Chapter 57: Fortune Hides Misfortune (Part One)

P.S. Thank you to the reader who gifted the laugh-laugh-laugh coins!

Unlike its overwhelming success domestically, the Japanese version of “Coming of Age,” the second track “Yakimochi,” received a lukewarm response in Japan.

Of course, this is in comparison to “Firstlove”—even so, the play count and discussion volume of this second track still far surpassed all other songs released during the same period, ranking second only to “Firstlove.”

Perhaps Luo Quan had spoiled her audience’s taste; the public found it hard to accept the quality of this second song, craving something on par with “Firstlove.”

This was indeed difficult—great songs come by inspiration, not by demand; songs of “Firstlove”’s caliber appear only once every few years, and expecting every single track to reach that level was pure fantasy.

Moreover, “Yakimochi” was by no means a poor song—it was unquestionably far above the average standard in today’s Japanese music scene, more than sufficient to serve as a lead single for second-tier artists.

But to Luo Quan, this composition felt mediocre; after all, the Japanese music industry now regarded her as a genius singer—if her future works remained at this level, it would be an undeniable step backward.

This criticism may sound harsh, but it was indeed the prevailing view in Japan’s music industry.

A student who consistently scores 20–30 points will earn immense praise and astonishment if he suddenly scores 60, seen as having finally turned over a new leaf and started studying.

But if a top student who always scores 100 suddenly scores 90, the criticism he faces will far outweigh the praise given to the struggling student.

This is human nature: we are extremely lenient toward the weak, yet unbearably harsh toward the outstanding.

Luo Quan was now such an outstanding figure subjected to harsh scrutiny; after “Yakimochi” was released, while the comment section still held many praises, there were also no shortage of disappointed voices.

Fortunately, negative reviews were largely invisible; the notion that she had burned out after just one song had little traction in Japan, since eight more tracks still awaited release—wait until the full album was heard before passing judgment.

Although the overall reception of the second track wasn’t particularly strong, the momentum from the lead single was so immense that it achieved an unprecedented feat: zero negative reviews online, with everyone who listened saying it was excellent.

As a result, pre-orders for “Coming of Age” continued to climb; the play counts of these two tracks remained firmly at the top of all major music charts, and online discussion about Luo Quan and the new album remained intensely heated.

And Luo Quan did not disappoint her admirers: on August 14 at 20:00, the preview of the third track from “Coming of Age,” “Soba ni Iru ne,” officially launched—and ten minutes later, its reputation exploded.

In its original timeline, this song immediately entered the Oricon charts in the top three, sold 450,000 copies in its first week, claimed the weekly number-one spot in its second week, and remained on the charts for eleven consecutive weeks!

Even today, it remains the highest-selling single by a female Japanese artist and has been certified by Guinness World Records.

The uproar caused by releasing such a phenomenal song was no less than the initial launch of “Firstlove.”

No one dared to dispute the title of “genius singer” anymore; music magazines unanimously praised it, and pre-orders for “Coming of Age” reached 890,000, continuously breaking Asia’s album pre-order records.

Praise and recognition had become so dense it was numbing; for days, Luo Quan’s phone never stopped ringing—advertisers and TV networks called, offering endorsement deals or variety show appearances, with prices open to negotiation.

Luo Quan had originally posted this number on YouTube when she first uploaded videos, to make it easier for people to contact her about collaborations.

After signing with Sony, she deleted it—but someone had recorded it in that short time and sold it.

Fortunately, that person still had some boundaries and didn’t post it online; if her fans had found out, she might have received ten thousand calls in a single day!

With the new school term approaching, Luo Quan declined all endorsement and variety show offers; she now had both fame and wealth in abundance, and had no need to waste time on such trivial matters.

She might consider a major film or TV drama production—but Japanese cinema had long lost its international prominence, no longer the Asian leader it once was in the last century; however, Japanese dramas were still thriving, producing several breakout hits every year that swept across Asia.

Online adoration for Luo Quan had reached a Fengkuang level: every post praised her, every comment idolized her—such a phenomenon would be highly abnormal in China, immediately evoking two words: “praise to destruction.”

God makes whom He will destroy, first drives them mad. But this law clearly did not apply to Luo Quan—given her current performance, she was more than worthy of such acclaim.

The release of the fourth track, “Kiseki,” brought this frenzy to a perfect close.

In its original timeline, this song held a status nearly equal to the third track: while the third was the best-selling physical single, this one held the record for highest digital downloads in Oricon history, and was immensely popular among Japanese youth, appearing every year on KTV’s most-sung songs list—an undisputed national hit.

With this string of releases, Luo Quan had been elevated to the pinnacle of young singers; among Japan’s new generation of musicians, no one could match her in creative ability—only a handful of the most accomplished mid-career female singers could stand on the same level.

“The only difference between Luo Quan and the top female divas is that she hasn’t held a major concert yet.”

This was the view expressed by Onodera Ryūsuke on Twitter, unanimously endorsed by netizens, fans, and fellow artists alike.

In Japan, if a female singer has never held a concert, her singing career is considered a failure; concerts are the ultimate demonstration of vocal skill and box-office appeal, regarded as the true litmus test of a singer!

Many singers have songs that go wildly viral online, with countless covers—but when they hold concerts, even the front row seats remain empty, with fewer attendees than security personnel.

Such cases occur every year and often become laughingstocks for the public.

But such a scenario was virtually impossible for Luo Quan; countless fans on her Twitter were asking when she would hold a concert, vowing to bring their entire families to support her.

Similar comments numbered in the tens of thousands, with even higher like counts—clearly, her fans were eagerly anticipating her concert.

Luo Quan’s reply, however, left her fans heartbroken:

“School is starting soon—studies come first. I’ll talk about concerts during winter break.”

Upon hearing this, her fans erupted in collective despair.

P.S. A small climax is coming next—I need to plan it carefully. Only this chapter today.