Love? The Reborn Me Just Wants to Obtain Rewards
Chapter 920 - 380 Ma Can’t Sit Still_2

Chapter 920: Chapter 380 Ma Can’t Sit Still_2

"I love you, you bastard!"

Gu Tongshu charged forward, spitting furiously into his face: "What’s the use of a lousy Haiyang Music Group? He wants to make arrangements, but his own money isn’t enough, and he keeps eyeing my daughter’s tiny stash. Damn!"

"That’s not my concern."

Zuo Zongcai put on a shameless expression: "Anyway, I’m just an overseer. Yueyue made the decision herself, and I couldn’t stop her."

Who could stop her?

Gu Tongshu certainly couldn’t.

Thus, the three-party negotiations initiated by Xingyu brought in Tianyi Investment Holding Group, jointly acquiring 75% of Haiyang Music Group’s equity.

This company is the parent of Kugou Music and Kuwo Music, the prime target of Tencent Music’s sector.

The negotiations had been progressing seamlessly, with the acquisition almost finalized, but Gou Huai barged in, stealing the deal and leaving Tencent fuming to the brink of explosion.

In terms of money, Gu and Tencent couldn’t compete—their opponent’s cash flow was overwhelmingly robust.

But who would’ve expected someone like Su Huai to be lurking sinisterly in the shadows?

Ever since Gou Star got into trouble, Mr. Wang’s fortunes were like Wang Xiaoer during New Year’s—worse every day—and he quickly became embroiled in various scandals.

Coincidentally, Mr. Wang was a key shareholder in Haiyang, and Gou Star’s casino case dragged him into the mess. Thus, he had no choice but to submit to Su Huai.

In the end, Xingyu and Tianyi jointly invested $2.5 billion, successfully acquiring Haiyang Music.

Truth be told, Su Huai had no real use for these two music apps; at best, he could repurpose them as traffic channels for his own live-streaming platform. However, he immediately turned around and used Haiyang to negotiate with Tencent, then roped in CMC Music Group to form Tencent Music Entertainment Group together.

Soon after, Tencent Music Entertainment Group completed its consolidation and officially submitted its IPO prospectus in the United States. The stock code "TME" was announced, with expectations to list on the New York Stock Exchange by year-end.

Meanwhile, Xingyu also secured full ownership of Gou Star’s live-streaming platform and began restructuring efforts.

In the grand scheme of things, Xingyu gained control of traffic channels, owned a live-streaming platform, disrupted Penguin’s critical strategies, and plunged themselves right into the mix.

But by this point, even Xingyu had no choice but to initiate funding rounds and accept Tencent’s capital injection.

No choice. When you take advantage of someone, it’s only natural to reciprocate.

Yet, Su Huai had other ideas: "Then let me take advantage of you one more time, and we’ll call it even, shall we?"

So he pitched an absolutely absurd offer to Li Chaohui—$10 billion for 10% equity.

Completely nonsensical.

The head of Tencent Investments, Li Chaohui, was so enraged his liver quivered, sending Managing Director Yu Haiyang to engage in tug-of-war negotiations with Su Huai.

Surname Yu, this guy was an entertainment and gaming sector specialist. He diligently began investigating Xingyu and was utterly shocked.

At this time, Xingyu’s overseas income for the first quarter had reached $1.2 billion, with its overseas platform GG reigning as the dominant force in the Middle East’s live-streaming sector, practically printing money every day.

As for Xingyu’s domestic operations, they were even more terrifying.

The live-streaming industry was nearing monopoly.

This year, there were about 800,000 streamers nationwide—counting every amateur who streamed even once, just to be inclusive—yet Xingyu alone claimed 150,000.

Compared to last year, its share had dropped significantly, but the issue was that only about 100,000 streamers could consistently go live nationwide, and Xingyu accounted for half.

Of the roughly 20,000 streamers earning over $10,000 per month, Xingyu claimed 70%.

Today, Xingyu stood tall as the Huangpu Military Academy of the live-streaming industry, with advanced philosophies, unique systems, comprehensive methods, thorough training, and strictly enforced oversight...

In short, it was the unchallenged leader.

Wave after wave of new streamers were cultivated, stabilizing at mid-tier levels, sticking around due to proper support, and eventually skyrocketing into A-tiers through Xingyu’s traffic pool when given the right opportunity.

How difficult was it for smaller companies to nurture a single A-tier streamer?

Without the perfect alignment of timing, geography, and conditions, it was nearly impossible. Yet for Xingyu, it seemed as effortless as wholesale.

As a result, even though this marked a booming year for the live-streaming sector, small guilds and minor entertainment companies barely grew in number—not because people weren’t entering the industry, but because survival was increasingly unattainable.

Every month, approximately 300 small companies registered, only to see an equivalent number shuttering operations.

Xingyu had raised the industry’s entry threshold to sky-high levels.

On the bright side, scam operations had virtually no room left to exist.

On the downside, smaller companies were forced to pivot entirely to explicit adult content—not even pushing boundaries, just outright yellow-grade material.

Meanwhile, the remaining mid-tier companies were compelled to go legitimate.

