Chapter 51: Consecutive Setbacks

Seeing her best friend’s new album face immediate backlash right after promotion began, Wen Xia couldn’t sit still—she immediately reposted the Weibo post with a comment:

“My best friend’s new album is out—please give her work more attention; you won’t be disappointed.”

Wen Xia’s intentions were good, but the situation didn’t develop as she hoped.

Both fans and netizens began questioning:

“Are you two really sisters? Or is your company paying you to say this?”

“Summer, if you’re being kidnapped, just blink—we won’t blame you.”

“Wen Xia is so tragic—she even has to take time off her vacation to support some no-name singer.”

“Wen Xia, sweetie, you don’t have to take this dirty money. If you’re short on cash, tell me—I’ll support you~~”

“Support you? Pfft, I’m the one who should support her!”

Seeing how wildly the comments had spiraled, Wen Xia had no choice but to post another Weibo to explain:

“Luo Luo and I have been childhood friends since kindergarten—nearly ten years of friendship. We really are best friends. (laughing-crying emoji)”

Although Wen Xia quickly clarified, netizens’ minds weren’t easily changed—Luo Quan’s reputation still didn’t improve, and in fact, it was worsening further.

The onlookers flooded the comments with remarks:

“This Luo Quan is such a bitch—when Wen Xia broke ties with her company, she didn’t say a word, but now that she’s releasing a new album, she suddenly remembers to ask her ‘best friend’ for promotion?”

“Wen Xia really picked a bad one—such a fickle, opportunistic friend.”

“She’s trending every other day, always bragging about how popular her music is overseas and on TikTok—but she’s only got five songs total. You don’t need me to tell you what kind of talent that is.”

“She dares to sell one album for 200 yuan? Which Chinese singer still charges this much? Even the biggest superstars don’t go this high—who gave her the nerve?”

“Wen Xia, with a big star like you promoting her, there’ll always be suckers who fall for it.”

“Don’t represent me—I’m a die-hard Wen Xia fan, but I won’t spend a single cent on this ‘Coming of Age’ album!”

“Count me in—let’s jointly boycott ‘Coming of Age’!”

………………

First impressions matter deeply; once formed, they’re often impossible to reverse—that’s why rumors spread with a single mouth, but debunking them requires running yourself ragged.

When Luo Quan entered the public eye with this image, the negative impression was already etched into their minds; no matter how much Wen Xia explained, it was nearly impossible to change what they believed.

Prejudice is a mountain, and malicious speculation and deliberate incitement are the seals laid down by the Buddha himself—combined, even the Great Sage Equaling Heaven couldn’t turn over.

Wen Xia only wanted to help her good friend, but ended up making things worse, creating this mess.

When Luo Quan returned home after recording late at night, Wen Xia, having been miserable all day, came up with tear-filled eyes: “Luo Luo, I’m so sorry to you…”

Luo Quan found it amusing: “Why do you look like a bullied little wife?”

“I messed everything up—now the Weibo comments are all attacking you,” Wen Xia said, tears welling up, wanting to say more but not knowing how to begin.

Seeing once fearless Wen Xia now so pitiful, Luo Quan knew things must be serious.

She opened Weibo—and sure enough, her name was right there on the trending homepage.

She didn’t know how much Sony’s China branch had paid Weibo, but the trending topic still hadn’t been taken down, stubbornly continuing to draw hatred toward Luo Quan.

Negative comments poured in endlessly; Luo Quan had become a rat crossed by everyone, anyone free to step on her.

Labels such as “Marketing King” and “Bitch” stuck to her; the hashtag #BoycottComingOfAge gained widespread traction. Some self-media outlets launched a poll: “Will you buy ‘Coming of Age’?” Over fifty to sixty thousand people voted “No!”

Confused, Luo Quan wondered: I haven’t offended anyone—why did a simple promotion turn into nationwide mockery?

Patiently scrolling through Weibo for a full twenty minutes, Luo Quan finally pieced together the whole story.

No one was at fault here.

Buying trending topics is standard practice in domestic promotion—clearly priced, if you don’t buy, someone else will. Sony simply wanted more attention for Luo Quan’s album.

The netizens already tired of Luo Quan’s constant trending weren’t wrong either—everyone has the right to express their disgust, and they weren’t shooting blindly; Luo Quan herself had given them ammunition.

Wen Xia wasn’t wrong either—seeing her best friend’s reputation damaged, she couldn’t sit idle and posted to help. That’s normal, even noble behavior. In the entertainment industry, many stars might post to promote a friend, but how many would post a second time to clarify? And Wen Xia didn’t just post twice that afternoon—she kept urging fans and netizens to stay rational.

In the end, all words boiled down to one: “Luo Quan’s just unlucky.”

If not for today’s sudden Korea ban, her album release would’ve trended easily, with little backlash.

After all, she’d trended frequently before, and now with Wen Xia’s help—had it not been for the Korea ban, their childhood friendship would’ve drawn massive attention; who would’ve cared how many times Luo Quan had trended?

Everything just happened to coincide—and the PR head was stubborn, resulting in this outcome.

But it’s not that bad—over-promotion isn’t a moral failing, and the damage is far less severe than before.

Buying trends—doesn’t every star do it? Even if you don’t buy, if you trend too often, people assume you did. Luo Quan just hadn’t bought before, and now she did—and happened to hit the trigger.

As for forcing Wen Xia to promote—ten years of friendship, what’s wrong with promoting an album? It’s entirely voluntary, no one else’s business.

Seeing Wen Xia’s guilty, childlike expression—as if waiting for a scolding—Luo Quan smiled and wrapped her arms around her slender shoulders: “Stop crying. I thought it was something huge—it’s just people calling me a trend-buyer.”

Wen Xia’s eyes glistened: “But your reputation in China is ruined—how will you ever develop here again?”

Luo Quan shrugged: “A bad reputation can be reversed. I didn’t do anything evil—can’t I come back to China and make some easy money?”

Wen Xia sniffled and laughed: “So your whole plan for China is just to make easy money?”

“Better to let the money go to me than to those Korean idol stars—after all, why let the water flow to someone else’s field?” Luo Quan said, as if it were obvious.

“Alright, stop crying. A big star crying looks ugly as a ghost,” Luo Quan said gently, pulling out two tissues.

“You’re the ghost!” Wen Xia shot back, eyes half-angry, half-shy—back to her fearless self.

“Luo Quan, the Korea ban’s impact on you isn’t just this,” Chunzi kept scrolling through her phone, expression grim.

“What’s wrong?” Luo Quan asked curiously.

Chunzi frowned: “Check Naver—you’re getting torn apart.”