Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 107

"That's right, why didn't I think of it before? Holographic technology isn’t just for games and movies—when it comes to visual impact, nothing beats a stage."

Holography delivers the most stunning visual effects, and what medium has more expressive power than a stage?

After the news broke, countless small entertainment company bosses were rubbing their hands with glee, sensing an opportunity for their own firms.

Starlight Entertainment didn’t have many idols, but these smaller companies did—some signed over a hundred at a time. Even if they had to rely on sheer numbers, surely one or two would make it. And if not? Well, it wasn’t like the bosses were the ones putting in the hard work anyway.

Most of these young talents had been signed with the intention of throwing them into various audition shows, hoping one might strike gold. So why not aim for this new avenue?

It was bizarre yet somehow logical—while major players like Starlight Entertainment had shockingly few idol trainees, these obscure little agencies were packed with them.

Overnight, these small companies went into high gear. Some bosses, embracing the old adage "no pain, no gain," even gritted their teeth and splurged on professional trainers from Country P to whip their young hopefuls into shape.

The young men and women, thrilled by the sudden investment, threw themselves into training, eager to seize this golden opportunity to shine.

As everyone knew, China’s variety show scene had become fiercely competitive, with idol survival programs popping up left and right. But unless luck intervened, the peak of a trainee’s career was often the audition period itself.

China had platforms for acting, for pure singing—but for idols who wanted to showcase their stage presence? They had to pivot to acting first, build fame there, and then maybe—just maybe—get a shot at performing.

This wasn’t because Chinese idols lacked talent. No, the real issue was that the entertainment industry had grown addicted to quick profits.

Training? Practice? Those took time. In the past, while other countries treated idol survival shows as a gateway to long-term careers, China’s producers usually milked the hype and revenue dry during the show itself.

After the finale, whether singers or dancers, most were shoved into acting.

Exceptions like Jin Jiu—who skyrocketed to fame through a singing competition, backed by a powerhouse like Sheng Quan, and managed to sustain a concert career without ever crossing into acting—were vanishingly rare.

As for dance-focused idols? No matter how gifted, they inevitably had to chase fame through acting. And even with fame, stages remained elusive.

Was it impossible to organize performances? Not really. It’s just that everyone knew faster money lay elsewhere.

But that was the past.

"Now, holographic stages are the hottest trend. Random street surveys show 90 out of 100 people are willing to pay to see one. The era of idols is finally here."

On a public forum, an anonymous post brimmed with exhilaration as the author shared their story:

"I debuted through a survival show, fought my way to the top with my team, and won. But after victory, life didn’t turn into a fairy tale."

"No stages. Years of training, nowhere to shine."

"The company forced us into acting. We weren’t actors—we were dancers!"

"We got torn apart for bad performances. I wanted to scream, ‘I’m a dancer, not an actor!’ But contracts bound us. We had to keep going."

"When ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‍I finally saw a chance to perform, they said no—I needed acting fame first."

"I don’t even dare dream of the holographic stage. I just hope Sheng Quan’s project succeeds, so more stages open up for small-time idols like us."

The post spilled plenty of identifying details, yet no one bothered unmasking the writer. In China’s entertainment industry, such stories were a dime a dozen.

Survival show champions vanishing overnight, pushed into acting only to fade without a trace—it was all too common.

A saying once went: "In this industry, whether you sing or dance, you’ll end up an actor."

That’s why Sheng Quan’s social media was perpetually flooded with fawning praise. She never checked her DMs, but they were likely even more packed with flattery from aspiring artists.

Their admiration wasn’t for the actors she’d made famous—it was for singers like Jin Jiu, whom she’d elevated without forcing them into acting. Starlight’s singers stayed singers, contributing to soundtracks, holding concerts.

It sounded like the norm, but in China’s entertainment world, it was anything but.

Already a titan in the industry, Starlight’s latest venture sent a deluge of unsolicited applications flooding in before any official announcement.

The company buzzed with activity. Gu Zhao, for once, didn’t cut into his meal times. These days, no matter how busy, he made sure to eat, sleep, and live well.

The old urgency—like being perpetually chased by a pack of dogs—had faded over the years without him even noticing.

As he told Sheng Quan: "Maybe this is what they call ‘a sense of security.’"

Sheng Quan: "..."

