Chapter 985

“Hahaha, this little girl is quite interesting.” The show’s director laughed heartily behind the scenes.

If failing to spark a reaction once was an accident, twice meant no talent, but doing it this many times has become pure entertainment value.

Everyone knew Li He was trying to give Luo Quan topics to work with, yet she refused to take any of them—this awkward, stage-clown-like behavior contrasted sharply with her brilliant performance earlier, enhancing her charm instead.

No one knew whether this was deliberate or completely unconscious, but it undeniably achieved the show’s desired effect—just not in the way Li He had expected.

The director watched the whole thing with a grin; viewers outside the screen likely wore the same expression, all seeing Luo Quan as a uniquely odd newcomer.

These days, beautiful men and women are everywhere; unless you reach the level of Chu Yueyan or Xu Yanqing, it’s nearly impossible to leave a lasting impression with looks alone.

The human brain processes so much information daily; to avoid overload, unimportant people and events are quickly discarded as trash.

Only the most “essential” parts are retained—and Luo Quan, whose looks and figure aren’t top-tier, gained the chance to be remembered as essential through the contrast between her brilliance and her absurdity.

Of course, Li He also remembered Luo Quan—because she was the hardest new artist he’d ever guided, utterly lacking in chemistry, never cooperating with him.

But she’s a newcomer; you can’t expect too much. Fortunately, the other nine were all veterans, and none of them repeated Luo Quan’s behavior—but none of their performances reached her level either.

Viewers couldn’t help but sigh: nature truly is fair—it gives one person something, and takes something else away.

Though Luo Quan’s looks fall short of theirs, her artistic talent is undeniably high; her future prospects are certainly bright.

After the performance, Li He posed for photos surrounded by ten stunning beauties, instantly becoming the number-one target of envy and jealousy among online viewers.

“I had no idea you had such insane songwriting talent!” Outside the studio, Bai Xingwei was even more excited than Luo Quan.

She’d clapped the hardest during the performance, and now that filming was over, she still looked utterly captivated.

"I told you—I'm a all-around star back home, the kind who can do anything." Luo Quan smiled modestly, as if none of this mattered much.

It really didn’t matter—she’d experienced scenes like this N times on Earth.

“I’m starting to believe your talent for martial arts is your weakest. Two performances both summoned Song Spirit shadows—if a Song Spirit actually appears one day, I won’t be surprised.”

When Bai Xingwei said this, it wasn’t speculation—it was certainty. She believed Luo Quan could absolutely accomplish such a thing.

At that moment, a group of elegantly dressed servants respectfully blocked the beauties’ path and presented them with invitations.

These servants and invitations came from different patrons, but their sole purpose was to invite the beauties to dinner.

Some accepted; some declined.

As a newcomer, Luo Quan received a moderate number of invitations—three in total.

Luo Quan checked each name on the invitations—none were familiar to her.

She asked Bai Xingwei, who knew them all—and said they were all powerful figures with major backing.

But so what? Luo Quan never responded to invitations from people she didn’t know, so she prepared to decline outright.

Just then, Chu Yueyan walked over: “Luo Quan, I’d like to invite you to lunch. Would you do me the honor?”

It was common for wealthy men to invite female stars to dinner—but for one female star to invite another was rare.

Still, compared to those rich men, Chu Yueyan was far more appealing, so Luo Quan immediately agreed—on one condition: she’d bring Bai Xingwei along.

One reason was she couldn’t leave Bai Xingwei alone; another was having a familiar face made things safer.

Chu Yueyan had no objections and went to reserve the table.

“Thanks so much—if it weren’t for you, I might’ve offended these big shots just by refusing.”

Inside the teleportation elevator, Luo Quan thanked Chu Yueyan, who was Ditou reading a book.

Chu Yueyan smiled faintly: “It’s nothing. I just didn’t want a newcomer to be tainted by the industry’s bad habits right away.”

“Are such dinner invitations common?” Luo Quan asked curiously. “In my understanding, this sort of thing shouldn’t even be public.”

“In Huan Yu, these are ordinary social activities. These wealthy men enjoy showing off their economic power at dinner tables. Whether anything follows depends entirely on the female star herself.”

“But once it reaches the dinner stage, few female stars can resist—so if you can avoid these meals, you should.”

Chu Yueyan looked up, earnestly at Luo Quan: “Do you think I’m a meddlesome person?”

Luo Quan softly denied: “No. I’m grateful for your kindness. The last person who cared this much for me was Xu Yanqing.”

“Really?” Chu Yueyan nodded thoughtfully.

More than ten seconds later, when the teleportation portal opened again, the three had arrived at Chu Yueyan’s reserved restaurant.

A quiet place—about ten guests laughed and chatted in the dining hall, yet no one felt it was noisy.

A waiter approached with a radiant smile and warm greeting, leading them to their private room.

Since it was a special set menu, the restaurant decided what to serve—they only needed to wait for the dishes.

Luo Quan had heard of this model before—it was called “Omaca C.” No menu, no choices: you paid the meal fee and tip upfront, then ate whatever the chef felt like making.

Such restaurants were usually high-end, serving imported premium ingredients—either Japanese or French cuisine—with exquisitely plated but painfully tiny portions.

As for taste, Luo Quan thought this restaurant model was ridiculous, so she’d never eaten there and had no opinion.

But from netizens’ reviews, eight out of ten such places were just ripping people off.

Luo Quan wasn’t surprised Huan Yu had such a model—after asking Bai Xingwei, she learned this restaurant was a thousand-year-old establishment, extremely famous, with delicious food, and Bai Xingwei had visited many times.

