Chapter 976: Where Would I Find the Time?

“But…”

Luo Quan said so much, but all of it before was nonsense.

“But I don’t have the time,” Luo Quan counted out her pale, slender fingers, looking into the camera. “I’m about to release a new album, shoot a new movie, occasionally film commercials, and plan a new game—plus I need to rest. Figure out how much time’s left.”

She yawned lazily: “Even though I shoot movies fast, I can’t just drop everything and start. Especially sci-fi films take far longer to produce due to special effects. So if you’re hoping to see me make a good sci-fi movie anytime soon, it’s nearly impossible.”

This speech doused the fans’ high expectations with a bucket of cold water.

Though it hurt to hear, it was the truth.

But to keep her fans from being too disheartened, Luo Quan paused and promised: “Still, don’t lose heart—sci-fi films have always been something I wanted to make, and I’ll definitely deliver one next year or the year after.”

Whether it can save Chinese-language sci-fi cinema? That’s beyond our control. Maybe another domestic sci-fi film will emerge during that time, making my intervention unnecessary.”

This kind of vague promise wasn’t the first time Luo Quan had made it.

But the promises Luo Quan made differed from others’—others issued empty checks freely, and few ever cashed them.

Luo Quan never made promises lightly, but once spoken, she always kept them.

For example, she once joked that if fans crowdfunded her one hundred million U.S. dollars, she’d shoot a swimsuit photo book for them.

She never actually expected such an impossible goal to be reached, but netizens actually raised the full amount—so she kept her word and immediately flew to the Maldives to shoot a swimsuit photo book that made people go wild.

At the time, just after her debut, her online reputation wasn’t nearly as good as now; many were watching her, waiting for her to slip up so they could crush her in one blow.

Shooting a swimsuit photo book was extremely risky—it could easily label her as “unserious,” devastating her reputation.

But Luo Quan didn’t overthink it; she simply believed a person must keep their word, so even knowing it would spark controversy, she went ahead and shot it.

And not only did she shoot it, she shot it extremely well, fully satisfying her fans’ demands.

From then on, she learned a lesson: never casually make promises or set flags.

Since she’d now made this promise to her fans, she naturally wouldn’t go back on her word—everyone just needed to wait patiently.

Two years at most—that’s the normal production cycle for a sci-fi epic.

“By the way, you just mentioned a new game?”

A fan quickly noticed this detail—Luo Quan had mentioned during her list of pending projects that a game was in development.

Since Overwatch and Resident Evil were released, Blizzard has been silent.

Though both online games continue updating, for many gamers suffering from video game impotence, playing the same game for too long easily breeds boredom.

And once this symptom appears, interest in other games quickly fades too.

The most direct sign is when you buy a new game, excitedly downloading and installing it with high anticipation.

But the moment you open it and enter the tutorial, all interest vanishes instantly, leaving only emptiness and boredom.

Staring at the character on screen, at the keyboard and mouse outside, you wonder: what’s the point of playing? Where’s the motivation?

Eventually you shut it down and start searching for the next game that might spark interest, repeating the cycle.

Many people have experienced this video game impotence, but because there are so many games on the market, it rarely lasts long.

But Blizzard fans have now been spoiled—their tastes are refined, and ordinary games no longer appeal to them; theoretically, they’re even more prone to this condition.

So hearing Luo Quan say she’s making a new game, they were wildly excited, flooding her with questions about its genre and scale.

Luo Quan considered what she could reveal and said: “It’s a multi-platform game playable on PC, PS, and mobile, with an anime art style, focused on open-world exploration and gacha mechanics.”

She was still honest, directly putting the gacha mechanic on the table.

Fans reacted strongly to this element:

“Gacha? Luo Bao, you’ve changed—you’re no longer the ethical planner I knew.”

“Don’t do this! How is this different from those unethical domestic game companies?”

“Of course—the dragon slayer always becomes the dragon. Gacha mobile games are the true destiny.”

“I instantly lost interest.”

……………

Given the damage caused by domestic gacha online games, fans’ resistance was understandable.

After all, most domestic online and mobile games operate on the strategy that paying equals power, greedily draining players’ savings while feeding them nothing but garbage.

How could people not resent this?

So when they heard Luo Quan was making a gacha mobile game, their first reaction was that she’d fallen from grace—and they immediately protested, urging her not to go down this path.

Luo Quan knew what her fans were thinking and explained: “My new game has no PvP or social features—most of the time, it’s just like a single-player game, you play alone.”

“The gacha content only unlocks characters and weapons—it enhances your experience and satisfies your xp, but you can still dominate the game without them.”

“Most importantly, the resources needed to pull characters aren’t just bought with money—you can earn them for free through plenty of in-game activities.”

“So if you manage your resources well and have a bit of luck, even a zero-spender can own many characters.”

“Lastly, this game doesn’t sell stats or feature leaderboards—you don’t need to pay to keep up with others.”

In short, if you want to, this game is completely free.”

…………

Luo Quan said all that just to make it clear to her fans: even though this new game resembles traditional gacha games, you can still play through it without spending a cent.

Fans rarely heard of such a free game, so their anger gradually calmed.

But as everyone knows, the free things are often the most expensive.

So while the game claims to be free, it’s likely to be just as costly when you start spending—details will only be clear after the A-test.