Every time Gu Zhao delivered such lines in his usual detached, almost robotic tone, his striking features and pale gray eyes only amplified the uncanny vibe.

But lately, she couldn’t shake the feeling he’d grown more… human.

Not in the social niceties sense—just less rigid.

The old Gu Zhao would’ve insisted on crisp suits, immaculately pressed, top button fastened regardless of weather or AC. Even meals wouldn’t loosen his collar.

Not that there was anything wrong with that—many professionals dressed the part.

Except Gu Zhao worked 24/7, minus eating and sleeping.

Now? He wore a simple white shirt, two buttons undone at the throat.

Sheng Quan noted, without much surprise, that his collarbones were rather nice. Busy as he was, he never skipped workouts—lean yet toned, the kind that looked good in or out of clothes.

The usually aloof-looking CEO Gu Zhao had his sleeves slightly rolled up today, revealing his well-defined wrists adorned with a new watch.

Hmm, busy as Gu Zhao was, his taste remained impeccable—the watch complemented his wrist perfectly.

Noticing Sheng Quan’s gaze lingering on his watch, he pulled open a drawer, took out a box, and handed it to her: "I got one for you too."

"Thanks, I was just about to ask if this was the latest model."

Sheng Quan didn’t hold back—after all, Gu Zhao’s income was nothing to scoff at. Ever since he gifted her that little plant, and perhaps because Lane had started contacting him frequently afterward, the gifts Gu Zhao sent had shifted to these stylish yet practical items.

Of course, Chairman Sheng wouldn’t let her subordinates lose out either. She often reciprocated with gifts for Gu Zhao and the team. Over time, this exchange had become second nature.

She opened the box without hesitation, slipped on the elegant watch, admired it for a few seconds, and then got down to business:

"So, has the company received the expected number of self-recommendations?"

"We’ve far exceeded it."

At the mention of work, Gu Zhao immediately switched into professional mode, his previously softened expression turning serious again as he handed Sheng Quan the prepared documents.

"Take a look."

"The expenses for the holographic stage have also surpassed initial projections. I’ve approved additional funding."

Sheng Quan nodded. "Go ahead. This stage is set to debut worldwide—it’s worth every penny."

Starlight Entertainment was bustling like never before, and it wasn’t just about grooming a few idols.

This marked the first application of holographic technology in the entertainment industry’s stage performances. Starlight might not have idols yet, and China’s idol industry was still less developed compared to other countries, but Sheng Quan had no intention of limiting their ambitions to the domestic market.

She had honed her document-reviewing skills—not the fastest, but thorough. After finishing, she signed her name with satisfaction and handed the papers back.

"Now, it’s all about building momentum."

In truth, the hype had already begun. Even before the stage’s debut, major media outlets were touting it as "the largest and most eye-catching stage in China."

"But we’re not aiming for ‘most eye-catching in China’—we want it to be the most eye-catching in the world."

"This time, the initiative is in our hands from the start. It’s a golden opportunity."

With Gu Zhao, Sheng Quan didn’t need to hide anything.

His ambition to conquer the world was no less than hers.

Sure enough, at these words, Gu Zhao seemed to perk up, his striking eyes gleaming faintly. "Understood."

Starlight Entertainment’s status in China was already a far cry from what it had been.

Over the years, the company had adhered to a strategy of "rapid expansion followed by strategic consolidation." Almost every year, their office space grew by another two floors.

At first glance, the pace might not seem breakneck, but considering Starlight had risen from obscurity to become a top-tier entertainment powerhouse in China in just four years, their growth was nothing short of staggering.

During those four years, alongside established stars like Jiang Zhen and Hua Qing, Starlight had continuously bolstered its mid-tier talent while nurturing new artists and producing a steady stream of high-quality films and shows.

Their willingness to invest heavily upfront and give artists time to grow had paid off. While only two artists had reached Jiang Zhen’s level of stardom in that period, for an entertainment company, that was more than enough.

Other major companies, no matter how long they’d stood, always relied on the same handful of pillars.

Both Sheng Quan and Gu Zhao knew Starlight’s domestic standing was now unshakable. The next step was international recognition.

That wouldn’t come quickly. Despite countless hit productions over four years, Starlight still lacked significant global fame. Most international audiences knew of the company only through their favorite artists signed under it.

