Chapter 965: Unintentional Planting

For Luo Quan, domestic TV dramas, especially historical ones, were truly out of reach.

In fact, she looked very beautiful in ancient costumes; during past cosplay events, fans called her “Immortal Sister.”

Especially at a previous Mid-Autumn Festival gala, when she appeared in a white fairy dress, netizens immediately exclaimed she was Chang’e descending to earth.

Clearly, audiences held strong approval for Luo Quan’s historical costumes.

But that was only because her natural beauty was exceptional—there was always a sense of dissonance, so Luo Quan was essentially immune to domestic historical dramas.

Modern dramas weren’t out of the question, but she’d never encountered one that moved her.

If anything, the most suitable domestic dramas for her were patriotic ones like Wolf Warrior 2, though the setting would need to be shifted back several decades.

She was suited to portray internationalist female warriors who traveled thousands of miles to China to offer support and aid.

Only such a character archetype would appear entirely plausible.

Unfortunately, nowadays these kinds of TV dramas have become increasingly fantastical, turning into synonyms for “god dramas”; unless assigned by mandate, serious actors rarely take on such projects anymore.

Moreover, compared to films, TV dramas have far longer production cycles and much lower returns.

If a film succeeds, it earns billions in revenue and propels the entire creative team to fame within the industry.

If a TV drama succeeds, it merely trends online for a few months—the revenue from ratings rarely translates as directly as film box office does.

And after a TV drama becomes popular, only the main cast members are likely to gain fame.

You’ve heard of lead actors becoming famous because of TV dramas, but never a director becoming famous because of one.

So she now basically avoids projects like this.

When she first debuted, a British opera group had approached her to star in a TV series.

The novel it was based on was a Western fantasy epic comparable to The Lord of the Rings—A Song of Ice and Fire.

The show’s title was Game of Thrones, taken from the name of the first volume.

When the first season was first being planned, the directing team approached her, wanting her to play Daenerys Targaryen, later known as Mother of Dragons.

At the time, Luo Quan was genuinely tempted—such a massive production, with the lead role, and if luck held, she could become a star overnight.

But after inquiring into the script’s details, she decisively declined the role.

There was no choice: the show’s boundaries were simply too extreme. A Song of Ice and Fire, nicknamed A Song of Kill and Fuck, averaged at least one major female character exposed in each volume.

The first season’s exposed character was Daenerys—such explicitness was completely unacceptable even to Luo Quan today.

The director had told her outright that no such scenes would be altered, so she had no choice but to decline.

It was a pity, yes, but even without those exposure scenes, the show’s brilliance remained unaffected.

But the director insisted on fidelity to the source material—there was nothing to be done.

Since then, no foreign TV productions have approached her.

It could be said that although Luo Quan has achieved considerable success in film, her TV drama career remains unremarkable.

Though there’s ample room for expansion, she has no intention of venturing deeply into it.

Primarily because human energy is limited—she’d rather focus on making great films; as for TV dramas, let Wen Xia and others collaborate with others.

As for her fans, she’s now explained the reasons, and no one pressed further.

After casual chat ended, the livestream moved to its main topic: the Art Olympics.

Since the competition’s announcement, many capital groups have acted as if they’d found the traffic code, launching related variety shows with fairly strong popularity.

But the artists appearing on these programs vary wildly in skill, with few instances of high-level clashes, so their topic appeal is slightly weaker.

Meanwhile, the preliminary rounds are in full swing, and fans have asked Luo Quan whether she’s signed up for any other events besides music.

In fans’ eyes, Luo Quan is a Quanneng athlete—there seems to be nothing she can’t do.

The Art Olympics is the perfect chance to showcase her Quanneng abilities—how could she possibly sign up for music alone?

Some fans even speculated wildly that she’d signed up for all eight art disciplines—quite the imagination.

“How could she possibly sign up for all eight art disciplines?”

Luo Quan immediately refuted this claim: “Even if I’m talented, I’m not that ridiculously talented. Mastering a skill and being able to compete with it are two entirely different things.”

“Don’t overthink it—besides music, I’ve only signed up for oil painting.”

“Of course, within the music category, I’ve signed up for many sub-disciplines—you’ll probably see me often during the competition.”

This statement immediately sparked fan interest:

“You can paint oil paintings too?”

“Impressionist or Fauvist?”

“Classic impressionist or Fauvist—oil painting novices love talking about these two styles.”

“I only knew Luo Quan used to do sketches and had excellent regular script calligraphy.”

“Really?”

“During her speech at Qinghua, she wrote a poem in regular script, and it was collected as the venue’s treasured artifact; many calligraphy masters have said Luo Bao’s regular script is too good to be modern.”

“No way, that’s amazing?”

“Of course—had there been a calligraphy category, Luo Quan would’ve been unbeatable in the regular script division.”

“That’s true, but I didn’t know Luo Bao could paint oil paintings—have you ever seen her paint during livestreams?”

“No, but according to Luo Quan’s dream-world theory, she must’ve already mastered oil painting through dreams in another world—even become a master, maybe.”

“Haha, I think this is just her teasing everyone—how could anyone become a master just by dreaming?”

“To be fair, that’s true.”

………………

Amid netizens’ teasing, Luo Quan smiled confidently: “I’ve never shown you my oil painting skills.”

“But I have too many skills—do I need to publicly announce every time I’m decent at something besides calligraphy and oil painting?”

“You’re showing off.”

“Luo Bao, so cocky—do your family know?”

“Too arrogant—wait till you get home, I’ll teach you a lesson.”

“Back to dreaming again, huh?”

“Forget the alcohol—come on, eat more ceftriaxone.”

………………

Despite Luo Quan’s arrogance, fans’ tolerance level remains high—they’re mostly just joking with her.

