Chapter Thirty-Three: A Knife

At the end of the rankings, there was a comprehensive discussion of the entire Huaxia entertainment industry. Overall, the picture was positive: the industry was booming, progressing toward greater standardization, transparency, and professionalism. Yet, several persistent problems remained. First, domestic works still struggled to reach the world stage. Limited by cultural differences and other factors, Huaxia’s films, television, and music remained influential only within Asia, exerting little impact on Europe and America, where English-language productions still predominated. Second, the incursion of foreign cultural works was still pronounced. Taken as a whole, their influence was undeniable: American blockbusters, TV dramas, and music permeated everywhere; the Korean Wave continued to surge, and Japan, with its distinctive girl groups and anime, exerted a unique pull on the public. The task of resistance was as daunting as ever. Third, the few works that had managed to make it abroad were narrowly specialized: films were dominated by martial arts or rural themes. The former hoisted the banner of commercial cinema, the latter sought awards by exposing social ills, but the results were underwhelming, often serving only as fodder for ridicule. Why, then, could we not produce outstanding works in mainstream genres?

In conclusion, the article asserted that unless the state introduced policies more tailored to Huaxia’s unique characteristics to propel further transformation of the industry, the dream of Huaxia culture reaching the world would remain a mere castle in the air.

Closing the webpage, Lin Qihua let out a gentle sigh. He had been through so much in the past year; he could only hope for smooth sailing this year. The entertainment world was full of ups and downs. To achieve his goals, he would have to rely on his own abilities.

He indulged in a rare midday nap, only to be roused by a call from Little Muddlehead. “Brother, there’s news about you online. You should take a look.” Her tone was tinged with urgency and a hint of anger, making Lin Qihua’s heart skip a beat. He hurriedly got out of bed and opened the internet.

Sure enough, under the entertainment news section, a freshly published article blazed prominently: “Once a Prodigy, Now Fallen—Why Is He Singing in a Bar?”

He pursed his lips and clicked in. The article wasted no time in targeting him directly: “While the recently released rankings have most people focused on the rise and fall of top-tier stars, this writer has always kept an eye on another name: Lin, formerly a third-tier artist, who, after a contract termination, plummeted to fifth-tier status. Ordinarily, a year’s absence shouldn’t have resulted in such a dramatic fall. What happened? Allow me to explain.

The author then detailed Lin Qihua’s contract dispute, citing statements from company staff, other artists, and mysterious insiders. The conclusion: Lin was replaced and let go for several key reasons. First, he sowed discord within his group, bullying younger members and ignoring his performance responsibilities, leading to poor results. After his departure, the group supposedly became harmonious and shot to fame, proving he was a ‘cancer’ within. Second, he allegedly showed no respect for superiors or seniors, frequently clashing with the department heads and treating seniors with appalling rudeness. Third, he was accused of harassing female artists, both during training and after debut—one girl, in particular, allegedly suffered greatly. Fourth, he flouted company rules, neglected his career, and was frequently seen smoking and drinking. Fifth, though he had some promise in training, his singing and technical skills stagnated after debut, dragging the group down. With such poor character and declining ability, the company concluded that cutting him loose was only logical—these, the article claimed, were the root causes of his downfall.

After leaving the company, instead of reflecting and using the year’s hiatus to improve and make a comeback, he supposedly chose to sink further, becoming a bar singer, abandoning himself to vice, mingling with all sorts, and losing all artist’s dignity. The writer asked: how could a former prodigy, touted by his company, now be reduced to a bar singer if not for his own failings? With the official rankings now updated and his rating sinking to the fifth tier, this was, the writer concluded, the clearest evidence of wasted potential. The article singled him out as a cautionary tale for all newcomers: stay humble, steady, excel not just in your work but as a person—this, it proclaimed, was the only true path.

The article was sharply written, with plenty of examples—a rare piece of substance, perhaps, but not to the person being attacked. For Lin Qihua, it was a hatchet job, each accusation stabbing deep. Those who knew him would recognize the falsehoods, but outsiders would easily be swayed, branding him a fallen idol. Such first impressions would dog him upon any return, making public opinion all the harsher, and even companies interested in him might shy away, costing him countless opportunities. After all, Huaxia was a land where character was paramount. Such was the power of public opinion.

