The explosive popularity of *The Journey of Life* instantly catapulted the show's actors to a level of fame they had never dared to dream of before.
Suddenly, it seemed like everyone was talking about this new drama.
Audiences passionately discussed the plot, deriving their own interpretations, and even media outlets praised it as *"a rare gem that appeals to all ages and genders."*
On the surface, it played out like a comedy—almost every episode had moments that left viewers clutching their stomachs in laughter—but beneath that lighthearted exterior lay profound reflections on *"life."*
Rather than passing judgment, the show simply presented the shared human experience with humor and authenticity.
Everyone could see a piece of themselves in *The Journey of Life*:
The teenage years, brimming with wild imagination, oblivious to parents' worries, carefree about the future yet overflowing with joy.
The parents, seemingly ordinary and mundane, yet once young and spirited themselves.
The grandparents, always nagging but sneaking treats to their beloved grandchildren, leaving people to wonder how they passed their days without TV or newspapers.
Each seemingly simple plotline grew more addictive the longer one watched.
The drama’s success even surpassed Sheng Quan’s expectations when she first read the novel adaptation.
But looking back, it made sense. In the original story, *The Journey of Life* had barely scraped by during filming, with Wan Bao desperately patching together funds. The director was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and the entire crew lived under the shadow of *"this might fall apart any day."*
In the novel, the production lacked even a decent makeup artist, costumes were rented, and props were handmade—nowhere near the current lavish standards of custom-tailored outfits, professional makeup teams, and no-expense-spared cinematography.
Given these upgrades, outperforming the source material was only natural.
Sheng Quan often saw viewers praising the show’s quality in the barrage of on-screen comments:
[*The soundtrack is absolutely perfect—it fits so well!*]
[*The cinematography is stunning, like something out of a movie!*]
[*Every set detail is so meticulous!*]
[*Even the doodles in the notebook on the desk are so lifelike!*]
Wan Bao’s relentless pursuit of perfection had paid off handsomely.
Audiences could always tell when a show was made with genuine care—not just from production quality but also from the actors’ performances.
While they might not be professional critics, viewers could easily distinguish between good and bad acting.
And in *The Journey of Life*, it was no exaggeration to say that not a single actor fell short.
Before this drama, most of the cast had been relatively unknown—Yan Hui, for instance, was signed by investor Sheng Quan while she was buying a pancake. Yet every one of them delivered their best.
After the show’s success, Wan Bao’s reputation soared. No longer would he face situations where even a modestly budgeted TV project risked losing funding.
When the results came in, he buried himself under his blankets and cried for a long time—perhaps in relief that his perseverance had finally been rewarded, or perhaps over the bittersweet struggles he’d endured.
The sweetest revenge came when the investor who had pulled out sent an intermediary to apologize, hinting at interest in collaborating on the next project. Wan Bao accepted the gifts and the meal—then firmly declined.
*Pure satisfaction.*
*Absolutely exhilarating!*
If Sheng Quan proposed another collaboration, he’d sign the contract in a heartbeat, no matter who else came knocking. But that other guy? *Maybe in the next lifetime.*
It wasn’t just that Sheng Quan had invested when he needed it most—without her, he might never have discovered his health issues in time.
Wan Bao kept it to himself, but in his heart, he considered her his lifelong benefactor.
The lead actors also saw their careers skyrocket overnight.
Lin Aike rose to become a rising starlet, while Zhou Zhi and Wang Zheng enjoyed newfound prestige.
Yan Hui, with his exceptional acting and striking looks, amassed a massive fanbase, going from obscurity to household fame—his career meter now hitting 43.
The entire crew reaped rewards, but Sheng Quan’s gains were the greatest.
After all, both Yan Hui and Lin Aike were signed under her company, Starlight Entertainment.
The two had become veritable cash cows—and they were more than willing, even eager, to keep generating profits for her.
As the drama’s primary investor, she had already secured a staggering price for *The Journey of Life*’s first broadcasting rights. With such a stellar debut, bidding for secondary rights grew even fiercer.
Rough estimates suggested she’d net over 100 million this year alone.
While 100 million might not be much compared to her total wealth, her initial investment had been just 10 million—and in barely half a year, that sum had multiplied tenfold, with more revenue still flowing in.
Those industry peers who had once sneered, *"She’s just a rich kid playing around without a clue,"* fell silent.
