Chapter 377: Debut

By the time Gao Liang's birthday performance trended on hot searches across multiple countries, Luo Quan had already boarded a flight back to Shanghai.

As a college student, she had spent less time on campus this semester than outside it.

Although the school wouldn't say anything, if the media seized on this and wrote a few negative articles, it would inevitably cause bad repercussions.

Art universities have shorter class periods each semester than regular universities; there's still over a month until winter break, and Luo Quan planned to spend as much of that time as possible on campus, at least enough to get to know all her classmates.

Since the start of the semester, apart from the few in her dorm, she hadn't said more than ten words to any other classmate—her relationship with them was barely better than with strangers.

But the problem wasn't with her, since Lin Lin Yizhu and the others had about the same level of interaction with the boys.

At the beginning of the semester, a few bold boys had approached them to chat and ask for WeChat, and they even encountered two suspected "sea kings" who were seasoned players in romance.

But Lin Lin Yizhu and the others weren't naive girls fresh out of high school; after chatting for two days, they could tell which boys were worth continuing to talk to and which should be blocked immediately.

After filtering through them all, they found only two or three of the over twenty boys were decent.

But then again, that made sense—Shangyi's admissions had always placed high value on looks, so most students admitted were handsome, or at least had well-proportioned features.

Nowadays, Chinese high school students were so open-minded; how many boys with such conditions weren't running multiple dating ponds?

Of course, these pond owners generally had self-awareness; since the start of the semester, not one had privately approached Luo Quan to chat unless they had an official matter to discuss with the class monitor.

The few boys Lin Lin Yizhu and the others had certified as "good people," however, would sometimes see Luo Quan's social media posts promoting her new album or new movie, and immediately like them, then comment: "I'll definitely be there to support you!"

They'd usually add a smiley face afterward.

Luo Quan could imagine how hard these boys had strained to come up with something flattering to reply with, hoping to catch her attention.

But no matter what they wrote, it felt inappropriate, so in the end, they could only settle on this kind of response.

Compared to those witty pond owners and sea kings, these boys were undeniably awkward.

Yet compared to those "clever" romantic experts, Luo Quan felt more affection for these awkward good guys.

So whenever these boys commented under her posts, she'd reply: "Thank you for your support."

There was no other meaning—she simply thanked them sincerely for their goodwill.

Of course, barring any unexpected changes, this relationship would remain unchanged until Luo Quan left school.

For these boys, Luo Quan was too high a level—she was simply out of reach; unless they were seasoned players who'd already won over several girls, they wouldn't dare approach her.

Thus, they were stuck in a deadlock.

Fortunately, for Luo Quan, this was good news.

At the start of the semester, several upperclassmen had come to her dorm to confess their feelings, each time making a big scene, with nearby boys and girls joining in the commotion—it had genuinely given her a headache.

Fortunately, after the school dealt with a few typical cases and issued a campus-wide reprimand, such incidents never happened again.

But she couldn't rule out the possibility that, as finals approached, some desperate boys might come forward to confess again.

College students, in their early twenties, were at the peak of their hormones, acting emotionally; once their heads got hot, they might do something reckless.

All she could do was respond as situations arose.

She returned to China just in time for the weekend, when school was on break.

After texting the principal to confirm her safe return, Luo Quan went directly to her villa in Tancang.

Luo Quan arrived early and happened to catch Lan Xuan cooking breakfast.

"Boss, you're back in China so soon?" Lan Xuan was surprised to see Luo Quan; she'd just seen the news yesterday morning about Luo Quan and Gao Liang performing on stage, and now here she was back in China this morning.

"The matter's settled, so I had to return as soon as possible," Luo Quan said. "I didn't feel comfortable there—I'm more at ease at home."

"You haven't checked the news yet, have you? Yesterday, you and your brother dominated every global trending topic—everything trending was about the two of you; the buzz was explosive!" Lan Xuan waved her phone, having just glanced at Weibo's trending list, where the siblings' news still ranked in the top five.

"Isn't that normal?" Luo Quan shrugged, showing no surprise whatsoever.

With her and Gao Liang's popularity, combined with Universal's marketing and the dual celebrations of his birthday and their debut anniversary, such buzz was only natural.

"No wonder you're the boss—your perspective is clearly different from ours underlings," Lan Xuan laughed, flattery dripping from her tone.

Luo Quan sighed helplessly: "Stop with the flattery. By the way, what have you and Su Yu been up to lately? I've been busy these past few days and haven't paid much attention here."

Lan Xuan took the milk out of the microwave and placed two boiled eggs in a bowl: "Nothing much. Su Yu spends her time studying acting and reading to enrich herself.

I've been paying attention to recent hot topics and learning how top celebrities craft their PR statements."

Luo Quan asked curiously: "Is there really some trick to it?"

Lan Xuan peeled an egg and smiled: "There's a whole world of tricks—you just don't pay attention to the entertainment circle.

On Weibo, celebrities often turn crises into opportunities with a well-crafted PR statement, gaining massive buzz and goodwill, even skyrocketing overnight!

But some stars have destroyed all their goodwill—and even ruined their careers—because of a terrible PR statement.

Although PR statements are usually handled by professional teams, the agent still has to review the final version before release. I'm studying these cases now to build experience, so Su Yu can avoid unnecessary setbacks later."

"That's absolutely true," Luo Quan nodded in agreement. "But if you're upright, you don't need to fear shadows. As long as we behave properly, crisis PR isn't even that important.

Since my debut, I've been blackened many times; most of the time, I just ignore it. Even if things escalate, all I need to do is explain clearly.

With today's advanced information flow, the truth will surface quickly. It's better to observe calmly than to panic and make things look worse by over-explaining."

