“Sir, why are you watching this again?”
Outside the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows lay the most bustling skyscrapers in the city.
Inside the office belonging to the chairman of the “tiny Artists” entertainment group, the air fell into silence.
The speaker was Zhang Wei.
He wore a perfectly pressed suit without a single wrinkle, clutching a thick folder of project proposals.
Right now, he was looking at the man behind the spacious desk with an expression of utter bewilderment.
Shendai Benshu.
This forty-something man, who wielded immense power in the industry and held the fate of countless artists in his hands, had a face as sharp and rugged as if carved by a knife.
If he weren’t wearing a suit, anyone on the street would mistake him for the head of some yakuza syndicate.
But at this moment, this tough guy was slouched shamelessly in his ergonomic lazy chair.
He held the latest smartphone in his hand, the screen’s glow illuminating his story-worn face.
The usually cold, intimidating corners of his mouth—enough to make his subordinate agents’ legs tremble—were now curled up uncontrollably into a goofy grin, utterly mismatched with his raspy, tough-guy voice.
“Gahahaha—”
A young girl’s unrestrained laughter burst from the phone’s speaker, accompanied by a sound that was both vivid and suggestive: the loud smack smack of a foot slapping against something.
That’s right.
Shendai Benshu was repeatedly watching a clip from the rookie virtual streamer named “Fujiriria”—aka Orange Quiet Forest—where she was pulling off the “ice cream sandwich” stunt during her live stream.
“It’s good to keep up with the trends in the industry.”
He swiped the screen.
“Look at these clips on the websites. The high ones have millions of views. The stream has good content, the editing is solid, and in just a few minutes, they pack all the highlights and fun moments together.”
Zhang Wei pushed up his glasses, the lenses reflecting a cold gleam.
“These numbers are way too abnormal. Could it be that the new company deliberately hired bots to hype it up and then used a network of accounts to force it into the spotlight?”
Shendai Benshu chuckled at the video on his phone.
“So what if they did? Isn’t that how this business works? Do whatever it takes to become famous—that’s the only truth in showbiz. You can’t expect everyone to be like academics, naively uploading a singing video, clasping their hands together, and praying for likes and shares, can you? Using underhanded tactics is just part of the daily grind.”
Zhang Wei hesitated, as if wanting to say something more.
“That’s true… but… still…”
“You think it’s too crude?”
Zhang Wei nodded.
“Yes. A short burst of popularity will fade quickly, or even backfire. If this is really the company’s strategy, I think it’s too aggressive. Even if a new company needs to try bold new approaches, this is just too reckless.”
Shendai Benshu didn’t argue.
Instead, he picked up his phone again, his long fingers swiping to watch another clip of Fujiriria.
In the video, the little white-haired fox was squeaking in a cutesy voice.
“I can’t do it~ I’m only fifteen~”
“Hmm… So far, it’s been very successful. And they’ve also used the momentum to put out a teaser. Let’s see how it goes from here.”
Zhang Wei felt it.
Shendai Benshu really liked this project.
He couldn’t stop after one clip; he had to watch the next.
His tone was dripping with undisguised favoritism and optimism.
As the chairman of tiny Artists, he had seen all the ups and downs, the scheming and backstabbing of the industry.
He had witnessed people go to any lengths for fame and popularity, even breaking the law.
So why was he showing such a strong interest in a no-name new company, in a virtual project that had suddenly blown up by pulling a ridiculous stunt?
Zhang Wei himself didn’t think much of it.
Even large entertainment companies didn’t have smooth sailing.
Before launching a famous artist, they always spent years building their foundation, perfecting operations, training talent, and gathering momentum.
He felt that this new company wouldn’t be able to hold onto the hype.
If their operations and artists weren’t good enough, they’d backfire quickly.
A new company with shallow roots would collapse and fail.
Even without turning around, Shendai Benshu could sense Zhang Wei’s displeasure.
“Zhang Wei, you’re still too conservative.”
Shendai Benshu turned off the phone screen.
“Don’t get me wrong—that’s your role in the group: to be the brake that keeps the company from spiraling out of control. But a personality like yours really isn’t suited for leading small or medium-sized teams that need to grow wild and free.”
He sighed and continued.
“You have a solid foundation of theory and logic, but reality doesn’t always follow logic. Otherwise, running a company would be as simple as picking the agent with the highest test scores to get the most money and traffic.”
“You’re right…”
“Precisely because they have nothing to lose, they have no way back, and that can spark something we don’t have. Because they’re newcomers, they can attack the boring industry from angles we never imagined.”
Shendai Benshu let out a heavy sigh.
“I personally find it boring the way everyone nowadays just follows the formula—piling up manpower and money, maintaining a character image with dozens of people, slowly marketing their way to fame. Even if the character isn’t entirely real, just relying on a pretty face to write a bunch of backstory like a game company… it’s so dull.”
He chuckled.
“So I think this is just fine. That girl must be a very interesting person. Even if she had an average face, I’d be willing to groom her as a host for a show. I can still tell—some things are real or fake.”
Zhang Wei spoke before Shendai Benshu could continue.
“But chairman… virtual streamers are still a niche subculture, aren’t they? Even though a few companies have recently jumped in and some have reaped the rewards, it’s still just a small circle. How many are willing to throw money into this? The industry lets them grow wild because they don’t even consider this slice of meat worth fighting over.”
“See? You’re always in a hurry.”
Shendai Benshu raised a finger and wagged it.
“You didn’t read their official website’s promotional material carefully, did you? They call it ‘idols.’ And the project proposal explicitly states that they’ll hold both real-life and virtual lives in the future.”
He looked at Zhang Wei, who was gripping the folder tightly, and said earnestly:
“Just think of it as a normal 2.5D idol project, but with an extra live-stream interactive avatar. After all, in the world of anime, voice actors and their characters are already tightly bound.”
“I understand. I’ll rethink the industry’s development.”
Shendai Benshu sat back in his office chair, picked up his iced Americano, took a sip, and casually knocked some sense into his overly rigid subordinate.
“Don’t be so stiff. That’s why there’s a lot of dissatisfaction with you among the company’s staff… Whether it’s the management of artists’ private lives or strategy—even if you’re positioned as the brake, braking before you’ve even hit the accelerator puts the cart before the horse…”