Chapter 963: Good Deeds Bring Good Rewards

“How did I suddenly gain over ten million more?!”

Luo Quan stared at the surge in her panel’s popularity value, utterly incredulous.

She had spent years building up barely a million in popularity; even though the system upgrade made gaining popularity easier, gaining over ten million in just half a day was utterly unexpected.

Although she had appeared on trending lists multiple times before—during the Baisha Charity Night and fan meetings—those dozen or so trends were completely overshadowed by this morning’s one.

Luo Quan didn’t understand the principle behind it, so she turned to the system for an answer.

“I previously mentioned that the people’s collective wish energy greatly boosts your popularity income.”

“Ordinary entertainment news only gets treated as idle amusement by netizens—they won’t feel any reverence, so no wish energy is generated.”

“But this time, you donated such a huge sum, creating a stark contrast with your peers—your fans’ admiration naturally skyrocketed, and so did your popularity.”

“In ancient times, your situation would be equivalent to being worshipped as a living Buddha by ten thousand households—immense merit, with countless prayers and reverence transforming into overwhelming wish energy.”

After hearing the system’s explanation, Luo Quan couldn’t help smiling: “So it really is true that good deeds bring good rewards. If I donate even more from now on, will my popularity keep rising?”

“Theoretically, yes—but at this level, unless you break a billion or two billion, there won’t be a qualitative leap.”

“And even among those who do good, some spend little money but persist for decades—still achieving the same or even better results.”

“People like them are usually called the Top Ten People Who Moved China.”

“Decades?”

Luo Quan lost all interest in learning more at that timespan: “I’ll stick to donating. I never had the intention to personally participate in charity work, let alone for decades.”

“Donating is faster and easier—and compared to time, money is what I have plenty of.”

Luo Quan knew her actions were somewhat utilitarian, so after the news of her charity ranking came out, she made no public response to claim credit.

Her original intent in donating was simply to improve the lives of those who needed the money—popularity wasn’t her goal.

But now that she knew this method could boost popularity, she’d become more enthusiastic about charity, beginning to consider whether to donate even more next time.

Perhaps because she’d become the top charity donor in the domestic entertainment industry, Luo Quan received an email from the Spring Festival Gala production team.

The email was straightforward: they invited her to participate in this year’s rehearsal and offered her slots in two performances—one spoken-word, one musical.

This level of treatment was extremely prestigious; many top idols could only appear once on the Gala, with short time slots and no guarantee of a solo performance.

And if it was a skit, it would be at least seven minutes long.

Seeing these two slots, Luo Quan grinned, thinking she could tell the director: she was also quite good at magic—could she add a magic act, like making someone vanish?

Of course, she could only think about it.

Throughout the history of the Gala, no one except the hosts had ever appeared three times consecutively.

A few years ago, there was one non-performance act: a little girl spun continuously on a separate stage for hours, from the Gala’s opening until Li Gu Yi appeared.

If she hadn’t stopped, it was truly impressive—worthy of a Guinness World Record; even Garen couldn’t spin like that.

But Luo Quan still didn’t understand the point—why make a girl spin so long at such a high speed? Even astronauts might not endure it.

Since then, no one has ever returned to the Gala through such a method; appearing twice already counts as rare.

Because she had declined previous invitations, this time Luo Quan decided to attend, to gain visibility before the entire nation and boost her popularity.

Besides, to save the Gala’s skits, she had prepared two new ones—if accepted, this year’s Gala would be unlike any previous one.

So after accepting the invitation, she asked: “I have two skit scripts here—I think they’re quite good. Could you take a look? If they’re chosen, the effect will be excellent.”

“I need to consult my superiors first. Send me the scripts.”

It seemed the person who sent the email was just an employee, needing approval from higher-ups.

But Luo Quan wasn’t in a hurry—she sent the two scripts and waited.

The two scripts were “Not Short of Money” and “Selling Crutches”—both excellent skits.

The first created China’s last truly overnight sensation; the second was one of Zhao’s comedic masterpieces.

She didn’t intend to perform them herself—she just wanted the leadership to see high-quality work; if adopted, it would be great news.

But unfortunately, Luo Quan had imagined things too simply.

Twenty minutes later, the Gala team sent a new email:

“Both skits are good, but they don’t meet the Gala’s requirements.”

“Specifically, they lack educational value, their comedy is superficial, too vulgar, and insufficiently profound or meaningful—so they cannot be performed.”

“Damn it, isn’t a good skit supposed to be funny? Why does it need profundity?”

Seeing this reason, Luo Quan wanted to say “mmp” but held back.

But she knew it wasn’t the team’s fault—who wouldn’t want their work applauded by audiences?

But the truth was, a skit that’s only funny won’t cut it anymore.

As Luo Quan sighed, a second email arrived: the script for her Gala skit, titled “China’s Foreign Daughter-in-Law.”

Just from the title, Luo Quan could already imagine the plot—no guesswork needed.

After reading the character dialogues, she found it matched her expectations exactly.

The plot was this:

The male lead, Xiao Ming, brings home his American wife, Xiao Hong, to meet his parents. A clash ensues between the young woman’s Western openness and the older generation’s conservative values, producing a series of absurd, laughable exchanges.

Xiao Hong argues with her husband over Chinese traditions but later reconciles after being gently guided by the elders.

In the end, the whole family gathers, happily celebrating the New Year together.

