When she was still a corporate drone, Sheng Quan absolutely despised attending company dinners.
The main reason was that these gatherings always happened either after work hours or on weekends. Every time there was a dinner, it meant her personal time was being squeezed dry by the exploitative company for at least three extra hours.
But when she became the top boss herself—free to schedule these dinners during workdays—she suddenly discovered that company dinners could actually be quite enjoyable.
Part of this joy came from the fact that the table was filled with attractive subordinates, but what delighted her most was what this gathering represented: Starlight Entertainment was finally on the right track.
A company couldn’t survive on money and employees alone—at least not an entertainment company. It needed performers who could actually turn a profit.
Before this, if she’d wanted, she could’ve easily ordered her team to sign a whole roster of talent.
But Starlight Entertainment wasn’t one of those shady agencies that scammed trainees out of signing fees, so their growth strategy had been limited to prioritizing quality over quantity.
Of course, this "quantity" was relative compared to other companies. A powerhouse like Starlight couldn’t possibly cultivate only a dozen or so artists.
Gu Zhao had been swamped, tirelessly negotiating potential collaborations for Starlight Entertainment.
Outwardly, he appeared ice-cold—the kind of ruthless CEO you’d see in dramas who’d dismissively say, "Don’t bother me for anything under 100 million."
In reality? He devoted 100% focus to even the smallest potential project. Even if a deal wasn’t finalized yet, he’d fight to secure at least a 51% inclination from the other party.
Partners didn’t just fall from the sky. In the early stages, even a well-funded company like Starlight Entertainment had to painstakingly build connections one by one.
So Sheng Quan could hardly fathom—if she felt the struggles of entrepreneurship with Starlight’s charmed beginnings, how had Gu Zhao dragged the hellscape that was Wansheng Entertainment up from the depths all by himself?
But now, things were better. With so many capable hands under her, Starlight was finally hitting its stride.
The company’s expenses were all covered by the rental income from Huaxing Building, meaning she didn’t have to spend a single cent—just sit back and wait for the profits to roll in.
Sheng Quan could practically see piles of cash fluttering toward her.
They were going to make an absolute killing.
During the dinner, she’d been happily daydreaming—until the health reports came in. Then she understood why this team was so ruthlessly competent.
Real life wasn’t a TV drama. Normal humans who pushed their bodies to the brink couldn’t possibly emerge unscathed.
It was downright unreal. In the entire group, only An Baixing could claim full physical and mental health.
Everyone else had stomach issues—some even had malnutrition.
Even Gu Zhao, whose condition was the most stable due to ongoing treatment, still needed long-term care.
Yu Xiangwan had mentioned his health casually, but his report revealed he and Gu Zhao were practically brothers in suffering.
Yuan Zixin wasn’t much better—in fact, her condition was slightly worse.
As for the artists: Ming Qi fared relatively well, though she’d developed shoulder inflammation from filming. Hua Qing and Liu Zi'an had a whole catalog of minor occupational ailments—not severe, but enough to cause daily discomfort.
Hua Qing also had some psychological struggles, though thankfully mild. According to her, it stemmed from a role she couldn’t quite shake off.
Yan Hui hadn’t escaped either. He’d survived long stretches of surviving on three hours of sleep—if his hair hadn’t fallen out, it was nothing short of a miracle.
And then there was Jin Jiu, the reason this company-wide health check had happened in the first place. When Sheng Quan saw his report, one phrase flashed through her mind:
—A broken doll.
The novel had only mentioned Jin Jiu’s voice being ruined by poison, but Zhou Xie hadn’t exactly sourced "professional vocal-cord-destroying toxin." The drug had ravaged far more than just his singing.
His foundation was already weak. After dropping out, he’d worked himself to the bone—scraping together money for medical treatments and classes while squeezing in time for performances. That his body wasn’t completely in tatters was a miracle.
And that wasn’t even touching his severe psychological struggles.
Sheng Quan looked up at Jin Jiu.
He sat quietly, hands slightly curled at his sides, his presence so faint he almost disappeared into the background. The only sign of life was the faint pallor of his face. But when he noticed her gaze, his eyes brightened, and he offered her a small, shy smile.
It was impossible to reconcile this image with someone enduring relentless physical and mental agony.
"You didn’t tell me the doctor said your pain levels are extreme," she said.
Jin Jiu’s voice was soft. "I’m used to it."
Three light words—yet they struck like a hammer to the chest.
What kind of life does someone have to live, to grow accustomed to pain like that?
Sheng Quan's emotions were in turmoil. She couldn't help but wonder—if Jin Jiu's health had deteriorated like this in just seven years, what about the thirty years described in the book? Had he endured this constant, unrelenting pain all that time?
Jin Jiu was really too docile. Perhaps sensing Sheng Quan's distress, he cautiously glanced at her again and added softly,
"Actually, once you get used to it, it doesn’t hurt as much."
As if anyone could ever "get used to" pain. He just didn’t want her to worry.
Unable to hold back, Sheng Quan gently reached out and ruffled his hair.
"Come on, no one gets used to pain. They’ll come up with a treatment plan here, and we’ll make sure you recover fully. You need to follow the doctors’ instructions properly. Once you’re better, I’ve got work lined up for you."
Jin Jiu nodded obediently. "I’ll cooperate fully."
