Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 83

Tan Chen’s departure from DE was far from amicable, though the book didn’t elaborate on the specifics. It only mentioned that, as Chinese esports continued to decline, he formed a new team from scratch. He personally trained them, guiding them all the way to the top.

In the end, this small, battered team—somehow managing to defy all odds—made it to the [Polaris] Global Finals, the most prestigious and highest-stakes tournament in esports.

At that moment, esports fans erupted in celebration, convinced that China’s golden age would return.

Instead, they received news of Tan Chen’s death—he had already transitioned into a coaching role by then.

After that, the team he had painstakingly built, now without its pillar, lost its former glory. It struggled on for over a year before finally disbanding.

Sheng Quan wasn’t well-versed in esports. In her past life as an overworked office drone, she hadn’t developed a habit of gaming beyond casual puzzle games like Candy Crush—something simple to unwind with while letting her mind wander.

After arriving in this world, she found more than enough joy in the endless stream of high-quality films and TV shows, so she never fell into the gaming rabbit hole.

She was still waiting for full-dive VR anyway.

The esports scene in this world was quite different from what she remembered in her past life. For one, she had never seen players wearing VR headsets back then—though she had to admit, the gear here looked pretty cool.

The history of esports in this world also seemed to diverge significantly from her own. The very mention of "decline" suggested it had once reached great heights.

As previously noted, due to historical divergences, Starlight was a world where entertainment held immense importance. People prioritized mental relaxation and leisure, and before Sheng Quan arrived, China’s film and television industry had stagnated into a lifeless pool.

In such an environment, esports became half of China’s entertainment landscape.

The most popular game globally was [Polaris], released thirteen years ago and quickly adopted worldwide. With the rise of professional esports, countries began establishing dedicated esports clubs.

Over [Polaris]’ thirteen-year history, Chinese teams had appeared in five out of twelve global tournaments.

However, in recent years, only one team had made it to the finals—and they were swiftly eliminated.

From what Sheng Quan gathered, four years ago had indeed been the peak of China’s professional esports scene. It was an era of fierce competition, brimming with prodigious players and amassing global fanbases. Even minor clubs raked in staggering profits.

But soon, the downsides of prioritizing profit over sustainability emerged. Chinese esports had risen rapidly on the global stage, but in their haste to dominate, clubs treated their star players as expendable resources. Relentless tournament schedules and grueling training regimens left many with career-ending injuries.

Injuries that could have been managed early on were neglected, worsening under the clubs’ short-sighted greed. Once a player’s health deteriorated, they were promptly sold off during transfer windows. No amount of talent could withstand such exploitation.

While esports careers were naturally short, they weren’t supposed to last only a year or two. After this cycle of abuse, the once-thriving clubs soon faced the consequences.

What drew fans to professional esports? Victory, of course.

No one wanted to watch their favorite team lose endlessly, nor did they enjoy seeing a once-great squad deteriorate.

If China had never experienced its golden era, fans might have tolerated mediocrity. But having witnessed the reign of champions, how could they accept anything less?

As audiences dwindled, even the largest clubs struggled to stay afloat—especially since most had aggressively expanded during their heyday, leaving them with bloated, unsustainable operations.

Over the past four years, domestic esports had faded further into obscurity, overshadowed by the resurgence of the film and television industry.

But it wasn’t that people had stopped caring—rather, the media had. Sheng Quan had occasionally stumbled upon esports-related topics in past trending lists, but back then, she hadn’t paid them any mind.

One detail stood out to her: in her past life, esports clubs, teams, and even player IDs often used foreign names. But in this world, that trend didn’t exist.

Tan Chen’s ID was "No Chase."

The small club he founded was called "Breaking Waves."

Even the major club he once played for, though named "DE," was affectionately nicknamed "Didi" by fans—few bothered with the full "DEDE." Ironically, some international teams favored Chinese-style names, possibly a lingering effect of China’s former dominance.

Perhaps it was precisely because they had once reached the summit that Chinese esports fans found the decline so unbearable.

In a world where entertainment carried such weight, national pride in these competitions ran deep. While fans might support foreign teams casually, when global tournaments rolled around, everyone rallied behind their home country.

In her past life, esports might have been a niche interest, with annual tournaments watched mostly by dedicated gamers.

But here, the [Polaris] Global Championship, held every three years, was nothing short of a national spectacle—though Chinese media seemed largely indifferent to it now.

After all, China had failed to win a single award for four consecutive years. Fans were either too disappointed to watch or immediately lashed out with insults the moment news broke, refusing to even give a like. They’d rather gossip about celebrities than engage with these reports.

Of course, there were still some mentions here and there. Sheng Quan scrolled through recent news and, sure enough, found coverage of the [Polar] competition.

But nearly every post was flooded with hate—because the reports were almost exclusively bad news.

#Tianxing narrowly loses in qualifiers#

#Shanghe team eliminated#

#Poshui drops to second round due to tactical error#

The last one was new, a real-time update Sheng Quan found by searching keywords. It was probably posted by the paparazzi who had just been snapping photos nearby.

