Chapter 964: A Television Genre Yet to Be Explored

You need to sleep early to wake up early—don’t see me up this early and think you should follow suit to watch the livestream. Our schedules are different; I’ve had my rest, but you might not have.

Seeing so many fans posting messages this early, Luo Quan kindly reminded them.

Whether they listened or not was unknown, but after she said that, the messages didn’t decrease—they increased.

Luo Quan said to rest well and avoid staying up late.

Then fans replied that Luo Bao was their Red Bull—just seeing her made them feel wide awake.

That was hard to refute; Luo Quan smiled and let it go.

“By the way, what’s Luo Bao planning next? Any new plans?”

“Didn’t you say you were going to shoot a tragic movie?”

“That’s next year’s plan—aren’t there still two months left this year?”

“Just stay home and livestream for us then. No plan is the best plan.”

“By the way, Luo Bao hasn’t done any cosplay in a long time—there are quite a few hot anime lately, you should consider it.”

“I haven’t watched any anime on Bilibili in ages—what’s good right now?”

“The hottest one you can see is Star Aniya; the one you can’t see is Bleach.”

“Bilibili’s anime lineup is shrinking, and the review process is getting stricter.”

“But Aniya is genuinely adorable.”

“You can’t seriously expect Luo Bao to cosplay Aniya, can you?”

“Cosplay Bleach instead—there are so many beautiful female characters there, pick any one and it’s iconic.”

“To be honest, even though Luo Bao’s figure is already top-tier, it still falls short compared to the busts in Bleach.”

“Obviously—how can real people compare to manga? Every female character in Bleach is an H-cup.”

“Damn, now that you guys are talking like that, I actually want to watch this anime.”

“Haha, total LSP.”

“Let me reiterate—I’m not old!”

………………

Early in the morning, fans launched a heated discussion about who Luo Quan should cosplay, mentioning two recently popular anime.

As a longtime otaku, Luo Quan had been exposed to anime culture for a long time, but she hadn’t watched many series.

Among the three most famous shonen manga—One Piece, Naruto, and Bleach—she loved them all.

She had already cosplayed One Piece, and sung the theme songs for Naruto twice, but she’d never touched Bleach.

So maybe she should cosplay a female character from Bleach?

But as fans pointed out, every female character in Bleach had a massive bust—she’d have to think carefully.

Still, her hair color suited either Matsumoto Rangiku or Hiyori Sajin (a character with very large breasts, like Tsunade from Naruto)—both were among her favorite female characters in Bleach, and both belonged to the “busty” type, beloved by fans.

Compared to Hiyori Sajin, Matsumoto Rangiku was easier to cosplay—she’d basically just need one outfit.

But Hiyori Sajin would require many props…

Seeing Luo Quan fall silent, fans began asking:

“Luo Bao, why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Did you get too tired from waking up so early?”

“If you’re sleepy, go back to sleep—it’s not embarrassing to nap at this hour.”

“How can you even sleep? At your age, you can still sleep?”

“Please don’t tease.”

………………

Seeing the fans’ concern, Luo Quan laughed: “Aren’t you the ones who wanted me to do cosplay? I’m just thinking which Bleach character to pick.”

Instantly, the chat exploded:

“Holy shit, Luo Bao, you’re serious?!”

“Then I’m not pretending to be a gentleman anymore—please cosplay Kurotsuchi Mayuri! (PS: a little girl from Bleach)”

“Friend, you’re really cruel.”

“That’s how Bilibili works—this whole industrial sector is tightly controlled.”

“I just spend money—I’m not doing silver or copper stuff.”

“Police: Keep talking, I’m listening…”

“Stop all the fancy stuff—just go with Rangiku.”

“But Luo Bao’s still a bit of a mismatch. (lol.jpg)”

………………

Fans tossed out suggestions one after another, helping Luo Quan plan her cosplay.

But cosplay isn’t something you can just do on a whim—it takes time to prepare, so no one would see it tonight.

After restarting the livestream, Luo Quan remained very active.

