Start by Spending One Billion [Entertainment Industry]-Chapter 106

News about holographic technology has been dominating major media outlets for quite some time, with discussions covering every angle—from its origins and applications to its future development.

For a while, online comment sections became a hub for experts, who gathered to dissect the topic from various fields, raising one academic question after another with rigorous and cautious attitudes, sparking heated debates.

[Can someone who hates cilantro eat it in a holographic game by adjusting their avatar's taste buds? Disclaimer: I have nothing against cilantro—I just want it gone.]

[I’m a teacher. What are the chances of holding online classes in-game in the future?]

[In-game couples can kiss and stuff, but in full holographic mode, it feels too real and might traumatize bystanders. My suggestion: make bonded couples automatically commit double suicide instead.]

Sheng Quan couldn’t help but admire the scholarly dedication of modern netizens.

After liking each of these posts, she tweeted about the upcoming sale of holographic devices.

The meme-loving internet dwellers were stunned: This soon?!

Though Polaris: The Best Player had been released a long time ago, and Polaris itself had even changed ownership, people still subconsciously believed that [holographic tech] wouldn’t become part of ordinary life so quickly—despite the overwhelming news coverage.

Shouldn’t the usual process be: first, only the ultra-rich get access, then it trickles down?

[My bad, I forgot that Chairwoman Sheng has a habit of treating everyone equally!]

[Remember the robotic dogs? It was a seller’s market—she could’ve priced them sky-high but slashed the cost herself. She really is the GOAT.]

[Why are y’all still chatting? Sales start in ten minutes!]

[Why remind them? Let them talk until they forget to buy. Fewer buyers mean better odds for us!]

Some were casually chatting, others were poised to pounce the second sales went live, and a few were torn between devices, wishing they could buy them all.

While most of the questions raised by netizens were useless, one point resonated widely: The Best Player was essentially the biggest ad for holographic gaming.

Case in point: the moment the official site went live, people instantly navigated to their desired product pages, ready to click "buy" the second sales opened.

In the movie, holographic devices were divided into three tiers, ranked by technological sophistication and sensory immersion:

1. Holographic Helmets (lowest tier)

2. Holographic Simulators (mid-tier)

3. Holographic Pods (highest tier)

The prices, just like in the film, scaled accordingly.

Everyone ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‍wanted a Holographic Pod.

But everyone who clicked on it immediately backed out—because holy hell, were they expensive!

Sheng Quan sympathized. She’d love to sell cheaper pods, but from a business standpoint, the current price meant only a select few worldwide could afford them. Lower the cost, and demand would skyrocket.

From Polaris’s perspective, more pod users meant more in-game revenue. After all, pods simulated all five senses. If you couldn’t eat certain foods in real life, why hold back in-game? Cue the binge-eating.

And in-game food? That cost gold coins.

Chairwoman Sheng: Cha-ching. So much money for more films and dramas.

Alas, pod prices wouldn’t drop anytime soon. Fortunately, there were budget-friendly alternatives.

Most people flocked to the helmets, priced after extensive internal discussions to balance profitability with accessibility.

While players held their breaths waiting for sales to begin, Sheng Quan herself was strolling through Polaris’s offline holographic experience store.

"Why are the silver and black helmets more expensive than the others? Do they have extra features?"

The staff answered with practiced sweetness: "Functionally identical, but the silver and black finishes are more aesthetically pleasing."

Right on cue, the moment sales opened, Sheng Quan watched as the silver and black helmets sold out in seconds.

The standard models followed.

Sheng Quan: …Fair enough.

If she had the money, she’d go for the silver one too.

(Not that she needed to buy one—she had a pod. Heh.)

As sales rolled in, Chairwoman Sheng lounged on a sofa, watching the backend stats skyrocket.

The affordable helmets unsurprisingly sold out first, followed by the simulators. The pods lagged—not due to lack of desire, but lack of funds.

Sheng Quan suddenly turned to He Xi: "Did we clearly explain the simulator’s limitations?"

He Xi nodded. "Highlighted in bold red on both the product and checkout pages. If users can’t handle it, we accept no-questions-asked returns within ten days."