In the end, Luo Quan saw the famous New Year reunion slogan:

Dad!

Hmm?

Mom!

Hmm?

Daughter-in-law!

Hmm?

Let’s all… make—dumplings!

Younger audiences might not understand, since they rarely watch the Gala in full—just glance at it, find it boring, and switch channels.

But Luo Quan remembered these lines vividly—every year, even the worst skits always included this line.

Back then, even the worst skits could at least make people laugh before pushing sentimentality and moral values—even if infrequently.

The dumpling line was awkward, but it did convey the warmth of New Year’s Eve.

Now, after audiences grew tired of this formula, seeing similar acts would only make them want to switch channels or fast-forward.

Bad news: if watching live, you can’t fast-forward.

And another bad news: on Gala night, TV channels only show the Gala—switching won’t help.

And from what she knew, these programs usually came with agendas—not just to stir emotion.

Luo Quan reread the script carefully and noticed something.

The male lead’s mother couldn’t go three sentences without mentioning grandchildren—“pressure to have kids” was practically stamped on her face.

Last year it was pressuring marriage; this year it’s pressuring childbirth—progressive, at least.

She never expected to be the one stuck playing this role.

Luo Quan believed that if she were the one having a child with the male lead, male fans would be thrilled.

But if she had to pressure people to have kids on New Year’s Eve, everyone’s mood wouldn’t be pleasant.

At this moment, a flicker of regret rose in her—she thought that if she hadn’t accepted, the role of “foreign daughter-in-law” would’ve gone to Guan Ling or someone else.

But now, refusing was impossible—she’d already agreed; backing out would offend too many people.

Besides, there was still a chance to redeem herself—she had a solo singing slot later; if she sang well, she could still dazzle everyone.

Besides, the skit’s cast wasn’t bad at all: the male lead was Wang Jiaozhu, his father was Shen Teng, his mother was Zhen Ling—these two were among the only two genuinely funny comedians on the Gala in recent years.

Not universally acclaimed, but still far better than most others.

With so many stars together, the scene would be lively—New Year’s is about festivity anyway; no one really takes the skit’s content seriously.

Soon, Luo Quan began discussing her solo song choice with the unknown production team leader.

She had many songs to choose from—she remembered her first Gala appearance, where her song “Blue and White Porcelain” stunned every viewer and dominated trending lists for hours.

This time, even repeating the same tactic wouldn’t be worse than that first stunning moment.

After all, she was prettier now—audiences would only love her more.

But what upset her was that the leadership rejected every song on her list.

Their only reason: not festive enough—they needed a song that could energize the entire audience, making them instinctively tap along.

The lyrics’ depth didn’t matter—only that it conveyed the New Year atmosphere.

So many great songs rejected left Luo Quan frustrated—but hearing their demand, a vengeful thought arose in her mind.

Since you don’t want refined music, I’ll give you something vulgar. If you won’t let me have a good New Year, then no one gets a good New Year—I’ll make this melody haunt your minds forever!

“No problem—I’ll do my best to meet your request, but I need a male singer to help me. I can’t do it alone.”

Luo Quan typed quickly: “I recommend my brother Leon to assist me. He’s one of the most famous foreign stars in China, with consistently excellent reputation—he’s perfect for the Gala stage.”

“This needs further consideration.”

The leader didn’t immediately accept her suggestion—he planned to investigate thoroughly.

That was standard procedure; Luo Quan said nothing more, only replied: “Waiting for your reply.”

After that, there was no further response.

Looking at the email exchange, Luo Quan felt a pang of reflection.

Although nearly all her suggestions failed, at least one thread remained uncertain.

If she and Leon could perform together, it would still be a major draw for her fans.

As for the song she would perform, her fans would never in their wildest dreams guess it.

But she was certain that, with the Spring Festival Gala as its platform, this song would become a nationwide sensation overnight.

In the past, anyone who wanted fame just needed to appear on the Spring Festival Gala.

But in recent years, the Gala’s ability to launch stars or create viral trends had greatly declined.

Luo Quan’s plan was to restore the Gala’s glory, starting with its first divine hit.

Of course, this was merely the ideal scenario.

The song might become popular after its performance on the Gala stage, but whether it could even make it onto the stage remained a huge question mark.

After all, something too refined might not pass, and something too vulgar might not either.

Before approval, no one knew where the review’s bottom line lay.

Just like the two sketch scripts she had just submitted—what excellent comedies!—they were rejected because they were too funny and not profound enough.

The whole thing was itself hilarious.

Sighing, Luo Quan decided not to dwell on it anymore.

In the end, she had been too confident and too reckless, assuming that a good work would automatically be accepted, so she had agreed to the invitation without a second thought.

She hadn’t realized things weren’t that simple—not every good thing could make it onto the stage.

Luo Quan would certainly never make such a mistake again.

As for the Spring Festival Gala, if she got the chance, she was still willing to appear.

After all, it was still China’s highest-rated program.

If she could deliver a brilliant performance, the boost in popularity would far exceed imagination.

Closing her email, Luo Quan opened her livestream.

Because she had woken up early, Luo Quan played with her phone for a long time before going live for her fans.

Even so, most fans were astonished that she had woken up so early on a weekend, working so hard.

What surprised her fans even more was that Luo Quan had actually been awake for a long time—and had woken up naturally, without any effort.

Such sleep quality genuinely earned her widespread, earnest envy.