Between singing sessions and cosplay, fans were thrilled—and for her, neither was overly exhausting, a balanced arrangement that satisfied both sides.

“Alright, let’s put the big promises aside—let’s see what news is happening today.”

As she spoke, Luo Quan opened Weibo on her computer.

Her name was still number one; number two was the news that Dong Ge had become China’s top philanthropist.

But charity was clearly not today’s real headline—the real news was that the Spring Festival Gala was beginning preparations.

Rumor had it that this year, to reverse last year’s ratings slump, the Gala planned to invite several legendary stars who rarely appeared on stage anymore, for a nostalgic reunion.

With nothing substantial to dig into, they’d rely purely on star power.

This year’s theme, described as “nostalgia,” was absolutely fitting.

Old songs going viral, retired stars making comebacks—this proved today’s netizens were sentimental, and when memories of youth surged, the resulting enthusiasm was staggering.

Thus, “nostalgia” became this year’s most prominent keyword.

But in Luo Quan’s view, nostalgia wasn’t the cause—it was the result.

The main reason was that the domestic entertainment industry was too weak—newcomers had zero appeal, even boring audiences, leaving no choice but to return to old stars.

If the new product wasn’t bad, who would go back to the old one?

That analogy fit the entertainment industry perfectly.

With no alternatives, wasn’t nostalgia the only option?

Of course, as a current top star, nostalgia had little to do with Luo Quan.

With her prime still in full swing, she’d only go out of fashion if she vanished from the industry and disappeared into the mountains for ten years.

Only total disappearance could make her fade.

Even in the first two years, she wouldn’t fade—everyone would go mad searching for her, rumors flying everywhere.

But time always fades everything; within a few years, new faces would replace the old.

So if possible, she hoped she’d never be categorized as “nostalgic.”

One thing was certain: this year’s Gala would invite many stars.

Not the current Weibo-fueled pretty boys, but true powerhouses.

Though many would be older—certainly forty or above.

Yet these stars often had fiercely loyal fans; seeing them perform again would guarantee high ratings.

The only question now was: which veteran stars would appear on the Gala?

After all, many programs claimed huge budgets and big-name invitations before launch.

But in the end, only a handful actually showed up.

Of course, the Spring Festival Gala wouldn’t be this shabby—it would definitely attract big names; whether it could gather a true constellation of stars depended on future announcements.

Currently, the Gala was likely still in the application phase—even the production team didn’t know exactly who they could invite, but it was clear they were determined to put on a great show.

Then it came to Luo Quan.

Both fans and netizens desperately hoped to see Luo Quan on the Gala.

Her first Gala appearance had been so successful, her look so stunning—yet she’d only performed once. It was truly a pity.

Last year and the year before had excuses for her absence—surely this year she wouldn’t be too busy again?

So as soon as news about the Gala surfaced, fans flooded her livestream asking for her stance.

“How am I supposed to respond to this?”

Seeing the chat, Luo Quan feigned helplessness: “The Gala’s production team decides who to invite—it’s not like you can just say you want to go and get in.”

“And if I say I want to go, and fans get excited and pressure the organizers, and I end up not being invited—it’ll be a joke.”

This statement was remarkably rational and objective; fans agreed it made sense.

After all, aside from the show “I Want to Be on the Spring Festival Gala,” no one had ever gotten in just by saying so on a livestream.

It could only be said that Luo Quan’s current fame and image meant the Gala would seriously consider her—if she showed interest.

Provided fans didn’t try to force the Gala’s hand through public pressure.

Like during the Monkey Year Gala—when Teacher Liu hadn’t yet been disgraced.

As the world’s best monkey performer, and a childhood memory for countless Chinese, netizens rallied behind him, urging the Gala to invite him.

Back then, Teacher Liu was still a virtuous, respected artist, with the Monkey King filter and unmatched public support—dozens of trending topics bombarded the Gala’s production team daily.

But the production team held firm, refusing to invite him despite the pressure.

Because of this, the Monkey Year Gala was heavily criticized for a long time.