Sheng Quan found it a little odd. Hadn’t she just heard those two people throwing vegetables cursing someone named Bai something from the bot lane? Why was it now being framed as a tactical error?

But after confirming the identity of that group, she understood why they’d thrown vegetables.

Wasn’t this just calling them trash?

She glanced back. The paparazzi and freelance photographers hadn’t dared to take the same elevator as Sheng Quan, but they had caught up now, trailing behind at a distance while aggressively snapping photos.

The production crew was a chaotic sea of people, yet only a handful were actually filming. To make matters worse, two of them were anti-fans of the guests. The staff’s expressions were practically strained smiles.

Like Sing with You, most variety shows had become fiercely competitive, airing both live and recorded versions to emphasize authenticity.

But this was too authentic—getting off the plane only to walk straight into this mess.

Thankfully, Poshui’s coach quickly stepped in to divert attention, lightening the mood with a humorous response and even voluntarily giving an interview to the paparazzi. Still, the situation remained awkward.

Fortunately, one of the guests was skilled at smoothing things over. Deliberately looking around with exaggerated curiosity, she joked,

“What’s going on? On the plane, the crew said the airport would be packed with reporters and told us to greet them warmly and stick together so we wouldn’t get separated. The way they said it, I expected a huge crowd—why are there only three of you?”

One of the cameramen immediately took the hint and zoomed in on the two paparazzi and one freelance photographer.

Paparazzi were generally less welcome than official journalists among celebrities, so they were pleasantly surprised to be engaged in casual conversation.

The paparazzo played along, seizing the opportunity to stir up drama now that the crew was willing to interact:

“There were more people, but Sheng Quan was up ahead, so they all went to film her instead.”

“Chairwoman Sheng?!”

The guest’s shock was palpable—though whether it was genuine or for the show’s sake was unclear.

“She’s in Fangcheng too? Oh my god, is she still at the airport? Do I still have time to run over and ask for a photo?”

Lin Qing from Starlight Entertainment also feigned surprise and excitement: “Our Chairwoman Sheng is here? Where? Where?”

Their coordinated reactions instantly lightened the mood, especially with Lin Qing’s exaggerated “Where’s Chairwoman Sheng? I need to butter her up!” expression adding a comedic touch.

The paparazzo helpfully added, “She already left. You missed her. Ugh, I wanted to push through the crowd too, but it was too packed.”

The guest sighed dramatically. “Come on, what’s a crowd? That’s Chairwoman Sheng—you should’ve fought your way through!”

She looked like she’d have gladly carried the camera herself if it meant getting closer.

The assistant director peeked at the live chat, relieved to see it flooded with “LOLs.” These days, audiences watched travel shows to unwind, not for drama. If viewers got annoyed, ratings would plummet.

Happy Journey’s popularity had already been declining—hence why they couldn’t afford big-name guests and had to scrape together a mismatched cast: a food show host, a minor esports team, and others. It was a hodgepodge compared to other shows airing at the same time.

Luckily, though the guests weren’t A-listers, they were cooperative. The group quickly fell into lively chatter.

Among Poshui’s team, the youngest member, Chen Mo, knew they needed screen time. Suppressing her anger, she joined in:

“Is this the same super-rich Chairwoman Sheng I’m thinking of?”

“The very same! Ugh, what a shame. Chairwoman Sheng is practically the Midas touch of the industry—anyone she notices blows up overnight. How did we just miss her?”

Another guest joked, though the faint regret in his eyes seemed genuine:

“If even one of us caught her eye, this show would skyrocket overnight. Believe it or not.”

Chen Mo, still young, got swept up in the sentiment and sighed. “We should’ve left earlier…”

The assistant director internally agreed. If they’d actually run into Sheng Quan, they could’ve leveraged Lin Qing’s connection to Starlight Entertainment for even a brief interaction. A few seconds of screen time with her would’ve been gold.

Sheng Quan herself wasn’t a celebrity, so her personal fame wasn’t at the level of “unrivaled dominance.” But her company was stacked with massively popular stars.

And here was the kicker: while fans of other agencies constantly trashed their idols’ management, Starlight Entertainment’s artists’ fans treated Sheng Quan like royalty.

Fans of top stars like Hua Qing and Jiang Zhen even swarmed her social media with coordinated praise, hoping to earn their favorites extra brownie points.

So if Sheng Quan appeared on screen, her artists would trip over themselves to hype her up—and their fans would go even harder. With a little promotion from the show, they’d have viral material in no time.

And they’d missed it by this much.

The assistant director groaned inwardly. If only he could rewind time and sprint off the plane straight to Sheng Quan.

Listening to the guests banter, he couldn’t help but daydream—what if Sheng Quan did take an interest in one of them?

…No, no. Best not get carried away.

“Alright, let’s move out,” he announced.

Tan Chen, who had stepped aside for a one-on-one interview with a paparazzo, rejoined the group.

Despite the earlier anti-fan attack, the young coach returned with his usual careless smirk, his laid-back demeanor exuding a hint of rebelliousness. Off-camera, he quietly reassured his players.

The teenage team members visibly relaxed, their earlier anxiety easing under his calm presence.