Mr. Wang, who had tossed in some funds to curry favor, now grinned ear-to-ear, singing Sheng Quan’s praises everywhere while boasting about his own *"keen eye for talent."*
Yet Sheng Quan herself had no time to celebrate her windfall—she was busy handling company affairs.
The *"Boss Watches, We Watch"* campaign had been an unplanned marketing stroke.
She could’ve devised such a promotional tactic herself, but with *The Journey of Life* already a massive hit, an extra push wasn’t strictly necessary.
Still, in recognition of Director Miao’s initiative, she awarded him an exceptionally generous bonus.
The entire entertainment marketing team, though not as lavishly rewarded as Director Miao, also received unexpected windfalls.
*"This is a good sign,"* Sheng Quan remarked to Gu Zhao, visibly pleased.
*"It shows the staff are developing a sense of belonging, willing to think about the company’s interests and take risks—like proposing cross-departmental strategies—even if it means facing reprimands."*
An employee’s effort might not always directly impact the boss’s profits, but for a company aiming to climb higher, it made all the difference.
Top-tier talent could either coast through their days or actively drive the company forward—and the latter mindset was invaluable.
Take Director Miao, for instance—a transplant from a more established firm. Sheng Quan would bet anything that he’d never have dared to propose ideas outside his department at his old job.
It wasn’t that he’d suddenly become brilliant at Starlight Entertainment, nor that Sheng Quan possessed some *"transmigrator’s charisma"* that compelled loyalty.
Rather, she was shaping Starlight into a place where employees’ contributions were promptly recognized and rewarded.
On this matter, even the ever-composed Gu Zhao seemed mildly surprised.
Here is the English translation of the provided Chinese novel content, tailored for English-speaking readers while maintaining the original style and meaning:
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“Among the domestic companies I’ve studied, it’s rare to find employees who develop a strong sense of belonging after just a few months of work. Even if a company offers extremely high compensation, it usually takes at least a year to gradually cultivate loyalty among employees.”
Sheng Quan: “That’s because everyone knows deep down that the reason they receive such high pay is that their skills are worth it.”
As a former corporate drone in her past life, she had plenty of experience in this regard:
“The large corporations you’ve studied are too big and too established. Their environments are already rigid. If Director Miao were to make suggestions in those companies like she does at ours, she’d just be ostracized by others whose interests were threatened.”
It seemed that children in China were raised with the belief that ability could directly translate into money, but the reality of the workplace was entirely different.
Unless someone’s talent was so extraordinary that it left everyone in awe, sheer ability alone rarely guaranteed success.
Offend your boss, and they could suppress your achievements—what could you do about it?
Even if you didn’t offend them, what if your boss took credit for your work?
Or worse, what if you avoided conflict, your boss didn’t steal your merits, but you still had to navigate the backstabbing, credit-grabbing, and scheming among colleagues? Could you handle that?
Sheng Quan had seen too many top students from prestigious schools either adapt and assimilate into this system or fade into mediocrity after entering the workforce.
In school, grades were everything. But in the real world, there was no such place where talented individuals could freely showcase their abilities without restraint.
Take Yu Xiangwan, Yuan Zixin, and even Gu Zhao—hadn’t they all been held back despite their capabilities?
Sheng Quan herself had once been one of the suppressed, back when she first entered the workforce.
At the time, she had resented it bitterly, frustrated that despite being far more capable than her colleagues, she was the slowest to get promoted—simply because she refused to flatter her superiors.
She hated attending those pointless drinking gatherings where people just boasted.
She despised being called into post-work meetings where her boss would spout nonsense.
She loathed having her personal time encroached upon, detested overtime, cringed at crude jokes, and couldn’t stand bosses who acted like they were doing employees a favor by letting them work—when in reality, they were the ones profiting.
It took Sheng Quan a long time to adjust her mindset. Eventually, she became more seasoned than anyone, and after “blending into the system,” her abilities were finally given room to shine. She climbed the ladder, earned promotions, bought property, and appeared wildly successful on the surface.
But deep down, she still despised the unwritten rule that “performance determines your work, but seniority determines your promotion.”
Now, she was the one making the rules.
The best part? Starlight Entertainment was a new company in a youthful industry. Even veterans like Yuan Zixin, who had years of experience, still carried the drive to push forward.
