Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry] Chapter 74

The current situation is that the authorities claim the disaster relief equipnt to be props, but netizens simply refuse to believe it.

And you can’t bla them. Sure, they might reluctantly accept that the underwater rescue robot is a prop—after all, despite its na, it doesn’t look humanoid, just a sleek yellow rectangular box, sowhat resembling comrcial underwater rescue devices.

—Except it looks way too futuristic.

But the robotic dogs and the heavy-duty vehicles with large chanical arms? There’s no way those could pass as "props" made by a film crew.

Especially since they were visibly deployed in the disaster relief efforts.

Even The Cultivator, famous for its hyper-realistic props, only nailed the appearance—no one actually saw dragons flying or fairies activating sect-protecting barriers.

Okay, maybe that’s a weird comparison, but it highlights how absurd the official explanation sounds to everyone.

The authorities had no choice but to respond with a formal, detailed statent:

"To ensure an imrsive cinematic experience, the Stellar War production team collaborated with C University’s research departnt…"

The Stellar War crew’s official account also stepped in, releasing photos of these "futuristic products" on set, alongside candid shots of actors posing with them in casual wear, captioned:

[They really are props.]

Netizens: "…"

Sheng Quan’s research collaboration with C University students had previously earned praise from central authorities, with both entertainnt and official dia covering it extensively.

Back then, everyone applauded—but no one expected actual results to co out of it.

[You’re telling these high-tech gadgets, which look like they ti-traveled from the future, were made by a bunch of students in a year???]

[Honestly hard to believe. If it were seasoned professors, maybe…]

[Screw it, real or not, I’m sold! Forget the movie—are they selling rch?!]

[That robotic dog is next-level cool, and it moves so smoothly. Students really built this?]

[I rember this! It was funded by Sheng Quan. C University students still call her ‘senior,’ right?]

Then soone floated a wild theory:

[What if—just a thought—our country actually developed this advanced tech but kept it classified? The flood in Lücheng was so severe they had to deploy it, but now they’re exposed. Since Stellar War is a sci-fi film and was also helping with relief, they’re using it as cover. Pure speculation, don’t @ (munching popcorn).]

This instantly shot to the top of the trending list, racking up 3K replies in a day.

[Not impossible. So R&D projects are classified—either in progress or post-completion.] (Joining the speculation.)

[It’s true. We’re already living in the future; the gov just doesn’t want to freak us out. But I’m ready! Hit with the sci-fi shockwaves!] (ing.)

[Let’s be real, those machines do look straight out of a space movie. Probably just props—it’s not like we leaped to interstellar tech overnight.] (Logical take.)

[Nah, you’re all wrong. This is alien tech. Earth’s made first contact, and this ‘leak’ is phase one of acclimating us!] (Unclear if serious or trolling.)

As always, international tabloids caught wind and reposted the clips—without the "props" disclair.

So foreign netizens saw: a bustling disaster zone, military tents, uniford personnel working… alongside unmistakably futuristic machines.

A towering black robotic dog, its tallic exoskeleton gleaming, strode calmly past a petite crew mber, the sheer size difference making it look even more imposing.

Cue the sa ltdown the Chinese internet had earlier.

[What is this?? Real or CGI???]

[That’s Mandarin in the background—must be China.]

[The vehicle looks armored, like a specialized rig. Insanely cool. What’s it for?]

【Has China's technology already reached the level of deploying chanical dogs? Can they follow commands? Do they bite?】

If "cultivation" only recently gained global popularity due to The Cultivator, then "high-tech" has long been a fascination for anyone who spends ti online.

Just like Sheng Quan, even though current technological advancents already make life incredibly comfortable, who wouldn’t want to step into an even more convenient and thrilling future?

Take the vehicles in this video, for example—massive or compact, equipped with specialized chanical arms—few people dug deep into their purpose.

Most netizens were fixated on the chanical dogs.

They looked undeniably cool, clearly capable of hauling heavy loads, and their imposing size even sparked imaginative questions like, "Can you ride them? Like a horse?"

After reactions like "So cool! I wish they were real, but they probably aren’t," international netizens were quickly "corrected" by Chinese users.

These futuristic machines, which looked like they’d been added with special effects, were actually real—and they belonged to a Chinese film crew, serving as their on-set props.

History repeated itself: foreign netizens expressed shock and disbelief.

They’d seen Chinese soldiers in the footage.

Wasn’t this supposed to be so kind of secret research facility?

Otherwise, why would soldiers be stationed there?

Then ca the explanation:

【Chinese soldiers aren’t just for warfare. During major disasters, they’re deployed to rescue civilians.】

【Their military and police are deeply respected by the people because they always stand at the frontlines during crises.】

A Chinese netizen shared an official statent:

【These high-tech machines appeared at the scene because the film crew was shooting in a nearby city. When the flood disaster struck, they paused production to join the relief efforts.】

Despite national differences, after seeing the news images and translated descriptions, the Interstellar War crew received unanimous praise.