The assistant director couldn't help but let his gaze linger on Tan Chen.

At just 26 years old, Tan Chen was technically only an esports coach, yet his looks easily rivaled those of the celebrities in the show who relied on their faces for fame—especially his eyes, sharp and brimming with a restrained depth.

He wasn’t a guest but merely an accompanying staff member, so he wasn’t wearing the uniform designated for guests. Instead, he had on a simple, ordinary white sweater, yet it somehow accentuated his effortlessly cold and aloof demeanor, making him stand out all the more.

The more the assistant director looked at him, the more he felt a sense of delight. He nudged the photographer responsible for shooting behind-the-scenes footage:

"Get more shots of this esports team’s coach. He’s incredibly photogenic."

The photographer hesitated, "...Director, Tan Chen isn’t a guest. He’s just here to accompany the team."

"Who cares why he’s here? Their team—what’s it called again? Broken Water—those esports players joined a travel variety show. Do you really think it’s because they love traveling? They’re here because they need money and exposure."

"Otherwise, why wouldn’t they be training hard during the season? They’re just broke and desperate—they might not even afford plane tickets and hotels for their next match. Just keep shooting. More screen time for their team, and they’ll thank us for it."

The photographer suddenly understood and nodded repeatedly, sighing as he watched Tan Chen speaking quietly with his teammates in the distance:

"Back then, he was unstoppable—won the world championship at 18, dominated solo rankings for over a year. The prize money from his matches should’ve been substantial. Who’d have thought he’d end up like this…"

The assistant director frowned, "What do you mean ‘end up like this’? Are you saying appearing on our show is some kind of downfall?"

"...Director, I think we need some reshoots later. I’ll get to it!"

Meanwhile, Tan Chen, unaware of their conversation, had already reassured his teammates. Moving through the production crew, he carried his own heavy backpack and even helped other staff members when they struggled with their loads.

After a hectic rush, they finally boarded the bus. As a non-guest, Tan Chen was seated in the last row of a separate bus. Leaning against the window, he gazed quietly outside.

Follow curr𝒆nt nov𝒆ls on fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com.

He had always preferred window seats. Even during his time at DE, when surrounded by fans or haters, he’d stubbornly choose the less-safe spot by the window.

After matches, on the ride back, he’d watch the banners and cheering crowds outside. Sometimes, a teammate sitting beside him would nudge his arm:

—"Tan Chen, do you think we can win the finals? iCountry’s CJ team is pretty strong."

—"Why worry? We crushed them before—we’ll do it again!"

—"Hahaha, true. But damn, you’re bold. I saw you arguing with that hater earlier. If Sister Yu hadn’t pulled you back, you two might’ve thrown hands. Aren’t you afraid the coach will scold you for being so reckless?"

—"The coach said my style is bold. I’m just following orders—not just now, but forever. I won’t take crap from anyone. Insult me, and I’ll return the favor."

Lost in memories, Tan Chen was jolted back when the bus suddenly stopped. "Everyone off! What’s for dinner today?"

"Boxed meals, hopefully with more meat this time. This show’s so cheap—no matter which city we’re in, the portions are always tiny."

A staff member noticed Tan Chen hadn’t moved and asked with concern,

"Did you get hit earlier? Are you okay? Those people went too far—losing a match is one thing, but harassing you offline?"

"People just need an outlet. It’s fine—just some vegetable leaves. No big deal."

Tan Chen smiled dismissively, touching the reddened spot near his eye where the impact had landed. Even if it was just greens, the force had left a mark.

He murmured softly,

"It just stings a little."

After checking into her hotel, Sheng Quan searched for updates about [Broken Water].

[NoChase Admits Tactical Mistake, Vows to Improve]

Clicking in, she was unsurprised to find a flood of hate—though this time, the vitriol was concentrated on Tan Chen, the coach responsible for strategy.

[His character score is decent.]

Sheng Quan analyzed to 006: [This clearly wasn’t his fault, but he took the blame to shield his teammates.]

She didn’t play [Polaris], but watching commentary from streamers and scrolling through discussions made it obvious—Bai Xiangyuan (OneDance) had made a critical error in the match.

Broken ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‍Water had been dominating the chaotic team fight until OneDance, bloodlusted, chased into enemy territory and got ambushed. With their formation broken, they were picked off one by one.

Whether from past match footage or real-life observations, Tan Chen clearly wasn’t the reckless type. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have responded so calmly after having vegetables thrown at his face.

By choosing to shoulder the blame, he must’ve known the consequences. In this world, esports antis were notoriously unhinged. Tan Chen stepping forward meant painting a target on himself—this time, it was vegetables; next time, who knew?

As for his seemingly unbothered demeanor, Sheng Quan only bought it about 30%. No one enjoyed being hated, cursed at, or wished harm upon—especially not someone like Tan Chen, who’d once been a celebrated prodigy. Just watching old clips revealed how brilliantly confident and unrestrained he used to be.

She called He Xi:

"Get me a high-end gaming setup—the best available."

He Xi: "Of course. May I ask which game you’ll be playing? I’ll tailor the specs accordingly."

Sheng Quan closed the news tab:

"Polaris."