The situation had escalated to such a point that the firestorm had spread far beyond a single platform. Nearly every popular platform was now buzzing with heated discussions about the issue.
A charity organization, known for three decades for its mission to "support underprivileged girls and address their education needs," had built a household reputation. Yet, without government approval or public consultation, it had exploited its well-known name to launch several small-scale relief projects open to both genders, soliciting donations under false pretenses.
Setting aside whether the organization even had the authority to redirect funds from their original purpose, their promotional tactics were particularly crafty. Some projects advertised "helping girls attend school," using photos of impoverished girls in rural areas to attract donations—only to allocate half the funds to boys. Their justification? "Local underprivileged boys also need assistance."
Some defended the actions as "not illegal," only to be met with fierce backlash.
[Big Sister Has Arrived: Not illegal? Who gave them the right to spend donations however they please? Even if we grant that, isn’t this blatant misleading advertising?]
[I’m Throwing This Melon in Your Face: If it weren’t for that insider whistleblower, who would’ve known this ‘reputable’ foundation isn’t even focused on helping girls anymore? And if the whistleblower hadn’t had powerful backing, wouldn’t they have been silenced already?]
[Why Is Life So Hard: If you’re so eager to help boys, why not start a ‘My Son Must Inherit the Family Throne’ foundation and fundraise for that? I donated to help girls—is that so hard to understand?]
Even Weibo, notorious for deleting comments and banning accounts, chose to stay silent this time. Within three hours of the charity’s official account going "unusually quiet," public outrage crashed the platform’s servers.
An hour later, the parent foundation overseeing the charity finally issued a belated apology, which quickly trended.
The apology letter briefly explained the circumstances of the male students receiving aid, emphasizing their genuine need for support. It also promised that future fundraising for male beneficiaries would be clearly labeled for transparency.
[LL: Just answer this—wasn’t this project established to help out-of-school girls? Or has big data suddenly shown that every girl in the country is now enrolled, leaving funds to overflow?]
[Big Sister Has Arrived: ? Do you seriously think the outrage is about people believing "boys don’t need help"? Really?]
[Laughing in Anger: Cut the nonsense. Just rename it the ‘My Precious Son Must Carry On the Family Line’ Boys’ Relief Fund and be done with it.]
[Four Seasons: Disappointed. I’m not a regulator, so I don’t know if diverting funds is illegal. But I do know many like me won’t donate anymore—and the ones who’ll suffer are those who need help the most.]
Zhong Ziyan had been too distracted to spend money lately—she’d even donated nearly 100 million yuan, effectively dipping into her own savings instead of swiping Wei Hanyun’s card.
Scrolling through the apology on her phone, she frowned. "If the funds were earmarked, why couldn’t they stick to it?"
The situation had spiraled faster than she’d expected. Now, the internet was flooded with "scandals" and "exposés" about the charity—some speculative, others alarmingly detailed.
Beside her, Wei Hanyun sipped his coffee while reviewing a report. "An investigation team is being assembled."
Zhong Ziyan, about to post on Weibo, turned to him. "Really? To look into the misused funds?"
"And, for instance, a certain ‘nonexistent college’ that received 900,000 yuan in donations," he added casually.
Zhong Ziyan blinked. "That’s a thing too?"
Wei Hanyun shrugged. "We’ll see after the investigation."
Of course, a typical investigation might drag on indefinitely. But with Wei Hanyun’s subtle push, the process would move much faster.
Zhong Ziyan rested her chin on her hand. "So I just wait for the results?"
Though he didn’t say it outright, his demeanor was answer enough.
Relieved—she’d already drafted several aggressive plans—Zhong Ziyan settled down, even mustering the goodwill to "like" Weibo’s groveling apology for "recent server instability affecting some accounts."
Everyone knew Weibo’s biases, and watching it finally face consequences was satisfying.
Still, Weibo was lucky—the charity was drawing far more fire.
After the apology, both foundations went silent for days. They did, however, update their fundraising pages, now boldly labeling "gender-neutral" projects instead of burying the details.
"But donations—whether for girls-only or mixed projects—have dropped sharply," Hua Shuangshuang adjusted her glasses. "This scandal has severely damaged their reputation."
Zhong Ziyan kept scrolling. "If they still don’t get why people are angry, they deserve it."
"You should take a break." Hua Shuangshuang confiscated her phone and handed her a document. "Review this instead."
Zhong Ziyan’s head throbbed at the sight of paperwork. "You handle it. Where do I sign?"