“The game is still in intense development—you’ll have to wait a while before you can play.”

Luo Quan took a sip of hot water to moisten her throat: “We haven’t even started the A-test yet. After that comes B-test, C-test—earliest you’ll see it is next year. Until then, stick with World of Warcraft and Overwatch.”

She’d drawn another big pie, but this one was meant to be hidden—she’d just accidentally let it slip.

The online backlash against Shanghai Fortress continues; netizens are determined to nail it to the shame pole and prevent similar trash films from ever appearing on the big screen again.

Now, anyone who dares speak up for Shanghai Fortress is instantly labeled a troll or a brain-dead fan, then mobbed by netizens.

Though this overreaction is somewhat extreme, sometimes extreme environments yield better results.

Like R-Hua—many Chinese think a gesture, expression, or appearance isn’t a big deal, not worth making such a fuss, and that it makes Chinese people seem overly sensitive and petty.

But Luo Quan thinks: if you know we’re sensitive, why do you still touch it? Isn’t that asking for it?

And we must be sensitive and petty, so the world knows where China’s red line lies.

Just like Black people—look at celebrities and big corporations: who dares make Black people perform eating watermelon, picking cotton, or eating fried chicken?

Because those things are absolute taboos for Black people—touch them and protests erupt—so no one dares.

Now people think Chinese people reacting the same way is just being sensitive and petty—it’s pure double standards.

If every Chinese person were this “big-hearted,” foreigners would grow bolder and bolder in mocking China.

So overreaction is necessary.

The same applies to the film market—make investors know what audiences taboo: touch it, and we’ll make you pay.

Shanghai Fortress and The Ferryman are the best examples—each lost over 500 million yuan; any future similar film will face the same fate.

If this method can change the Chinese-language film market, then this overreaction and sensitivity is effectively a public service.

While netizens were denouncing Shanghai Fortress, Luo Quan was negotiating a new contract with Chanel.

In 2016, shortly after her debut, she signed a five-year global endorsement deal with Chanel.

During that time, through her celebrity influence, she brought Chanel massive sales and visibility.

In return, Chanel paid only ten million U.S. dollars per year plus a few outfits—ridiculously cheap.

Now, though her contract with Chanel still has over half a year left, Chanel had to urgently contact her to discuss renewal.

Why the rush? Because LV reportedly wants her desperately—LV’s CEO even publicly declared he’d offer her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

It’s worth noting the context in which LV’s CEO made that statement.

The global economy is declining, stock markets are volatile, and for both financial titans and ordinary investors, gains and losses can happen overnight.

Recently, the world’s richest man—the Tesla CEO—due to his aggressive remarks, saw his company’s stock drop and his personal fortune fall, slipping from first to second place.

The new number one? The CEO of LV.

Note that LV here doesn’t just mean Louis Vuitton—it’s one brand under the LVMH Group, which also owns Dior, Hennessy, Givenchy, and others.

This conglomerate has long held the throne as the world’s top luxury company, and its CEO has always been a regular in the top ten of global wealth rankings.

Now, amid economic downturn, luxury spending has risen, not fallen, with sales hitting record highs.

Taking advantage of Tesla’s CEO’s plummeting fortune, LV’s CEO seized the moment to become the world’s richest man—and used it for brilliant marketing.

Luo Quan was both the marketing prop and a primary target.

As the world’s hottest star, her four-year impact on Chanel’s brand value has been visible to everyone inside and outside the industry.

If LV could sign her, even if it didn’t match Chanel’s gains, it would still secure massive boosts.

Chanel has monopolized this human billboard for five years—enough. It’s LV’s turn now.

So LV’s CEO directly expressed on Twitter his desire to sign Luo Quan.

Normally, in business, openly declaring interest in a product is irrational—it invites hoarding and price gouging.

But Luo Quan’s value is so high that LV is desperate to secure her.

And since she’s famously bad at checking emails, if LV’s offer got lost and she chose Chanel or another luxury brand, LV couldn’t accept that.

So LV’s CEO chose to announce early his company’s desire for her, using Twitter to make a big splash so she’d definitely see it.

Now Luo Quan has seen it—but so have the others.

Chanel, sensing crisis, immediately contacted Luo Quan to negotiate a new deal, ready to pay a huge sum to keep her.

They’ve had four years of smooth cooperation; Chanel gave Luo Quan countless advantages, and both sides got what they wanted.

Logically, such a harmonious relationship should have led to a seamless renewal.

But for Chanel’s annual fifty million U.S. dollar endorsement fee, Luo Quan thought it was too low.

With her current influence, a signing fee exceeding a hundred million is perfectly normal; she was certain LV’s offer wouldn’t be lower than fifty million U.S. dollars.

But Chanel wasn’t as wealthy as LV; its offer could never be that outrageous, so falling short of her expectations was perfectly normal.

Therefore, Luo Quan rejected Chanel’s offer.

It wasn’t that Chanel lacked sincerity—it was that she wanted more.

When it came to earning money from luxury brands, she had zero psychological reservations; of course she aimed to earn as much as possible.

Even when she earned ten million a year, she never slacked off; by her second year, her value had already far exceeded the advertising fee.

So now, demanding better terms was entirely reasonable.