But compared to foreign entertainment giants that had stood for decades, with their legions of superstars and vast industry connections, how could Starlight possibly catch up in just four years?

"Still, we’re young," Sheng Quan joked with Gu Zhao. "We’ve got plenty of time to outlast them. So, take care of your health—as long as we don’t die young, we’ll definitely win."

Whether Gu Zhao realized she was joking or not, the CEO nodded earnestly, as if determined to follow her words to the letter.

Truth be told, if Starlight really played the long game, they might just outlast the world’s top entertainment giants.

But then, holographic technology had emerged.

If they didn’t seize this chance to make a bold leap forward, Sheng Quan would feel she’d failed Ning Zhou.

"Within three months, let’s get this holographic stage in front of the world."

It wasn’t an impossible task.

Though China’s entertainment industry had been underdeveloped just a few years ago, never taken seriously by global players, things had changed.

First, Starlight had made waves in recent years. Second, their holographic technology was world-exclusive.

No matter which country’s entertainment industry, whether they had a stage culture or not, none would pass up the chance to be part of the first-ever holographic stage.

Especially since Sheng Quan planned to recreate the magic, framing this stage as a global spectacle.

No—not framing it. It would be a global spectacle.

"A holographic stage?"

In P Country, members of a popular girl group huddled together as their manager analyzed the upcoming stage event planned by China’s Starlight Entertainment.

"I know Starlight Entertainment—it’s one of China’s top companies. Jin Jiu is signed under them."

"Isn’t the CEO named Sheng Quan? She’s famously wealthy."

The members shared what they knew.

"This is the world’s first large-scale holographic stage, and the first to be broadcast live entirely within the Polar Edge holographic game. Do you understand what that means?"

The manager pointed to a chart on the screen. "Forget the real-world audience—this is the number of Polar Edge players."

A staggering figure appeared, leaving the members wide-eyed in shock.

Sheng Quan’s decision not to create a new game but to leverage Polar Edge’s existing user base was proving its worth.

Building a massive player base for a new game took time. Even if the game were phenomenal, it would need years to mature.

But Polar Edge was different. Even if many still couldn’t afford holographic helmets, they wouldn’t quit—they’d keep playing while saving up for one.

Generally speaking, no matter how many players a game has, the most the developers can do is run ads or encourage in-game purchases. But now, Polarland has become a full-immersion virtual reality game.

What players see in the game is almost indistinguishable from reality, and Sheng Quan, who controls the entire game, essentially holds access to a massive global audience.

All she needs to do is use VR technology to livestream the stage performances into the game, and a huge number of players—even if they didn’t buy tickets in the real world—can still enjoy the show up close by purchasing in-game tickets.

At first, very few people realized this potential. But after Sheng Quan announced that the performances would be livestreamed in-game, the already wildly popular VR stage—boosted by Starlight Entertainment’s aggressive promotions—instantly became the center of attention.

This, of course, included the members of the P-country girl group.

Who would turn down an audience?

Especially one this massive!

"Can we participate?"

The girl group members didn’t hesitate for a second, looking at their manager with a mix of excitement and nervousness.

After all, this was a stage in China. Crossing borders would mean dealing with so many procedures—would their company even agree?

The manager, equally thrilled by the sheer scale of the potential audience, flushed with excitement. "Of course you can! Why else would I be here?"

"This is an opportunity I fought hard to get for you. Starlight Entertainment isn’t just accepting anyone—for our P-country, there are only three spots." She didn’t forget to boast about her efforts. "Do you know how much I struggled to secure this? This isn’t just a stage in China anymore—it’s a platform to perform for the entire world."

"You don’t even need to win. Just making it into the selection, just getting into Polarland’s livestream, will be enough to skyrocket your fame!"

No one disagreed with that assessment.

Full immersion VR, a massive audience—this was the stage every idol dreamed of.

Not just in P-country, where idol groups were abundant, but even in countries with fewer idols, no one wanted to miss this chance.

"We won’t let the company down!"

As the girl group geared up for the challenge, countries everywhere began their own fierce competition for a spot.

Overnight, the VR stage became the hottest topic, with everyone scrambling for a piece of the action.

Starlight Entertainment, however, faced a dilemma.

For international participants, allocating spots was straightforward—it would bring in plenty of resources in return.

But domestically… who should they choose?