【Well done!】

【A crew like this deserves support. Will their movie be released in our country?】

【This gets fired up!】

Of course, amid the acclaim, skepticism lingered—how could these possibly just be movie props?

If ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‍they’d debuted in a film, people would’ve believed it. But their first appearance was at a disaster site, where they played a crucial role. How could anyone accept they were rely props?

Then, the experts began weighing in.

Their arrival shifted the tone to sothing more academic. Whether they were just keyboard warriors or actual industry heavyweights, they dissected the footage with jargon and perspectives the average netizen could never have imagined.

The conclusion?

【These creations do require advanced tech, but they’re not beyond current scientific capabilities. Globally, over a dozen teams are working on similar projects—most just haven’t produced results or only have prototypes.】

【And here’s sothing you might’ve missed: the Interstellar War crew referred to them as "prototypes," aning the final versions will be even more advanced and stable.】

【I agree with #233. If prototypes are already functional enough for filming, the finished products can’t be far off. But one thing puzzles —a year is long, but for R&D, it’s nothing. How much money did Sheng Quan pour into this to achieve so much in such a short ti???】

An excellent question.

Sipping yogurt while scrolling through comnts, Sheng Quan couldn’t help but give #238 a like.

The comnter was right—while the students involved were undeniably talented, the real driving force behind the project’s rapid progress was simpler:

She’d been throwing money at it. Relentlessly.

For nearly a year, almost all the investnt funds from the system had been funneled into these projects.

The bulk went to Professor Chen Aihong, Gu Shuyue, and Ning Zhou.

The rest was divided among smaller initiatives, leaving nothing untouched.

How many tis had she wanted to scream into the void: R&D is ridiculously expensive!!!

Every minor breakthrough, every obstacle, every significant leap forward—no matter what it ant scientifically, financially, it always translated to one thing: more money.

You’d think the initial investnt was substantial, only to realize, when a major milestone lood or a new possibility erged, that the demand for funding could always go higher.

All of Sheng Quan's investnts were made through personal accounts. If they had gone through the company's books, the higher-ups would have undoubtedly thought she'd lost her mind.

At this point, her insistence on creating her own revenue streams—without relying on the system—proved invaluable. Starlight Entertainnt had long entered its profitable phase. Though the company's cash flow was frequent, the TV dramas and films she had previously invested in continued to generate steady returns.

Moreover, as the artists under the agency gradually gained fa, the profits they generated not only sustained the company's operations but also freed up funds to allocate to subsidiaries.

The revenue share from The Cultivator contributed significantly, along with ticket sales from Ten Great Immortal Palaces, allowing Sheng Quan—who had always imdiately poured every cent provided by the system into various research projects—to maintain a relatively comfortable financial state.

However, after the flood relief efforts, Chairman Sheng faced an embarrassing predicant: she was broke again.

This "broke" ant she currently had only a few hundred thousand in liquid funds left.

Though Sheng Quan believed every penny spent was worth it, it didn’t stop her—after over a year of carefree relaxation—from feeling the itch to make money again.

The research projects couldn’t be relied on for now. While the current results were already astonishing, revealing the scientists behind them wasn’t the right mont.

The best timing would be after Stellar War hit theaters and achieved unprecedented success.

But Stellar War wouldn’t be released for at least another three months.

And Sheng Quan’s old habit resurfaced—whenever a major investnt project was still ongoing, she couldn’t help but want any new investnt choices to be perfect, ideally with synergy between the two.

Absentmindedly scrolling through comnts, she watched as internet sleuths speculated wildly about her research expenditures, occasionally glancing at the old TV drama playing in the background.

Whenever she was stuck on a decision, she liked to binge unfamiliar classic shows, sotis stumbling upon inspiration.

Of course, while doing all this, Chairman Sheng kept a plate of healthy, delicious dried fruit within reach.

What was binge-watching without snacks? Sheng Quan wouldn’t have it any other way.

After two blissfully indulgent days of TV marathons, she noticed a shift in the online discourse.

Previously, the chatter had been filled with comnts like "6666" and "Can’t wait for the movie to see if it’s real." But now, the tone had changed.

The trigger was a relatively authoritative dia outlet from Country K, which delivered a review of the three high-tech products seen at the disaster relief site in a tone dripping with condescension.

The review… well, it was technically complintary, but sothing about it felt off.

"It’s clear that the R&D team spent considerable ti and effort on the flashy exteriors, which explains why these hastily developed products—completed in just a year—have garnered such public enthusiasm."

"In this regard, China’s pretty props have served their purpose. They need only stand there, doing nothing, to earn applause."

