Chapter 53: Brothers, a big job has just come in!

Fang Xinghe’s logic for not panicking was quite simple.

First, this trivial little scandal couldn’t possibly bring him down. It was just a smear campaign, which was precisely what he desired.
Second, his new book would sell even better.
Third, his multi-channel monetization would indeed be affected? Fine, then he just wouldn’t make that money; he was in no rush.
Fourth, his superficial fan base might experience some turbulence, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.
Fifth, theoretically, a "cyber-mob" capable of destroying any ordinary fourteen-year-old boy wouldn't even scratch a veteran troll boss who had already died once. He didn't care at all, though his real fans would certainly feel heartbroken.
Sixth, he still retained at least two channels to make his voice heard, meaning he could still curse out whoever he wanted—and curse them even more filthily and satisfyingly.

Therefore, even if the Southern media outlets got hold of his dirt, it was really no big deal.
It wasn't that there was zero impact, but rather that he could easily withstand it.

Yet, he still replied very solemnly, "I know. Thank you, Sister Chunhua."

"Don't thank me just yet. I'm going to contact the head of the News Department at Capital TV right away. He was asking me for that interview footage earlier anyway. Besides, you could also try having Yali ask CCTV. You definitely shouldn't bank on the main news broadcasts, but there are a few programs that might just work out..."

After offering a string of earnest instructions, Zhao Chunhua immediately hurried off to handle the matter with characteristic vigor.

She and Wang Yali were truly alike, both possessing the straightforward, enthusiastic, and generous demeanor typical of Beijing girls.

Although Fang Xinghe didn't hold out much hope for her proposed solutions, a warm current welled up and rose within his chest.

As for why he wasn't optimistic...
Wasn't it blatantly obvious?

In this current era, no force on earth could withstand wave after wave of long-term, coordinated smearing from the capital-backed media and cultural elites.

The public intellectuals of later generations: bottom-feeder chaff spouting nonsense on half-dead platforms like Weibo, stray dogs living abroad picking through garbage.
The public intellectuals of the present day: journalists, editors, writers' association committee members, university professors, economists, sociologists, freelance writers across all industries, star directors, graduates of Tsinghua, Peking, Fudan, and Shanghai Jiao Tong Universities...

They were version T0, and they weren't messing around.

Therefore, once they collectively turned their guns on someone, it was genuinely troublesome.

Probably only a seal of approval from the level of the *News Simulcast* or *Focus Interview* could make a tiny difference; any other form of clarification simply wasn't enough to withstand their relentless defamation.
Moreover, whether these so-called "other clarification methods" would turn out to be enemies or friends, and which side they actually leaned toward, was entirely unpredictable.

He would just have to wait and see.

Half an hour later, Zhao Chunhua called back, fuming with anger.

"The Capital Station is willing to arrange an exclusive interview for you, but you need to come to Beijing. They will choose the topic, they will set the time, and you must cooperate unconditionally without any autonomy whatsoever..."

"Out of the question." Fang Xinghe refused flatly without a second thought.

A legitimate television studio program was of an entirely different nature from Zhao Chunhua's previous interview.
When going to a television station to record a program, autonomy was the single most important thing.
Without autonomy, they could interrogate you however they pleased and edit the footage however they wanted, without consulting you in the slightest.
No normal person could ever imagine what kind of absolute dogshit the final product would turn out to be.
The number of artists who had been ruthlessly screwed over by Mango TV’s malicious editing and came to Fang Xinghe wanting to buy clarification marketing campaigns wasn't just one or two—it was a whole damn flock!

Fang Xinghe would rather never go on television than accept being manipulated like that.

"I knew you wouldn't accept it."

Zhao Chunhua sighed, worrying aloud, "Director Luo was very enthusiastic before, but now... I get the feeling he doesn't want to do book-related topics anymore. It's very likely he's aiming to dig up a major scandal."

Right, as expected, they were enemies rather than friends.

Yet Fang Xinghe remained extremely calm. "Who leaked the wind to him? A reporter just arrived on my side, so how on earth did you guys at Capital Station vaguely get the news? This dissemination efficiency doesn't make sense."

"Oh! You're right!"

A sharp slap echoed from Zhao Chunhua's end, though there was no telling what she had hit so hard.

"Wait a second, I'll have Yali join me to poke around and find out!"

This time it was even faster. In less than ten minutes, she called back, her voice sounding nervous. "I found out! The reporter who went to interview you is from the Southern Metropolis Daily's Beijing bureau. The source of the leak is Xinhua reporter Yang Xiao, and the one who tipped off old Luo is most likely People's Daily editor Jiang Jiaping..."

