I Turned a Competitive Variety Show into a Dating Show - Chapter 18

The barrage of vile comments poured forth relentlessly, each wave blocked only to be replaced by another, an endless stream that Jian Zhi watched from outside the screen, feeling suffocated. She couldn’t fathom how Shi Xu endured it, still managing to smile and perform.

Several times, Jian Zhi was so poisoned by the comments that she had to leave the livestream, only daring to watch from the sidelines.

Shi Xu had spent two hours applying her dark-themed makeup, wearing a sleeveless, tight-fitting top, blue-purple shorts, and a silver chain strapped around her thigh, the metal digging into her flesh, accentuating her sultry aura.

Unfazed by the barrage of comments, she sat languidly, her long legs stretched out beyond the screen’s frame.

Only after the boiling “public outrage” had subsided did she slowly sit up, select a few flattering comments, and read them aloud, acknowledging their discerning taste.

“Ahhh, Sister’s legs are so long! I want to lick them!”

Shi Xu read the comment aloud without a flicker of emotion, even including the exclamation points. After finishing, she chuckled dryly and said to the screen, “My legs are indeed long, but the rest of that comment is just wishful thinking.”

“Useless except for her pretty face.”

Shi Xu’s auto-reader only registered the words “pretty face.” She clicked her tongue in vain self-admiration.

“If you love me so much, you must be one of my fans, right? Sigh, my beauty is just the least remarkable of my talents.”

With that, she used her phone as a mirror, turning her head left and right, growing increasingly pleased with the unconventional makeup she’d concocted.

“Mediocre acting and an ugly face? Someone like you doesn’t deserve fans, let alone to host Jian Zhi’s livestream. Get lost!”

Shi Xu narrowed her eyes slightly and sighed. “In my two years since debuting, no one has ever questioned my looks. Maybe you should see an ophthalmologist, kid.”

After reading the positive comments, she moved on to the negative ones, indiscriminately attacking everyone for a full hour.

The livestream chat erupted into chaos as fans clashed, and unknown entities seized the opportunity to stir the pot. The room’s popularity skyrocketed, quickly becoming the most-watched stream in its time slot.

Shi Xu grinned, pulled out the dessert and milk tea she’d prepared earlier, and watched the fan-versus-hater brawl with relish.

Soon, someone discovered this “bug” and turned the criticism back on her. In an instant, the chat was a complete mess: some were still fighting, others were scrambling for lucky bags, and the rest were just watching the drama unfold.

Shi Xu took a vigorous sip of her milk tea, retrieved her guitar from the corner, and struck a pose with practiced flair. She strummed a 53231323 pattern, closing her eyes in apparent rapture.

Her fans fell silent for a moment, unsure whether she actually knew how to play or not.

Her posture suggested a seasoned guitarist with a decade of experience, yet her playing was so simple and awkward that it hardly seemed like she knew what she was doing.

But since they were fans, unconditional adoration was a must. The initial confusion quickly gave way to a flood of praise, filling the screen with compliments. Shi Xu’s heart swelled with delight, and she decided to treat them to an extra song.

“I usually don’t sing,” she declared, leaning closer to the screen, “because I’m afraid my heavenly voice would force everyone to demand an album.”

She glanced at the song titles scrolling across the screen and dismissed them as too cliché, unworthy of her exceptional vocal talent.

After another sip of milk tea, she set down the guitar, grabbed a nearby magazine, rolled it into a makeshift microphone, and belted out: “Don’t touch the grass, don’t touch the heart, don’t touch the hands, don’t touch the feet…”

Even her most devoted fans couldn’t bring themselves to praise this performance. Instead, they shifted their defense to other areas, engaging in a fierce three-hundred-round battle with black fans who were launching personal attacks.

The black fans, delighted by the chaos, unleashed a torrent of insults, overwhelming the official moderators who couldn’t keep up with the flood of abusive comments.

Shi Xu finished singing, completely lost in the moment. She opened the magazine in her hand, showcasing the cover from all angles before pressing it against her cheek. “This is Sister… Teacher Jian’s new magazine! Everyone, remember to buy it!”