To bolster their argunt, they even interviewed a well-known research institution head from Country K.

The expert rambled on, using seemingly asured, impartial language that superficially praised the tech while subtly—or not so subtly—implying that these "globally hyped" innovations were nothing special.

Sheng Quan had no idea how netizens from other countries reacted, but in China, public sentint shifted almost instantly after the interview went viral.

[Yeah, let’s not get too excited. The production team already said these were just props. If we overhype them, people will think we’ve never seen real tech before.]

[Am I the only one who knows Country K already had transport chanical dogs two years ago? They’ve been in use since then. It’s embarrassing how we’re acting like we’re groundbreaking when we’re two years behind.]

[This interview makes so mad. I get that people want to celebrate our tech progress, but when others point out we’re exaggerating, it’s just humiliating.]

A few puzzled users chid in: [Weren’t we just saying how cool it was that the movie props looked so realistic? I don’t rember anyone claiming our tech was top-tier…?]

But the flood of negative comnts quickly drowned them out. One user tried reposting twice, only to be buried again, eventually giving up.

After skimming through, Sheng Quan grasped the situation.

She wasn’t angry—if anything, she found it intriguing.

"Paid trolls have joined the fray," she mused, phone on speaker as she scrolled through the comnts during her call with Gu Zhao. "Most likely because those semi-finished products stepped on soone’s toes."

Gu Zhao agreed. "I’ll have it investigated imdiately."

"No need, for research-related matters, I can just ask Professor Chen. Ah, she replied—it must be KIO Corporation from Country K. Tsk, they’re also in the guide dog field. How sharp of them."

If Sheng Quan hadn’t worked in promotion before, she might have been angry about this situation.

But she had.

When public opinion shifts overwhelmingly like this, it could be genuine—but if the tide turns overnight, with a sudden flood of "netizens" repeating the sa talking points in different words, there’s an 80% chance soone is pulling the strings behind the scenes.

And whoever is behind it must have a vested interest.

Creating this kind of situation costs a lot of money. Just hiring an army of online comnters alone is a huge expense.

Add to that the cost of bribing research institutions worldwide to echo their narrative, paying off dia outlets for favorable coverage, and so on.

"Quite the investnt," mused Sheng Quan, currently in a state of financial strain. "With that kind of money, they could’ve developed new products. Why waste it on sabotaging competitors?"

Like Sheng Quan, Gu Zhao’s emotions remained largely unaffected by the situation—well, almost.

There was one change.

As he stared at the computer screen, his light gray eyes burned with more ambition than usual.

"You’re right. This is an excellent opportunity."

Back in school, Sheng Quan had gone through a phase of obsessively reading CEO romance novels. Back then, she hadn’t realized that the true power in a company lay not with the "domineering CEO" but with the chairman of the board.

As for why authors overwhelmingly chose to write about CEOs rather than chairn, she figured it was because "CEO" just sounded more sophisticated.

Those novels were always filled with high-stakes corporate battles, and young Sheng Quan would read them with exhilaration, practically clapping her hands in excitent.

But after entering the workforce, she quickly learned that most companies don’t engage in dramatic "business wars"—and when they do, the tactics are far more straightforward.

She still rembered an absurd news story from her past life:

A company owner hired a corporate spy to sabotage a rival—only for the spy to work as a security guard who snuck in at night to unplug the competitor’s power supply.

Of course, that was an extre case. More often, malicious competition between companies looked like this:

Your product is better than mine? Then I’ll sar you so no one thinks it’s worth buying.

This was the essence of a PR war.

Crude? Yes. Effective? Absolutely. So companies had even gone bankrupt due to such sar campaigns.

From the news she’d gathered, KIO Corporation had a history of this. In Country K, similar tech companies had erged before—only to be hit with scandals within two years and ultimately acquired by KIO.

"They’ve gotten addicted to the taste of victory in PR wars. Now they’re even crossing borders to co after us."

After skimming through the reports, Sheng Quan had a rough understanding of KIO’s playbook.

KIO likely didn’t see those half-finished chanical dogs as a real threat. What they coveted was their sudden fa.

After all, these chanical dogs had debuted during the Lu City flood in China, capturing national attention. Then they went viral internationally.

KIO happened to be launching a new product—and their first promotional strategy seed to be:

Step on China’s chanical dogs to climb up, steal their spotlight, and boost their own brand.

Gu Zhao remarked, "They’re experts at hype. Though not the largest in scale, they’ve built quite a reputation internationally."

Sheng Quan asked, "Do you envy their fa?"

Gu Zhao answered honestly, "Absolutely."

Sheng Quan grinned. "Then let’s savor that envy for now. Soon, their fa will be ours."

"What I don’t get is—before launching this PR war, didn’t they bother to check what industry I’m in?"