Fully replicating Xingyu contracts, striving to learn Xingyu models, fiercely improving service quality, scraping by for survival.

Major live-streaming platforms were crying foul over it; as Xingyu’s bargaining power grew so disproportionately strong, the balance naturally tipped toward a scenario where the big client bullied the vendor.

Platforms bore the burden of exorbitant electricity, bandwidth, service costs, while profits were siphoned off by Xingyu—all while burning through their investors’ money just to compete for Xingyu’s talents.

No choice—the name "Xingyu influencer" was practically a brand in itself, giving an instant prestige boost.

Even offline, local commerce was being gobbled up wholesale by Xingyu.

In first- and second-tier cities, their market share stayed under 30%, but in third-tier and lower-tier cities, businesses were bending over backward to hire Xingyu streamers for events—even hotpot restaurant openings weren’t complete without a performance.

What surprised Yu Haiyang the most was Xingyu’s aggressive push into offline business.

"Mr. Su, how have you planned such long-term strategies for offline commerce?"

"Root in hometowns, diversify conversions, radiate offline, empower online."

Su Huai’s concise explanation left Yu Haiyang pondering for an entire week.

After returning, he reported to his superiors: "$100 billion is unrealistic, but $50 billion is undoubtedly worth it."

But Su Huai wasn’t satisfied. Smiling, he responded, "Then let’s wait a bit and keep an eye on Star Sky Film and Television."

What was happening with Star Sky?

Nothing much—Idol Trainee was finally reaching its finale.

Under Xingyu’s enormous promotional push, female fans across the internet were captivated by the show. When it premiered on January 19th, its success generally surpassed expectations, becoming even more explosive than in prior lifetimes.

Furthermore, thanks to Su Huai’s butterfly effect deploying powerful wings, the Xingyu male group—spearheaded by Xiao Zhan and featuring Tan Jianci, Hou Minghao, Wang Anyu, Deng Wei, and Chen Zheyuan—delivered a stage performance in Episode 1 that was so stunning it seemed ready-made for virality.

Kunkun, given the "Final Boss Sacrifice" script, still made it big; Fan Chengcheng, blessed with a kind older sister, continued to garner widespread anticipation; Chen Linong, favored by "Queen Mother" Ge Fuhong, remained the Crown Prince...

Yet the six Xingyu boys shone brighter than the rest, outshining everyone except Brother Chicken.

Brother Chicken was genuinely untouchable—born for the stage, with comprehensive strengths and styles irresistibly appealing to young girls, complemented by memes fueling steady hype.

Su Huai gave the Xingyu Six an intentional boost, allotting 50,000 pay-per-vote fans to each member, but even then, they couldn’t catch up.

Even Xiao Zhan wasn’t on par—in terms of pure stage performance, before his destined role Wei Wuxian came online, Brother Zhan couldn’t quite compete with Brother Chicken.

Yet, Gou Huai’s wild antics didn’t stop coming.

Just before debuting, Xiao Zhan tearfully withdrew from the competition, leaving with regret to film The Untamed—then Zhan Fans erupted in rage, lambasting Xingyu straight into trending topics.

[Dog-ass company, stop being trash!]"

"Sobs, my poor brother was clearly destined for higher ranks. But for a B-grade drama, he’s been forced to relinquish his spot for some scratch-and-sniff lowlives. Xingyu, just go to hell!"

Su Huai cheerfully took responsibility, deploying his water army to clash with Xingyu guild fans and young girls alike, maxing out the hype while preemptively putting Xiao Zhan through a vigorous hazing ceremony.

Xingyu’s first male A-list influencer was securely positioned.

Next, on April 21st, Idol Trainee wrapped up, giving way seamlessly to Produce 101.

In Episode 1, Yang Chaoyue instantly went viral after introducing herself as the "village beauty" from her hometown.

Su Huai barely needed to steer—the girl lit up the scene entirely on her own.

Beautiful, authentic, relatable—qualities that drove throngs of budget-conscious male fans to fall head over heels. Under Xingyu’s "non-action," their fervor gradually escalated.

Meanwhile, the program’s female fans dismissed her with disdain, bombarded her with skepticism—and the male fans fought back with equal ferocity, sharing, voting, countering hate comments, clapping back...

The first female A-list influencer from Star Sky Film and Television was now charging ahead on her tear-streaked, smash-through-every-barrier journey.

By mid-year, Yu Haiyang glanced again and exclaimed, "Holy sh*t! Star Sky Film and Television, which only just started stockpiling IP and hadn’t made a single self-produced drama, is already racing toward a $10-billion valuation?!"

Wasn’t this just absurd?

It was indeed peculiar—industry insiders across major film companies were left scratching their heads.

A brand-new studio relying solely on marketing to piggyback on big-name projects, yet managed to elevate talent after talent into stardom—a baffling phenomenon of universal traffic and dual top-tier influencers. Could the entertainment world’s cosmic benefactions really be shining down on the company head?

From this point forward, whenever Zhang went out to discuss projects, all he encountered were smiling faces and effortless negotiations.

Xingyu certainly wasn’t worth $100 billion yet, but even Ma could no longer sit still...