Hua Shuangshuang sighed. "No signature needed. This outlines your new private foundation, funded by your 80-million-yuan donation. It’ll partner exclusively with vetted university aid groups, with full transparency—from scholarships to salaries, office supplies, even instant noodles. No public fundraising; it’s entirely yours."
Zhong Ziyan nodded. "Perfect."
"Now, we just need a name and office space. The rest is ready."
Zhong Ziyan recalled her vacant penthouse. "I have an empty unit near HouTu Entertainment."
Hua Shuangshuang’s eye twitched. "...That’s a bit extravagant for an office."
(For a split second, she considered switching jobs.)
Zhong Ziyan hesitated. "Or a smaller, older apartment?" (She hadn’t even seen it.)
Hua Shuangshuang decided. "That’ll do."
"Can’t we just name it after me?"
"Then all of Weibo would know who’s behind it," Hua Shuangshuang reminded.
Zhong Ziyan, naming-averse, suggested: "Golden Bell Foundation?"
Hua Shuangshuang’s eyes softened with affection. "How about letting me handle the naming? What do you think?"
Zhong Ziyan eagerly nodded. "I’ll leave it to you."
"Once everything is settled, I’ll have the foundation’s team set up an official Weibo account and post regular updates. Make sure to repost them," Hua Shuangshuang said as she gathered the documents and stood up, ready to charge into battle with Zhong Ziyan’s nearly 100 million yuan in hand.
Online, a small but vocal minority had begun spreading conspiracy theories about Zhong Ziyan’s identity, maliciously speculating that her 5-million-yuan donation was just a publicity stunt. They claimed the sudden media frenzy was merely a ploy to get her money back.
Though such comments were few, Hua Shuangshuang couldn’t help but feel disgusted every time she thought about them.
She swiftly teamed up with Fang Nan to complete the registration process for the private foundation.
At one point, Fang Nan jokingly suggested the name "Wei Long" (a nonsensical and potentially trademark-infringing reference to a popular snack brand), but Hua Shuangshuang ignored him. Instead, she settled on "Dawnlight" as the official name.
To those whose lives were shrouded in darkness, she thought, even a single ray of dawn could bring immeasurable happiness.
Once the registration was finalized, Hua Shuangshuang immediately called the newly assembled, well-paid foundation team and sent them scanned copies of all the documents.
The Dawnlight Foundation’s official Weibo account was quickly established, and its first introductory post went live with an official verification badge.
At first, it barely made a ripple—public trust in charitable organizations had recently hit rock bottom, and skepticism ran high.
But when Zhong Ziyan casually reposted the announcement, the internet finally realized where this foundation had come from.
[Someone tell me I’m not seeing things—a private foundation with an initial fund of over 80 million yuan that doesn’t accept public donations actually exists? My brain is short-circuiting.]
[Professional management team, partnerships with university aid societies, on-site evaluations of beneficiaries, follow-ups every six months—all expenses covered by the foundation, and full transparency on all documents?! Mom’s asking why I’m kneeling while scrolling Weibo??]
[Bowing to the queen.jpg]
[Bowing to the queen who’s rich, kind, and gorgeous.jpg]
[LOL, some people were whispering behind the scenes that the Money Goddess couldn’t afford a 5-million-yuan charity donation and was just putting on a show. Little did they know she could drop 5 million—and 80 million—without breaking a sweat… [dog head]]
Just as the hashtag #DawnlightFoundation began climbing the trending charts, another announcement from the All-China Women’s Federation surged in popularity.
The first half of the Federation’s statement harshly criticized two major foundations for their inappropriate remarks and misconduct, issuing severe penalties. Several officials were demoted, one was fired, and their names and ages were publicly listed—giving netizens full access to their professional histories if they cared to dig.
The second half outlined the resolution: both foundations were ordered to return all funds earmarked for aiding underprivileged male students to their original donors. They were also instructed to humbly accept public oversight and forbidden from arbitrarily altering the purpose or direction of their charitable projects.
Finally, the statement included a solemn self-criticism, urging the public to remain vigilant in monitoring the implementation of charitable efforts.
Within three minutes of the disciplinary notice being posted, the previously defiant foundations issued yet another round of apologies—this time with noticeably more sincerity. They admitted fault, promised full refunds within three days, and vowed to reform, even pledging to abolish any fundraising that deviated from their charitable missions.
But few were buying it. The top comment under their posts said it all:
[Sister’s Here: Pfft.]
