Chapter 838: Sense of Responsibility

PS. Zhou Dong's new song is out in full—"Red Beauty Like Frost" isn't bad, but overall it's noticeably weaker than his earlier work; apparently talent fades when life gets too comfortable.

Main text:

Luo Quan lost the "Honorary Professor" title at Qinghua University she'd held for only a few days—not because Qinghua refused to grant it, but because she voluntarily gave it up.

The incident stemmed primarily from Qinghua's Academy of Fine Arts.

Last year, this academy sparked controversy over a modeling incident.

A fashion design student used a group of so-called "high-end faces" as models for their graduation show.

These models all shared common features: narrow eyes, wide-set eyes, and upward-slanting outer corners.

If you can't picture it, just press your fingers on your outer eye corners and pull them upward—that's roughly it.

In the West, this gesture is identical to white people mocking East Asians—it's no different from calling a Black person "nigger."

Yet some students at China's top university, fully aware this was racial discrimination against their own people, still used it—in their very graduation project.

It's disgusting, nothing more to say.

After this sparked online backlash, another group rushed to defend them, asking: "Have the Chinese lost their confidence? Can't you even look at a face without overthinking? Are you this insecure?"

When Luo Quan saw this, she posted a specific update:

"In the U. S., if you invite a Black person to eat watermelon and fried chicken, then hand them a handful of cotton afterward, do you think they'll let you walk away without a bullet?"

Why does no one in Western entertainment dare discriminate against Black people—even if they do, they're immediately crushed by public outrage?"

Because Black people are hypersensitive and tolerate zero borderline behavior—and that's how they earned their current status."

Strike first, avoid a hundred blows. Such a simple principle is lost on you, yet you accuse the Chinese of lacking confidence."

All I can say is: if your ass is crooked, everything else is crooked too."

After this article was posted, it received hundreds of thousands of likes and comments—clearly, public anger was boiling over.

Unfortunately, the incident was ultimately buried. The individuals involved deleted all their social media after being criticized.

Qinghua University's official account, when questioned by netizens, dodged the issue, avoided direct answers, and refused to address or resolve the problem.

This attitude was deeply disappointing.

Yet Qinghua remains China's top university, having produced countless talents and made immense contributions.

Netizens still viewed this as an isolated incident, not representative, and chose not to pursue it further.

Once the heat died down, the matter faded.

But less than a year later, the same fine arts academy repeated the same design—with the same racist "high-end face" imagery.

This was clearly a defiant refusal to repent, a deliberate challenge to public opinion.

Netizens erupted, flooding Qinghua University onto trending topics and digging up every dark secret the school had accumulated over the years.

Things like exporting talent overseas, granting overseas students excessive privileges, and irregular admissions.

Eight of the top ten trending topics were tied to Qinghua.

This level of frenzy was even more intense than when Luo Quan released a new album.

Clearly, Weibo's netizens had reached their breaking point.

Some of these allegations were true, others uncertain, and they hadn't all occurred at the same time.

Some were from last year, some from two years ago, some from three years ago.

But the internet remembers.

Previously, these incidents could be buried through silence—but over time, the pressure built until it could no longer be contained.

So this time, everything exploded at once.

Jinxibei descended into chaos, and Luo Quan plunged in with a giant spoon and stirred it violently.

As before, she posted the same message on Weibo and Bilibili:

"After three full seconds of deep contemplation, I've decided to relinquish my honorary professorship at Qinghua University."

"Some of your students' aesthetic standards have genuinely shocked me. It's 2022, and people still use phrases like 'high-end face' to mask their true intentions."

"I've modeled for Chanel for nearly four years—never once did any of their staff say such faces were 'high-end.'"

"All I know is, if they used these faces in ads, they'd face massive racial discrimination complaints from Asians."

"Clearly, my thoughts, aesthetics, and cultural awareness simply can't reach your school's lofty heights. Please find someone more qualified for this honorary title."

