Chapter 30: The Bizarre State of the Nation

Ai Hui Entertainment responded to the incident only the next day; though an entire night had passed, netizens’ anger showed no sign of fading.

Whether it was Luo Quan’s unjust framing or the deception suffered by netizens, Ai Hui Entertainment must come forward and explain.

Ai Hui’s PR department and its director had stayed up all night, debating long and hard until they finally reached a solution.

At ten a.m., the Ai Hui director held a press conference, before dozens of media outlets, clarifying the facts and offering an apology.

The director’s face, marked by sleepless exhaustion, was lined with deep sorrow; his hair was neat, but the stubble made him look utterly worn out.

He immediately bowed deeply to the camera, then dumped all blame onto the staff member who had originally contacted Luo Quan.

The Ai Hui director told reporters this was entirely the work of that one employee—the company as a whole had been unaware—and he expressed profound regret for the trouble caused and the severe harm inflicted upon Miss Quan.

He also blamed himself, admitting he had failed in his duties as director: he had not noticed his subordinate’s misconduct in time, nor had he properly cultivated employee ethics—he was grossly negligent.

As he spoke, the middle-aged man, nearing forty, broke into tears, his sobs filled with the fear and helplessness of a man facing a midlife crisis and the threat of unemployment.

Seeing the Ai Hui director weep uncontrollably, the reporters’ stern expressions finally softened.

In Japan, making a mistake isn’t terrible—if you admit it promptly, there’s still hope; if you cry while doing so, you’re far more likely to win public forgiveness.

With the director’s outpouring of tears, half of those netizens who had pressured him would likely feel mercy and choose to forgive; the other half, even if still angry, would see their fury significantly diminished.

This bizarre phenomenon stems from Japan’s national character: everyone is obsessed with apologizing, believing that once you apologize, the problem is solved and forgiveness is granted.

Notably, apologizing does not mean admitting fault, nor does it imply genuine reflection—it merely responds to exposure, using apology as a tool to calm public outrage.

Throughout the entire press conference, the Ai Hui director distanced himself completely, shifting blame onto an unknown employee, and only repeatedly apologized to Luo Quan and netizens—nothing else was mentioned.

His sincerity seemed ample, but what about the handling of those involved? Nothing seen. The media clearly didn’t care—they all knew the unknown employee was being made a scapegoat, and knowing he was the scapegoat was enough; since he apologized and cried so sincerely, forgiveness was granted.

Thus, after the press conference ended, the video immediately spread across news outlets and Twitter; netizens’ anger subsided, everything settled, and it was another peaceful, beautiful day.

Luo Quan, reading the stream of comments beneath the Ai Hui director’s apology video—“I choose to forgive him”—was left utterly stunned.

Wasn’t she the victim? Wasn’t Ai Hui Entertainment the real culprit? What about the consequences for those who manipulated the narrative? Was it really settled with just a few limp “sorrys” and a couple of tears?

What the hell is this?

Yesterday, she was subjected to a full day of intense online abuse, with vile language pouring in endlessly; her album sales plummeted off a cliff, her ranking on the official charts nearly dropped out of the top three—so much suffering, and now it was all dismissed with a single apology video?

What’s even more absurd is that she hadn’t even spoken yet, yet these netizens were already rushing to forgive Ai Hui Entertainment—who the hell are they? She was the only victim in this entire incident!

Even more absurdly, some people inexplicably posted comments under her Weibo, insisting she should apologize too.

Their reason: such a huge incident had drawn so many people into the public discourse, causing great disturbance; out of decency and reason, she should step forward and say something.

From a Japanese cultural perspective, for Luo Quan to apologize wouldn’t be a big deal—even as a victim, apologizing could earn sympathy and secure her moral high ground.

But Luo Quan was a pure-blooded Huaxia person, guided by the principle of “debts must be repaid, murders must be avenged”—it wasn’t her fault; why should she apologize?

Already simmering with rage, she exploded the moment she saw that comment.

She immediately posted a tweet:

“You all insulted me before, and I said nothing, letting you shame me with words. Now the truth is out, the culprit has been found, and few of those who insulted me have apologized to me—yet now you demand I apologize.

I just want to ask one question: why? Because your faces are thicker than steel plates? Turn off your computers and look at the vile expressions on your screens—you’re truly disgusting!”

Considering her artist image, Luo Quan couldn’t curse, so her words weren’t as fierce as she wanted—but at least she had voiced her true feelings.

This tweet would inevitably draw another wave of attacks from “artisan trolls,” but Luo Quan didn’t care about these losers in the real world.

I just made a mistake: besides herself, her fans were also victims.

No matter how much the trolls and bystanders attacked her, her fans never abandoned her—they clarified and explained for her, fought the trolls, all voluntarily.

As the saying goes: at the peak, false spectators emerge; at dusk, true disciples are revealed. Though Luo Quan had been in the industry a short time, her fan loyalty was exceptionally high; those who defected were few. After this trial by fire, her fans would grow even more devoted.

And for these fans, Luo Quan had already decided how to repay them.

Thank-you handshake events and fan meetings would certainly be scheduled later, but there was one gift she could deliver right away.

“I’m going out,” Luo Quan said, standing up and walking toward the entrance.

Wen Xia looked up curiously: “Where are you going at this hour?”

Luo Quan, putting on her shoes without looking up, said: “To the company. I’m recording a song.”

Wen Xia frowned: “You never write songs normally.”

Luo Quan tapped her temple with her index finger, smirking: “Genius mind. No explanation needed.”

“Pfft!” Wen Xia flipped her off. “Be safe… Never mind, forget I said that.”

Downstairs, under the dim, mosquito-swarming streetlamp, Luo Quan called Miki:

“Hello, Miki-kun, are you still at the company?”

“I’m still here. Some work’s unfinished—I have to stay late.”

“Could you pick me up? I want to record a song and release it tonight.”

“No problem!” Miki immediately dropped his work and drove to Luo Quan’s residence.

The round trip took nearly forty minutes; at nine p.m., Sony Records’ headquarters still glowed brightly—overtime was normal in Japan, especially at giants like Sony, where daily workloads were immense; even ordinary staff didn’t leave before ten-thirty, and management routinely worked until dawn.

This norm applied to nearly all large and medium-sized enterprises in Japan.

When the two arrived outside the third-floor recording studio, they ran into Director Ishimura, just finishing a meeting.

“Miss Quan, this must be our first meeting,” Director Ishimura said, offering a warm smile.

Ishimura was under forty, at the peak of male vitality and drive; he sported a glossy slicked-back hairstyle and looked even more stylish than Miki.

Luo Quan smiled back: “Hello, Director Ishimura.”

Ishimura joked: “It’s so late—why are you suddenly here? Trying to experience Japanese overtime culture?”

Luo Quan nodded: “Sort of. Just now, inspiration struck at home—I wanted to come record a song and release it tonight.”

“Really?” Ishimura was both surprised and delighted. “No wonder they call you a genius girl—you already have another idea so fast.”

Luo Quan laughed: “You flatter me. I mainly wanted to thank my fans—if it weren’t for this morning’s incident, I’d probably still be lying at home.”

Ishimura sighed: “The internet environment is truly toxic these days—saying anything costs nothing. Many newcomers fall into depression facing these issues. I hope you stay cheerful, Miss Quan.”

Luo Quan smiled gently: “Of course I will. I’m the recognized healing goddess, after all.”