Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 85

"Little Xia, you came at the perfect time. I was just about to ask you—what kind of people usually participate in arena matches? Professional players?"

Relieved that the player "Reign Over Rivers and Mountains" was as approachable as ever, Little Xia relaxed.

The white avatar clutched the leaves and answered cutely, "Arena matches offer rewards—sometimes monetary, sometimes dungeon-related. All players can participate. Outside of the competitive season, pro players usually join when specific rewards are available."

"But during the season, you rarely see them in arena matches."

Sheng Quan: "Because they’re training for the season?"

"Exactly. Arena matches are one-on-one, which can help with daily training, but the season focuses on team battles. Arena matches don’t contribute much to that. Plus, the system isn’t very fair to pro players, so they tend to avoid it."

The avatar was undeniably cute, but its professional knowledge was solid, explaining everything clearly to Sheng Quan.

Sheng Quan understood now. Professional players naturally had superior skills and mechanics compared to casual players, but the developers couldn’t just let them sweep all the rewards.

To balance things, pro players entered arena matches with a 40% stat handicap. That might not sound like much, but in-game, it was brutal.

In other words, if a pro player wanted to win in the arena, they had to outperform opponents while fighting at a severe disadvantage.

Doing that consistently must be exhausting.

Sheng Quan’s gaze drifted to the past winners’ list. Sometimes "No Chase" appeared, sometimes not. But nearly every day, she saw "No Chase" among the participants.

Tan Chen was fighting in the arena almost daily.

That had to be grueling. Before diving into the game herself, Sheng Quan hadn’t fully grasped it, but now she realized how mentally draining intense gaming sessions could be—especially in a high-skill game like Polaris.

And honestly, the gaming scene in this world was ridiculously competitive.

The pro players were on another level. Forget looks—their technical prowess was insane. They made high-difficulty maneuvers look like child’s play.

Even the domestic teams, often criticized by fans, had match footage that, in Sheng Quan’s eyes, was ten times more thrilling than any esports she’d seen in her past life.

If these players were transported to her old world, even the most average among them would probably be hailed as legends. She wasn’t sure if people here were just built different or if the relentless competition had forced everyone to sharpen their skills to the extreme.

Not that Sheng Quan minded. She might not be grinding herself, but watching these technical showdowns was pure entertainment.

Even the streamers were ultra-competitive, each one more flashy and engaging than the last, constantly pushing boundaries and cracking jokes to keep audiences hooked.

Sheng Quan firmly believed her recent gaming addiction was entirely their fault.

And among the non-pro, non-streamer competitive players, hidden gods kept emerging. These players loved arena matches—great for fame, money, and extra rewards.

At equal stats, they stood no chance against Tan Chen. But with his stats nerfed? That was a different story.

Tan Chen was essentially fighting grown men with the body of a child—and winning, over and over again.

In the game, Sheng Quan raised a hand, and a telescope instantly appeared. Lying back in the VIP room, she peered through it at Tan Chen’s ongoing match.

The commentator, a large parrot, hung upside-down from the railing, shouting:

"No Chase leaps—Skill 1 into Skill 2, then 4, then 7! But alas, this seems like a last stand! Lie Yan’s Flame Pursuit is closing in! Unless a miracle happens—wait, what?! SKILL 9!!! He actually chained it after the combo into Skills 1 and 5! What kind of reflexes and APM is this?!"

"A soaring leap across the sky! Skills 7 and 9 merge into ice, freezing Flame Pursuit in place! No Chase did it! HE DID IT! And—without pause—he follows up with 1-2-3! 4-6 finisher! HERE IT COMES!!! A BLIZZARD ENGULFS THE ARENA!! Lie Yan is hit! HE’S HIT!!"

"ONE! TWO! THREE! LIE YAN GOES DOWN!!!!!"

The parrot swooped down, landing on the shoulder of Tan Chen’s in-game character, pulling out a comically oversized megaphone:

—"I NOW DECLARE!!!"

—"PLAYER NO CHASE!!! VICTORIOUS!!!!!"

"WOOOOO!!!"

"6666666!!!!"

"HOLY CRAP THAT WAS INSANE!!!"

The crowd, which had been holding its breath, erupted into deafening cheers. The entire arena shook with excitement:

"No Chase! No Chase!!"

For regular players, the spectacle might be manageable, but VR players experienced it in near-realism. Little Xia worried her VIP client might find the noise overwhelming.