Chairwoman Sheng popped a dried fruit into her mouth, unable to suppress her amused smile:

"Starlight Entertainnt is an entertainnt company, after all."

As expected, the international narrative soon shifted.

The once-trending Chinese chanical dogs were quickly dismissed by experts worldwide as "technologically immature."

This wasn’t entirely unreasonable—after all, these chanical dogs were originally developed as movie props, and the team behind them was reportedly made up of college students. Given that, their performance was impressive.

The criticism was carefully frad:

As props, they’re fine. But the hype around them is way overblown.

They didn’t outright trash the chanical dogs from Interstellar Wars. Instead, they focused on how they were "only suitable as props," contrasting them with the exaggerated public praise.

Once the reputation was sufficiently tarnished, it was ti to introduce KIO’s new guide robot dogs.

The script went sothing like this:

The Chinese chanical dogs you were so excited about? They’re underwhelming. But don’t worry—KIO’s guide robot dogs are here. They can guide the visually impaired, serve as robotic pets, and outperform even your wildest expectations.

Moreover, it passed the internationally renowned scientific research institution's [Robot Design] test, scoring a high 4.2 out of six levels for the Kio guide robot.

This research institution is highly authoritative, with every test conducted openly and impartially. The testing process is rigorous, and each piece of data is repeatedly cross-checked. Their testing fees are steep, but this also ans they cannot be bribed.

If any tested scientific achievent were to later prove flawed, this nearly century-old institution—with its imnse international reputation—would collapse overnight.

Thus, they would never falsify results. Out of caution, their scoring is also extrely ticulous, with 98% based on test data and only 2% human input.

In the field of robotics, 3.5 is a passing score, making 4.2 an outstanding achievent.

The previous high score was 4.1.

This proves that Kio’s guide robot dog is undeniably top-tier on a global scale.

Everything was going smoothly.

After investing heavily in marketing, Kio successfully stripped the fa from China’s robotic guide dog and used that massive recognition as a foundation to aggressively promote their own product.

Kio’s guide robot dog’s reputation snowballed, and after securing the 4.2 test score, it beca world-renowned.

Then, Sheng Quan, who had remained silent all this ti, finally made a move.

Sheng Quan: "The movie prop has finally been turned into a real product. You all guessed right—it’s a robotic guide dog. Took it for a test when I had ti. Scored 5.3."

[Attached: Scoring sheet] [Attached: Sleek robotic dog photo]

The mont this Weibo post went live, artists under Starlight Entertainnt sprang into action.

Yan Hui, a strong contender for this year’s awards, reposted it.

Lin Aike, the lead actress of a currently trending drama, reposted it.

Hua Qing, an award-winning actress with a devoted fanbase, reposted it.

Jin Jiu, a massively popular singer fresh off a sold-out concert, reposted it.

Jiang Zhen, an international sensation who rose to fa overnight with countless foreign fans, reposted it.

Xu Man, the director of The Cultivator, who beca an overnight A-list director with investors lining up, reposted it.

Every single artist under Starlight Entertainnt, regardless of fa, reposted it.

In today’s entertainnt industry, who wouldn’t give Sheng Quan face?

Soon, rising starlets reposted it. Veteran actors reposted it. Established screenwriters and directors reposted it.

An entertainnt company CEO reposted it, and soon, every artist under that company—big or small—followed suit.

Sheng Quan didn’t just post on Weibo. International netizens have their own platforms, and as a 10G-speed internet surfer, she naturally had accounts there too.

Let’s not forget the Starlight Banquet.

That event didn’t just expand Sheng Quan’s network—it made countless others eager to join it. Forget her staggering wealth, which commands respect in any country; this year’s banquet alone had people clamoring for invitations.

At a ti like this, where a simple repost could earn them visibility, no one saw it as a hassle.

On international platforms:

A famous actor from Country A reposted.

An internationally celebrated singer reposted.

A top-tier actress from Country C reposted.

A currently trending boy band from Country B reposted.

Kio’s executives were fuming but could only watch helplessly as celebrities, one after another, shared the post.

There were too many—far too many.

As these stars reposted, fans worldwide saw the news.

—Boom!

The excitent was instantaneous.

In the past, they might not have cared about robotic guide dogs, but thanks to Kio’s relentless marketing, even the disinterested had grown curious.

Their first thought: If 4.2 was already hailed as a miracle by experts worldwide… then 5.3 must be mind-blowing!

China has this kind of tech?! We have to see this!

In no ti at all, Kio’s prospective buyers defected en masse to China’s "movie prop."

Kio descended into chaos—but there was nothing they could do.

The roles had reversed. The usurper had beco the usurped.

Three months of relentless effort to build montum and steal fa from China’s robotic guide dog…

All undone.

In just seven hours.

And repaid a hundred—no, a thousand—fold.