Most crucially, this restaurant had strict entry requirements—ordinary rich people and celebrities weren’t allowed in. Clearly, Chu Yueyan’s background was far from ordinary.

But that wasn’t surprising—after all, the world’s most beautiful woman would be strange if she lacked deep connections. Luo Quan had no intention of digging deeper.

“You really like reading, huh?” Seeing the silence growing awkward, Luo Quan initiated conversation to break the ice.

Chu Yueyan, pleased Luo Quan was speaking up, closed her book and smiled: “I just enjoy reading and listening to music.”

“What’s the book you’re reading now?” Luo Quan asked curiously.

The back had no title; she stared for a long time but couldn’t tell what it was.

“A Hundred Years of Solitude.”

At the mention of books, Chu Yueyan’s eyes lit up: “It’s a fantasy novel adapted from real-world and internet events. Absurd, tragic, ridiculous, foolish, obsessed with entertainment—every facet of human good and evil is in it. One of the highest-rated literary works of the past decade.”

“Impressive.” Luo Quan blinked in surprise, thinking this sounded suspiciously like “One Hundred Years of Solitude”—was there no plagiarism?

“By the way, Luo Quan, do you like reading?” Chu Yueyan, now fully engaged, asked excitedly.

“I guess so.” Luo Quan answered, thinking of the web novels on her phone—they counted as books too.

“I’ve got quite a few good ones—I can recommend some.” Chu Yueyan spread out several books like a peacock displaying its feathers.

Luo Quan studied them for a moment and picked one titled “Born as a Human.”

“It’s the final work of the great writer Liao, laying bare his views on the joy of life and the bitterness of death—a deeply depressing book.”

As Chu Yueyan spoke, a flicker of concern crossed her face: “Luo Quan, are you feeling down lately?”

“How could I be? I’m happy every single day.” Luo Quan answered honestly.

But this reply only confirmed Chu Yueyan’s suspicion: “Don’t hide it. As an artist, your heart must be filled with countless sorrows and pains.”

Luo Quan froze, puzzled—where did this idea come from?

Luo Quan paused, puzzled by why Chu Yueyan would have such a thought, not knowing where it came from.

In her past life, on a snowy winter night in 1888, forty-four-year-old Nietzsche, in Turin, Italy, suddenly burst into tears while hugging a stallion.

He then sent passionate postcards to friends, signing them “The Man on the Cross,” before slipping into intermittent bouts of madness and depression.

At the time, he’d been in a creative explosion—masterpieces pouring out, transforming the philosophical world of his era.

As a “Superman,” Nietzsche was magnificent in thought and spirit—but also profoundly lonely.

Most people were ordinary, with almost no one able to understand his pursuits.

And this, perhaps, was why he eventually broke down.

Most geniuses in history were like this: impoverished lives fueled their boundless creative drive; others’ misunderstanding let them focus even deeper on their work.

But prolonged isolation inevitably warped the mind.

History is full of artists who, after creating masterpieces, either went mad or took their own lives.

So Chu Yueyan assumed Luo Quan had endured hardship too long, overworked herself for art, and now suffered psychological damage.

She might not have consciously realized it—but her subconscious showed clearly: choosing the most depressing book, “Born as a Human,” was proof.

Normal people wouldn’t pick such a bleak, sorrowful novel—even she herself had read it multiple times before feeling any connection.

But Luo Quan picked it immediately—her heart must be as heavy as the protagonist’s, just hiding it behind a cheerful facade.

And she herself had chosen it the moment she arrived, her heart surely filled with the same profound sorrow as the protagonist, only she stubbornly refused to say it aloud, and when others asked, she insisted it was fine.

Luo Quan guessed this was why Chu Yueyan held such an attitude.

And indeed, since choosing the book, Chu Yueyan had been imagining all this, convinced she should help Luo Quan.

At first, she’d helped only to protect a promising newcomer from being exploited by fat-cat patrons.

After a brief chat, she realized she and this girl got along well.

Seeing Luo Quan on the verge of depression from the inevitable pain of artistic creation, she decided to do something to help her through it.

But before she could speak, Luo Quan beat her to it: “Do you think I’m currently a tormented soul, either sinking into or already in depression, blaming the world and everyone?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Chu Yueyan countered. “It’s better to speak up—truth heals.”

“What truth? What healing?” Luo Quan laughed. “None of that’s true. I picked this book randomly—like drawing lots. No meaning behind it.”

“As for my mental state? It’s never been healthier.”

“In my homeland, I’m the ultimate genius—creating art requires almost no effort. My path has been smooth and joyful.”

After she finished speaking, Chu Yueyan fell silent.

If this were true, she was a complete fool.

Someone had no problems, and she insisted there were—then volunteered to fix them. It was absurd.

Luckily, Luo Quan quickly eased the awkwardness: “Still, thank you for caring so much. If I ever did have problems, you’d be the one who helped me solve them.”

“Stop,” Chu Yueyan’s face flushed red. “The more you say it, the more I feel like a clown.”

“Not at all!” Luo Quan waved her hands.

Beside them, Bai Xingwei had said nothing throughout the entire conversation—her shoulders shook uncontrollably.

And beside her, Bai Xingwei remained silent, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she listened to the entire conversation.

She was trying hard not to laugh out loud.

This woman before her, the most beautiful in the universe, had too vivid an imagination—just because of one book, she’d conjured up so much. Fortunately, they were at the dinner table with only three people; if anyone else found out, she’d be laughed to death.

But to be fair, this kind of uncalculating personality was indeed the most pleasant to be around.

But she had come first—she was the one who became friends with Luo Quan, who shared meals with her first.

Now, it seemed this position was about to be taken away.