Chapter 999: Setting Off Fireworks

P.S. Thank you to the reader Shuixing de Mengmian Chaoren for the book coins donation, thank you for your support!

Main text:

“You’re finally back—I waited until the flowers withered.”

“What flowers? Bawanghua ?”

“Little Blackie, got caught with your chicken legs showing now, huh?”

“You come back and immediately give Luo Bao trouble—you really love stirring up shit.”

“It’s fine, Luo Bao is already used to this level.”

“Don’t bully Luo Bao just because she’s used to it, you bastards.”

………………

The fans remained as mischievous as ever; upon seeing Luo Quan return, they celebrated joyfully while posting comments that made her feel embarrassed.

Other fans treat their idols like they’re honoring their parents, but Luo Quan’s fans are tougher—they’re like her best frenemies, constantly finding ways to tease her.

It’s kind of like those boy classmates back in school who always pulled pranks, acted goofy, and tugged the hair of the girls in the front row.

Maybe they’re not actually mischievous—maybe they just want to attract a girl’s attention this way.

Of course, we can’t rule out the bad apples who simply use this to vent their inner malice.

Fortunately, the comments in the section still fall short of being labeled “bad apples”—they’re just harmless jokes.

In the past, Luo Quan might have gotten furious reading these, but now she’s learned to regulate her mood; she’s not easily provoked by such small things, so she didn’t block any of them.

After their teasing, the fans began asking about Luo Quan’s recent situation.

Even though she’s been on break, she couldn’t have just lain in bed for ten days—she must’ve secretly prepared something, but never told anyone.

The fans were curious about exactly that—knowing Luo Quan’s personality, she dislikes dragging things out; if she had any big surprises to share, she’d tell everyone right away.

The only thing that could count as a surprise these past few days would be the New Year’s Eve gala.

With less than a week left until 2020 ended, every major TV station began announcing their New Year’s Eve lineups, each boasting dazzling stars, top idols, and big-name performers.

As the biggest top idol currently, fans naturally cared most about which network Luo Quan would join.

Though not as huge as the Spring Festival Gala, the major satellite TV New Year’s Eve galas still draw massive attention; every year during these days, related trending topics flood the internet.

Luo Quan originally planned to pick one to perform at, but by choosing the Huanyu New Year’s Gala, she’d already missed all the TV station invitations during her absence.

Even though she hadn’t checked her email yet, she knew without looking that her inbox was packed with unread invitations to perform at New Year’s Eve shows—though replying now would surely be too late.

“No New Year’s Eve show this year—just wait and watch my Spring Festival Gala performance.”

Luo Quan replied uniformly beneath the fans’ questions; this answer left many eagerly awaiting fans slightly disappointed:

“I thought I’d get to see you on New Year’s Eve.”

“Too bad, but honestly, I expected it.”

“True—Luo Bao’s only been to B Station’s New Year’s Eve shows a few times; she’s never appeared on any other TV station’s.”

“Since her debut, Luo Bao’s TV appearances have been few and far between—she probably just hates participating in these kinds of events.”

“After all, these galas require lip-syncing, and you know how much Luo Bao loves singing—making her lip-sync in front of everyone would be an insult.”

“Cherish stars like Luo Bao who insist on live singing—maybe in a few years, all galas will be lip-synced.”

“Isn’t that already the case now?”

“So I’ve always thought these galas aren’t worth watching—better to just watch Luo Bao’s livestreams.”

“To be honest, yeah.”

………………

The fans’ sharp critiques were still as cutting and provocative as ever, but the idea that galas are boring has become a consensus online—none of the past few years’ galas have satisfied netizens.

They’re just a bunch of stars singing and dancing, drowning in forced laughter as another year slips by.

In the past, these New Year’s Eve galas held real importance, but as quality declined year after year, they’ve completely devolved into mere entertainment.

Since they’re just for fun, no high expectations are needed—just leave them playing in the background while your family eats dinner and chats.