Fang Xinghe listened in astonishment. How on earth did this bunch of people manage to gang up together?

Zhao Chunhua's worried voice continued through the receiver.

"Now we've got a real problem! A lot of media outlets are waiting for the interview results, and the word has already spread... Why do so many people have nothing better to do than make such a huge fuss over you? Are they sick in the head?"

This had long surpassed the level of people just wanting to feed on human blood buns; it was a heavy-handed campaign determined to drag Fang Xinghe's name through the mud until he was utterly ruined.

She couldn't figure it out.

However, Fang Xinghe slowly figured it out instead.

Although the domestic concept and distinction of the "Southern-leaning/anti-defense faction" had not yet formally surfaced, they had in fact existed long ago.
According to publicly available information from later years, the international foundation's "assistance" to the domestic cultural circle had already reached a massive scale by the early 1990s.
The rest was better left unsaid, but looking at this faction, it wasn't actually a fixed group defined by geography, but rather a kind of... attribute derived from Southern Media.

By Fang Xinghe's era, their entire group had been abandoned by their masters, information had been completely publicized, and netizens discovered that countless unrelated people were all drawing the same paycheck.
So it was really no surprise that they huddled together behind the scenes; they were all good buddies after all.

What truly disgusted Fang Xinghe was that right now, at this very moment, this bunch of people actually represented the so-called forces of progress.

He really wanted to curse out their entire families...
Of course, he'd have to let Little Dragon handle the footwork.

In truth, Zhao Chunhua wasn't unaware of how tricky and persistent this faction was, but she had always assumed that although Fang Xinghe was rebellious, he still counted as "one of our own" in the cultural circle.
The cultural circle included the literary world, and since his writings were so exceptional, how could he not count?

Fine, suppose he did.
However, she clearly underestimated their determination to utterly destroy Fang Xinghe. After all, both were rebels, but Han Han's anger was directed at the environment, whereas Fang Xinghe's anger was directed at *them*. It went without saying who should be supported.

From this stemmed an even more crucial issue...

Fang Xinghe was standing in their way.

They had always tried to cultivate a batch of "guiding figures" who shared their "tastes and aspirations" and could become progressive new idols for the youth.
They had invested tremendous effort, launching major selections whenever an opportunity arose.
To be fair, they did publicize a few genuinely positive figures, but only those whose ideology skewed toward the West could receive over-the-top, out-of-spec hype.
From the initial "50 Public Intellectuals Who Influenced China," to the "Top Ten Youth Leaders," down to the "Annual Chinese Youth Leaders," how many disgusting freaks were pushed out along the way?
Looking down the lists, good grief, it was truly an eyesore.
What kind of youth leader was Lu Taijun, who directed *Nanjing Nanjing*?
Whom did Zhang Ziyi, who engaged in nude chat on a foreign beach, actually touch?
Whom did Gao Xiaosong, who fanatically hyped how awesome things were abroad, truly influence?

Han Han in his youth perfectly fit their requirements, so from the moment he debuted, the related hype and momentum-building had never stopped.

However, things were a bit different this lifetime.
With Fang Xinghe blocking the path ahead, who would even bother looking at little Han behind him?
It wasn't that Han Han wasn't strong, but rather that Fang Xinghe was simply too far off the charts.

When they had no opportunity, they could only grit their teeth and endure it, but now that they finally found an opening, they naturally exerted every ounce of strength they had.
Anyway, capitalizing on Fang Xinghe brought both sales and traffic, so they might as well blow the whole thing wide open!

Consequently, not only was Zhao Chunhua at her wit's end, but Wang Yali also panicked for once.

She proactively called him up: "Xinghe, I'm afraid that matter of yours can't be suppressed. A lot of media outlets are reserving pages, waiting for the interview results. Sister promised to help you smooth it out before, but it looks like I was just blowing hot air..."

"It's fine, I know what I'm doing."

Fang Xinghe calmly comforted her, his steady voice instantly easing Wang Yali's tension. "You've thought of a way?"

"Yeah, don't worry yourself over it. I won't lose."

Wang Yali let out a long breath of relief. "Alright then, Chunhua and I will discuss it further and see how we can help."

Fang Xinghe didn't try to dissuade her further. Whatever; they couldn't win no matter how they thrashed about anyway.

Yes, he couldn't lose, but he couldn't "win" in the traditional sense either.
It wasn't just because most of the broadcasting channels were controlled by the opposing side, nor was it merely because most people skilled at public vocalization stood on their side. The absolute core logic was... they were utterly shameless.