After all, "Reign Over Rivers and Mountains" seemed like the type who preferred serene sightseeing over the arena’s intense atmosphere.

"If it’s too loud, you can enable noise reduction mode…"

The white avatar turned its head—only to see the player already holding up a megaphone of her own, one with golden trim.

The headset quickly transmitted the excited voice of the young woman: "Don't chase!! Don't chase!!!"

"Ahhhhhhh!!!!!"

Facing Sheng Quan, who was completely assimilated and even louder than anyone else, the white fluffball froze for a second.

Then she quickly pulled out another diamond-shaped megaphone from the storage and handed it over:

"Use this one—it's even louder!"

Unbeknownst to her, Sheng Quan's game screen was playing a replay from seven years ago.

The protagonist was also "Don't Chase."

The same limit-defying maneuvers.

The same improbable comeback.

The same roaring cheers from the crowd.

Nineteen-year-old Tan Chen, maneuvering his character with a flourish of his sword, waved triumphantly at the stage below, where his teammates and opponents stood.

"Tan Chen! You brat, dare to come back tomorrow! It's not over yet!"

"Arena matches strain the hands—I can't do too many. Want a rematch? Get in line next week. And by the way, I'll win again."

"You're way too cocky. Who thinks they'll win before even fighting?"

"You just don't get it. This is the esports spirit—always chasing victory, never admitting defeat."

——Reality and the past recording overlapped almost perfectly. The only difference was that, amidst the deafening cheers, Tan Chen's in-game character stood motionless, lost in thought.

Lie Yan, the defeated opponent, respawned and theatrically cracked his neck before issuing an invitation:

Don't chase, take a break, and let's go again. I'll post the bounty myself.

He knew Don't Chase needed money. Sure enough, Tan Chen reached out to accept the reward handed over by the parrot and agreed:

"Fine. Five minutes, then we go again."

In reality, his arms throbbed with pain.

The base of his thumbs ached sharply, a discomfort impossible to ignore. Tan Chen raised his hand—his once-dexterous fingers now stiff—and slowly rewrapped the bandages around his forearms.

"Coach."

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Chen Mo's voice suddenly rang out. Tan Chen tightened the bandages, directed his character to meditate in the rest area, and turned off voice chat before looking at her:

"Aren't you supposed to be filming? Why are you here?"

The young girl glanced at the arena match on the screen. "It's lunch break now. They're not filming our group, so I came to check on you."

"You have another arena match? Let me fight it. I can win too."

Tan Chen slowly rested his bandaged arm back on the desk. The pain made him instinctively pull out a cigarette and place it between his lips.

Because Chen Mo was there, he didn't light it.

"Fight what? You're in the middle of a variety show livestream. Where would you find the time?"

"Time can be squeezed out! And the team can take turns—one match a day is doable."

Tan Chen replied flatly, "No."

Chen Mo persisted, "Coach, let us do it. We can win too! We've all improved, and we can earn money for the team."

Tan Chen cut her off, "Stop thinking about it. Go back to filming."

Chen Mo puffed her cheeks. "I know—arena matches strain the hands. You're worried we'll get injured. But I asked around. Short-term matches won’t have lasting effects. After the global tournament, we can rest and recover."

Tan Chen couldn't help but laugh at the naïve words of his youngest teammate.

His laughter carried self-mockery and resignation—because he’d once been just as naïve.

"Rest and recover? Do you know what it feels like for a pro player to develop chronic injuries? Your arms hurt nonstop. In severe cases, you can’t even eat. Moves you once pulled off effortlessly become impossible."

"Once injuries set in, retirement isn’t far off. Either you pay a fortune for surgery or rely on team doctors for temporary relief. Do you want to lie awake at night in pain? Or reach a point where painkillers stop working, leaving you to endure it raw?"

Seeing Chen Mo’s shocked expression, Tan Chen softened his tone.

"Alright, I get that you want to help. But the team still has funds. This isn’t your concern. Just focus on the matches. Go back."

Chen Mo didn’t leave. Her gaze fixed on Tan Chen’s heavily bandaged hands, and her eyes reddened instantly.

"Coach… you retired because of injuries too. Does it hurt like this every day for you?"

"You’re in so much pain, yet you still fight arena matches for money?"

"Then… loan us out. We’re young—we can handle high-intensity matches. Luan Zhi said their team got loaned out, and the offers were huge. Way more than this variety show pays."

