When an artist isn’t popular, they’re burdened by the need to make a living. Getting work requires immense effort, and every step forward is painfully difficult.
But once an artist becomes famous, they’re trapped by their own popularity, forced to give up a normal life and be mindful of their words and actions at all times. Every small misstep can lead to a massive backlash, and poor career choices have exponentially greater consequences. This job demands constant vigilance.
With Luo Ding’s rise in popularity, Yaxing Studio was now focused on planning his future career path.
When Gu Yaxing mentioned that Luo Ding’s first concert was already being scheduled, Luo Ding almost thought he had misheard.
In his past life, he had been singing for three years before he even qualified to discuss holding a concert, and even then, his first concert had been so small it was pitiful. Even so, his rise to fame was still considered remarkably fast, the envy of many artists in the music industry. Many of his peers, despite their talent, eventually ended up performing at small events just to make ends meet. The entertainment industry was harsh and unforgiving, with stark divisions between success and failure. In Luo Ding’s mind, he was still far from the top.
But Gu Yaxing didn’t see anything wrong with starting the discussion now. “Your popularity is already there. The only thing holding you back is experience. You’ve been in the industry for years—why do you still think of yourself as a newcomer? Just because you’ve only become popular recently? Have you seen how high your album sales are now? Of course, the concert won’t happen right away. Your schedule is too packed at the moment. But when it does happen, it’ll be an Asia or domestic tour. You should really pay more attention to your overseas fanbase, especially in Japan—you’re incredibly popular there.”
Whenever this topic came up, Luo Ding couldn’t help but feel a sense of embarrassment. Asking him to evaluate his own popularity seemed a bit much, especially when it came to international fans. “What’s going on with me in Japan?”
“…” Gu Yaxing looked at him speechlessly.
What’s going on in Japan? Was he serious? Did he really not know?
For such a small island nation, Japan’s impact on an artist’s popularity was far greater than Gu Yaxing had initially imagined. With Luo Ding’s album being released globally, Japan alone accounted for 35% of his overseas sales. The team stationed on Japanese forums frequently brought back reports on the latest fan trends, and it was as if an entire civilian organization had formed, dedicated solely to supporting Luo Ding. Fans there took care of everything from promoting his work to worrying about his daily life, handling everything with meticulous attention to detail.
Apparently, Luo Ding’s fan-funded advertisements were visible all over Japan. Buses, subways, billboards in the city center, even road signs—fans had pooled their money to make sure Luo Ding’s face was everywhere. Since Luo Ding wasn’t doing many public appearances and the company strictly prohibited accepting gifts, fans were bursting with enthusiasm, channeling it into these grand gestures instead.
If you didn’t buy at least ten copies of his album, you weren’t considered a real fan. And if you hadn’t claimed at least one advertising spot, you couldn’t call yourself a true diehard fan. Their admiration for China exceeded that of any other country, and the biggest demand right now was concert tickets. Many fans had even stated that, even if they couldn’t attend a concert in China, they would still buy tickets just to ensure the company didn’t lose money.
However, for Gu Yaxing, solidifying Luo Ding’s image was far more important than making a quick buck.
The announcement of Luo Ding’s luxury brand endorsements caused a huge stir. Even Luo Ding’s fans hadn’t expected him to make such a big leap.
Some were envious, some proud, and some jealous. The more successful an artist becomes, the more baseless criticism they attract.
Yet the first ad to air wasn’t the highly anticipated luxury brand commercial—it was the two public service announcements that had been quickly produced and released.
Water conservation and helping impoverished mountain children.
Luo Ding, who rarely appeared in commercials, had made his debut in such a healthy, positive light. For fans who had been exhausted from fighting off negative comments, it was like a shot of adrenaline, reinvigorating them.
Having a positive role model, fans naturally began to emulate their idol’s behavior.
Among all celebrity fan groups, Luo Ding’s was perhaps the least financially burdensome. In the entertainment industry, giving extravagant gifts had become an unspoken rule. Only luxury items were acceptable, and support activities could cost tens of thousands, with no upper limit. But Yaxing Studio’s policy of not accepting gifts had nipped this toxic trend in the bud early on, which had significantly contributed to maintaining Luo Ding’s growing popularity.
Most of Luo Ding’s hardcore fans had some experience in the entertainment industry, and after observing Yaxing Studio’s strategies, they could roughly predict the path the company was preparing for him. Honestly, it was far better than they had expected. Celebrity involvement in public welfare activities was undoubtedly beneficial in the long run. Yaxing Studio was more ethical and forward-thinking than they had anticipated.
How could they not lend a helping hand?
A fanbase with passion but nowhere to direct it could unleash incredible power once a charismatic leader emerged to guide them.
*****
While Luo Ding’s new album was still selling like hotcakes, he had to juggle both shooting advertisements and his ongoing movie projects.