In a company full of fresh employees, as the top boss, Sheng Quan could establish her ideal system without resistance.
Of course, building a “dream company” wasn’t easy. Her current task was maintaining this new order.
Sheng Quan had anticipated subordinates like Director Miao, who actively sought self-improvement.
In fact, she had deliberately cultivated such employees:
“Even though they’ve only been here a few months, the staff at Starlight Entertainment have already figured out how things work here.”
“We don’t tolerate toxic workplace habits. Promotions and raises are based on merit. Once you lay out a clear path for advancement, they’ll naturally strive toward it.”
This was why a company was better off with a single leader—because the preferences of those at the top inevitably shaped the entire organization.
Take Starlight Entertainment, for example. Gu Zhao, the CEO, deliberately deferred to Sheng Quan, ensuring no power struggles or factions within the company. Everything ran according to her decisions.
Sheng Quan’s preferences influenced management, and management, in turn, influenced the employees. Though she rarely handled day-to-day operations directly, her few appearances had made her leadership style abundantly clear:
Firm boundaries between professionalism and personal matters. A deep aversion to workplace politics.
Naturally, management followed suit. Even those who had once been “masters of corporate maneuvering” before joining Starlight didn’t dare display any of those habits here.
—Because those who did were swiftly fired.
The reason Sheng Quan was with Gu Zhao now was to discuss exactly this issue.
Despite being less than half a year old, Starlight Entertainment wasn’t without its conflicts.
Management wasn’t just Gu Zhao alone. Newcomers weren’t promoted straight from entry-level; they were experienced professionals who had gone through rigorous screening before joining.
But people had their own agendas. Some, accustomed to the old ways from their previous companies, were reluctant to change.
Even though Starlight Entertainment clearly had a different culture, they clung to the belief that “all companies are the same—it’s just the newness that makes this one seem special.”
And Sheng Quan refused to let that mindset take root at Starlight.
On the surface, she seemed hands-off, but in reality, she was fully aware of every major development in the company—some of which she had even instructed Gu Zhao to handle.
The firing of this old-school manager was one such directive.
This guy, clearly used to treating subordinates as personal servants at his last job, had demanded his secretary fetch his coffee, clean his office, and even pick up his kids from school.
He’d also called her on weekends to babysit—all without a single extra cent in compensation. And all within his first month at Starlight, where he’d already assigned non-work-related tasks over eight times.
Ge Qingming, the manager in question, hadn’t thought he’d done anything wrong.
Sure, Starlight Entertainment had a whistleblowing channel, but so what? Every company had one—yet no employee would actually file a complaint, right?
Well, Starlight’s employees did!
After the report was verified, Ge Qingming, barely a month into the job, achieved the dubious honor of “fastest-fired executive.”
Even up to his dismissal, he’d assumed he’d only face a demotion or pay cut. The actual firing left him stunned, and he even tried to bypass Gu Zhao to plead directly with Sheng Quan.
He played the victim card hard, acting like a wronged, honest man.
He claimed that at his last company, “this was just how things were done,” that it was “normal workplace camaraderie,” and that he was just asking for “occasional favors” to “build rapport.”
After reviewing Ge Qingming’s records, Sheng Quan did meet with him—but not to hear his excuses. Instead, she hit him with three blunt questions:
“You say you’re innocent, but was the company policy not clear about this being unacceptable?”
“Did I not emphasize repeatedly that the old ways of other companies have no place at Starlight?”
“Tell me yourself—you took my high salary, exploited my employees, violated company rules, and poisoned the work culture. Shouldn’t I fire you?”
Ge Qingming had no answer.
During high-level company meetings, the issue of workplace culture had indeed been brought up several times, but Ge Qingming had always dismissed it as mere idealism from the young new chairman.
"What company isn’t like this?" he thought. "Management privileges are what drive people to climb the ladder. Shouldn’t those at the top turn a blind eye?"
But the young chairman, Sheng Quan, wouldn’t hear any of his excuses.
"Privileges? Uncle Ge, let’s be honest here. Forget future salary adjustments—just look at what you’re getting now."
"Your salary here is nearly one and a half times what you’d earn elsewhere, not to mention the benefits and year-end bonuses combined. The extra alone could hire you five or six personal assistants."
