Chapter 967: The Land Always Produces Talented People

In China, if a film is made purely for its story without regard to whether the values it conveys are correct, it will likely fail censorship.

Fortunately, the values of “The Dawn Era” are merely about money; materialism isn’t a grave sin, certainly better than murderers and arsonists escaping punishment.

Just after Luo Quan analyzed why “The Dawn Era” succeeded, Director Ming stepped forward to respond to online controversies about the film.

He admitted the plot had many weak spots, but he had done his best, accepted criticism, and promised the sequel would be more serious, striving to present a better story to everyone.

Because his attitude was genuinely sincere—not stubborn, but quick to admit fault—just this attitude already surpassed countless stars facing similar situations.

So Director Ming’s move earned him a significant wave of goodwill.

As for the sequel he mentioned, it’s estimated to arrive next year.

With “The Dawn Era 1” achieving such high box office numbers, a sequel is already a done deal.

Whether they can still get Leon is unclear to Director Ming, but he will offer Leon a price he cannot refuse.

Unlike his sister, Leon needs to boost Universal’s performance metrics; if a billionaire is willing to pay a huge sum, even if he knows it’s a terrible film, he’ll take it anyway.

Earning money isn’t shameful.

As for Luo Quan, she is her own boss; no one can force her, and she chooses roles purely based on interest and passion.

She hasn’t yet decided what kind of role she wants to play; as for the previously planned “Disappearing into Dust and Smoke,” she plans to entrust it to Wen Xia, just like with “Forrest Gump”—she’ll still direct it herself.

To better embody this role, Wen Xia has canceled all variety shows and TV appearances, spending her days at home searching for and observing related videos.

After returning to Chongqing early next year, she will further observe how local farmers work and live their daily lives; only after seeing the real situation can she know how to portray it.

No one can perform what they fundamentally don’t understand; many films and TV dramas are criticized for absurd plots because the characters’ states are completely detached from reality, ignorant of human suffering.

Although both Wen Xia and Luo Quan come from single-parent families with modest means, they are still far better off than the male and female leads in the film’s setting.

So to portray the effect of impoverished couples enduring endless hardships, she needs long-term observation and study.

Fortunately, Luo Quan isn’t in a hurry and has given her ample time.

This is mainly because the filming method of “Disappearing into Dust and Smoke” is unusual: except for the female lead, all other roles are played by local farmers.

Even the male lead is a complete novice with no prior film experience, yet his acting is surprisingly excellent.

Perhaps only real farmers can truly portray a farmer.

Since most characters and content are drawn from local sources, the preparation for “Disappearing into Dust and Smoke” won’t be especially complex.

Of course, all of this will happen after the Spring Festival.

For young fans living in the present, they never delay their joy for long.

Previously, Luo Quan promised to do a COD play, but she delayed it under the excuse of not having a cosplay outfit.

Although not much time has passed since her promise, fans are already eager for her to fulfill it.

Yet they understand her temperament: nothing can be rushed; they must ask gently, or they risk triggering her defiance.

So despite their impatience, fans pretended not to care much and asked casually: “Has the cosplay costume been unpacked?” or “What cosplay?”

“You didn’t mention it, I almost forgot—the outfit arrived last night.”

Luo Quan scratched her head sheepishly: “Since it’s here, why wait? I’ll cosplay for you right now—let me turn off the camera first.”

With that, the livestream vanished.

Saying she turned off the camera was actually shutting down the entire system.

Many streamers mistakenly think they’ve turned off their camera or microphone, then, in full view of everyone, turn themselves into “Streamer XX Scandal.”

Luo Quan won’t make the same mistake—she took the root cause approach: shutting down and unplugging the network.

She can’t guarantee whether the camera was truly off, but she can guarantee her computer is completely disconnected from the outside world.

Ever since Apple’s series of phones were hacked and data stolen, Luo Quan has been cautious: any electronic device storing important files is never connected to the internet.

Of course, these were her early methods; since Yuni Jinna designed her firewall, she no longer worries about such things.

Now, she does it purely to avoid unexpected incidents—better safe than sorry.

Taking off clothes is always easier than putting them on; Luo Quan turned on the air conditioner’s heating and studied herself in the mirror for a long time.

Cosplay outfits are far more complex than regular clothes; after putting them on, you must carefully check and compare, otherwise you won’t know whether exposed areas are meant to be sexy or simply misworn—above all, no embarrassing mistakes.

The good news is, this time she’s cosplaying Matsumoto Rangiku—the outfit is relatively simple, resembling a Japanese samurai robe, just with a more open collar.

Of course, Luo Quan bought the special edition designed for China’s National Day.

The collar is open—but not fully open.

If worn by the manga character’s body type, the effect would cause the livestream to crash within ten minutes—completely unapproved.

But when she put it on, it was perfectly balanced, showing exactly what “a storm is coming, wind fills the tower, dark clouds press the city, ready to crush it!”

After checking the mirror and confirming no flaws, Luo Quan rebooted her computer and returned to the livestream.

Luo Quan remembered the livestream had only one million viewers when she shut it down; now it had surged to over two million, likely all drawn by the news.

When fans saw the character Luo Quan was cosplaying, they burst into exclamations:

“Holy crap!”

“How come this is happening now?”

“We really underestimated you.”

“Only Luo Quan can cosplay this role—no other star has this vibe.”

“No surprise—domestic female stars are all airport models; how can they compare to Mount Everest?”

………………

Excellent cosplay often needs only the simplest outfit; despite lacking flashy designs, Luo Quan’s faithful portrayal earned universal praise.

She then sat before the camera and began tonight’s livestream.

………………

“So is the recent theme poetry and literature?”

