Chapter Thirty-Five: Ren Qian Is About to Make His Move!

I recall a certain Hong Kong comedian from the Celestial Empire, Du Ze, who came to participate in Happy Camp a few years ago, hoping to break into the mainland market and make some money. But this man had reached a level of idiocy that was truly astonishing—a demeanor that screamed, “I’m brainless, what are you going to do about it?” Once, he carelessly offended mainlanders with his words, and instead of apologizing, he stubbornly clashed with netizens, engaging in a three-hundred-round battle before finally losing ground.

When he ran out of things to say, Du Ze arrogantly proclaimed, “So what if I’ve offended mainlanders? Let’s see if you’re capable of stopping me from making money here.” The implication was clear: mainlanders were foolish and wealthy, and their anger meant nothing. They might talk about boycotting, but they would still pay to watch his films. So he didn’t care about whom he offended; after all, his only concern was making money.

In the end, he was spectacularly blacklisted in the mainland, now forced to stay put in his tiny territory, unable to venture beyond. No one could surpass his level of foolishness.

Though King Wan was also a fool, he had not reached Du Ze’s degree of idiocy. After over a decade of flattering others, he at least possessed a little cunning, knowing to stand on the moral high ground to criticize Ren Qian. His righteous condemnation conjured the image of a venerable elder fiercely defending traditional Chinese culture. His anguish and passionate outcry were enough to distort the truth.

But now, far too many people saw through the situation—not just a thousand or two, nor ten or twenty thousand, but a hundred or two hundred thousand were filled with righteous fury upon hearing his words.

“He’s clearly just an old dog bullying talented newcomers. My god Qian’s ‘Stone Chronicle’ is already on par with those classic ancient-style songs, maybe even surpasses them! Yet Wan keeps smearing him—his intentions are vile!”

“Go eat shit! Always slandering our talented Qian, I bet you abuse power in your company all the time!”

“Just wait two years and you’ll have to apologize. By then, your face will be slapped repeatedly. You’re old; you should be preparing for the grave instead of trying to stay relevant!”

“What do you know? A bunch of idiots. King Wan has contributed so much to the music industry—how can a rookie compare? Isn’t it natural for an elder to guide the younger generation?”

“I think they’re just a bunch of brainless fans, barking nonstop. Even King Wan doesn’t dare call himself a god, yet this rookie shamelessly claims to be Qian God. Arrogant and ignorant.”

As the rage between both sides’ fans escalated, a war of words erupted on Weibo, the topic’s popularity soaring rapidly. The bystanders, eager for chaos, would first join in the fray here, then run over there to help with retorts, making quite a spectacle.

Originally, this quarrel was merely a clash between Ren Qian and King Wan’s respective fanbases. Until the father-in-law jumped in with ridicule.

Lin Ruowan: “As a senior, I just want to say, Wan’s bootlicking hasn’t changed after fifteen years. Back then, he used every petty trick against newcomers, and he’s still the same now.

There’s a saying, isn’t there? A dog can’t stop eating shit. Heh.”

King Wan had repeatedly targeted Lin Ruowan’s golden son-in-law, and Lin Ruowan could no longer endure it. He never liked King Wan to begin with, and now had no reason to care about his dignity at all.

He launched straight into insults, just as he had a decade ago, treating King Wan as a small fry. In truth, this soon-to-be obsolete king was still just a slightly bigger fish in Lin Ruowan’s eyes.

He insulted him outright—so what? Could King Wan blacklist him?

…

With the sudden intervention of the father-in-law and his fans, the once dominant King Wan army began to show signs of fatigue. The father-in-law was playing with his phone, seeing nearly a million comments under King Wan’s Weibo—most were foul abuse, with the number rising by ten thousand every few minutes.

He laughed happily.

“Still feels a bit lacking,” he mused, frowning before his eyes brightened.

“Feifei, let me borrow your phone for a moment.”

“It’s on the table, help yourself. Call Wen Run and Ren Qian, tell them to come over for dinner tonight. I want them to try my cooking.”

“Oh, alright.”

The father-in-law replied nonchalantly, walked to the table, picked up the diva’s phone, completely forgetting about calling them for dinner.

He logged into Weibo… reposted. The movements were swift and unhesitating.

Seconds later, the screen showed the repost was successful. Meanwhile, others saw that Diva Li Feifei had reposted Lin Ruowan’s Weibo:

“As a senior, I just want to say, Wan’s bootlicking hasn’t changed after fifteen years. Back then, he used every petty trick against newcomers, and he’s still the same now. There’s a saying, isn’t there? A dog can’t stop eating shit. Heh.”

Twenty million fans were notified at once. They all clicked to view, and collectively exclaimed in surprise.

What madness was this? It was supposed to be a battle between Ren Qian and King Wan, and Lin Ruowan’s sudden appearance was shocking enough.

Now Diva Li Feifei had descended like lightning. Just what kind of background did Ren Qian have?

Whatever his background, King Wan was now stuck with mud on his pants—whether it was shit or not, it looked like shit. The suspicion of suppressing newcomers was now solidified.

Millions of fans swarmed King Wan’s personal Weibo, hurling abuse by the tens of thousands every minute. His loyal followers, once accustomed to bullying others by sheer numbers, now found themselves utterly overwhelmed. Any attempt to retort was met with a barrage of insults; they couldn’t withstand it.

King Wan could no longer control the situation, jumping with anxiety. In desperation, he resorted to his usual tricks—playing the pitiful saint, the manipulative green tea, the scheming boy—pleading his case:

“I’m only speaking from the standpoint of preserving musical purity. I believe Ren Qian’s songs are merely pandering to the masses, deviating from elegance and beauty, desecrating traditional culture!

So what if you insult me? Will that vindicate Ren Qian? Ridiculous, childish—the louder you curse, the more guilty you are. Ren Qian himself doesn’t dare speak up, clearly he’s guilty.

He is completely a traitor to the music world! Do you dare respond, Ren Qian?”

The netizens fell silent. From start to finish, Ren Qian had not responded—it was all their spontaneous attacks. But what was the point? Wasn’t it all to clear Ren Qian’s name? Yet he himself never took the lead. Without Ren Qian, it was like an army without a general; their enthusiasm waned.

“Let’s wait for Ren Qian to speak, see what his attitude is.”

“Yeah, he’s the protagonist here. If he doesn’t defend himself, no matter how much we argue, it’s pointless—just makes us look foolish.”

“Qian God, speak up! Ren Qian!”

Ren Qian was browsing Weibo, originally intending to post something urging netizens to calm down, to stop the insults. But seeing King Wan’s recent statement, his anger flared.

“What an idiot, so desperate to stay relevant. Wants to trend? Wants to live in the hearts of netizens? Fine, I’ll give you what you want! I’ll make you more famous than you ever dreamed!”

He opened his computer, searching for videos of King Wan’s concerts and media interviews, clicking into them one by one, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

As for why he was watching King Wan’s concerts and interviews?

Heh…

Ren Qian merely sneered.

ps: Checked, no recommendations next week. It’s been two weeks since signing, bittersweet. So if you think the book is decent, please recommend it to friends; if you have recommendation tickets, please vote for Lazy Book~ And book reviews are always welcome to comfort me—Lazy Book will be endlessly grateful.