Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 104

"Holographic Pod?"

The shareholders of Polaroid were numerous and divided into various factions. When Sheng Quan first ventured into filmmaking, no one paid much attention. But the moment she announced plans to release a holographic pod, the room erupted in chaos.

"Is this for real?"

"I doubt it. Do you really think a holographic pod can just be developed overnight? Our VR equipment has consumed massive investments just to reach its current state. I can’t believe she could pull off a holographic pod in such a short time."

"Don’t be so sure," countered a blonde-haired shareholder, scanning the data on his tablet. "Have you forgotten how she brought those robotic dogs to market?"

The others exchanged uneasy glances.

Though they were Polaroid shareholders, many of them had stakes in other industries as well. Smart robotics had always been a lucrative field, and when Sheng Quan introduced her robotic dogs, countless competitors in the sector took a hit.

Of course, for every loser, there were winners. While some businesses crumbled, others rode the wave of Sheng Quan’s success to new heights.

Whether they had suffered or prospered, one thing was clear—Sheng Quan was a force to be reckoned with.

She was no longer the small-time CEO who struggled to elevate an unknown artist, constantly questioned for her ability to make stars.

The major shareholders scowled, while the smaller ones exchanged knowing looks, each calculating their next move.

Polaroid wasn’t a family-run business. Its vast, interconnected network was held together by shared interests. But when those interests diverged, the dynamics shifted—just like how old-fashioned flip phones were inevitably replaced by smartphones.

Try asking a young person today to use a brick phone—how many would agree?

When it came to holographic pods versus VR, even the shareholders had to admit: if given the choice, they’d pick the holographic pod.

A true second world? Who wouldn’t want that?

"We can’t just sit back and do nothing."

While the minor shareholders were already preparing their exit strategies, the major stakeholders—whose primary business was Polaroid—refused to stand by as Sheng Quan overshadowed them with her holographic technology.

Meetings, debates, research—the employees at Polaroid could sense the tension. Their superiors moved with urgency, faces grim, and the top-floor conference room often stayed lit until the early hours.

In hushed tones, Polaroid staff whispered among themselves.

"Could the news about the holographic pod from China be true?"

"If it is, that’d be amazing. I saw that movie—another masterpiece from Starlight Productions. If the holographic pod is real, does that mean we could go anywhere without leaving home?"

"Maybe worry about whether we’ll still have jobs first."

The younger employee shrugged. "Unemployed? Not necessarily. Even with holographics, they’ll still need our expertise. A job’s a job, no matter where you do it."

As a member of the younger generation, he was far more excited about the holographic pod than concerned about unemployment.

Once the two left the break room, a high-ranking shareholder slammed his cup onto the table.

If even Polaroid’s own employees were this eager for the holographic pod, how much more so the general public?

It was clear—if Sheng Quan’s holographic technology hit the market, Polaroid’s empire would crumble overnight.

As the major shareholder brooded, his assistant approached.

"A call from Ms. Sheng Quan. She says she’d like to speak with you."

"We have the holographic pod technology, but developing a new game from scratch would take at least two to three years. For something on a massive scale, four to five. That’s why cooperation with Polaroid would be ideal."

Sheng Quan was stacking playing cards—a new hobby she’d recently taken up. She had already built a towering structure and was now carefully placing the final pieces.

Gu Zhao, however, doubted Polaroid would agree. "A company that’s had the whole cake to itself for so long isn’t likely to share."

Polaroid wasn’t just a gaming giant because of its content. Over the years, competitors had emerged, but under Polaroid’s aggressive business tactics, most had faded into obscurity.

Gu Zhao didn’t see anything wrong with this approach. The business world was a battlefield—if Polaroid had let its rivals thrive, that would’ve been the real surprise.

But he couldn’t imagine a company so used to dominance suddenly playing nice.

"Then it’s up to them to decide," Sheng Quan said, admiring her card tower before turning to Gu Zhao with a smile. "But this isn’t my only plan."

"Don’t forget—I’m also a Polaroid shareholder. A minor one, but it’s enough."

Gu Zhao looked up, realization dawning in his usually impassive gray eyes. A faint smile touched his lips.

"So you’ve been preparing for this."

