Chapter 8

"Miss Quanquan, please reduce your social media posts and cooperate with the company’s upcoming mysterious marketing campaign, awaiting the album’s release."

Luo Quan stared at the email from Miki in her inbox, lost in thought.

She was no stranger to the word “marketing”; in her past life, many Chinese stars had risen to fame through marketing.

The primary method of Chinese star marketing was viral marketing—commonly known as constantly trending on hot searches, posting videos on video platforms, flooding forums with threads, or tying oneself to a popular star through association or controversy.

The ultimate goal was to generate buzz and establish a persona.

This marketing tactic was ubiquitous in the entertainment industry, continuously reused since its inception; though hated by countless netizens, it was undeniably the fastest and most effective method—almost to the point where you could drop the word “one.”

Japan, however, was not as skilled in marketing as China, but due to its wild imagination, it often devised unexpected ideas that achieved surprising marketing results.

Mysterious marketing was one of its more representative forms, though it had been popular in the 1980s and 1990s.

The process of mysterious marketing involved reducing the artist’s exposure, minimizing contact with fans, gaining attention solely through their works, and making rare, deliberate appearances to create the effect of a lute half-concealed behind a screen.

This approach had once been wildly popular among the Japanese public, launching numerous hugely successful female idols who were seen by the nation as mysterious icons—dream goddesses who rarely showed themselves.

Einstein once said: “The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the source of all true science and true art.”

All fantasy stems from mystery; because they are unknown, idols become perfect in fans’ hearts, worthy of lifelong pursuit—distance indeed breeds beauty.

But with the passage of time, close interaction between stars and fans had become a major demand in the idol market, and mysterious marketing had become entirely obsolete.

In today’s hyper-connected internet age, no star could possibly cultivate any sense of mystery anymore—if fans truly wanted to dig, they could uncover how many points their favorite star scored on their middle school final exam or which classmate they sat next to!

Moreover, with so many fan meetings, endorsements, variety shows, and other events to attend, maintaining distance from fans was no longer possible.

Of course, there were still some stars in the entertainment industry who never engaged in hype or appeared on variety shows—but such stars usually had exceptionally strong works, needing no marketing strategy to maintain popularity; among a hundred, you might not find one.

Thus, in the past decade, mysterious marketing had never worked once—and now, Sony Records was using this method to promote her album, something Luo Quan had never anticipated.

Even more surprising, around eight p.m., Sony Records posted a mysterious short video about Luo Quan on its official account.

The video’s title: “China’s Once-in-Five-Thousand-Years Beauty—Perfect Fusion of Looks and Talent!”

Merely the title left Luo Quan stunned for two full minutes.

She knew Japanese people suffered from chuunibyou and loved exaggerating everything—but she never imagined it could be this extreme!

This wasn’t promoting her—it was hoping she’d die! Even self-praise shouldn’t be this over-the-top!

She clicked into the video: its content was precisely the footage Lin Zheyuan had filmed for her that morning.

The video had clearly been slowed down; every lift and fall of her feet in the water was excruciatingly slow, the splashing water blending with the snow-white calves revealed beneath her long skirt into an irresistibly alluring scene.

Wet look, leg control, foot fetish—all these elements instantly dominated the viewer’s first impression; in fact, these three were among the most attention-grabbing traits a woman could possess.

No one understood what men liked better than men themselves—and as a male photographer, Lin Zheyuan had perfectly aligned the video with its theme while hitting the viewers’ sweet spot.

Even more remarkable, this video didn’t rely on flesh for appeal—it teased imagination without falling into clichés, truly embodying one truth: sexiness isn’t only about bikinis or three-piece outfits.

Notably, Luo Quan’s face never appeared in the video; only a stretch of snow-white neck was visible, beyond which the screen cut off.

At the end of the short video was a bold teaser: “July 19th, album release—stay tuned!”

The entire video didn’t reveal the protagonist’s identity, the album’s title, or even a single song snippet—nor did it show the protagonist’s face at all.

This promotional tactic was undeniably cryptic; paired with such an exaggerated title, in China, netizens would have already erupted in rage.

But Japan’s chuunibyou-ridden netizens seemed to love it—the comments below the video were mostly expressions of anticipation, with little fixation on the girl’s Chinese identity.

Of course, because the video revealed so little information, no one connected the protagonist to Luo Quan.

To cooperate with the company’s marketing push, Luo Quan immediately deleted three videos from her personal YouTube channel, despite their combined views nearing one million.

The trending topics about Luo Quan’s songs on Twitter had gradually faded, replaced by Sony Records’ mysterious short video—almost everyone was speculating about the girl’s true identity.

The two premises—Chinese origin and a blend of looks and talent—already eliminated many suspects; yet since Japanese netizens weren’t particularly familiar with Chinese stars, their guesses yielded no universally convincing answer.

Still, most leaned toward a Chinese female star: the recent breakout sensation in China—Wang Xuan.

She was the only one whose profile barely matched the video’s title.

But Wang Xuan was merely the most likely candidate—the debate over the video’s female lead continued to intensify.

With Sony’s promotion and fierce online discussion among Japanese netizens, the topic surged to the top of Twitter’s trending list the next day—and due to its connection to Wang Xuan, it also entered the view of Chinese netizens.

Wang Xuan’s PR team was likely the first Chinese group to notice this news; such a lucky break didn’t come often—whether or not it was their doing, they’d ride the wave first; a Weibo trending topic was immediately arranged.

“Wang Xuan Suspected of Collaborating with Sony Records, Tops Japanese Trending List!”

This title was far more credible than Luo Quan’s; it leveraged national pride by claiming foreign trending success, while using deliberately ambiguous language—later denying everything three times to avoid responsibility.

Since Wang Xuan was already hot, and the topic involved Japan, the news skyrocketed within minutes to the top of Sina Weibo’s trending chart.

Searches for the mysterious female lead of Sony’s short video followed closely behind, landing at number two.

The number-one trending topic had little substance—mostly Wang Xuan’s fans asking questions and celebrating; it was indeed a big deal for their idol to collaborate with Sony and spark such intense domestic and international discussion.

But the number-two trending topic drew far more attention, because the video’s quality was genuinely high.

Though only two minutes long, the imaginative space it opened could stretch for two hours.

A large crowd flooded the comment section:

“Those legs! I’m cured~~”

“I have a friend who wants to know the girl’s name.”

What are you getting at, upstairs? Don't you dare ignore the unknown?

“Supposedly the girl is Wang Xuan.”

“Bullshit! I’ve seen Wang Xuan’s legs—they’re not this straight. And since she came from a girl group and dances constantly, her thigh and calf muscles are more developed than average girls’. But this girl’s calves are rounder, with less visible muscle.”

“Look, this is what professionalism looks like ·jpg”

“Don’t you all think the title’s too exaggerated? ‘Once-in-five-thousand-years beauty’—how many years has Chinese history even had?”

“The Japanese are still chuunibyou. In their world, a thousand years is the baseline—don’t be surprised if they say ‘once-in-fifty-thousand-years beauty.’”

“That makes sense. Fifty thousand years ago, Japan was full of monkeys. Compared to monkeys, even Feng Jie would look like a celestial fairy.”

“To be fair, Feng Jie was worse than a monkey.”

“Pick one: which one do you choose?”

“Kids make choices. I? I want them all!”

“You’re a beast—I crown you the strongest.”

……………………

Compared to Japan’s explosively chuunibyou netizens, China’s meme-savvy netizens were just as entertaining.

Just as the discussion over this video topped trending lists in both countries and most people had pinned the female lead as Wang Xuan, the situation took a twist.