Tan Chen froze. He turned back to the screen. "Don’t even think about loans. How many times do I have to say it? Getting loaned out turns you into expendable tools. Your future gets ruined. You’re just starting out—I’d have to be insane to agree."

"And ignore the media nonsense. It’s not as bad as they say. I just fight arena matches to pass the time. Now go."

Chen Mo opened her mouth to argue, but Tan Chen raised his voice.

"I’ll count to three."

"One, two—"

No matter the situation, "I’ll count to three" never failed.

Chen Mo immediately caved, shuffling out with frequent backward glances.

Lie Yan was spamming Tan Chen’s messages:

[Why’d you mute voice?]

Was that someone from your team? Sounded like a Sword Dancer. I've seen her matches—she's strong! Get her up here for a round. Or even Dancing Blade. I'll triple the bounty.

[Ignoring me? Don’t tell me you’re mad. One match won’t kill them. So what if they get tired? They’re young. You can’t shoulder all the team’s expenses alone—you’re not invincible.]

[Fine, fine. No pushing. I know you’re a mother hen guarding her chicks. I’ll stop eyeing them, okay?]

[Reply already! My skills are itching for action.]

Tan Chen flexed his stiff fingers.

Don’t Chase: [Got held up. Let’s go.]

Lie Yan: [Seriously? No more rest? You’ve been at it all day. Hands not killing you?]

Don’t Chase: [In or out? I’ll find someone else.]

Lie Yan: [In, in! Damn, how broke are you?]

In the game, the private arena match resumed.

Lie Yan posted the bounty first, then cupped his hands toward the spectators:

"Ladies and gents, additional bets are open!"

"Same rules—top bidder gets a post-match spar with the winner. Don’t miss out!"

In private arena matches, if both sides agreed, players could place side bets. The mechanic worked like this: A player would designate one of the fighters and stake a sum. If their pick won, they’d claim 90% of the pot, while the remaining 10% was randomly distributed to audience members.

If the chosen fighter lost, the money rolled into the official prize pool for future matches.

This was akin to a form of tipping, often seen during intense matches where spectators would place additional bets to spur on their favored players. Not only did it motivate the competitors, but it also whipped the crowd into a frenzy, cheering like they were on a sugar high.

Though most players were freeloaders, there were always a few big spenders in the mix.

Just one look at Lie Yan’s flashy, over-the-top in-game outfit was enough to tell he wasn’t strapped for cash.

His actions were clearly for Tan Chen’s sake.

"Given our fame and status, I’d say we can easily rake in tens of thousands in bets this time," Lie Yan said optimistically.

Tan Chen wasn’t as hopeful. "It’s a weekday. There won’t be many."

Besides, the essence of betting was to support the player you liked, and winners would also receive rewards from the system. So, this kind of wagering was pretty common in private arena matches.

Tan Chen used to have a legion of supporters—back before he retired.

He shook off the thought and vaulted onto the stage.

"Alright, after I beat you, I’m grabbing a meal."

Lie Yan grinned. "Heh, and here I thought you were always humble. That sounded pretty cocky, like you’ve already won."

Tan Chen paused. "Slip of the tongue."

He summoned his weapon, landing lightly on the ground. "I take it back."

As expected, the betting pool was meager today, mostly just for fun, and the majority of the bets were on Lie Yan. After all, Lie Yan was the leader of a major guild, known for his fiery enthusiasm and charisma—his popularity was undeniable.

Lie Yan scratched his head awkwardly. "Guess your fans are all at work today."

Tan Chen, the one directly involved, didn’t seem bothered. "What fans?"

Even if he’d had any, they’d vanished after he took the blame for Po Shui’s blunder in the last tournament.

The two clashed, and Tan Chen, already running low on stamina, gradually fell into a disadvantage.

After a few rounds, he was knocked to the ground, pushing himself up slowly with his weapon. Lie Yan, rarely in the lead, was thrilled.

"Haha! Looks like I’m taking this one."

Tan Chen smirked weakly. "Maybe."

Just as they were about to continue, the announcer parrot suddenly grabbed its megaphone.

"Player Sheng Quan has placed a bet on: No Chase."

"Bet amount: One. Million. Gold!!!"

Tan Chen froze, instinctively looking up.

—BOOM!!

The previously murmuring crowd erupted.