Though Luo Quan agreed with the fans’ views, as a public figure, she couldn’t say such things outright—it would offend too many people.

So no matter how much the fans complained in the comments, she didn’t respond; instead, she opened her email to deal with the backlog.

Sure enough, many unread emails were invitations from major TV stations to perform at their New Year’s Eve galas.

Mango, Lychee, Tomato, Blueberry—these are now the four highest-rated TV stations besides CCTV, their nicknames derived from their logos.

I thought we’d already publicly broken ties with Blueberry Station, that we were completely cut off—but surprisingly, they still invited me this year, and offered a price much higher than other stations.

Do they think money can erase old grudges and make everything smile away? But am I really short on this kind of money?

In most cases, giving up money just to nurse a grudge is irrational.

But some grudges must be held—blocked thoughts easily lead to depression.

For women, prolonged emotional suppression often leads to breast hyperplasia.

To prevent disease, she naturally did whatever made her feel most free.

So she selected all Blueberry Station’s invitations and sent them straight to the trash.

But Blueberry Station didn’t stay lonely long—soon, emails from other TV stations joined it in the trash.

It wasn’t that Luo Quan held deep grudges against these stations—she’d just read them all, and why keep them cluttering up space?

B Station also sent her an invitation to perform, with a decent fee.

Compared to its former lavish spending, B Station now resembles Wang Xiaoer’s New Year—worse every year; from stage design to staffing to overall programming, the decline is visibly obvious.

Of course, it’s not dead—despite being crushed by Douyin and Constable in short videos, it still holds the top spot in long-form video content domestically.

It’s exactly what you’d call “all-encompassing and rich in content.”

Short videos have their strengths, long videos have theirs—so long as it holds onto this identity, B Station can still carve out a place among video platforms.

But returning to the glory days of 2018 or 2019 is unrealistic.

China’s internet companies have already exhausted their dividends, and their stocks are plummeting at varying rates.

Video platforms are doing relatively well—even though their financial reports show losses, their cash flow remains high; they just spend more than they earn. If they maintain scale and industry leadership, they might still become winners someday.

Live-streaming platforms, once a “hundred schools contending,” have nearly collapsed—only two remain barely clinging on, both struggling.

Douyin, however, is thriving in short videos and exploding in live-streaming; barring accidents, it will be the dominant force in internet video content for the foreseeable future.

As for B Station, it wanted everything—and ended up with nothing.

Still, as a long-time user, she has some affection for it—this was where she first became famous in China.

Without B Station, reaching her current level of popularity in China might have taken her many detours.

So despite the tight schedule, Luo Quan decided to accept B Station’s invitation to the New Year’s Eve gala.

Of course, this was all conditional on the gala being pre-recorded.

The Spring Festival Gala’s New Year’s Eve tribute is live, but the more mainstream New Year’s Eve galas are always pre-recorded.

Calculating the time, B Station’s gala this year was probably already recorded—she didn’t know if her acceptance now would still be accepted.

“If I say yes now, can I jump the queue?”

Luo Quan replied to B Station’s invitation email; within half a minute, the reply came: “Of course! The performance was just recorded and is still in editing—plenty of time!”

“Alright, then pick a stage—I’ll record the video the day after tomorrow.”

“Do you need anything prepared?”

“No, just me.”

“Understood.”

…………

The exchange was brief—Luo Quan’s style has always been direct and efficient, always pursuing speed.

But she’d just told fans she wouldn’t appear at the New Year’s Eve gala—when they saw her on stage that night, she wondered what their reactions would be.

She imagined their expressions would be priceless.

After having dinner in the afternoon, Luo Quan put on a mask and went out.

Her mom and the others had already arrived at Yifa Plaza on the outer ring.

Normally, this place isn’t crowded, but tonight it was packed—because the Douyin million-follower influencers, the Rose Sisters, organized a fireworks show.