Simulators offered better immersion than helmets, hence the higher price (and lower sales).

But here was the catch: to run or jump in-game, players had to physically run or jump in real life.

Given the average young adult’s fitness level—where even a 800-meter sprint was torture—high-intensity in-game actions were a tall order.

Sipping her milk tea, Sheng Quan eyed the simulator on display and sighed. "I bet even if players can’t handle it, they won’t return it."

Putting herself in their shoes—if she’d had access to an affordable simulator in her past life, no amount of exhaustion would’ve made her give it up.

She’d probably have coped by telling herself, At least it’s good exercise.

"NO RETURNS!!! NEVER!!!"

In a spacious room, a chubby kid shuffled on a treadmill, his movements sluggish due to his weight. Wearing a linked helmet, he occasionally lifted his arms or legs—but only barely.

After a few feeble attempts, the helmet flashed.

A cheerful voice chimed: "Your heart rate is too high! Please rest before continuing~"

"ARGH!!!"

The kid let out a frustrated roar, the sound shaking the room as if he were about to throw a tantrum.

Yet despite his outburst, he carefully removed the helmet, detached the sensors, and meticulously wiped off the sweat with a tissue before setting everything down gently.

His parents watched from the side, their hearts aching yet also filled with relief.

The relief came from seeing their usually irritable child—made so by his illness—finally cherish something so dearly. Their hearts ached because, despite his love for the full-dive game, his physical limitations prevented him from enjoying it as freely as other children.

Due to the unique nature of the full-dive simulation, his body could only endure a maximum of ten minutes before his racing heart would force him to log out.

"Qiangqiang, your body can't handle high-intensity activities. How about this—let’s return it for now, and when the second batch of helmets arrives, Mom and Dad will buy you one, okay?"

"No, I don’t want to return it."

To their surprise, their child quickly calmed down this time.

Their son belonged to a rare group of patients—his illness made him prone to outbursts, and the medication caused severe weight gain. Despite his young age, he had already endured immense suffering, making emotional stability nearly impossible.

But now, he looked at his parents and said, "I can’t play for long because I’m overweight. I’ll lose weight, and once I’m thinner, it’ll be fine. Don’t return it."

His parents were nearly moved to tears. The doctors had long recommended weight loss, but their son had never cooperated. The pain of his condition and his young age made it impossible to persuade him—until now.

Who would have thought that a game could achieve what they couldn’t?

In another city, an elderly woman sat listlessly in her wheelchair as her daughter fitted a helmet onto her head. One moment, she was skeptical of her daughter’s claims; the next, she found herself standing in a vast, sunlit grassland.

A graceful antelope approached with elegant steps:

"Welcome to Polar Full-Dive. This is your beginner’s guide."

As it unfurled a stack of instructions, the old woman’s avatar shrank and was drawn into the manual.

"Polar is divided into eight major zones. Here, you’ll find scenery."

—The old woman gasped as she floated upward, soaring over breathtaking landscapes, towering snow-capped mountains, and roaring waterfalls where droplets splashed against her skin. Below, animals grazed peacefully or engaged in thrilling chases.

The grazing antelope lifted its head—it was the guide from earlier. With a wave of its hoof, it announced: "And combat."

—Arena after arena materialized, where players of all shapes and sizes clashed with dazzling skills, streaks of color lighting up the sky.

"There’s the cosmos."

—The sky transformed into a starry expanse, meteors streaking down in a radiant shower, drawing awed gazes from the creatures below.

"And of course, home life."

Rows of beautiful villas lined the coast, free from real-world concerns like damp air. As the antelope guided her past, a stone lion at a villa’s entrance playfully tried to leap up and nudge them with its head.

It was all like a dream—beautiful, surreal.

Truthfully, the old woman had never even dreamed something so wondrous. She hadn’t yet adjusted to her in-game body, but in this mesmerizing full-dive world, whether she could move hardly seemed to matter.

Now she understood why her daughter had insisted she would love it here.

While the old woman was still immersed in the tutorial, a new character appeared in the transparent "room" designated for logins. The player had set her age to 25. Emerging, she examined her hands, then flexed her limbs.