“It seems someone has set their sights on me.” Lin Qihua wasn’t visibly furious; instead, his gaze was deep and contemplative, as if pondering something.

“Are you angry?” A while later, Little Muddlehead called again. “Reading that article first thing in the morning made me furious! How could they write such lies and pour so much filth on someone? Isn’t it obvious they’re targeting you?” Her voice was full of indignation; he could picture her on the other end, waving her fists.

“It’s alright. No need to get worked up over such pointless commentary.” Lin Qihua couldn’t help but laugh—he should have been the angry one, yet now he was the one comforting her. “I’m fine, really. The innocent have nothing to fear; I won’t let it affect me.”

“Besides, whoever wrote that will eventually trip over their own schemes,” Lin Qihua added quietly.

“Huh? What do you mean?” she asked, puzzled.

“Nothing. Don’t worry. Just focus on your training.” After finally reassuring her, Lin Qihua received a string of calls from Qin Lulu, Ah Hui, and others, all expressing concern. He had to respond to each in turn.

Meanwhile, in the Artist Department of Huayi Tower, Director Lin, a middle-aged man, was berating the head of Public Relations. “What’s going on here? We finally got past the fallout from that incident, and now someone dredges it up again? Are they trying to cause us more trouble?”

Director Lin was under tremendous stress. The Qin Lulu contract dispute had left Huayi in a very unfavorable position, a laughingstock among its peers, and the board was displeased. He’d been working overtime to handle the PR crisis. Now, this new article had him fuming.

“We have no idea. We didn’t arrange for any such publicity. This is the first we’ve seen of the article, and it has nothing to do with us,” the PR head protested. “Besides, isn’t it a good thing for us? With Lin Qihua’s reputation in tatters, doesn’t that prove we made the right decision?”

Director Lin laughed coldly. “First, it’s impossible that this has nothing to do with us. How could outsiders know so much? Even if someone made it up, why choose him as a target? What’s the point of attacking a fifth-tier artist? Whoever did this is challenging the company itself, and you think we have no connection?”

“Second,” he continued, raising two fingers, “this is not a good thing for us—far from it. Who trained Lin Qihua? The company did. If there’s a problem, people will question our training. Why did we produce such an artist? Will our other artists turn out the same? And you call this good for us?”

“Third, we’ve already terminated Lin Qihua’s contract. After a year, he’s a free agent. You should know this matter can’t withstand scrutiny; if Lin Qihua is provoked and decides to drag us down with him, the company will suffer most. As head of PR, is this all the awareness you have? Investigate! Find out who this journalist is, who inside the company is playing games. Don’t think I don’t know—some people think too highly of themselves, as if I can’t control them.” His tone was icy, making the PR head break out in a cold sweat. After all, this was the infamous “King Yama” of the company. Who would dare anger him by stirring up trouble?

Elsewhere, Sister Feng answered a call from Sister Mei, snickering, “Fallen, singing in a bar, is it? Seems we’re being smeared as some low-class dive.”

“Yes,” Sister Mei replied, equally angry. “Though they didn’t name us outright, anyone reading the report would assume our bar is a den of iniquity. That’s how people think.”

“Some folks always think they’re untouchable and can write whatever they like. Lin Qihua is one of ours, and to paint our bar in such colors is a direct challenge,” Sister Feng said coldly. “It seems we’re being underestimated.”

“What should we do?” Sister Mei asked.

“I’ll have people look into it—get to the bottom of this. If they want to play dirty, we’re not afraid,” Sister Feng replied coolly. “You handle a few things on your end. First, contact some of our regular patrons and have them act as online defenders. After all, if our bar is a cesspool, doesn’t that make them disreputable as well? They won’t stand for that. Second, launch our official website as planned, step up publicity, and feature our videos on the homepage—let the facts speak for themselves. Third, once we find out who did this, have them publish an apology. If not, we’ll take them to court and clear our name.”

“Understood. I’ll get on it right away.” Sister Mei was full of admiration. With a three-pronged strategy, whoever was behind this would be in for a rough ride.