But Luo Quan wasn’t joking when she said that.

To fulfill the task assigned by superiors, she specifically exchanged for numerous advanced painting specializations, including several character-binding cards of renowned oil painters.

Leaving oil painting aside for now, the masters she’s bound to for sketching are truly divine figures.

One of them has reached such mastery in oil painting that his works are indistinguishable from reality—so lifelike they rival photos taken by ultra-high-definition cameras.

Beyond looking identical to photographs, the details are terrifyingly precise.

For example, the pills on a sweater, the fine facial hairs, the arm hairs—all visible under magnification in the painting.

Someone might say no matter how realistic a painting is, it can’t match a regular professional camera.

That’s true—but also not true.

In terms of clarity, a painting can’t surpass a photo.

But when a painting approaches a photo infinitely closely, its technical depth reaches the level of art, possessing a breathtaking, almost Dao-like beauty—the result of humanity’s pursuit of limits.

The surrealist painter Luo Quan has bound to has refined this technique to its ultimate peak.

Luo Quan doesn’t know if such paintings will win awards in oil painting competitions, but they’ll certainly provoke awe.

Of course, besides these hyper-realistic oil paintings, she’s also prepared conventional weapons—namely, her original plan: Van Gogh.

This representative of Post-Impressionism is, in most people’s minds, what an artist should look like.

Brilliant yet unrecognized in life, impoverished until death, then posthumously celebrated, his works elevated to timeless treasures.

For Van Gogh, his life was extraordinary yet tragic.

Though today everyone knows he was a great painter, those around him likely didn’t think so.

For a genius, being recognized only after death is a joke.

Because no matter how high the posthumous praise, the artist herself will never know it.

Of course, after replicating his works, Luo Quan won’t face Van Gogh’s fate.

After all, her popularity speaks for itself—even if she painted terribly, a swarm of fans would still meticulously analyze every detail to confirm they hadn’t misjudged.

Moreover, what she’s painting this time is a work destined to cause a sensation.

But fans lack foresight; hearing Luo Quan speak so arrogantly, they thought she might have some talent, but probably not much.

Yet years of being proven wrong have taught them one golden rule when facing Luo Quan: never question her upfront.

Because Luo Quan is a woman governed by causality—whenever questioned, she inevitably delivers a stunning rebuttal; after that, even the most absurd outcomes become ordinary for her.

So fans mainly just tease her—no one seriously doubts her.

“Actually, I think it’s a real pity they didn’t include Peking Opera in this competition.”

Luo Quan looked into the camera and voiced her thought: “As a national treasure, Peking Opera is incredibly captivating, but perhaps due to its many schools and difficulty in establishing unified judging standards, it wasn’t included in this year’s Olympic additions.”

Fans strongly agreed with Luo Quan:

“Exactly—this is a perfect chance to bring Peking Opera to the world.”

“Peking Opera isn’t inferior to Western opera; it just lacks promotion.”

“I’m young and I like Peking Opera, but there aren’t many young people around me who do.”

“By the way, can Luo Bao sing Peking Opera? We only know you can do opera-style singing.”

…………

Luo Quan chuckled: “Do you really think I wouldn’t have mastered this skill?”

Of course I can sing Peking Opera—I remember I once did a Peking Opera cosplay; once my face was covered in makeup, there was no such thing as mismatched vibes.

That statement is perfectly true; when Luo Quan did her Peking Opera cosplay, it caused quite a stir.

But not in China—abroad.

Foreigners were stunned by Luo Quan’s mysterious and beautiful makeup; she used this opportunity to greatly boost Peking Opera’s popularity overseas.

Unfortunately, that surge of attention lasted only a few days; without follow-up promotion, it quickly faded into silence.

After discussing art, the conversation returned to Luo Quan’s earlier mention of “Dawn Era.”

Just now, she recommended the film to her fans, but when they asked whether she planned to watch it in theaters, her reply was:

“Where would I even find the time to go to the cinema right now? I can save common info here for easy sending—I’ll decide later. Right now, streaming for you is the priority.”

At first glance, it sounded touching, but somehow it felt suspicious that her own brother wouldn’t rush to see the movie on opening day.

Could the film really be that bad—so bad that even her sister didn’t want to support it in theaters?

Because life is precious; when a movie is bad enough, it’s not worth spending money or time on it.

With this suspicion, fans immediately pressed further, and many even threatened to demand refunds.

“Whoa, are you even being reasonable?”

Luo Quan sighed helplessly: “I was recommending it to fans of the original novel and my own fans—the overlap—not just my fans. How can you say I’m scamming you?”

Besides, I haven’t even seen the movie myself—how would I know if it’s good or terrible? Everyone can find out once they go watch it.”

After this explanation, the heated comments in the chat finally calmed down.

And due to this little incident, “Dawn Era” climbed to the trending list.

Fans who had already pre-purchased tickets wouldn’t cancel just because of this baseless speculation.

As Luo Quan said: only when you put the horse to the test can you tell if it’s a steed or a donkey.

So far, only the trailer has been released; whether it’s a flop, only the director truly knows.

This sudden trending boosted “Dawn Era” with one final wave of pre-sales, pushing it to 200 million.

As a commercial film, its pre-sale target had already been exceeded; the director and cast all posted on Weibo to celebrate this big win.

Leon didn’t post—he just liked their posts.

His thought was: 200 million? That’s not even worth a special Weibo post to celebrate.

To really excite him, the box office would have to reach the level of “Forrest Gump” or “Titanic.”

By the way, “Avatar 2” is coming out soon—I wonder if this long-awaited epic can break the record set by “Titanic.”

Anyway, tonight’s premiere is coming—its final performance is still worth anticipating.

But Leon didn’t hold out much hope.