Take rumor-mongering, for instance: a whole mob would swarm forward together, smearing you until your reputation stank.
You clearly had evidence, but nowhere to post it.
You finally found a place to post it, but it was quickly drowned out by the enemy's wolf-pack tactics.
You persisted in your clarification, and readers finally saw it, but the truth wasn't what readers wanted—it wasn't fun, it wasn't stimulating—so the rumors remained everywhere.
You just wanted an apology, but unfortunately, their greatest skill was pretending not to see.
You picked up the weapon of the law and took them to court, but unfortunately, it still did damn-all.

And at the very, very end...
"Fine, sorry, I got it wrong."
They would wave their hands impatiently, leave behind an apology, turn around and walk out, shifting their gaze to the next victim, and forget you completely as if you were trash.
Your value had reached its end; you weren't worthy of consuming any more of their time, weren't worthy of being cursed at anymore, and didn't even deserve a straight glance.

And after returning, they could still continue enjoying the cheers, applause, and adoration of that fixed audience.

You won, but were you happy?
At least when Fang Xinghe thought about it, it felt thoroughly unpleasant.

As a high-level troll leader in the age of entertaining oneself to death, he knew all too well how that public intellectual rogue-playbook operated.
To speak the plain truth, going up against this bunch of bastards meant nobody could ever truly win.
No cheat codes or hacks were useful, because the lowest-layer logic was this—a massive audience believed them, believed that the air outside was sweeter, and believed that their own lives sucked because their own country was incompetent.
Even if you slaughtered all the current public intellectuals, the next batch stepping up would still pander to the audience for economic gain.
Once the audience was coaxed into happiness, they would still believe their rumors.

This problem hadn't been completely resolved even by 2030, because among a population of 1.4 billion, a single ten-thousandth being morons was enough to render anyone helpless.
These idols didn't even need outside funding; purely living off the domestic fools was enough to achieve financial freedom.
The situation right now was only going to be more brutal—how could Fang Xinghe possibly use his bare head to fight against hundreds of millions of public intellectual believers?
A single spit from each of them would be enough to drown him.

Therefore, he could only become an even bigger rogue—forget about readers, forget about reputation, just chase down the ringleaders and hammer them relentlessly until the end.
Winning or not winning aside, whether he could beat the pain into them was a completely different matter.

At the end of the day, this game all came down to a battle of mental fortitude. Whoever had the stronger mindset, whoever cared less about being cursed at, and whoever could stay iron-headed until the very end would stand undefeated.

Besides, why the hell should he play by their rules?
They could decide how the fight was fought, but *when* the fight started and *when* it ended—that was up to him!

Fang Xinghe pulled out his mobile phone and dialed the pager number of Dragon Brother—the punk he had chatted with in the bathhouse.
Coincidentally, just after nearly being cornered by those two little delinquent girls, he turned around and sought out the very "Dragon Brother" they kept talking about. Fate was truly wondrous.

He had the paging station send a message: *I am Fang Xinghe. Please call me back when you get this.*

In less than three minutes both ways, his phone rang. As soon as he connected, Xiaolong's breathless, excited voice came through the receiver.

"Young Master Fang! It's me, Xiaolong! What's up? You looking for me?"

"Dragon Brother..."
"No, no, no, call me Xiaolong! Just Xiaolong! What kind of 'brother' am I in front of you? Do I even deserve that?!"

Xiaolong wasn't particularly articulate, but he had his priorities straight.
Not only did he lower his posture entirely, but he also genuinely hoped he could be of help to Fang Xinghe.
That proud sense of hometown camaraderie—where he could pat his chest while traveling out of town and declare, "Fang Xinghe is my fellow townsman; we always soaked in the same bathhouse"—might be rare thirty years later, but right now it was rustic and pure.

"Just give the word if you need anything! Whatever can be done, I'll do it right now; whatever can't be done, I'll figure out a way to make it happen!"

Fang Xinghe didn't stand on ceremony anymore and instructed directly, "Help me track down two people—journalists from the capital, from Southern Metropolis Daily. They might be going to interview my uncle today. You know where he lives, right?"

"I know, I know! That block right at the head of Station Front Street!"

Xiaolong was exceptionally excited, howling as he asked, "I'm familiar with all the motels over there! After I dig them out, do you need me to find a couple of girls to run a honey trap on them? That trick works damn well against outsiders with official jobs!"

Ha!
Fang Xinghe almost laughed out loud. This fellow was truly interesting and had quite an imagination.

However...
"No need. Just notify me once you've found them. Don't touch them."

