Chapter 63: The National Goddess

As expected, Luo Quan appeared on Japan’s major morning news programs the next day, even Tokyo Television playing the full video of “Don’t Give Up” at the end of their show.

Her image and this song appeared everywhere; radio stations received nonstop call-in requests for the track, and the video’s online views reached twenty million.

Luo Quan’s Twitter followers surged overnight from under two million to four million twenty thousand—more than doubling—and pre-orders for “Coming of Age” reached two million!

And this was only the second day after the song’s release; Japan’s government had just begun promoting both the song and Luo Quan herself.

Almost overnight, every supermarket, shopping mall, and street-side convenience store—every crowded place—cycled the song on loop, making it inescapable.

Every news program ended with the studio-recorded full version of “Don’t Give Up,” and Luo Quan’s encouraging message to the Japanese people at the video’s end became netizens’ favorite clip; within hours, the twenty-second segment topped Twitter’s trending list.

Now, the top five Twitter trends were all Luo Quan—no star in recent years had ever achieved this.

“A girl like this—how could anyone not love her?”

This was today’s number-one trending topic on Japanese Twitter.

Below the topic was the edited clip, with over one hundred thousand comments and likes.

“To marry a girl like this must mean you saved the galaxy in your past life!”

“Her song and this encouraging clip became my reason to regain hope.”

“Don’t give up, everyone—don’t waste Luo Quan’s encouragement!”

“So beautiful and kind—I declare her my goddess.”

“You’re selfish—she should be our goddess, not just yours!”

“Yes, she is Japan’s treasure.”

“It’s a pity she’s Chinese—how wonderful if she were Japanese…”

“That doesn’t matter—what matters is she’s singing for us now!”

……………………

The birth of a goddess can be this sudden: just days ago she was a new-generation super-popular singer; now she’s been elevated to goddess status—this leap is truly enormous.

Yet netizens’ opinions were unusually unanimous: everyone agreed Luo Quan deserved the title; even the usual “minority” dissenters raised both hands in approval.

In this unstoppable wave of adoration, Luo Quan was gradually lifted to the highest pedestal.

Soon, TV networks seized the momentum and launched street surveys about Luo Quan.

When everything begins to improve, diverting social tensions with popular entertainment is the best strategy—when people return to leisure, their daily burdens fade naturally; this is a far smarter way to stimulate the economy than printing money to rescue the market.

And Luo Quan had exactly this level of attention—she was now Japan’s most popular woman; unless someone lived in complete isolation, they could not avoid knowing of her existence and deeds.

And anyone who knew what she had done found it impossible not to love a girl so talented, beautiful, and full of compassion.

In Tokyo Television’s street survey, Luo Quan became the second-most-wanted person the public wished to meet—only the Emperor of Japan ranked higher.

At Asahi Television, reporters interviewed nearly five hundred people with the question, “Do you love Luo Quan?”—and the responses were astonishingly uniform: all loved her!

The only star in all of Japan with a hundred percent favorability rating was Luo Quan; the next closest was the famed director Shirakawa Ryosuke, who achieved ninety-eight percent in the same sample—but this globally celebrated director had been dead for years.

Even Luo Quan herself had not anticipated this level of popularity.

She knew the song would earn her high praise and public goodwill, but she never expected to be deified—and even more absurdly, the Japanese government had joined in, enthusiastically and tirelessly.

One can only say these officials were going all out to save the stock market, throwing their full weight behind promoting this foreigner.

Fortunately, she wasn’t Korean—Japan’s relations with China were still relatively decent, while those with Korea were outright hostile; had the two nations not shared the same overlord, war would have broken out long ago.

Japan’s public simply wasn’t particularly sensitive to Luo Quan’s nationality, which allowed her to perfectly align heaven’s timing, earth’s advantage, and human harmony—and become a goddess in one stroke.

Of course, Luo Quan wasn’t naive enough to believe she could act as freely as Japan’s other god—the Emperor. Even the Emperor must obey laws; her own conduct required even greater caution.

Her current persona was flawless, pure, and kind—if even a single hint of misconduct appeared, her image would collapse utterly, irreversibly. Thus, Luo Quan now had to be even more careful with her words and actions than before.

Though her future life might be tightly constrained, Luo Quan was still very satisfied—for now. Album sales had skyrocketed, her popularity had peaked; for a star, she had already reached the summit of her career, and if she didn’t mess up, becoming a legend might be just around the corner.

Three days later, the hastily produced first batch of “Coming of Age” albums finally emerged—four million copies.

Japan’s music industry was now eagerly awaiting this album, for it was the one most likely to break Japan’s sales records.

On August 20, the long-awaited “Coming of Age” finally launched on global music platforms—but while labeled “global,” it was available only in Japanese and Chinese versions.

The Korean market was essentially abandoned; although the song’s quality had slightly improved Luo Quan’s reputation there, reversing public sentiment completely in such a short time was nearly impossible.

Sales in Korea might reach a few tens of thousands, but Sony’s executives didn’t care about such trivial gains.

In China, though hype ran high, few were actually willing to pay; most wanted to free-ride. As for Europe and America, forget it—language and culture were completely alien; there was no market at all.

Thus, outside Japan, the album sold fewer than fifty thousand copies—barely worth mentioning.

But in Japan—the market most anticipated—it sold a staggering four million copies on its first day.

All of the first printing had sold out!

Besides the two million pre-orders already shipped, over one million copies were distributed to Tokyo’s record stores—often, before shop owners could even place the albums on shelves, eager customers rushed in to snatch them up.

Some had seen the news on TV, others heard it on the radio—this massive, free publicity was dozens of times more effective than Sony’s own marketing department.

Most customers arriving at stores were middle-aged and over thirty—the group with the highest purchasing power and the ones most affected by society’s negative mood.

It was Luo Quan’s voice that restored their confidence and gave them the courage to move forward; whether to thank the goddess for her help or simply to fully appreciate her voice, they all wanted to buy an album.

And this was only Tokyo—now all of Japan was eagerly awaiting this album.

Those who missed out flooded online with complaints, accusing Sony of printing so few copies so slowly, and demanding the responsible officials commit seppuku to atone!

Seeing such passionate public response, Sony, as before, immediately issued an apology and ordered all partner printing factories to begin production—the second batch would be six million copies!

If the second batch sold out completely, Luo Quan would become a legend in Asian pop music history.