"A million gold?! Holy crap, I came to watch a small match and ended up witnessing a whale!"

"Sheng Quan?! That’s the player who topped up 200 million today! No way she’s watching a regular arena match!!"

Lie Yan hefted his greatsword, gaping upward. "What the—? A million gold? That’s the max bet!"

Before he could finish, the parrot turned into a broken record, blaring repeatedly:

"Player Sheng Quan—"

"—One million gold!!!"

"Player Sheng Quan—"

"—One million gold!!!"

Players from other arenas craned their necks to look.

"How many millions is that now?!"

"Sheng Quan, the one who dropped 200 mil?! I’m heading over!"

"This is insane! If No Chase loses, all that gold goes straight to the prize pool!"

Back in Arena C, the parrot was still screeching at full volume:

"Player Sheng Quan has—cough—Sir/Madam, you’ve hit the betting cap for Arena C! No more! Also, my voice is giving out. Give me a sec to hydrate."

After gulping down some water, the parrot fluttered to the VIP booth window and extended its megaphone.

"You’ve set today’s highest bet! You now have one minute of server-wide broadcast time. Also, quick interview—why bet on No Chase when he’s clearly losing? Trying to hype him up?"

Dropping that much gold just for morale would be a total waste.

Every eye in the arena locked onto the VIP booth, where gold icons kept flashing—including Tan Chen’s.

Sheng Quan’s in-game avatar leaned against the windowsill. "No."

Her tone was confident, almost arrogant. "I just think he’s definitely going to win."

Tan Chen listened quietly. In reality, he lowered his gaze to his hands.

Definitely… win?

Lie Yan strained his ears but only caught that much. "What kind of eyes does your supporter have? You’re obviously getting wrecked."

"Continue."

Tan Chen raised his hand, swapping to a new weapon—a longbow materializing in his grip.

Lie Yan blinked. "We’re in close combat. You’re using a bow?"

Tan Chen plucked the bowstring. "Because I want to win. Badly."

Not for the sake of grinding gold in endless matches. Not to numb the pain by burying himself in battles.

Just for victory.

He wanted to win.

Desperately.

Fight. Go all out. Charge forward without hesitation. Seize the win. Claim the glory. Earn… trust.

Lie Yan: "??"

Just a few words, but somehow, Tan Chen’s entire aura shifted.

Like ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‍he’d suddenly come alive.

Lie Yan: Fine, I’ll just beat you to death then!

He hit "Continue," unleashing his skills—but Tan Chen was faster. In the next second, bowstrings lashed out like whips.

The parrot squawked in shock. "That’s—Bow Arts!! No Chase just used Bow Arts in melee range! Wait—he switched weapons! Stacking five skills with three others while swapping three weapons mid-combo!!"

"Lie Yan counters fast! No Chase dodges! How is he using Skyward Strike while airborne?! One hit! Just one hit!!!"

Robes fluttering, the avatar labeled No Chase leapt into the air, maintaining his skills while swapping weapons mid-motion.

—WHOOSH!

An arrow, wreathed in frost, shot toward Lie Yan, now trapped in a web of skills.

This strike was unstoppable, arrogant, leaving no room for retreat.

The towering bear-warrior swung his greatsword to block—only to watch the arrow graze the blade and pierce straight through his heart.

"Lie Yan—IS DOWN!!!"

The arena fell silent for a second before exploding in cheers.

"HOLY CRAP!!!! THAT WAS INSANE!!"

"HE TURNED IT AROUND!!!"

The parrot circled overhead, screeching:

"One! Two! Three!!!"

"The winner of this match is—NO CHASE!!!!"

Amid the deafening cheers, Tan Chen looked up at Sheng Quan, still lounging by the VIP window.

He wanted to say something, but words failed him.

In the end, all he managed was a quiet, "Thank you."

Thank you… for believing I could win.

In reality, Tan Chen’s hands trembled slightly—the aftermath of rapid, high-intensity inputs. It hurt, of course. But for the first time in a long while, he felt light.

Unburdened.

A numb and lifeless body seemed to slowly stir with renewed energy—what kind of energy, even Tan Chen himself couldn’t quite explain.

"Energy? I can definitely feel it. Want me to describe it for you?"

On the ground, Lie Yan trembled weakly as she healed herself, while the towering Bear Warrior rubbed his bruised and swollen face.

"The force you used to hit me..."

"Was seriously intense."