"Oh..."
Xiaolong's voice was full of regret, but it didn't affect his enthusiasm for working hard in the slightest.

"Then Young Master Fang, wait for my good news. If it's fast, I'll have it sorted in half an hour!"

"Alright, I appreciate the favor."

Fang Xinghe, who had only ever socialized in online circles, handled this sort of thing with effortless ease. Xiaofang’s natural disposition was worldly and generous, and having spent years dealing with the entertainment industry, when combined together, he basically possessed the ultimate boss-tier constitution.

He hadn't mentioned any reward, but a simple "I appreciate the favor" instantly pumped Xiaolong full of adrenaline.

Throwing his phone aside amidst the angry, cursing shouts of the bathhouse owner, this fellow sprinted back to the little shop where he had been drinking, threw his arms up, and roared, "Stop fucking drinking! A big job just dropped! Everyone up, let's move!"

A table of male and female county punks with all sorts of dyed hair looked up upon hearing this, their eyes gleaming.

"What kind of job, Dragon Brother? How much does it pay?"

These youngsters not yet twenty years old were practically driven mad by poverty; the moment they heard "big job," their eyes turned a scorching green.

"Earn your mom's ass! I didn't even talk about money!"

Dragon Brother looked immensely bold and heroic. With a fierce slam of the table, he raised his right thumb and pointed it straight at his own nose.

"This job is working for Young Master Fang!"

The guys paused, failing to react for a second, but several of the girls let out a sudden, sharp exclamation: "Which Young Master Fang? Fang Xinghe?!"

"No shit!"

Dragon Brother looked immensely arrogant, his chin practically poking the ceiling as he sneered with defiance that reached the heavens.
"I told you guys before that I was super tight with Young Master Fang, and none of you fucking believed me. What do you say now?"

"Holy shit!"
"Oh my god!"
"Bro, did Young Master Fang *really* ask you to do something?!"

The young men and women began radiating a bluish glow from their eyes and stood up in unison.

"Do a good job, Young Master Fang is coming over in a bit! Make it snappy and crisp—are you doing this or not?!"

"Do it, do it, do it!"
"What else is there to say? Just tell me who to smash!"

Two young fellows suddenly sprang forward. Taking a closer look, both sported parted-in-the-middle bangs whose hair had probably been dyed red once, though it had faded into a half-yellow, half-red mess, and both wore Fang Xinghe-style clip-on earrings.

"Let's go, time to handle some people!"

The girls were even more excited. There were four of them in total, and as luck would have it, two of them were precisely the fierce babes who had previously tried to corner and rough up Fang Xinghe.

The most aggressive-looking one picked up an empty beer bottle, pointed it at Xiaolong, and said, "If I don't see Fang Xinghe today, you and I are definitely going to die together! What are we supposed to be doing? Spit it out already!"

"Yeah! I'm even okay with sleeping with him if he wants!"
"Are you dreaming in broad daylight? Look at your own pathetic mug!"
"Damn it, shut up all of you, follow me!"

With a wave of his hand, looking majestic and high-spirited, Dragon Brother led them out, walking the entire way with his chin raised and eyes cast sideways.

There was only one word for it: swaggering.

This was Fang Xinghe's influence in this small county town.

This little town had remained obscure for far too long.
Trapped within this backwater, young punks ranging from thirteen or fourteen to their early twenties desperately needed a peer model whom they could genuinely call an idol.
A mere middle school entrance exam top scorer didn't fit the bill—what did a goody-two-shoes know about loyalty and brotherhood?
A purely ruthless neighborhood enforcer didn't fit either—that only inspired fear; what did they know about the confusion of small-town youth?
Only Fang Xinghe fit. He was someone who had truly carved out a path entirely through his own efforts, and then swaggered across that sky, penning quote after quote that thrilled teenagers across the entire nation.

Worshiping Fang Xinghe just because of incomprehensible composition essays and unlearnable textbooks sounded rather stupid on the surface.
Yet in their numb, stifled dreams, being as awesome as Young Master Fang was practically the sole ray of light illuminating the road ahead.

The moment anyone spoke those thoughts aloud, they would sound even stupider.
So they never talked about it; they merely softened their footsteps and lowered their voices whenever they passed by No. 3 High School, terrified of disturbing the heavenly being.

Now, having finally gotten the chance to handle a task for Young Master Fang and actually make personal contact with him, the whole bunch had gone into a hyper-responsive state.

They would attack whoever Young Master Fang told them to attack; if he even frowned at them, they'd willingly become his loyal dogs!