After the medical checkup, most of Sheng Quan's "talented recruits" had effectively become "patients in need of care."
Fortunately, they were all still relatively young. While each had their own ailments, most were the result of irregular schedules, poor diets, intense physical strain, and neglecting medical care.
Take Gu Zhao, for example. Ever since Sheng Quan had enforced a strict no-overtime-past-10-pm rule, his recovery progress had accelerated dramatically.
Not that he was happy about the overtime ban—but in Starlight Entertainment, Sheng Quan’s word was law.
With a single directive from her, everyone entered treatment programs.
Hua Qing was utterly stunned, especially when the company slashed most of her originally scheduled engagements to prioritize her treatment. The whole situation felt surreal.
Having worked under two other agencies, she knew exactly how the entertainment industry operated.
There was a saying: *An artist’s body belongs to them, but the money they earn for the company will always be the company’s.*
That perfectly encapsulated the mindset of most agencies.
Would an artist’s health be ruined? All the more reason to squeeze every last drop of profit out of them before it happened.
After all, it wasn’t *their* bodies on the line. No one cared—except the artists themselves.
Yet here was Starlight, barely after signing her—even paying a hefty sum to acquire her—not rushing to exploit her for profit, not overworking her, but actively investing in her well-being.
Hua Qing was floored.
Even as one of the "Four Rising Flowers," she’d never expected such treatment at Starlight. Forget her—even A-list stars were routinely pushed to their limits by their agencies.
What shocked her more was that this wasn’t just about her. Every artist under Starlight, regardless of fame (or lack thereof), was given time to recuperate.
And all treatments were conducted at Aihe Hospital—renowned for its efficiency, impeccable privacy, and exorbitant fees. Yet Starlight didn’t hesitate. Customized recovery plans were arranged for everyone.
Hua Qing never once suspected Gu Zhao’s involvement.
Having transferred from Wansheng, she knew him as a man who saw only profit, coldly efficient as a machine.
He’d never actively exploited artists, but he certainly wasn’t the type to fuss over their health. As long as they delivered returns, their well-being was irrelevant.
Such generosity could only be Sheng Quan’s doing.
After eight full hours of sleep, rehab sessions, balanced meals, and even one-on-one therapy with Aihe’s psychologists, Hua Qing felt lighter than she had in years.
Once her recovery was well underway, she studied her reflection and realized—she actually looked *prettier*. But of course she did.
No amount of sheet masks could offset chronic sleep deprivation.
Gradually, Hua Qing regained her peak condition—not just physically, but mentally.
The old desperation, the fear of being cast aside if she didn’t claw her way up, had faded. For the first time in ages, she felt *secure*. Logically, she had no precedent for this trust, but she *knew* Starlight wouldn’t betray her.
Even when work resumed and this respite ended, that certainty remained.
She threw herself into the acting, posture, and movement classes Starlight arranged, seizing every chance to improve. Whenever An Baixing groaned about exhaustion, Hua Qing would chide,
"The company’s investing in us. That means they’re planning for the long term."
Without realizing it, Hua Qing had changed.
At Wansheng, Hua Qing had never been one to socialize much with fellow contracted artists. After all, being under the same company didn’t guarantee camaraderie—it often just meant competition, and sometimes the company would deliberately stir up rivalry among them. But at Starlight Entertainment, Hua Qing never hesitated to share her experience.
She taught Yan Hui little tricks to immerse himself in a role, showed Ming Qi how to subtly avoid the camera while filming, and often joined Yu Xiangwan in warning the younger artists about the pitfalls of other agencies while singing praises of Starlight.
Before long, Yu Hongdou joined in too.
Hua Qing understood her perfectly. Those who had endured unscrupulous companies wanted nothing more than to see Starlight grow strong and stand tall forever.
By the time she had mostly recovered her health, Starlight arranged an advertisement for her.
During the shoot, the photographer couldn’t stop complimenting her radiant state. He admitted he’d seen some of her past photos and footage beforehand, but meeting her in person convinced him that her previous photographers simply lacked skill.
—Though he did take every opportunity to belittle other photographers while hyping up his own expertise.
Still, the collaboration went smoothly, and Hua Qing was thrilled—not just about her own condition, but also about contributing to the company’s success.
Yes, what had started as a simple change of employers had now become a full embrace of Starlight.
In conversations with peers, she’d proudly refer to "our Starlight" or "our Chairman Sheng Quan."
Hua Qing finally understood why so many were so loyal to Sheng Quan, the company’s chairwoman.
And why someone like Gu Zhao—who had once clashed fiercely with Wansheng’s two shareholders—had suddenly become as docile as a lamb in front of Chairman Sheng.
Hua Qing had joined Wansheng early and remembered that Gu Zhao hadn’t always been so confrontational. Back then, he’d worked diligently in silence, but instead of earning his partners’ respect, they’d used the company’s growth as leverage to force his concessions.
After that, Gu Zhao’s tactics had turned ruthlessly aggressive.
Now, though, she felt like she was seeing the old Gu Zhao again.
—Though she couldn’t fathom his sudden obsession with gold-rimmed glasses, considering he didn’t even need prescription lenses.
In any case, Hua Qing now only wished for Starlight to live up to its name—shining brightly in the sky, its light eternal.
May the starlight endure forever.
