Chapter 19

Wen Xia didn’t trend, but Luo Quan did the next day—though not on Weibo, but on Twitter.

There were two trending news items: the first was Japanese renowned music critic Ono-dera Ryusuke giving high praise to Luo Quan’s album.

In Japan, Ono-dera Ryusuke isn’t a popular celebrity, but in the music industry, he’s universally known.

As Japan’s most famous and authoritative music critic, Ono-dera Ryusuke is known for his biting language and harsh standards.

No matter the quality of an album or single, once it reaches him, its rating automatically drops a grade—a nine becomes a seven, a seven barely passes, and anything that fails is, in his eyes, no different from roadside trash.

Japan has thousands of singers, releasing over three thousand albums or singles annually, yet fewer than ten ever receive praise from Ono-dera Ryusuke.

Notably, Ono-dera Ryusuke is also one of the chief judges for the Japan Record Awards; if his approval is granted, it guarantees at least a nomination in Japan’s most prestigious music award ceremony at year’s end.

And Luo Quan became one such singer.

Ono-dera Ryusuke’s evaluation of Luo Quan’s three songs was radically different from his usual long-winded, mocking style—concise and warm:

“Lemon”: A rare gem. It may sound soothing, but it’s a song confronting death, expressing the singer’s inner pain. The melody is superb; the repeated “Hey” at intervals is hauntingly magnetic—definitely worth listening to.

“Uchiage Hanabi”: A love song celebrating summer and youth. On that night filled with fireworks, wasn’t there also a girl or boy beside you, smiling as beautifully as the fireworks?

“I Once Thought of Ending It All”: The finest song of the past decade. I can’t believe an eighteen-year-old girl wrote this. The lyrics open with images of sorrow and despair, like the mind of someone about to take their own life—but then, with simple, moving words, it urges everyone not to despair of this world: we all still have reasons to keep living!

This is a song every Japanese person should listen to seriously. I believe it can save and heal countless tormented souls.

If Ono-dera Ryusuke’s comments on the first two songs were moderate, his praise for the third was overwhelmingly high—even hailed as the best song of the past decade, one every Japanese person should hear.

In fact, the tens of thousands of comments beneath the review, filled with genuine emotion, proved Ono-dera Ryusuke wasn’t wrong.

Many thanked Luo Quan for writing this song, thanking her for saving them. Though Luo Quan didn’t know how many were sincere and how many were just indulging in otaku fantasies, even one sincere case was a meritorious act.

Yet even this widely discussed trend still ranked second on Twitter; the top trend was “Luo Quan Appears on Tokyo TV!”

Japan is a bizarre country, where countless absurd events occur beyond normal comprehension—foreign bearded men becoming idol girls, Self-Defense Force captains becoming male hostesses in their spare time; similar incidents are too numerous to recount in a day and night.

As a television station in such a bizarre country, Tokyo TV stands out as a torrent of mud among its peers.

Japan is a disaster-prone nation, frequently hit by earthquakes and tsunamis; during such times, major networks interrupt programming to broadcast emergency alerts.

But Tokyo TV has its own personality: no matter how chaotic the outside world, it stubbornly sticks to only three things—animation, food, and shopping programs.

When an earthquake strikes in a region, it airs Ultraman; when the imperial family’s eldest daughter gets engaged, it teaches viewers how to pan-fry fava beans; when Japan wins the Olympic bid and the whole nation celebrates, it airs lingerie commercials.

This eccentric behavior has conditioned the Japanese public to form a habit: no matter what disaster occurs, as long as Tokyo TV is still broadcasting animation, it isn’t serious.

Thus, many Japanese netizens joke: if Tokyo TV ever stops airing animation, it’s probably the end of the world.

Therefore, any news or event that doesn’t appear on Tokyo TV isn’t considered major news—and on this morning, Luo Quan appeared on Tokyo TV via a scrolling bottom alert: “Eastern musical prodigy Luo Quan’s debut album surpasses 300,000 sales!”

Though this message was extremely brief, given the bizarre nature of the broadcaster, it was undeniably major news—and Luo Quan’s interview video from yesterday gradually began airing on other networks.

Tokyo University honor student, musical genius, high-attractiveness powerhouse singer—each of these labels guaranteed Luo Quan’s fanbase would explode.

Especially in this hyper-connected age, anyone or anything only needs one spark to go viral nationwide in less than half a day—let alone a beautiful, talented girl like Luo Quan.

Attention breeds discussion, discussion breeds popularity, and popularity naturally lifts rankings; within just two days, Luo Quan’s three songs surged into the top ten of iTunes’ trending chart, and her Oricon ranking climbed steadily—given this momentum, topping the chart was merely a matter of time.

One thing was certain: Luo Quan was truly famous now—blazingly, scorchingly famous.

“You need to prepare yourself—someone will eventually come after you, saying the nastiest things possible. One misstep, and the whole internet’s adoration turns into hatred.” In the room, Wen Xia chattered like a worried mother to Luo Quan.

As a “veteran” with nearly two years in the industry, she’d once been in Luo Quan’s position—famous, adored by thousands, her social media followers skyrocketing like fake data.

But soon, waves of hate campaigns came one after another; these orchestrators were a mixed bunch—some hired by rivals or competitors, others outright professional trolls who took pleasure in trolling.

In short, all sorts of baseless mud was flung at Wen Xia and her group; many netizens lacked the ability to discern truth, and followed the herd blindly, until for a time, many were openly hating Wen Xia and her bandmates.

That period was the hardest for Wen Xia; she often lay awake at night, furious over netizens’ accusations and slander. Only her manager’s constant psychological support helped them get through it.

“To wear the crown, you must bear its weight!” This was Wen Xia’s hard-won lesson after two years in the industry.

Over these two years, she’d endured countless scenes; her mind and spirit had been forged into something impervious to hate speech.

What Wen Xia truly cared about was Luo Quan’s mental state. She was never good at delivering motivational speeches; she wasn’t sure if she could offer Luo Quan the best support when the same situation struck, helping her endure it.

Don’t be fooled by Luo Quan’s current cheerful smile—when trouble comes, she might cry uncontrollably.

Wen Xia was overthinking. Beneath Luo Quan’s fragile exterior hid a soul weathered by hardship; in her past life, she’d left home as a teenager to navigate the world, surviving years of struggle—could she possibly fear a few internet trolls? They’d need actual flamethrowers to scare her.

Luo Quan wasn’t worried at all. Her greatest joy now was browsing forums, watching fans shower her with creative praise; when tired, she’d glance at the Oricon chart to see how high her songs had climbed.

Time passed happily. Besides browsing forums, Luo Quan bought many books to enrich herself, while Wen Xia hammered away at her computer all day, researching and writing documents—no one knew what she was doing. When Luo Quan once asked, Wen Xia merely brushed her off: “Working on something big.”

Soon, Luo Quan’s first live performance arrived: Friday evening at six. Sanmu drove to the apartment building, picked up Luo Quan, already dressed, and took her to Asahi TV in Minato.