"I can move—I can really move! It feels exactly like the real thing. This is incredible!"

Clearly a full-dive pod user, she was immediately flanked by two helmet-wearing players: "Professor, please don’t wander off. We need to take the other passage."

"Alright, alright. Where’s the research institute? Let’s hurry. I can’t wait any longer."

"There’s no need to rush. You have five hours—that’s plenty of time."

"Five hours isn’t enough! Put in another request for me. I need more time. Five hours won’t cut it."

They switched to private mode, unconcerned about eavesdroppers. The professor bargained, "My situation is special. Grant me more time."

Her companions sighed. "Professor, everyone using a full-dive pod has a ‘special situation.’"

"Please be patient. More pods are being manufactured. Once they’re ready, your allotted time will increase."

In reality, medical staff stood guard beside the transparent full-dive pod, ready to wake its occupant at the first sign of trouble.

Inside, the professor—a white-haired woman in her eighties or nineties—lay smiling. Where her arms should have been, only the rounded stumps of amputations remained.

But in the game, she was diving headfirst into an ocean of science.

Everyone was happy—except for one.

In another room, two avatars emerged. The shorter player turned to the towering, muscular figure beside him and said:

"You wanted to travel, didn’t you, kid? Come on, let’s head to the highlands for a ‘study session.’ Guaranteed to be both educational and fun."

The hulking giant: "..."

Online, the boy’s parents, overjoyed by his marked emotional improvement, shared their experience in a post:

[I didn’t understand why the game had a dedicated underage server. But now I get it—Sheng Quan has always cared about vulnerable groups. She must have considered how many children, like my son, suffer from illnesses that prevent them from playing freely in the real world. The joy the full-dive world offers them is something reality can’t match.

In-game, their avatars are healthy and whole. All the kids play together, happy and carefree. My son has finally made friends. Seeing him so eager—working hard to lose weight, to play—brings us more happiness than anything.

Technically, full-dive devices could enforce single-account binding to maximize profits. But the official policy allows three accounts per device, plus a dedicated underage binding channel. Though limited to two hours a day, it’s more than enough for kids.

The movie Best Player showcased the true meaning of full-dive. At first, I thought it was just cinematic flair. But now I see—Sheng Quan used it to express her vision of what full-dive should represent.

I’m her fan. My mom once asked why someone my age still "fans" over celebrities. But how could I not? She’s not just a star—she’s a guiding light.]

The post’s wording wasn’t particularly polished, yet it gained traction rapidly.

[Sheng Quan showed us in Best Player what she believes full-dive means. And now, in reality, she’s bringing that vision to life.]

[My 13-year-old cousin lost her legs in a car accident. Now, in the game, she can walk happily again. For that alone, Sheng Quan deserves to be wealthy for life.]

"I’ve always felt that other luxury items are unnecessary, but when it comes to the holographic helmet, Chairman Sheng Quan has really done his best. Maybe I can’t afford it right now, but with a few years of hard work after graduation, I believe I’ll be able to. I’m really grateful to Chairman Sheng for setting such a price."

"I heard that holographic technology is still being researched at deeper levels, and what’s presented to us players isn’t even the most advanced tier yet. But I’m already more than satisfied. Being able to ‘take a trip’ after work or indulge in virtual feasts while dieting in-game is absolutely amazing!"

No matter the age, when a new innovation brings tangible benefits, people are quick to embrace it.

While consumers found time to dive into holographic gaming, companies and manufacturers were busy figuring out how to integrate holography into their industries.

The entertainment industry was hit the hardest.

Starlight Entertainment had already been emerging as a frontrunner, and now, no one could even hope to compete.

Even international celebrities and entertainment companies were extending olive branches to Starlight.

After all, it was clear to everyone that with holographic technology backing them, Starlight could achieve anything in the entertainment world.

Take the upcoming holographic stage, for example—though still in preparation, everyone was certain that whoever stood on it would become a global sensation.

And the most tantalizing part? Like many other Chinese entertainment companies, Starlight excelled in film and music but had one glaring weakness: no idol talent.

Idols from around the world: !!!

This was a golden opportunity—now, it was just a matter of who could seize it.