As summer reached its peak, the air was so still that the only sound was the relentless buzzing of cicadas. The heat waves rising off the pavement made the air ripple and twist.
Luo Ding sat under the shade of a tree, a small battery-powered fan blowing cool air onto him from the table. He flipped a page in his script, his expression calm, seemingly unaffected by the sweltering heat.
Suddenly, something heavy landed on his head. Reaching up, he found a large sycamore leaf in his hand, surprisingly hefty for a leaf.
Ahead, at the camera, Su Shengbai was delivering his lines. Luo Ding wasn’t particularly interested in what he was saying and flinched slightly as something cold pressed against the side of his face.
Duan Xiubo handed him a chilled bottle of mineral water, squeezing in beside him without concern for the heat. “He’s messed up four times already. What’s there to watch? Close your eyes and take a nap while you can.”
Luo Ding had only glanced at Su Shengbai, but he looked over at Duan Xiubo with a helpless expression. Despite Duan Xiubo’s smile, there was a seriousness in his eyes. Even this made him jealous… How petty.
Luo Ding raised his script. “I wasn’t watching him. I’m reading the script.”
Only then did Duan Xiubo seem satisfied. He leaned over, resting his chin on Luo Ding’s shoulder, and glanced at the pages. After reading a few lines, he suddenly realized something was off. “This isn’t the *Supermodel* script.”
“No.” Luo Ding nodded. “It’s *Assassin*. Ever heard of it?”
Although Duan Xiubo’s career was now focused overseas, he had heard of *Assassin*. The movie had been tied to Cao Dingkun’s name for quite some time, described as his passion project. But ever since production began, it had been plagued with problems—lead actors dropping out, financial troubles, and more. Even when they were filming *Crouching Dragon*, Huo Xie had constantly lamented how unfortunate it was.
Duan Xiubo frowned. “Why are you reading this script? Did you take a role?”
“…No.” Luo Ding shook his head, not offering much explanation, though his eyes betrayed his disappointment. Duan Xiubo noticed the look in his eyes and hesitated, about to ask further when they both heard a commotion in the distance.
“Ahhhh! It’s Luo Ding!”
“It’s really Luo Ding!”
“Luo Ding!”
Startled, Luo Ding looked around for Wu Fangyuan and Mi Rui, but they were nowhere to be found. He saw Director Tang Rui repeatedly glancing toward the source of the noise, clearly worried that it would disrupt the shoot. Luo Ding set his script down and stood up.
Duan Xiubo grabbed his hand. “I’ll go with you.”
“Luo Ding!”
“Ahhh, he’s coming over!”
Luo Ding didn’t lose his temper. He pointed toward the set and placed a finger to his lips in a gesture of silence, his smile warm.
The excited fans immediately realized their mistake and quickly covered their mouths, their eyes filled with guilt.
They stood outside the barricades, kept at bay by vigilant security guards, but made no attempt to push forward. Instead, they jumped excitedly in place.
With his arm still around Luo Ding’s shoulder, Duan Xiubo followed him over. As they got closer, Duan Xiubo smiled and waved at Luo Ding’s fans, causing several of the girls’ eyes to practically glow with excitement.
Luo Ding greeted them with a smile. “Hello. The crew is filming, so please don’t take any pictures. Go home soon, okay?”
The girls were overwhelmed by Luo Ding’s gentle demeanor, holding hands and bouncing in place with excitement as they gazed at him with starry eyes.
Seeing that they weren’t leaving, Luo Ding looked up at the blazing sun overhead. “It’s nearly 38 degrees out here. Girls are more prone to heatstroke. You should go home soon and take care of yourselves.”
As he spoke, he handed his unopened bottle of cold mineral water to one of the red-faced fans. “Be good now, head home. You don’t want to get sick from the heat.”
The fan who received the bottle nearly fainted, and the others calmed down, noticing the sweat on Luo Ding’s temples. The thrill of seeing him in person was finally tempered by reason.
The group hesitated but eventually retreated, obediently leaving the set. Luo Ding wasn’t sure how they had managed to sneak into the filming area, but they all followed instructions without complaint.
As they left, Luo Ding overheard the fan with the water bottle shout, “Luo Ding! I love you!”
Luo Ding felt the arm around his shoulder tighten considerably. His smile twitched slightly as he waved at them. “I love you all too. Take care on your way home.”
Several of the girls burst into tears, running off a few steps before stopping to look back at him. Seeing that Luo Ding hadn’t left yet, one of them finally summoned the courage to shout, “We’ll work hard to raise donations!”
Luo Ding blinked at their retreating figures. “…?”
Donations? For what?
A bottle of water was suddenly pressed to his lips, and he instinctively took it and drank a few sips before realizing it was Duan Xiubo’s bottle.