Gu Zhao and the other close associates knew about Sheng Quan’s two-billion-yuan gaming spree to acquire year-end shares, but none of them had questioned it.

Yu Xiangwan, for one, would praise anything Sheng Quan did. If she spent two billion playing games—or even tossing it into the ocean—he’d adjust his gold-rimmed glasses and calmly declare that no one could throw money away as brilliantly as Sheng Quan.

As for Gu Zhao? He simply saw it as her personal indulgence—no different from his own fondness for tending to his potted plants.

(Of course, Gu Zhao conveniently ignored how, back at Wansheng, he’d scoffed at former bosses Chen Xuanzheng and He Qi for their expensive hobbies—racing cars and cycling through girlfriends—deeming it a waste of time. The hypocrisy never crossed his mind.)

"I thought you were just passing time with the game," he remarked.

"Polaroid is fun, but the two billion was purely for the year-end shares."

The stake was minuscule—so small that many had mocked her for wasting money. Even buying Polaroid’s film adaptation rights outright would’ve been cheaper than splurging in-game.

Polaroid itself had thought they’d found a gullible whale. Given Sheng Quan’s reputation for extravagance, most assumed she just had money to burn.

Now, the supposedly reckless CEO leaned back on the sofa.

"Shareholders can transfer equity among themselves without board approval."

What was the gaming term for this again?

A backdoor takeover?

Meanwhile, Polaroid’s major shareholders were plotting their own ambush.

Sheng Quan’s terms weren’t unacceptable, but as Gu Zhao had said—when you’ve had the whole cake to yourself, who wants to share, even under pressure? fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

Moreover, these major shareholders were accustomed to throwing their weight around.

If they could gain the highest returns with the least investment, why wouldn’t they?

"Sheng Quan only owns one research institute."

During the meeting, someone was analyzing the situation of Sheng Quan’s research institute.

To their delight, they discovered that this institute had no classified security level. Typically, in most countries, the security classification would escalate based on the importance of the research.

In reality, such classifications were mostly symbolic. Research institutes usually had their own security systems, mainly serving as a warning to visitors that the premises housed valuable assets and were off-limits to unauthorized personnel.

But since this institute lacked a formal security rating, the defenses were likely lax—making it easier for them to send someone to steal the holographic technology.

Yes, rather than sharing profits, the major shareholders of Polar Corporation preferred hiring professionals to pilfer the holographic technology from Sheng Quan.

It might sound like something out of a corporate thriller, but among major corporations, such tactics—stealing each other’s technology or copying innovations—were far from rare.

Simply put, paying someone to steal technology was far cheaper than giving away a share of the profits.

Of course, for a research institute in China, they’d need to hire Chinese operatives.

That wasn’t difficult. Just pick the right people and throw enough money at them.

Even if they got caught, it would only mean a few years in prison—a small price compared to the hefty payout. They probably wouldn’t mind doing the time.

Soon, Polar’s major shareholders selected their operatives, secured their cooperation with generous payments, and waited for news from China.

That very night, the assistant received calls from the hired men.

"What? You’re backing out? Why? We had a deal. You already took the money!"

"Bro, this isn’t about the money. That place is clearly guarded by the military."

From a distance, the men pretended to stroll casually in the opposite direction, their legs trembling, hearts pounding.

Behind them, the research institute’s entrance appeared ordinary, but inside, soldiers in uniform stood guard—armed with real weapons.

The assistant was stunned. "The military? China’s military?"

The men could barely walk straight, their voices shaky with fear.

"Whose else would it be? We want to make money, but not by going against the state!"

"We’re returning the money. This job’s off. You’re setting us up! Let’s be clear—we’re corporate spies, not military spies. There’s a world of difference, you get that?"

"That’s it. Don’t ever mention knowing us. Even if you do, we’ll deny it."

They hung up in a hurry, as if fleeing from some monstrous threat.

The assistant: "..."

The other executives: "..."

How was Sheng Quan’s research institute connected to the Chinese military?!

Wasn’t she just an ordinary, albeit wealthy, businesswoman?!

As they exchanged bewildered glances, the secretary knocked and entered, whispering to the major shareholder:

"Sir, we’ve received word. Most of the small and mid-sized shareholders have already transferred their equity."

"The ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‍buyer is Sheng Quan."