Chapter 18: Chapter Eighteen: China

“Ancestral spirit, the Kobe beef you asked for.” Luo Quan walked into the house and placed the takeout steak before Wen Xia, along with a plastic container of rice—it had cost her thirty thousand yen.

“Finally back! I’m starving.” Wen Xia slurped loudly, then scrambled to set up the meal.

After enduring so long outside, feeling the warm, relaxed atmosphere of home, Luo Quan didn’t even bother removing her makeup; she collapsed straight onto the tatami.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Wen Xia bit into the still-steaming steak and asked with concern.

Luo Quan spoke weakly: “I’m exhausted—I signed autographs for over a thousand fans today. My hand’s practically broken…”

Wen Xia sipped her chopsticks: “Normal. At your current popularity, you’ll probably have to do this every week from now on.”

“No more. No next time.” Luo Quan shook her head, voice trembling with near-tears. “I’m never doing another offline event again—no more autograph sessions, fan meetings, thank-you handshakes. Don’t even think about me going back!”

“Wait, I just noticed you wore makeup today!” Wen Xia gasped. Makeup had elevated Luo Quan’s beauty to another level, and her current posture held an inexplicable allure.

“Stay like that. Don’t move. I’m taking a photo.” Wen Xia pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of Luo Quan, whose face radiated utter despair.

“What’s the point? I sweated so much today—my makeup’s smudged.” Luo Quan crossed her right arm over her head and shot Wen Xia a glance.

Wen Xia laughed: “Not smudged. Just a little messy hair—but it gives off a special kind of beauty.”

“What kind of beauty?” Luo Quan asked curiously.

“Like a peony crushed mercilessly by wind and rain—petals scattered helplessly on the ground, leaving only a lonely stem. A beauty of sorrow, of pity…”

“Withered flowers and fallen willows? I knew you weren’t going to say anything nice!” Luo Quan glared at Wen Xia, turned her head away, and opened her phone to scroll through Twitter.

Her Twitter followers had now surpassed two hundred thousand, rising as fiercely as her album sales. She checked the charts—her three songs were all listed.

The rankings combined physical sales with online streaming. Her highest-ranked song was “I Once Thought of Ending It All,” at #21; “Lemon” at #28; “Spark” at #37.

The results matched Luo Quan’s expectations. Most songs on the chart lately were new releases from girl groups—high sales, but low quality: mindless pop tunes you’d tire of after a few listens. They’d be swept away soon enough by truly high-quality music.

Just as she put down her phone, Luo Quan heard a sound from Wen Xia’s direction—it sounded like a domestic variety show.

Curious, Luo Quan shifted her body and leaned her head toward Wen Xia’s computer screen: “What are you watching?”

Wen Xia ate her steak-and-rice bowl slowly, mumbling: “Let’s debut. There’s a new girl group survival show airing in China right now—huge buzz.”

“That’s not bad. I remember China hasn’t had a big-scale survival show like this in ages.”

“We’ll see if it’s worth it.” Wen Xia’s expression turned serious; she watched intently.

Today was episode two. Contestants had already shown their talents and entered group training. What aired were mostly behind-the-scenes clips: conflicts, tears, friendships—but no skill.

The dances and songs each group performed were, except for a few individuals, downright painful to watch.

But to Luo Quan, it wasn’t so bad. After all, this was a mass-audience show. Only a handful had ever been trainees. The others might lack foundation, but their attitudes were sincere, and most had decent looks.

Still, the audience voting results surprised her: the stronger trainees, except a few, ranked surprisingly low, while those with no skill but likable personas, personalities, or looks received unexpectedly high votes.

Seeing this, Wen Xia turned off the livestream. Her expression grew grim.

“What’s wrong?” Luo Quan asked, confused.

Wen Xia pinched the bridge of her nose wearily: “If these are the future members of girl groups, this group will never take off.”

“Why? They look fine to me. A few of these girls are really pretty—they could debut and get tons of fans.”

Wen Xia sighed: “You think this is a beauty pageant? Even with makeup and filters, looks are never the most important factor for a girl group’s success. Only skill and persona matter!”

Luo Quan frowned: “Their skill isn’t bad. I think they dance well. Even if they’re behind Korean girl groups, the gap isn’t huge.”

Wen Xia said nothing. She opened YouTube, typed “Sweetgirl” into the search bar, and a list of videos with tens of millions of views appeared. She clicked one at random.

The video was an early MV from Wen Xia’s former girl group—nearly a hundred million views. The song itself wasn’t catchy, just energetic—a decent dance track.

But the real highlight was the five idols dancing in sync: their movements unified, powerful, flawless in rhythm, timing, and aesthetic grace.

Among all ninety-nine contestants divided into groups, Luo Quan couldn’t find one group that could be mentioned in the same breath as those five idols—not even their shadows.

“See the gap now?” Wen Xia closed the video and asked.

Luo Quan looked embarrassed: “Uh… yeah. The gap really is that big.”

Wen Xia said gravely: “We’re fourth-generation. We debuted less than three years ago. Among our generation, our dance skills rank top three. But compared to established seniors, we’re at least one tier behind.”

Luo Quan sighed: “Of course there’s a gap. They’ve been doing this for over a decade—they’ve built full professional industries. We’ve just started.”

“That’s exactly why I’m frustrated,” Wen Xia lay back, defeated. “I thought finding a few high-look, high-skill trainees in China wouldn’t be hard. Now I see—even finding one who meets a single criterion is tough. I underestimated this way too much.”

Luo Quan comforted her: “Don’t worry. China’s huge. Everything’s scarce except people. We’ll find them.”

Wen Xia suddenly sat up, staring straight at Luo Quan: “Luo Luo—can you dance?!”

Luo Quan froze: “You’re not seriously thinking of dragging me into this? I can’t dance. Even if I could, I wouldn’t join. Look at these long limbs—how would I look dancing?”

Wen Xia paused, then nodded: “Yeah, you’re built for calisthenics. Wait till you grow taller—you’d look bizarre standing in a girl group.”

“I’m fucking—” Luo Quan swore to heaven—if she had even half Wen Xia’s strength, she’d beat her ass right now.

“No, I have to say this!” Wen Xia flipped over, opened her phone, logged into her main account, and posted a Weibo: “If I judged by skill alone, ignoring looks and background, where would I rank on ‘Let’s Debut’?”

Seeing Wen Xia’s post, Luo Quan was startled: “You’re not afraid of offending people?”

Wen Xia rolled her eyes: “If I really wanted to offend someone, I’d just post two words: ‘Is this it?’”

“Cool.” Luo Quan gave Wen Xia a thumbs-up. Girls this distinctive were rare.

Because Wen Xia’s departure from the group was still trending, her Weibo quickly gained massive attention. Netizens flooded the comments with jokes:

“No way. No looks, no connections, and your emotional intelligence is this low? You’d get kicked off stage by the judges. Better become a dance teacher—or you won’t even afford meals.”

“Shocking! Former popular girl group leader reduced to starvation.”

“Serious talk: the judges on that variety show probably couldn’t even teach Wen Xia.”

“You don’t get Wen Xia’s point? She’s saying the show’s rigged—skilled trainees rank low, while pretty ones from big companies rank high. Totally unfair!”

“Wen Xia’s a master of passive aggression. Always has been.”

“I’ve wanted to say this for ages, but I was scared of backlash. Wen Xia’s got guts.”

Interestingly, despite the huge discussion, no related search terms appeared on the trending list.

“Looks like someone suppressed it.” Luo Quan glanced at Wen Xia, who sighed helplessly and closed Weibo.