Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 90

Perhaps like team, like fans—Po Shui’s supporters often discussed the team’s career development. Even though many of them had no professional esports background, that didn’t stop them from seriously drafting all sorts of strategic plans.

—The Right Path for Po Shui to Survive and Thrive.

—Which Teams to Challenge for the Best Shot at a Season Slot.

—Po Shui’s Five-Year Development Plan in the Current Esports Landscape.

They didn’t just analyze Po Shui—they studied their opponents, major clubs, and even domestic and international trends.

When Sheng Quan infiltrated the fan group and saw the meticulously detailed analysis files in the group archives, she truly understood the meaning of “like team, like fans.”

Tan Chen was the same way. Despite his aggressive playstyle in-game, every small step Po Shui took was backed by carefully prepared contingency plans.

Naturally, this included backup plans for when players couldn’t compete for various reasons.

Every member had their own designated “substitutes”—some were from Po Shui’s sparse training roster, others were Tan Chen’s former teammates, and a few were retired players who had switched careers.

But Bai Xiangyuan’s substitute couldn’t just be someone who could coordinate well.

A man in the midst of quitting smoking had a lollipop dangling from his lips. His slender fingers, which showed no outward signs of injury, gently traced over the massive E3 equipment in front of him.

His name was printed on it.

“Po Shui’s tactics have always revolved around the attacker. Individually, the players are just average, but their long-trained synergy and teamwork maximize the attacker’s potential.”

Sheng Quan was no longer a gaming novice. She raised an eyebrow. “So that’s why Bai Xiangyuan won Rookie of the Year—because your tactics funnel most of the spotlight onto him.”

“Exactly.” At the mention of Bai Xiangyuan, Tan Chen’s eyes darkened—not with hatred, but with something closer to mocking foresight. “Tian Zhan’s playstyle is completely different from Po Shui’s. They won’t sacrifice the entire team to prop up one person.”

Both of them could already see Bai Xiangyuan’s fate.

He wasn’t some once-in-a-generation prodigy. Once stripped of the spotlight Po Shui had given him, unable to dominate under familiar tactics, Bai Xiangyuan would fade back into mediocrity. And how would his new team treat him then?

They didn’t dwell on the topic. Compared to Bai Xiangyuan—whose fate had been sealed the moment he betrayed Po Shui—Sheng Quan and Tan Chen were far more focused on the upcoming tournament.

Every other player had two or three potential substitutes, since not all of them were from Po Shui.

But Bai Xiangyuan had only one: Tan Chen himself.

“When I first drafted this contingency plan, I never imagined I’d be subbing in at the World Championship.”

Tan Chen stared at his hands. Fully aware of what awaited him, he still lifted his head and gave Sheng Quan a faint smile.

“Don’t worry. I can at least hold out until the finals.”

Originally, he might not have even lasted that long. But now, with the full backing of a massive club, a team doctor, and even access to high-end training equipment, things were already far better than he’d ever expected.

Whether it was his hunger for victory or his gratitude toward Sheng Quan, Tan Chen couldn’t possibly give up this chance to compete.

Po Shui would never surrender.

Besides, ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‍he was already retired. Even if his hands could never touch a game again after the finals, it would still be worth it.

Sheng Quan suddenly added, “Oh, did I forget to mention? Dr. Micks, the specialist in esports injuries, officially joined us today.”

Tan Chen’s sharp, shadowed eyes widened. “Dr. Micks… from Country C?”

It was almost absurd. Despite China’s booming esports industry, the country had never developed the same level of specialized medical care for gaming-related injuries as other nations.

Most major clubs never spent money on proper treatment for injured players. Instead, they’d have team doctors suppress the pain while squeezing every last drop of performance out of the players before their injuries became irreversible.

Once a player’s condition deteriorated to the point of being unplayable, the club would discard them without hesitation.

Some players ended up with slightly more decent clubs—at least they’d receive a payout, plus their previous earnings, making their years of effort not entirely in vain.

But those unlucky enough to land in shady organizations would be milked dry, down to the bone, with some clubs even coming up with the brilliant idea of charging players “membership fees.”

With player health being so neglected, the medical field for esports injuries naturally didn’t advance domestically. And since treatment wasn’t available locally, players had to go abroad—where prices were even steeper.

Thus, the entire industry fell into a vicious cycle: treatment was expensive → clubs refused to pay → treatment became even more expensive.

For Chinese esports players, receiving consistent, effective treatment was nothing short of a pipe dream.

Tan Chen had once longed for his hands to be healed, so he understood the difficulty better than anyone.

Seeing even the usually unshakable Tan Chen visibly stunned, Sheng Quan grinned.

“Yes. That Dr. Micks.”

"Captain Tan, if this news gets out, wouldn’t our Breaking Waves instantly become the top choice for all esports players looking to join a club?"

Tan Chen had already steadied himself. His reply was firm: "Absolutely."

Sheng Quan’s gaze lingered on his elegant hands. "But before that, you should focus on recovering from your injury."