Luo Quan originally planned to chat casually with fans, or share odd stories from home and abroad.

But they kept urging her to write poems and lyrics, leaving her baffled.

Music and literature belong to entirely different fields, hard to cross-pollinate; yet fans firmly believed she must have poetic talent—otherwise, why were her lyrics so good?

Their enthusiasm stemmed from a new hit variety show on Channel One: “China Poetry Conference.”

Initially, the show featured a group of young people answering poetry questions: the host recited the first half-line, and they had to recite the second half, testing reading volume and memory.

Meanwhile, literary experts among the guests explained certain poems; this educational yet entertaining format received unanimous praise from young viewers.

To add novelty, “China Poetry Conference” recently introduced a segment where viewers’ submitted works are read aloud at the end of each episode.

This segment instantly ignited netizens’ creative passion.

For those who love literature, inspiration often sparks creation—but their works remain solitary, a waste.

“China Poetry Conference” gave them a chance to showcase themselves to the public; seeing their work aired and praised by guests and audiences brought immense satisfaction.

Many of Luo Quan’s fans are loyal viewers of this show and hope their own creations will shine on it, enjoying everyone’s admiration.

But realistically, most lack such literary talent, so they pinned their hopes on Luo Quan.

They wanted her to write a poem for the show to show off—then, as fans, they’d feel proud too, as if they’d written it themselves.

So they pressed her, eager to see if she had such talent.

After all, she’d never claimed she could paint, yet still entered competitions—suggesting she has many hidden skills; perhaps poetry was one of them?

This was the fans’ clever plan.

Facing their pleas, Luo Quan sighed: “Where did this competitive urge come from? You can’t do it yourselves, so you want me to do it for you? That’s ridiculous!”

She sounded like she was refusing, but quickly added: “Still, since you’ve sincerely asked, I’ll reluctantly show you my long-buried talent—Bankai!”

As she spoke, Luo Quan suddenly shouted the most frequently used line from “Bleach,” in full otaku mode.

Think of it like “Ninjutsu!” in “Naruto,” or “Gum-Gum…” in “One Piece”—it’s the activation chant; without it, the power halves.

Over-enthusiastic, Luo Quan immediately drew mockery from fans:

“Are you trying to be awkward?”

“That’s how we 2D otaku are—I’m one too.”

“What’s a self-destruct truck?”

“Luo Bao seems smart, but sometimes she’s silly—adorably silly.”

“I want to see what your Bankai can unlock.”

“Solution: From the problem, we derive…”

“Haha, you understand math exams.”

“Deserve a little effort credit.”

………………

Amid fans’ off-topic chatter, Luo Quan went to her study and placed writing brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone on the table.

Though she rarely used them, her home still kept them.

After all, the house had too many rooms—plenty of space for random clutter.

“Come on, I’ll also show you my calligraphy,” Luo Quan said, beginning to grind ink.

After grinding for a while, she smiled at the camera: “If this video goes online, they’ll call me a ‘calligraphy beauty.’”

“My advice: the more yuans like you, the better.”

“Clothing and skill are unrelated; Bilibili has many UPs who play piano in tight clothes—we still call them female bodhisattvas.”

“Hahaha, if female bodhisattvas are here, Luo Bao’s skill must make her a female Buddha.”

“Wrong—Luo Bao cultivates the Dao; she should be called a fairy.”

“Luo Bao cultivates the Dao?”

“Luo Bao once said she studied some related knowledge—nothing formal, just casual.”

“Alright, another Dao Yuan identity added.”

“What? Monks can touch you, but I can’t?”

………………

Faced with fans’ wildly jumping comments, Luo Quan didn’t even know how to respond—sure enough, the more people there were, the more nonsense appeared; each one was ridiculously funny.

After grinding the ink, Luo Quan spread out the rice paper, pressed it down with a small seal, then lifted her brush and dipped it in ink.

After a deep breath, she swept her brush across the paper, ink penetrating deep through the fibers; three square, precise regular script characters appeared on the right side of the paper, as neat as computer-typed text.

“Ding Feng Bo!”

Fans repeated these three characters in live comments, while also voicing their confusion:

“Strange name—why call it Ding Feng Bo?”

“I only know of Fu Bo General.”

“Uneducated—Ding Feng Bo is a ci tune name.”

“If you don’t know, ask—what’s a ci tune name?”

“Just as poems have five-character and seven-character forms, ci also has its own structures, each distinguished by a different tune name.”

“Curious what Luo Bao will write.”

………………

At first, fans were enthusiastically discussing, but soon the live comments grew sparse.

As Luo Quan penned one beautiful character after another, the full poem finally revealed itself before everyone’s eyes.

“Don’t listen to the rain drumming through the bamboo leaves—why not chant and stroll slowly? Bamboo staff, straw sandals, lighter than a horse—who fears? A single straw cloak, I let the misty rain of life pass.”

“The chilly spring wind wakes me from wine, slightly cold, yet slanting sunlight on the hill greets me. I turn back to where the wind and rain once howled—go home. No storm, no clear sky.”

After finishing, Luo Quan checked for any misspelled characters.

Finding no flaws, she picked up the seal, blew on it, then pressed it directly onto the paper.

Soon, her name appeared in the lower-left corner of the rice paper.

At that moment, Xiao Yu leapt up, staring intently at Luo Quan, as if saying: Shouldn’t this be my job?

I got here first, and I’m perfectly suited to stamp.

Luo Quan sensed Xiao Yu’s resentment, smiled, and stroked its head, placing the ink pad before it: “I know you love stamping—here, it’s your turn.”

“That’s more like it!” Xiao Yu purred contentedly, extending a paw and pressing down.