After this sarcastic, barbed post went live, netizens' emotions ignited instantly.

Previously, when they rallied, Qinghua students mocked them, claiming they were too inferior to get into Qinghua, so now they were obsessively attacking it out of jealousy—unable to have it, they wanted to destroy it.

Their tone dripped with superiority and arrogance.

Whether these were truly Qinghua students couldn't be verified—but among netizens were plenty of elites.

Many overseas Chinese students posted their own diplomas under similar comments.

From MIT, Stanford, Yale, Harvard.

Though these were others' credentials, netizens couldn't claim them as their own.

But the fact that top-tier university students stood up in defense gave netizens renewed confidence.

At least within the student body, those who could distinguish right from wrong remained the majority.

And Luo Quan, as the only high-profile celebrity to speak out, became the rallying point—netizens flocked to her side and rallied around her.

Likewise, Luo Quan's voice became an unmistakable target.

Many who claimed to be Qinghua graduates posted in the comments:

"Good riddance. With your credentials, you're clearly not qualified to be a professor at Asia's top university."

"We gave you this title to honor you—how did it become the other way around? Don't you have an inflated sense of self-worth?"

"I used to love your music, but now I see what kind of person you are—I'm done with you."

"What right does a mixed-race person have to judge our Chinese universities? You're like a walking 500,000 RMB."

"You should shut up. What nerve does a mere entertainer have to comment on Qinghua University?"

………………

Similar outrageous remarks kept appearing—but before Luo Quan could respond, her fans launched a counterattack:

"'Asia's top university'? Where does Tokyo University stand in your eyes?"

"I've never heard anyone call Luo Quan a 500,000 RMB—that's the most absurd thing I've ever seen."

"Nine out of ten of you are intellectually bankrupt—I doubt you even graduated college."

"Your comments are so stupid, I don't know whether to be angry or laugh."

"Luo Quan, ignore them. Even glancing at them is a waste of your precious life."

………………

Besides outraged fans and netizens, Tokyo University, upon seeing Luo Quan attacked, also spoke up for her.

Tokyo University's Weibo account had few followers—just tens of thousands—and its posts usually drew plenty of abuse.

So the account hadn't posted anything for months.

But just one minute ago, Tokyo University's Chinese account posted two images.

One showed Qinghua University's Nobel laureate count: zero.

The other showed Tokyo University's Nobel laureate count: eleven.

International university rankings vary wildly in credibility.

Judging strength solely by Nobel Prizes is certainly biased.

But these two side-by-side images of Nobel laureate counts were undeniably stark.

If Qinghua had even four or five laureates, you could argue—but now?

In short, netizens had, for the first time ever, sided with outsiders:

"My verdict: utterly crushed."

"Never thought I'd see outsiders standing up for us."

"Luo Bao's just lazy—if she wanted, she could've picked any foreign elite school, her credentials would've been overflowing."

"She was clearly doxxed."

………………

Seeing her long-absent alma mater reach out to her in this way, Luo Quan felt unexpectedly moved, and replied in the comments: "Thank you."

This round of debate ended in victory for Luo Quan and the netizens.

Yet the incident was still ultimately buried.

All those trending topics vanished quickly; comment sections on related news were locked—clearly, they didn't want anyone discussing it further.

Seeing this, Luo Quan could only sigh: there was nothing she could do.

One person speaking out wasn't enough.

And almost no one else dared to do the same.

I understand it—but I cannot accept it.

Luo Quan, with her influence, must shoulder social responsibility: when something is wrong, you must speak up.

Even if speaking out this time won't produce dramatic results, next time she sees something wrong, she'll still stand up.

I just wonder what nonsense Qinghua's Academy of Fine Arts will pull next.

She's only a Chanel ambassador—if she held a higher position, she'd refuse to hire a single designer from these fine arts schools.

Don't say it's just a few bad apples, and you can't condemn the whole pot because of one rotten one.