Tan Chen had already guessed as much, yet he couldn’t help but look up at the young woman before him. His eyes held disbelief, rationality, and finally, a cautious gloom:

"My kind of injury is too expensive to treat. You might not know this, but I’ve looked into it—it’s impossible to fully recover. At best, I’d regain seventy percent of my condition, so..."

"So that’s why Dr. Micks is joining us." Sheng Quan cut off Tan Chen’s trembling words. She looked at him just as she had that day when she handed him an umbrella: "Because only she can push for that seventy percent."

Tan Chen’s expression froze in surprise.

Sheng Quan: "Heal your hands, win the championship. Can you do it?"

The usually composed captain, who hadn’t even turned twenty-six but carried himself like a man in his forties, felt the corners of his eyes redden again.

His lips trembled slightly, his gaze fixed solely on her. Tan Chen heard his own voice, rough with emotion, reply:

"Yes. I can."

Realizing his answer carried a hint of barely concealed emotion, he quickly turned his head away, took a deep breath, and steadied his voice before adding:

"Thank you."

"You always seem to be thanking me."

Sheng Quan chuckled, lightly patting the equipment. "Your training is on hold for now. Focus on your treatment first."

"As for Breaking Waves, we’ll need a substitute who can hold their own until the semifinals. I know it’s tough, but you must have someone in mind, right?"

She knew better than anyone—despite Tan Chen’s outward image of "Breaking Waves just grinding in silence," he was secretly a master of tactical preparation.

Even during the team’s early training phases, Tan Chen had them practicing against the strategies of the top-performing teams.

That was one of the reasons Sheng Quan had chosen him as their leader.

He knew every team, every player—past and present. Even the most obscure, overlooked squads were meticulously researched the moment they appeared.

He was a bit like Yu Xiangwan in that regard.

Always with backup plans, contingencies—though for Yu Xiangwan, it was part of his job as a producer.

Tan Chen, however, was just a coach.

So just how far would his future go?

But before that, Sheng Quan had other futures to reshape.

True to form, Tan Chen was reliable. He swiftly listed potential candidates, all of whom Breaking Waves could easily recruit.

One of them was even already at the club.

"He and Bai Xiangyuan debuted around the same time. The difference is, he’s a true genius."

Sheng Quan smirked. Praising Han Yu while taking a dig at Bai Xiangyuan—very fitting for the "grudge-holding gamer" stereotype.

Tan Chen pointed at a name on the list. "Han Yu is the type of genius who thrives on team synergy. He’s had incredible performances before, but after being forced into a role swap due to tactical changes, he’s been inactive for over half a year."

"But don’t worry. His adaptability in team battles is exceptional. He’ll have no problem holding his own until the semifinals. Plus, we can build a new team around his strengths later."

"And regarding your earlier plan for a new team, I’ve already compiled a list of candidates, along with their specialties and skill distributions..."

Former DE Club player dormitory.

With the new management overhaul, the players couldn’t help but worry about being replaced—all except Han Yu.

At this point, being replaced or not made no difference to him.

Rumors said Breaking Waves needed an attacker, and many were eager to fill the spot. But Han Yu wasn’t interested.

It wasn’t like they’d pick him anyway.

He was reviewing match footage when someone banged on his door: "Han Yu! Han Yu, are you in?! Get up! Captain Tan is looking for you!"

This chapt𝓮r is updat𝒆d by ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom.

Captain Tan? The same Tan Chen who’d been handpicked by Chairwoman Sheng to lead their training, now the boss of all players—was here for him?!

Han Yu’s heart pounded as he shot to his feet. Outside stood Tan Chen, whose imposing physique stood out even among the fitness-obsessed esports crowd.

His pulse raced as he heard the words he’d longed for:

"Come with me. Chairwoman Sheng wants to see your team-fighting skills."

That day, many others received calls too.

A pro player had just finished a solo match, massaging his sore wrist while mentally calculating his rent. He sighed—until a friend sprinted over, phone in hand:

"Qing Lv!! It’s Breaking Waves Club!!"

In a bustling city, a woman mechanically ate takeout while replying to client messages. The wall behind her displayed photos of her glory days—trophies, records, relics of her most passionate youth.

Now, she didn’t even have time to glance at them.

Her phone rang.

She braced herself—another client or boss, no doubt—but the moment she answered, her expression shifted.

"You want me as a coach? Tan Chen, are you serious?"

"I’m in. Of course I’m in. I’ve been dying to quit this damn job!"

In a small livestreaming room, a young girl gamed expressionlessly for her modest audience. Suddenly, a private message popped up:

"Lang Zhong, come back. The club’s under new management—that jerk who sidelined you got kicked out. You know the new boss? Sheng Quan! You love her, right? Turns out she’s a fan of yours too! Today she mentioned regretting your retirement and told us to bring you back."

The victory screen flashed. For the first time in forever, emotion flickered across the girl’s stoic face.

Sheng Quan wanted her back?!

She shot to her feet. "Sorry, cutting stream early today. My idol called—celebrate for me, hahaha! Gotta go!"

True to her assassin main, she vanished in a flash.

The stream was left empty, viewers bewildered.

"??? We’d love to celebrate!!"

"But you didn’t even end the stream!!!"