancient China—a genius-level strategist, decisive yet deeply principled.

And the company wanted her to play it.

For a moment, Hua Qing thought she was dreaming. She even panicked, wondering, Can I really pull this off?

But then, Chairwoman Sheng Quan told her:

"Qing-jie, when I read the script, I imagined you as the female lead in my mind."

In the end, Hua Qing passed the audition.

She became the female lead of Interstellar War.

After over a year of hard work and sweat on set, she reaped immense rewards.

The audience didn’t dismiss her as unfit for the role because of her age.

They recognized her improved acting skills and loved the character she portrayed.

Watching her follower count surge on Weibo, Hua Qing realized she was crying—not just tears of joy for her success, but also unstoppable excitement for the broader path ahead.

Hua Qing: [Many friends sent congratulations after Interstellar War premiered, asking how I feel. My thoughts are simple: I’m incredibly grateful to have joined Starlight Entertainment. Thank you, Starlight Entertainment. Thank you, Chairman Sheng. I’ll work even harder in the future.]

As soon as this Weibo post went up, Hua Qing’s devoted fans immediately understood what she meant.

[Wuwu, I’m so grateful to Chairman Sheng for giving our jiejie this role! And so happy she didn’t let him down!]

[Chairman Sheng truly values ability over age. I’ve always wanted to say this—yes, the entertainment industry favors youth, and older actors can’t play teenagers, but why are lead roles always written so young? Don’t say it’s because audiences only like young faces! If they’re good-looking and can act, I’d watch an 80-year-old lead!]

[In many foreign shows and movies, the leads are in their thirties, and people still go crazy for them. The domestic industry should learn from Chairman Sheng—if the script and production are good, audiences don’t actually care that much about age.]

Honestly, Sheng Quan’s mindset aligned perfectly with the fans’.

Of course, she enjoyed watching fresh-faced young stars—who doesn’t love youthful beauty? But who said audiences could only appreciate one type of beauty?

Sheng Quan could appreciate all kinds—youth had its charm, but maturity had its own allure.

Interstellar War was a perfect example of leads exuding mature charisma. Even Sheng Quan, who knew them well, was instantly drawn into their performances.

On screen, they weren’t Hua Qing and Jiang Zhen—they were Lan Cai and Gu Li.

Their 3,000-year-long dance of guarded trust and devotion, the palpable tension and chemistry in their confrontations—every glance, every movement pulled viewers deep into the story. It was a depth younger actors often struggled to achieve.

Especially since both were stunningly attractive. In the film, Lan Cai was fierce and determined, while Gu Li was languid yet magnetic. When they shared the frame, the interplay of light and shadow on their faces was a visual feast—a top-tier treat for the eyes.

It absolutely enthralled her!

This content is taken from fгeewebnovёl.com.

No wonder Sheng Quan was obsessed with Interstellar War. The truth was, when a movie excelled in every aspect—every frame captivating—it was destined to become a classic.

And clearly, Sheng Quan’s taste resonated with the masses.

Domestically, the film was a sensation. Internationally, it was no different. Soon, overseas-based netizens rushed to share their excitement:

[Ahhhh! An international student from Country I logging in! Interstellar War is super popular here too—sold-out screenings everywhere! Netizens in Country I are raving about it, saying it’s amazing. Cultivators was well-received too, but I wasn’t as emotional then. Now, seeing them praise Chinese sci-fi as "this good"—who understands?! I’m over the moon!]

[Working in Country K here—their forums already have tutorials on how to buy Chinese robotic dogs! They’re also predicting Interstellar War will sweep this year’s awards.]

[Wuwuwu, sci-fi… Chinese sci-fi! I always thought we’d never make a great sci-fi film, but our first big attempt is already the gold standard!]

[Hey, have you noticed? Foreign netizens aren’t just praising the movie—they’re shocked by China’s tech progress too! I’m in Country O, and my colleague came back from the film stunned, saying he never realized China was so advanced. He actually thought we were still poor!]

[This ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‍proves cultural exports matter! Every country’s media beautifies itself, but foreign audiences take it at face value. So, domestic producers, learn from Chairman Sheng—make more blockbusters! Enough with the endless "I love you, you love me not" dramas!!]