But Luo Quan believes: if you're already stewing with rotten apples, and you don't speak up to draw a clear line, but instead stay silent or argue with netizens—you're just admitting you belong to the same category.

If that's the case, treating everyone equally is entirely justified.

Unfortunately, she wasn't a shareholder of Chanel, nor did she have the power to influence the brand's decisions, so this idea could only remain a thought in her mind.

When the anti-China trend first emerged, everyone was furious, wishing to tear those people apart limb by limb.

But by the next day, even the greatest anger had mostly faded away.

Compared to the heavy burden of daily life, how important could these things really be?

Winning the argument wouldn't raise your salary by five hundred, and losing it wouldn't lower housing prices by a thousand.

Arguing fiercely online with others only harmed your own physical and mental health.

What is called a sense of honor, when weighed against real-life pressures, is sometimes truly insignificant.

What ordinary people thought about more was simply earning more money and buying a house sooner.

Because in their lives, this was the top priority, leaving almost no room for anything else.

As for Luo Quan, she had the energy to argue, but each time she gained nothing concrete.

Last night's online debate, she felt as if she had won, yet also as if she had gained nothing.

The next day, Weibo was still filled with celebrity gossip, life serene and peaceful.

She shook her head and stopped dwelling on it, redirecting her focus back to filming the TV drama.

Days passed one by one.

The Tokyo Olympics began unveiling their elaborate stunts for the world's audience and tourists.

It started with the food.

Rumors claimed the Tokyo Olympics kitchen planned to serve Fukushima seafood to athletes from all countries, to show them the results of Fukushima's cleanup after the nuclear leak.

But there had been no real cleanup after the Fukushima nuclear leak—the contamination from the reactors still poisoned the ocean.

Recently, the Japanese government even planned to dump nuclear wastewater into the ocean, claiming the storage tanks were full, building more would be too expensive, and it was simpler to just dump it.

The government also claimed the water had been treated and was completely pollution-free, reaching drinking-water purity standards.

Then foreign journalists asked the official to scoop up some and drink it on the spot—the official flatly refused.

Come on, this was nuclear wastewater.

No matter how it was treated, it was still fundamentally different from normal water.

Others buried it as deep and as long as possible, avoiding any contact with the environment to prevent contamination.

But the Japanese government? They just dumped it straight into the sea, intending to make all of humanity pay for their mistakes.

Even more absurdly, according to U. S. environmental agency tests, radioactive substances had already been detected along the coast.

This suggested the Japanese government had likely been secretly dumping nuclear wastewater into the Pacific for one or two years already.

Upon hearing this news, people and officials from all countries were left speechless, not knowing what else to say.

When Chernobyl happened, countless soldiers and firefighters rushed forward one after another to extinguish the reactor, minimizing its damage.

Even though these heroes knew they might die early from cancer, they showed not the slightest fear.

In contrast, Japan's Self-Defense Forces refused to enter the Fukushima nuclear plant entirely; eventually, the government tricked a team of disabled people, vagrants, and intellectually impaired individuals into going in to handle it.

And even then, they didn't clean it properly—Fukushima's contamination continues to this day, with the Japanese government simply keeping it quiet.

Over the past few years, deformed seafood found in the waters around Fukushima was no longer news.

Now the Japanese government wanted to serve Fukushima seafood to foreign athletes.

It was hard not to suspect they had lied so much to their own people that they'd convinced themselves the Fukushima contamination had been fully resolved.

In reality, unless a hydrogen bomb was launched to destroy the remaining reactors, the nuclear contamination would continue indefinitely.

Of course, this proposal came from Russia.

Although netizens from neighboring countries strongly supported it, Japan clearly didn't want to take a third hit.

And this was merely one of the many grotesque stunts pulled by the Tokyo Olympics before its opening.

As the opening ceremony drew nearer, more and more "brilliant ideas" were finally unveiled to the world's netizens.

Even though everyone had braced themselves, they were still left stunned by these antics.