But after the exposure of the funeral hall selling pirated films and the “two-flower” scandal, Six Teacher’s filter was completely shattered, and the fact that he wasn’t invited to the Monkey Year Spring Festival Gala finally reversed public opinion.

Whether the director team deliberately excluded Six Teacher due to his poor character or simply refused to be swayed by public opinion remains unknown.

In any case, after this incident, netizens learned one truth: no matter how loud the outcry, it cannot influence the Spring Festival Gala.

So whether Luo Quan can appear depends entirely on the director team’s own judgment.

“Of course, I’m free at the end of this year—if there’s an opportunity, I definitely want to go, so fans, please be patient.”

Luo Quan gave a deliberately ambiguous reply.

In truth, she had already made her decision, but such matters certainly couldn’t be revealed in advance, so she pretended to be open to an invitation that hadn’t yet arrived.

The fans never expected this girl with such a straightforward face could act so convincingly—indeed, as Zhang Wuji’s mother once said, the more beautiful the woman, the better she is at deceiving.

“By the way.”

Luo Quan suddenly remembered something: “Tonight, Leon’s film ‘The Dawn Era’ is premiering. Fans who love this novel can go watch it—it’s said the adaptation is remarkably faithful.”

“By the way, how many people in our live stream have read this book? If you have, type ‘1’ in the chat.”

As soon as she finished speaking, the chat exploded with a sea of “1111111.”

“I read it as a child—I loved it back then, but now, looking back, some of the plot points feel awkward.”

“It’s fine for a bit of fun, but if you take it seriously, the book is full of nonsense.”

“It perfectly captures how the poor imagine the lives of the rich—classic example: using a golden hoe to till the soil.”

“If Leon’s in it, I’ll watch—even if it’s a trash film, I’ll accept it.”

“As long as there are handsome guys and beautiful girls, it’s visually pleasing. Frankly, China’s current commercial films are even more boring than the old art-house ones. With a cast this good-looking, even a terrible plot is worth a glance.”

“Provided the ticket price isn’t too high.”

“Now there’s a movie subsidy—each ticket is only 30 yuan. You won’t lose money by buying it.”

………………

There were still many female fans in the chat—they weren’t just fans of Luo Quan, but also of Leon.

Meanwhile, girls around twenty were the largest readership group for ‘The Dawn Era’ back then.

The pre-sale box office for the film was released last night, exceeding one hundred million yuan—a very strong result.

On one hand, there were many original novel fans eager to complete their youth.

On the other hand, the film’s trailer was extremely deceptive: several handsome guys and beautiful girls took turns on screen, their visuals enhanced by heavy filters, making the scenes lavish and ethereal, saturated with opulent decadence.

Uninformed bystanders were easily fooled by such imagery.

Director Ming may not be great at storytelling, but his control over visual composition was undeniably strong—the scenes looked beautiful.

Of course, how poorly the story was told is another matter entirely.

Overall, ‘The Dawn Era’ won tremendous pre-release attention through its high-budget production and an ensemble of high-appeal stars.

But once audiences actually entered theaters and watched it, they’d likely realize it was a beautifully packaged plastic flower.

It looked decent on the surface, but in reality, it was nothing like that.

Still, this was Leon’s first work in China, and as his older sister, she should support him.

But she had no intention of misleading her fans into spending money—she merely suggested that fans who loved the novel could go watch it.

After all, with the original novel’s fan filter in place, tolerance for its absurd plotlines would be much higher.

If viewers accepted the ridiculous plot and character designs, the film would still be acceptable.

But then again, if you strip away plot and character design, a film has little left.

“Luo Bao, why have you been in the industry so long but never acted in a TV drama? You only appeared this year in ‘One Below,’ and even then as a minor supporting role with barely any screen time.”

At that moment, a paid comment appeared at the top of the chat. Luo Quan smiled upon seeing it:

“In the past, production teams did approach me—I could have picked any lead role.”

“But can you imagine a foreign face playing the Empress of China or a fairy maiden?”

Luo Quan sighed helplessly: “There’s nothing I can do—I look like this, so my roles are naturally limited.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to act—it’s that I genuinely can’t.”