They’d bought a huge pile of fireworks to set off, drawing many fans to watch—and even attracting passersby.

Her mom and the others were among them; probably, like her, they hadn’t set off firecrackers or watched fireworks in a long time, so they wanted to join the fun.

As for Leon Mia and her husband, who’d never experienced this growing up, they’d surely find it novel too.

Taking a taxi to Yifa Plaza, Luo Quan found it covered in bright red decorations.

Lanterns, colored lights, banners, Spring Festival couplets, firecrackers—all hung on trees or stacked on stalls for sale, and the air occasionally crackled with firecracker explosions.

But this wasn’t the firecracker zone—the actual site was fifty meters away, more open and with fewer flammable materials.

The Rose Sisters’ team had arrived and begun livestreaming; Luo Quan stood nearby listening and learned they’d light the fireworks at eight o’clock, one hour from now.

As Douyin influencers who rose to fame through cover songs, the Rose Sisters hadn’t yet reached mainstream stages—they were still in the accumulation phase, so they worked especially hard.

Before the fireworks, they started singing to build the atmosphere.

For popular songs, they’d even point the mic toward the fans for a group singalong.

As more people gathered, the whole plaza grew livelier and livelier.

But after watching for a while, Luo Quan wandered over to a stall and bought three boxes of firecracker snaps and a bundle of skyrockets, then went off to relive childhood joy.

“Hey Mom, you’re here too?” Luo Quan had just tossed a few firecracker snaps on the ground when she spotted her mom and the others, as if they’d gone on a major shopping spree.

Each carried big bags and small packages—some from the mall’s sister products, others likely handheld fireworks and sparklers bought nearby.

“You’re… my daughter!” Luo Ni frowned, not recognizing her at first because of the mask.

But after seeing her hair and recognizing her voice, she instantly knew.

“We just bought firecrackers and fireworks, and we’re waiting for it to get dark to light them.” Luo Ni raised the one-meter-long firework tube in her hand. “All the big ones are sold out—only these left. Want one?”

“Nah, I’ve never liked fireworks since I was a kid. I’ll stick with firecrackers. I’ll just watch the sky show later.”

Luo Quan lit another skyrocket and let go the instant the fuse burned down to the end; the skyrocket shot straight up without dropping, shrieking into the sky before bursting with a sharp crack into fragments.

“Hehe, fun.” Luo Quan grinned foolishly at the empty night sky.

Luo Ni shook her head helplessly at her daughter’s childlike joy. “Are you hungry? I’ve got a few beef burgers left. Want one?”

“I just ate,” Luo Quan shook her head at her mom.

For the next ten minutes, Luo Quan burned through every firecracker and skyrocket she’d bought.

After satisfying her urge, she began searching for other entertainment.

Though the square was crowded, most people clustered around the Rose Sisters’ spot; the area where Luo Quan stood was sparser, a favorite hangout for influencers seeking to piggyback on the crowd’s energy.

Tonight, Yifa Square was hosting a fireworks show, and many influencers knew about it—outdoor streamers from Bilibili, Douyin, Constable, and Huya had all come.

But depending on the platform, their antics varied.

Bilibili and Douyin streamers leaned toward technical flair, playing instruments or singing into microphones.

Huya streamers simply wandered the square, letting viewers soak in the festive atmosphere.

But when it came to outrageous stunts, Constable streamers still led the pack.

Suddenly, a fat man leapt out from the crowd, raising both hands and shouting: “OK OK, all eyes on me! Look at me, look at me! I’ve got an announcement!”

Though he had no microphone, his booming voice drew everyone’s attention.

Luo Quan realized this might be a viral moment and turned on her phone’s recording function.

The small-eyed, pot-bellied man bellowed at the crowd with the gravitas of the Declaration of Independence: “I’m an idiot!”

At these words, everyone nearby was stunned.

As for why she assumed it was a Constable streamer, Luo Quan admitted—it was prejudice.