Liu Yutong finally said to Xue Linna, "Good luck, senior."
With that, she left with Xue Qian to discuss the details of the book signing event.
To say she was Xue Qian's fan wouldn't be entirely wrong, though her definition of "fan" was somewhat unique. More accurately, whoever could bring her profits was her "idol."
Of course, in Xue Qian's eyes, she was undoubtedly a "hater."
It wasn’t until Liu Yutong and Xue Qian’s figures completely disappeared through the entrance that Xue Linna snapped out of her thoughts.
She looked down at her carefully coordinated outfit—designer clothes, freshly done manicure, and the weight she’d lost just to look better on camera—and suddenly found it all a little ridiculous.
But the next second, her gaze hardened again.
Her junior Liu Yutong might dismiss it all, but Xue Linna needed this opportunity.
For her dreams.
Then, she took out her phone and dialed her entertainment agency’s manager.
...
In the car.
"Miss Liu, what do you think will happen if Xue Linna signs a contract later?" Xue Qian suddenly asked.
He was familiar with Shining Girls, a talent show backed by one of its sponsors, Jiulong Entertainment—a fairly well-known company in Shanghai.
Of course, the company’s reputation was twofold: infamous for its predatory contracts, yet undeniably capable of launching careers.
Under normal circumstances, contestants who debuted on Shining Girls were almost always signed by the sponsoring companies—an unspoken rule of the industry.
We funded the show, so aside from the trainees already under contract, the promising amateurs we spot should naturally sign with us.
Xue Qian was certain that with Xue Linna’s top-16 ranking, she’d be pressured to sign. Refusing would mean hitting her ceiling right there.
Even after signing, advancing further wasn’t guaranteed. It all depended on whether she played by the rules.
Xue Qian himself had been a victim of this system, which was why he’d gladly accepted Liu Yutong’s proposal to start his own studio after she helped him resolve his contract issues.
Slower growth was a fair trade for independence.
Liu Yutong thought for a moment. "She’ll probably end up battered and bruised."
She had some idea of Xue Linna’s background—an ordinary working-class family.
If she’d had connections, navigating the industry might’ve been easier. But without any backing, she was in for a rough ride.
A pretty face was an asset for girls like her, but it also drew unwanted attention.
"Should I talk to your senior? Share my experience?" Xue Qian offered.
"No, she won’t listen," Liu Yutong shook her head.
"Dreams are just a polished meat grinder—shiny and alluring, waiting for her to throw herself in."
"One day, she’ll see reality. When that happens, she can join your studio."
"Ah, my little studio?"
"Not bad, right? She’d make money for you."
Liu Yutong smiled, leaving half the thought unspoken: And for me.
She’d likely expand into this field eventually—not out of passion for entertainment, but because celebrities’ influence could be invaluable for her future ventures.
Just like Weibo in its early days: a portal transitioning into a microblogging platform succeeded not just through tech upgrades, but also its "celebrity strategy."
Never underestimate that strategy—it’s the nuclear option for launching a new platform.
Simply put, celebrities bring fans, fans bring traffic, and the snowball effect takes over.
From Weibo to livestreaming sites and later short videos, platforms fought over influencers with absurd signing fees for this very reason.
The moment Liu Yutong first crossed paths with Xue Qian, this idea had struck her.
Weibo might be out of reach—it launched in 2009, and her company lacked the groundwork for new media. But future opportunities with celebrities were plentiful.
So calling herself Xue Qian’s fan wasn’t a lie. She did enjoy his music, but anyone who could turn a profit was her "idol."
A little goodwill now could yield massive traffic later—a foolproof investment.
"Mr. Xue, I’ll waive my share of the album profits. Consider it my investment. Don’t worry, I won’t interfere," Liu Yutong said.
Xue Qian didn’t hesitate. "Deal!"
He had no reason—or leverage—to refuse.
In the following days, Xue Qian threw himself into preparing for the signing event, which included not just autographs but also a performance to promote the supermarket.
Just as he and his manager were buzzing with excitement, someone from his former agency, Shangyu, showed up unannounced.
A vice president, no less.
Xue Qian wasn’t thrilled to see him. His time at Shangyu had been far from pleasant, and this VP’s condescending demeanor only made things worse.
"My time is valuable, Xue Qian. You have ten minutes to decide."
With that, he tossed a contract onto the table.
"An acquisition offer for your studio. Sign it if there’s no issue. I have a flight back to the company tonight."
Though furious, Xue Qian kept his composure. He skimmed the contract before setting it aside.
"The terms seem better than before."
"Xue Qian, you know the company never really wanted to let you go. There were just too many changes at the top. It’s not too late—I guarantee you’ll release an album every year from now on."
"Oh, and drop that Wanlong Supermarket endorsement. Offending an industry giant over a small chain isn’t worth it."
Now Xue Qian understood Lin Yu’s real agenda.
Ding Yingyao clearly had pull, getting a Shangyu VP to pressure him personally.
And Shangyu hadn’t changed—its management still treated artists the same old despicable way.
The agency loved signing grassroots talent from shows, luring them with fame and fortune, then strong-arming them into exploitative contracts once they were semi-famous—all to line the bosses’ pockets while the artists suffered.
With contracts like those, resistance was futile.
Lin Yu’s offer might look good now, but Xue Qian wasn’t falling for it again.
"Thanks for the offer, President Lin. But I won’t be signing."
After being rejected, Lin Yu didn’t get angry. Instead, he smiled. "If the company could get you blacklisted once, they can do it again—even if you’re no longer their artist."
"And the company will sue to invalidate your previous contract termination, claiming you committed fraud by secretly signing deals with brands behind their back. When that happens, you’ll still be facing astronomical penalty fees."
"Xue Qian, you’ve been in this industry long enough to know how things work. Remember what happened to XXX? And look at the state XXX ended up in…"
Lin Yu listed several examples—artists who had defied the system and paid a heavy price. Some of the names shocked Xue Qian; he hadn’t even realized they’d been targeted.
"Xue Qian, if I want to, every single one of your works can vanish from the internet. No one in the industry will dare work with you. Even your closest friends could suffer because of you. Think carefully."
Lin Yu spoke with absolute confidence. Shangyu Entertainment—and the capital backing it—was the source of that confidence.
Time ticked by. With only ten minutes left, Xue Qian remained silent.
Lin Yu checked his watch. "You have 30 seconds left to decide."
Just as he was about to intensify the pressure, Xue Qian suddenly laughed.
In Lin Yu’s arrogant face, he saw two words: "predator."
He’d long understood the ruthlessness of entertainment industry capital.
In the past, he might have surrendered.
But now…
A scene from a movie flashed through his mind—a cocky young heir taunting a cop, saying, "Even if I devour him alive, nothing will happen to me. What can you do? I have people behind me!"
The cop retorted with authority, "You have people behind you? So do I—and mine are far bigger."
"Who?"
"The nation and its people!"
Xue Qian glanced at the black suit hanging on the rack—a gift from Brother Ma.
He didn’t have the sacred backing of that police officer.
But he did have…
