Chapter 58: Open Fire on the Koreans

(A new week begins, and here I am again, shamelessly begging for votes. Still running naked, you know what that means? It means I’m about to drop the axe… But that’s impossible. You’re overthinking it. I just feel incapable of love anymore. I’ve reached the age where I’m too lazy to love or be loved. I wish I could soar to the Celestial Palace and shatter the Hall of Supreme Splendor.)

“Hey, bro, are you sure that’s an internet café private room behind you?”

“Come on, that background’s painted on, right? Looks so classy and upscale.”

“Brother, it’s been days—I’ve missed you to death.”

“Brother, please, you don’t need to do anything, I’ll handle it myself.”

…

It was two minutes to seven when Su Tong logged into the platform and entered Nian Nu Jiao’s room. The moment he stepped in, his head started pounding—the chat was exploding with a barrage of messages, all sorts of noise flooding in.

With so many people, things were impossible to control. Some of the comments were downright indecent, like the one from “Please Do Me.” Judging by their nickname and profile, it seemed to be a woman, but no one could be certain what was really on the other end.

Nian Nu Jiao didn’t stream every day, but whenever he did, his diamond contract privileges kicked in. He’d announced yesterday he’d go live today, and from six in the afternoon, the platform’s homepage featured his recommendation.

“There are actually this many people?” Yang Feifei sat beside him, visibly startled. The viewer count read 1,308,506.

Over 1.3 million.

Su Tong was surprised as well. He glanced at the microphone—still off—and the camera wasn’t live either. He quickly said to Yang Feifei, “Just watch from there, and don’t say anything.”

This was a movie queen, and a diva to boot. Of course, the “diva” title was somewhat honorary—her fans and a few media outlets had bestowed it upon her, since she’d never won a major music award.

Yang Feifei’s room only had one computer, but two monitors: one for Su Tong’s stream, and an external one for her to watch.

Naturally, a diva like Yang Feifei couldn’t stream side by side with Su Tong, nor could she appear on camera.

“Giving you my popularity and you don’t even want it. So many people have begged me for a boost and I’ve refused them all,” Yang Feifei grumbled.

“Oh, please. Don’t be fooled by my 1.3 million viewers—there’s a lot of padding there. The platform and fans use multiple accounts, and then you have the crowd just coming for the excitement. My real fans are probably only three or four hundred thousand. How many fans do you have? If not tens of millions, then at least several million, right? If they see you streaming with me, the emotional surge alone would drown both me and my fans,” Su Tong replied. His “battle cats” and “warrior bots” might be impressive, but faced with the diva’s fan base, they’d be utterly overwhelmed.

“Fine, I won’t say anything,” Yang Feifei obediently sat at the neighboring desk, her big eyes curiously following the scrolling chat.

“Hee hee, hee hee…” She couldn’t help but giggle at the barrage of silly comments.

Su Tong clutched his head. “You’re not allowed to laugh either!”

Yang Feifei immediately sat up straight and stifled her smile.

“I’m going to count to five. After that, no more sounds from you.” Su Tong moved the mouse pointer to the “Go Live” button. “Five, four, three, two, one.”

“Haha! Dear viewers, I’ve missed you so much!” With the camera and mic now on, Su Tong grinned broadly at the camera.

“If you missed us so much, why disappear for days and not stream?”

“So fake! I’ve seen fakes before, but never one this fake.”

“Keep pretending. Here’s a sack for you—keep up the act.”

…

Some viewers gave Su Tong no face at all, mocking him relentlessly.

“Bro, you look even more handsome! Smooches!”

“Bro, I can’t hold it anymore. Looking for true love.”

“Looking for a bromance.”

…

Yang Feifei was thoroughly entertained by the comments and snickered quietly at the side—a clear sign of a budding fujoshi.

“As expected, all of you take pleasure in my suffering,” Su Tong said grandly, immune to the scrolling insults. “Then I’ll share some of my miseries, so you can all have a good laugh.”

“Haha, bro, go on, tell us!”

“Hooray, bro! If you’re upset, share it so we can all be happy!”

“Love it! My girlfriend and I are ready with our snacks… or maybe something else.”

…

Ignoring the chat, Su Tong sighed dramatically. “I was so annoyed today. At lunch, I went to a restaurant and the food was terrible. I called the waiter over and said, ‘How can your food taste so bad? Get your manager.’ The waiter looked embarrassed and replied, ‘Sorry, our manager is eating lunch at the restaurant across the street and hasn’t come back yet.’”

Yang Feifei, who hadn’t heard this joke before, hunched her shoulders, covered her mouth, and almost burst out laughing.

“Come on, bro, you’re making that up.”

“There’s no way a waiter would be that silly. You think everyone’s like you?”

“Not funny, doesn’t count, try again!”

…

The audience wasn’t buying it.

“Seriously, I was fuming today,” Su Tong continued, playing his part well. “I ran into a Korean exchange student. I swear.”

Su Tong could act, and seeing his expression, everyone wasn’t sure whether it was true or not—they listened closely.

“I asked him how he liked Da Qin. He said, ‘It’s wonderful. I’m seeing the lands once ruled by our Korean ancestors—feels so familiar.’” Su Tong recounted.

The audience was momentarily stunned. Recently, Korea had rushed to the United Nations to declare the Dragon Boat Festival as their own intangible cultural heritage. The whole empire was in an uproar, countless netizens fuming. It was hard to imagine the shamelessness required for such a move.

When Su Tong told this story, everyone realized it was a joke, but also that he was about to roast Korea, and no one objected.

“This Korean student was full of himself. He claimed that Koreans were the greatest, that the Dragon Boat Festival was their invention, traditional medicine was their invention, Confucius was their invention.” At this, the audience lost it.

“Screw them, those idiots.”

“Give me three thousand armored soldiers and I’ll flatten Korea.”

“When someone has no shame, nothing can stop them. Koreans have achieved new heights of shamelessness.”

“Wipe out their whole family, smack every Korean you see.”

…

The male viewers were especially resentful—probably because in real life, many girls around them were obsessed with Korean stars, leaving them speechless and frustrated. Now, Su Tong had popped the bubble and the pent-up anger erupted.

“They invented Buddha, Sun Wukong too—because Sun Wukong’s weapon is a staff. Even the Four Great Inventions were theirs,” Su Tong continued nonchalantly, as if it was all unrelated to him.

The comments exploded again in a storm of curses and mockery; Korean ancestors up and down the country were thoroughly denounced.

At least the outrage was directed outward, not at each other—otherwise, with only a few dozen moderators, there’d have been no way to keep up.

“Haha, there’s no need to be angry, everyone,” Su Tong glanced at the chat and chuckled. “Why? Because we Da Qin people invented Koreans.”

Everyone was momentarily stunned, then burst out laughing.

“Haha, our little bastard.”

“So it’s our own brat misbehaving.”

“Awesome, bro, I love it.”

“Time to give that unruly grandson a beating.”

…

The audience’s laughter and banter left Su Tong a little speechless—his own mischievous father often called him that.

“Hee hee…” At that moment, Yang Feifei couldn’t hold back her laughter any longer.