"And yet, despite my generosity, you’ve been treating my employees like your personal servants. Tell me, if I let you stay after this, would my word still carry weight in this company? Would anyone still take our rules seriously?"
At that moment, the last flicker of hope in Ge Qingming’s heart died.
She had called him "Uncle Ge"—there was no coming back from that.
He knew Sheng Quan was right. She had repeatedly made it clear she wouldn’t tolerate such behavior, yet he’d flaunted his misconduct anyway.
If she let him off with just a warning, not only would others disregard her authority, but even he himself wouldn’t take her seriously in the future.
A warning example had to be made, and the "chicken" had practically volunteered itself. Not acting would only undermine her credibility.
Once the realization fully sank in, Ge Qingming was consumed by regret.
Deep down, he had understood these principles all along. But Sheng Quan’s youth and generosity had lulled him into a false sense of superiority—a dismissive assumption that she was just a naive, inexperienced rich kid.
After all, what company offered benefits this good? Surely it was only because Sheng Quan came from wealth and didn’t know the value of money.
He had bypassed Gu Zhao to plead his case directly to her, thinking her young age and gender might make her more lenient.
But it turned out she saw right through him—every calculation, every justification laid bare.
Young she might be, but her decisiveness was razor-sharp, as seasoned as any veteran of the corporate world.
Not only was she firing him, but she was doing it in a way that left him with no grounds to dispute.
Now, Ge Qingming even suspected that Sheng Quan’s deliberate absence from the company these past months had been a trap—waiting for an entitled old-timer like him to reveal his true colors and serve as her cautionary tale.
The knowing look on her face seemed to confirm his theory.
Strangely, this realization made him treat her with even greater deference.
Human nature was fickle—people bowed to strength and preyed on perceived weakness. Now that he saw the steel beneath her youthful exterior, any thought of playing the "kindly elder" card vanished.
What was the point? She had already dissected his every motive. Pushing further would only humiliate himself.
By the time Ge Qingming left Starlight Entertainment, his face was ashen, his posture slumped like a man aged a decade in a single afternoon.
It wasn’t an exaggeration.
Starlight’s compensation package dwarfed industry standards. Employees enjoyed company housing, and management perks were even more lavish.
Even with his experience and skills, finding another Shanghai-based firm matching Starlight’s benefits would be impossible.
His current salary was just the starting point—everyone knew raises came with tenure.
And with Starlight’s meteoric rise, staying meant guaranteed career advancement.
That was why he had groveled, offering to accept demotions or pay cuts just to remain.
Losing this job wasn’t just unemployment—it was like stumbling upon a gold mine, only to foolishly let it slip through his fingers.
Regret gnawed at him, but it was too late. While finding another job would be easy, matching Starlight's compensation? That ship had sailed for good.
Sheng Quan felt no sympathy for his remorse—not out of some former employee’s vindication, but because they both knew the real reason behind his blunder:
He had never truly respected her as his superior.
Maybe it was her youth, maybe her gender, maybe her infrequent office visits, or perhaps her policies struck him as "childishly idealistic."
Would Sheng Quan tolerate such disrespect? Never.
She calmly showed him the door, then instructed HR to find a suitable replacement.
Though Ge Qingming’s dismissal wasn’t formally announced, the entire company took note. Reactions varied across the ranks.
Management stiffened—some relieved they’d adhered to rules, others scrambling to mend fences with subordinates. All grasped one truth now: Sheng Quan’s word was law.
For all her approachable demeanor and seemingly casual generosity, when she acted, there was no mercy.
Even recognizing this as a calculated power move, Starlight’s leadership fell swiftly into line.
No one wanted to be the next Ge Qingming.
Among regular staff, morale soared. No employee enjoyed sacrificing personal time to handle a superior’s private errands unpaid, yet refusing risked retaliation.
Industry veterans, especially those who’d jumped ship from other firms, never expected such an offense to actually get someone fired.
The consensus was clear: Ge Qingming had it coming. Exploiting fresh graduates? Bad enough. But crossing the line so blatantly?
The whistleblowing secretary—just out of college—had filed her complaint in a fury, even foregoing anonymity. Only afterward did panic set in.
If Ge Qingming stayed, her position would’ve become untenable. Resigning seemed the only option, yet walking away from such unmatched benefits felt like self-sabotage.
As days passed, her regret deepened.