[Chairman Sheng is the real deal. I still remember her starting with just a jianbing stall, and now look how much she’s contributed! Starlight Entertainment—where every release is a gem!!]

In an ordinary Chinese-American household, an elderly man was reading the day’s newspaper. Spotting the word "China," his eyes lit up, and he leaned in closer to read.

Their family belonged to an older generation of immigrants who, during the tumultuous years of war, had come to this unfamiliar country in search of survival. Unbeknownst to them, they had lived here for a long time, barely scraping by. While the next generation still spoke Chinese, the grandchildren no longer considered themselves Chinese at all.

In truth, even though their children raised in Country A could speak Chinese, they weren’t particularly curious about China. Only the older generation still yearned for their homeland, dreaming of the day they could return and see it again.

The old man’s Chinese name was Cheng Ercao, and he was truly ancient. With age, his longing for home grew stronger, even though he hadn’t been very old when he left.

But his children and grandchildren couldn’t understand this homesickness. Though they had been raised with some Chinese cultural influence, in their minds, China was still a rather backward place—only strong in military terms.

They didn’t believe China could have developed so rapidly in such a short time. After all, every time they saw China in films or shows, it still matched their outdated impressions.

All of this changed last year when The Cultivator was released.

A film from Huaxia swept across Country A. Schools, workplaces—everywhere, people were talking about Huaxia. They discussed its cultivation lore, its Classic of Mountains and Seas, and the fact that it had such a long, rich history.

It was after watching The Cultivator that Cheng Ercao’s children and grandchildren began to see Huaxia differently.

No matter what, seeing people who shared their skin and blood shining so brightly on screen filled them with a quiet pride.

When the grandchildren visited their grandparents, they listened eagerly to old stories about Huaxia—its myths and legends, the local earth gods, fox spirits, and the Great Immortal Huang.

They even bought toy flying swords, fantasizing about becoming cultivators themselves.

For Cheng Ercao and his wife, Wang Xianghua, this was truly something to celebrate. They were overjoyed to see the younger generation discussing Huaxia with admiration rather than disdain.

The two of them, who had never been fond of movies, happily watched The Cultivator twice.

And now, another Huaxia film had taken Country A by storm.

Though it was science fiction, the elderly couple insisted on buying tickets and stepping into the theater together.

When they saw Huaxia three thousand years ago embracing a man named Gu Li purely because of his untainted Huaxia bloodline, tears streamed down their faces.

—“We want to return to Huaxia.”

At a family gathering, the two of them announced to their children: “We’re old now. That’s where we grew up. Even if we die, we want to die in our homeland.”

But this time, their children didn’t object as they once would have. The most successful among them, the third son, set down his utensils and said:

“Actually, my company is looking to send someone to Huaxia to discuss a partnership on guide robotic dogs. I’ll take the assignment and go with you.”

“Can I come too?!” The youngest granddaughter, fresh from school, climbed onto her chair and nestled into her grandmother’s arms. “I want a robotic dog—they look so cool!”

“Me too! I want to go!” The other grandchildren chimed in. “I want to see the Ten Great Immortal Palaces!”

“Yeah! And climb Mount Xunxian! I want to seek immortality!”

“I want to ride a robotic dog too! Take me with you!”

The elderly couple, though overwhelmed by the grandchildren’s excitement, couldn’t help but smile from the heart.

“You can’t go now because of school, but when you’re on break, you can visit Huaxia. We haven’t been back in so long, but judging from the films, it’s developed beautifully. You’ll love it there.”

On the fifth day of Stellar War’s release, its global popularity skyrocketed, and tech companies began actively seeking collaborations with Huaxia.

By the tenth day, a wave of older overseas Chinese began returning—some to visit relatives, others to resettle.

Even wealthy Chinese entrepreneurs chose to return, investing, donating, and paying respects to their ancestors.

No one had expected a single film to have such an impact.

On the twentieth day of Stellar War’s release, five production lines at KIO’s subsidiary factory, working overtime, finally met their projected output.

The first batch of robotic guide dogs was successfully shipped out.