This was Luo Quan's philosophy of life, very much aligned with her personality—some might call it non-confrontational, others might call it a lazy fish, even too indifferent to defend herself when smeared.

But she'd never had any real scandals; though blunt and quick to retort, she never crossed the red line.

For an artist like her, trolls could only fabricate lies to smear her.

And any lie, eventually, will be exposed—and the advanced internet world has shortened that time to an extreme.

To Lan Xuan, Luo Quan's words sounded less like advice on crisis PR and more like guidance on how to be an artist.

The core idea was simple: say less online.

Even the most emotionally intelligent, eloquent person will stumble if they talk too much.

Say nothing, and you won't invite controversy.

Of course, the prerequisite is that your own actions are flawless—if not, even the best PR team in the world can't save you.

"Wait a bit longer," Luo Quan finally gave the promise Lan Xuan most wanted to hear. "I heard Penguin is planning several web dramas early this year—I'll see if I can find Su Yu some roles with more screen time."

"Web dramas? What kind of web dramas?" Lan Xuan felt a pang of disappointment at the word.

In her view, web dramas were synonymous with low-budget trash—low buzz and likely to become a laughingstock.

But for Su Yu, who hadn't landed any roles at all, she had no real alternatives.

Luo Quan knew what Lan Xuan feared and smiled: "This isn't like those old web dramas. The scripts are all big IPs, the investor is Penguin—this is a true high-budget production.

It's called a web drama only because it's released online only—but the quality is absolutely on par with regular TV dramas!"

Lan Xuan's face lit up: "That's wonderful! A high-budget production means high traffic—Su Yu desperately needs opportunities like this to gain attention."

By the way, where did you get this info? Did Wen Xia tell you?"

Luo Quan shook her head: "No, it was Zhou Zhou Yangwen who told me."

"Zhou Zhou Yangwen…" Lan Xuan was stunned. "You mean the CEO of Penguin Interactive?"

"Yes. I've signed all my music in China through him—we have a very good relationship."

Hearing that her boss had such a strong connection with Zhou Zhou Yangwen, Lan Xuan finally felt at ease.

In today's Chinese entertainment industry, Penguin was the undisputed giant—its presence spanned novels, music, games, and film, dominating every single sector.

Though its monopoly was inevitable due to lack of competition, it also reflected Penguin's immense power.

Though people constantly complained about Penguin, they couldn't deny how deeply entangled they were with it—so they complained while still using it.

In entertainment, Penguin was famously wealthy and loved to invest in big IPs for big productions, hiring both popular idols to draw crowds and veteran actors to ensure quality.

Over the years, while none of Penguin's web dramas have exploded into mega-hits, they've consistently achieved high traffic and strong reviews.

They weren't always the industry's top, but they were always respectable.

And for Lan Xuan, Luo Quan's good relationship with Penguin's CEO was like sitting on a mountain of gold.

She wondered, though, why her boss had never starred in a web drama.

Since the topic had come up, Lan Xuan decided to ask more: "Boss, have you mentioned to Zhou Zong about arranging roles for Su Yu?"

Luo Quan paused: "I did mention it—he agreed to help arrange a few roles for Su Yu. But he also wanted me to appear in it myself.

At the time, I was too busy, so I just said I'd consider it later. But don't worry—Su Yu's role is guaranteed. Even if I don't end up acting, Zhou Zong will still arrange it; we've collaborated so many times before, and with my new song coming out in a few days, he won't dare ignore me."

Lan Xuan was startled: "Another new song? Your 'November's Chopin' hasn't even been out a month yet!"

"Not mine—it's for Bai Bai Xingwei. I promised her I'd produce an album for her before the New Year, to officially launch her career.

But I'm positioning her as 'export then import'—she'll become popular overseas first, then return to China to develop." As she spoke, Bai Bai Xingwei walked in.

"Oh, Boss, you're here too?" Bai Bai Xingwei looked up, surprised and delighted.

Lan Xuan smiled: "We were just talking about you—and here you are! Have you eaten breakfast? Join us—milk and boiled eggs, plenty of protein."

"Already ate—school's big meat buns. The buns are fist-sized, but the meat filling is smaller than a thumb—how do they even call them 'big meat buns'?" Bai Bai Xingwei complained about Shangyi's cafeteria breakfast as she sat on the sofa.

"You were just talking about me? What about me?"

Luo Quan poured herself a cup of hot milk: "We were talking about producing your album and launching you."

"Really?!" Bai Bai Xingwei jumped up from the sofa. "I've been waiting for you to say that! I've gone through all the songs I wrote before and picked three I think are best—I'll send them to you right away!"

Bai Bai Xingwei sent the digital files of her lyrics and melodies to Luo Quan, who glanced at them while speaking: "These are your favorites—just include them. After all, it's your album; I'm only helping produce part of it.

You should also develop your own songwriting skills, especially in crafting catchy melodies—don't be like my brother, whose lyrics are all preachy and whose melodies sound like chanting sutras."

Bai Bai Xingwei pursed her lips: "I've been learning, but it takes time. And I actually think songs with depth suit me well—China really lacks honest, meaningful music."

Luo Quan smiled helplessly: "That's your specialty—if you like it, fine. I just create the conditions for it to go viral; whether it truly explodes depends on you.

As for the content, just be mindful of boundaries—after all, in China… you know, not everything can be sung."

Bai Bai Xingwei nodded vigorously: "I understand—I got full marks in my Ideological and Political Education class."

As they spoke, Luo Quan had already read through Bai Bai Xingwei's top three songs and hummed the melodies.

The lyrics were excellent; the melodies were slightly weak.

But for a debut album, they were more than sufficient.