During the investigation, most predicted a demotion or formal reprimand for Ge Qingming. Actual termination? Unthinkable.
Yet terminated he was—pleading directly to Chairman Sheng changed nothing.
Meanwhile, the secretary received her promised whistleblower bonus, sparking unprecedented enthusiasm among the ranks.
Seasoned professionals marveled—when had they ever seen a company that actually honored such pledges?
China operated on guanxi, where personal connections often blurred accountability. But Chairman Sheng walked the talk.
No favoritism. No empty gestures.
Merit determined advancement. Break rules? Face consequences.
Promised rewards? Delivered in full.
Everyone is human, and encountering unfair treatment is bound to stir dissatisfaction. But in a fair environment, it only drives them to strive harder, because hard work truly yields rewards.
This incident not only motivated employees to dedicate themselves more enthusiastically to the company but also deepened their sense of belonging.
As Sheng Quan said, Director Miao was just the first.
Firing Ge Qingming while rewarding the secretary and Director Miao was all about setting the right precedent.
In such a work environment and atmosphere, ambitious employees push forward, while the more average ones grow more loyal. Precisely because the outside work environment is so harsh, Starlight Entertainment shines even brighter in contrast.
With this mindset, they naturally begin to see themselves as integral parts of the company.
Human nature leans toward seeking advantage and avoiding harm.
If Sheng Quan had only imposed strict rules without offering high salaries, preaching about an ideal company and future, everyone would have dismissed her as a delusional fool peddling empty promises.
But by dangling generous salaries and benefits as incentives—without needing to lecture about her "vision for the company"—both management and employees realized:
This company actually feels ideal. Doing good work really does pay off.
Director Miao was the first to notice this, though she might not have fully articulated it yet.
But Sheng Quan believed that when Director Miao decided to propose that "cross-department suggestion," she vaguely sensed it would earn the company’s approval.
The Ge Qingming incident was the first time Sheng Quan openly demonstrated her decisiveness. At the same time, she sent a clear message to all employees:
Break the rules, and even top management will be swiftly dismissed. To keep their positions and salaries, they must adhere to company policies.
And what were those policies?
Maintain cleanliness, no forced overtime, no encroaching on personal time, no favoritism or nepotism, keeping meetings concise and to the point—and so on.
Every rule resonated deeply with the staff.
This wasn’t just a rulebook—it was a dream workplace!
After excited discussions, morale skyrocketed. Some overachievers were already scouring professional books, determined to climb Starlight’s ranks through sheer effort.
They were all young, carefully selected talents. With a clear and open upward path, why not give it their all?
The overachievers were confident—without obstacles, they’d undoubtedly rise quickly.
And now, Sheng Quan had removed those obstacles with decisive action. Time to hustle.
While employees eagerly embraced their inner workaholics, Sheng Quan gathered management for a meeting after the dust settled.
The core message was simple:
Ge Qingming’s fate speaks for itself. One final reminder—Starlight’s culture isn’t like other companies. It never has been, and it never will be.
If anyone dislikes this work environment, they’re free to leave—gracefully.
No one wanted to leave.
After getting used to Starlight’s high salaries and unbeatable benefits, no one was willing to downgrade.
Any tentative misbehavior vanished instantly.
So, for months, Sheng Quan had been lying low, waiting for this moment.
Those who’d previously dared to test boundaries with Gu Zhao now didn’t even dare to hint at anything in front of Sheng Quan.
If before they’d only pretended compliance while scheming privately, now they were genuinely committed to following her lead.
They had no choice—Sheng Quan was clearly purging the bad apples to uplift the good ones.
And after the Ge Qingming incident, everyone knew exactly what "good" meant.
Sure, this approach was unheard of in other companies—but Sheng Quan had the money to back it.
Sure, this was the first time such a workplace existed domestically—but Sheng Quan had the money.
Sure, some of them had once been semi-"bad apples" themselves, and changing habits wouldn’t be easy—but Sheng Quan had the money.
Suddenly, everyone became paragons of virtue.
They puffed out their chests, swearing they’d always despised sycophants who relied on flattery and connections instead of merit.
Complaints before? Must’ve been a misunderstanding.
They *loved* Starlight’s culture. Loved it so much they’d work here forever.
They’d devote themselves to Sheng Quan—body and soul!
