Chapter 50: Chapter Fifty: Backfired

On August 8, 2016, two major events occurred in Asia’s entertainment circle.

The first was that China finally confirmed the ban on Korean entertainers: a comprehensive restriction on Korean artists performing in China, cessation of new investments in Korean cultural enterprises, prohibition of new Korean TV dramas, and limits on variety show collaborations.

Although China’s Foreign Ministry spokesperson explicitly denied the existence of such a ban, Korea’s cultural industry had indeed entered winter in China.

Endorsements and appearances by Korean stars in China were canceled en masse; Korean films, TV dramas, and variety shows vanished overnight from platforms; fan clubs for Korean stars on Weibo fell silent, bewildered and helpless.

Whether the ban was real or not, the severe blow to the Korean Wave in China was undeniable.

Korean idol stars, once constant fixtures on entertainment headlines, vanished instantly; domestic stars finally got their chance to rise, and even many second- and third-tier artists found themselves on the front page of entertainment sections.

No one dared to defy the state at this sensitive moment; before the wind blew, you could post anything without consequence, but now that the situation was clearly wrong, to still step forward was classic suicide—asking for death!

Regardless, Korean stars and idol groups had no future in China whatsoever; no negotiation was possible, and they could only watch helplessly as this massive market slipped away.

Yet they were not the worst off; far worse were the Chinese members within those idol groups.

Their initial recruitment was largely a strategic move by company executives aiming to penetrate the Chinese idol market.

In China, a fully Korean group and a group with several Chinese members received vastly different levels of attention; with attention, and given the renowned consumption power of Chinese female fans across Asia, profits would pour in like a flood.

In fact, during those first few years, these companies indeed made enormous profits in China, and envious firms began aggressively scouting Chinese trainees, hoping to carve out a share of this vast market.

This created a circular industry: Chinese youths with dreams of stardom traveled to Korea to sign contracts and undergo professional idol training; after debuting, companies sent them back to China to earn fan money.

Talent was sent out, money was sent out, yet they were still mocked for China’s backward entertainment ecosystem—who could tolerate that? Coupled with the system’s strategic deployment, whether for safeguarding hard or soft power, the ban on Korean entertainers was thoroughly necessary.

The introduction of the ban stripped these Chinese stars developing in Korea of most of their value.

They had done nothing wrong; seeking a better platform by going to Korea to become idols was entirely understandable, yet before the machinery of the state, individual power was pitifully small.

Francis Fukuyama once wrote in his book: “Every speck of dust from an era lands on an individual as a mountain.”

Yet even the harshest era is not without hope; as the saying goes, as long as your thinking doesn’t slide downhill, solutions always outnumber difficulties; with policy from above, rapid countermeasures emerged below.

On the afternoon of August 8, as the entire internet buzzed with discussions about the potential impact of the ban, a large number of Chinese artists in Korea simultaneously posted on Weibo announcing their departure from their groups, declaring their return to China with pure patriotic hearts.

These Chinese artists were mostly male, with enormous fan bases in China—some had fifty to sixty million fans, others at least twenty to thirty million—representing the essence of recent Chinese idols, known as “little fresh meat.”

How many of them, like Wen Xia, were simply leaving after contract expiration versus outright breach of contract remained unknown.

But what mattered was that they had returned, signed with Chinese management companies, and would undoubtedly center their future work in China.

This would deliver a massive shock to China’s existing entertainment environment, yet simultaneously bring enormous opportunities.

In the past, netizens might not have understood what “traffic” meant, but after 2014, the term became the holy grail for every star—traffic meant popularity, attention, endorsements, resources, and these were precisely the essentials most stars relied on to survive in the entertainment industry.

In fact, from today’s Weibo alone, the topic of the ban had already surpassed 300 million reads in half a day, with discussions racing toward 100,000, firmly holding the top spot.

As soon as news broke about these male idols returning, their topic’s read count surged to second place within less than an hour, with momentum to overtake the top.

Eight of the top ten trending topics on Weibo were related to this; nearly everyone was discussing it.

Under these circumstances, the second major event of the day seemed trivial.

“Luo Quan’s new album ‘Coming of Age’ is about to be released!”

How thin the description—no buzz at all; on a day teeming with top-tier stars, this trending topic was like an ugly duckling among swans, glaringly out of place.

If it had stayed quietly at the bottom of the trending list, not stealing the spotlight, perhaps no one would have noticed—but after Sony Records’ China division poured in massive funds, this topic climbed steadily before everyone’s eyes, eventually reaching the top five.

Now everyone saw this ambitious “ugly duckling,” but its sudden appearance triggered immediate, widespread mockery:

“An eighteen-line star with less than a million Weibo followers gets fourth place on trending for an album release? How much money did they spend?”

“I wonder if the money spent on trending can even be recouped by album sales? (Watching the drama)”

“Luo Quan? A regular on trending—this month alone, how many times has she appeared?”

“Too bad she can’t go viral—no matter how many times she trends, she’s still eighteen-line, nothing compared to my idol.”

“Too much marketing ruins public perception; she once had a decent image, now I find her downright ugly.”

“She trends more overseas than in China; supposedly she’s huge on YouTube.”

“This claim is ridiculous… do you believe it? I sure don’t.”

“‘Faded’ and ‘Lemon’ are her songs—they’re super popular on TikTok!”

“TikTok songs—I won’t say more; those who know, know.”

“I’ve listened to her songs—they’re decent, but talent doesn’t justify rushing to cash in. Another album after just fifteen days? Writing ten songs in that time is faster than a hen laying eggs!”

“Don’t talk like that—she’s a truly talented singer…”

“Stop defending her—if she were truly talented, would she need to buy trending to promote herself? Good wine needs no bush!”

“Exactly—don’t think writing a Japanese song makes you an international artist. Now that our country is strong, we no longer tolerate blind worship of the West!”

…………………………

Sparse fan comments were drowned out by waves of mockery; Luo Quan’s new album promotion in China had barely begun, and already seemed to have suffered a Waterloo.