Her words ignited Jian Zhi’s fans, who were already seething with anger. They not only flooded the comments with insults but also relentlessly reported the livestream.

Shi Xu, largely oblivious to online trends and genuinely fond of Jian Zhi’s new style, had wholeheartedly recommended it to her fans. She was unaware that this stylistic shift had been poorly received, drawing widespread ridicule and nearly costing Jian Zhi a high-end endorsement deal.

The fans had torn apart the studio, clashed with rival fandoms, and endured a dark period to secure greater influence for their idol. Now, Shi Xu’s actions felt like a blatant provocation, as if she were exploiting Jian Zhi’s struggles for personal gain.

Jian Zhi didn’t believe Shi Xu had acted maliciously, but she couldn’t fault her fans’ outrage. She quickly posted a Weibo message urging calm, explaining that the change in livestream hosts was her decision.

The post was deleted almost immediately. Before Jian Zhi could figure out what had happened, Xue Qing arrived to explain.

“Shi Xu told you not to do anything. Since she chose to take your place in the livestream, she’ll bear all the consequences.”

Jian Zhi pressed her lips together and asked, “When did she say that?”

“Before she went live. I thought you two had discussed it,” Xue Qing paused, surprised. “Didn’t she tell you?”

Jian Zhi nodded, saying nothing more.

She couldn’t understand what Shi Xu was thinking. Her public image was already poor; wouldn’t this only make things worse?

Besides film and television projects, public perception and fan loyalty were crucial metrics for evaluating an artist’s commercial value. While Shi Xu’s fans were fiercely loyal, they couldn’t withstand the entire internet turning against her.

Without positive online sentiment and backing from powerful investors, it would be nearly impossible to secure good scripts.

Getting stuck in second- or third-tier dramas would relegate her to second- or third-tier status, or worse, eventually fading into obscurity. The entertainment industry was constantly evolving; without sufficient exposure, fans would abandon her. Without fan support, how could she maintain any commercial value?

Jian Zhi glanced at the phone on the table. Shi Xu’s expression was strained, likely piecing together the reason for her fans’ outrage from the rapidly scrolling comments.

Jian Zhi clenched her fist, her heart churning with emotion. A lump formed in her throat, impossible to swallow or spit out, leaving her eyes stinging with discomfort.

We’ve only known each other for half a month. Why would she go this far for me?

Just hours before the live stream, they had argued, and Jian Zhi had said such hurtful things. Shouldn’t Shi Xu have distanced herself completely, never to speak to her again?

What was she thinking, risking her entire future like this?

Jian Zhi couldn’t understand Shi Xu’s motives, nor could she decipher her own feelings. All she knew was that an unfamiliar emotion was taking hold, and the walls around her heart seemed to be crumbling further.

After sorting through everything, Shi Xu remained silent for a long moment, watching the rapidly scrolling comments. Finally, she said, “This was my mistake. I sincerely apologize to Senior Jian Zhi and her fans.”

She stood up and bowed deeply, her gaze earnest and profound, as if looking directly at someone beyond the screen.

When Jian Zhi met those fox-like eyes, her heart clenched violently. It felt as if she were truly making eye contact with Shi Xu, her body stiffening with tension, her heart pounding like a drum.

The suffocating feeling intensified. Jian Zhi stopped watching Shi Xu’s live stream and picked up her phone to negotiate with her agency, demanding control over her accounts on all platforms.

She hadn’t bothered to reclaim her accounts before because she didn’t care, but now she couldn’t tolerate it any longer.

Jian Zhi’s fans refused to accept Shi Xu’s apology, believing it was insincere and made under pressure. After all, Shi Xu’s actions had gone viral, drawing widespread criticism, and she needed to do something to salvage her image.

Shi Xu felt anxious, fearing Jian Zhi might also misunderstand. She decided to end the livestream early.

Before signing off, she made a point to say, “I’m hosting this livestream on behalf of Teacher Jian, so please remember to vote for her team during the Second Public Performance.”

She paused, then added, “Today’s incident was due to my lack of preparation. I apologize again to everyone. As for Teacher Jian, I’ll explain things to her personally.”

If she’s still willing to listen to me.