“Sorry for the trouble, and thanks for your hard work,” Luo Ding said to the security guards, handing the bottle back to Duan Xiubo. “Did you understand what they meant by donations?”
“What?” Duan Xiubo had been too focused on appearing close to Luo Ding to pay attention to the conversation and looked confused.
“They said they’d work hard to raise donations. What donations?”
“Oh,” Duan Xiubo, a seasoned fan circle insider, quickly caught on. “You did those two public service announcements, right? Your ‘mom’ fans are responding to your call. They’ve been organizing donation drives for the past few days. It’s something they picked up from Korean fan circles—setting up a public trust platform, with fan forums and personal fan sites leading the way. They’re collecting material donations like old clothes, school supplies, instant noodles, and rice. Once they’ve gathered everything, they’re renting trucks at their own expense to send the supplies to the mountain areas. It’s actually been pretty successful, and a lot of other celebrity fan groups are starting to follow their lead.”
Duan Xiubo had personally donated 1,000 sets of books and educational supplies, 1,000 children’s coats and shoes, and 1,000 bags of rice.
The donation drive had clearly stated that they wouldn’t accept cash or wire transfers, only real goods. The transportation costs were covered by a few wealthy and dedicated fans, and Duan Xiubo had also contributed a truckload. This eliminated the risk of opportunists taking advantage of the fans’ goodwill, and it had done wonders for Luo Ding’s reputation. Many casual observers who had been indifferent to him before now viewed him more favorably because of the fan community’s selfless efforts. It seemed the government wanted to use him as a model example, and the negative media coverage of Luo Ding had noticeably decreased. Even the clickbait tactics used by the media seemed to be more restrained. Fan-organized campaigns promoting water conservation and documenting material donations had even made it onto official news channels, where the language used to describe the initiative was highly complimentary. It was clear what the higher-ups thought of Luo Ding.
“…” Luo Ding had no idea about any of this, but hearing Duan Xiubo’s explanation filled him with warmth. He looked back at the direction the fans had left, lost in thought, not sure what to say. He should have been even kinder to them earlier. Those girls couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, and organizing such a large event must have been exhausting for them.
“Let’s go.” Duan Xiubo, seeing the mixture of emotion and confusion on Luo Ding’s face, couldn’t help but feel a little exasperated. Was this what people meant by “a fool’s luck”? Luo Ding certainly didn’t have the cunning to orchestrate something like this behind the scenes. All his energy was focused on pleasing his fans and improving his skills. His fans, on the other hand, were like doting mothers, taking care of everything for him, even polishing his reputation without him realizing it. Luo Ding was a bit dense, but Duan Xiubo understood perfectly well. The behavior of Luo Ding’s fanbase was so distinctive that it was hard to miss. No other celebrity’s fans were this low-maintenance. Duan Xiubo, watching this play out, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy. Even his own fans would get into fights sometimes, and any female star he worked with would inevitably be trashed by them.
Back in his seat, Luo Ding found himself unable to focus on the *Assassin* script, staring blankly at the highlighted sections of text. Duan Xiubo sat next to him, still sticking close, and glanced over at the script. After reading a few paragraphs, he found it interesting enough to flip a page.
The action brought Luo Ding back to reality. “What are you doing?”
Duan Xiubo marked a line in the script with a pen. “This is a good script.” The dialogue was clearly the result of careful, meticulous work.
Luo Ding, smiling, replied, “Yeah.”
“Are you sure they didn’t offer you a role? *Assassin* has been stalled for a while, but I wouldn’t advise you to turn it down.”
“…They did offer me a role, but I didn’t accept.” Luo Ding felt a deep sense of regret as he said this. Given the current state of *Assassin*, whether or not the movie would even get made was still a big question. There were too many obstacles. It was disheartening to see a project that had so much passion behind it end up in such a state. When the script had been sent to Yaxing, Luo Ding had secretly kept a copy. As he read the familiar words, he couldn’t help but think about all the things that had happened over the past year. His ambitions, his future, his family and friends—all of it had come crashing down in an instant.
“Life is unpredictable” seemed like the only phrase that truly fit the situation.
But now, he had something even more valuable and bright in his life. When one door closes, another one opens.
It’s just that… he still felt a sense of loss.
With Duan Xiubo leaning against him, the rest of the crew had long since grown used to seeing the two of them attached at the hip, so no one even spared them a glance.
Duan Xiubo, sensing the melancholy in Luo Ding’s expression, frowned. He rarely saw Luo Ding like this.
What was going on?
His gaze shifted to the script in his hands, flipping through the first few pages. The text was filled with color-coded markings from a highlighter.
Luo Ding had put so much effort into it, yet he claimed he hadn’t taken any role.
If he had gotten hold of the script, it didn’t make sense that the production team hadn’t invited him to join the cast.
Tsk.
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