No one knew when Lin Wanwan’s first fan appeared.
It might have been the moment she said, “If hard work was enough, I wouldn’t have died in my past life.”
Or perhaps it was when she sang “The Qinghai-Tibet Grassland” a cappella.
Or maybe it was when she declared in court, “Let me sleep on the company floor.”
In any case, when someone clicked into Lin Wanwan’s super topic, they were stunned.
Super Topic Followers: 128,436
Posts: 38,902
Read Count: 370 million
For an artist who had only been “popular” for less than a week, these numbers were absolutely staggering.
Even more astonishing was that these posts weren’t from paid trolls or marketing accounts—they were all genuine engagement.
“Does anyone know what songs Wanwan sang before?”
“I found it! A clip from a low-budget variety show three years ago, where she hummed a few lines as a background extra! Link here!”
“Holy crap, that voice… she was already this good back then?!”
“Why didn’t anyone notice her?!”
“Because she was blacklisted! She had no work for three years!”
“Is the company blind?!”
“Not blind—just malicious, deliberately keeping her from getting famous.”
At 2 a.m., thousands of night owls in the super topic were frantically digging up old content.
Someone unearthed footage from a talent show she participated in six years ago. She was only 18 then—young, nervous, singing a simple folk song before being eliminated.
The judge had said at the time, “Your voice is good, but it’s not quite suited for this stage.”
Looking back at that video now, the comment section was flooded:
“Not suited? Then who is? Those lip-syncing phonies with auto-tune?”
“If that voice were around today, she’d be legendary, okay?”
“Where are those judges now?”
At 3 a.m., another post shot to the top of the trending list.
The poster was an ordinary user named “Did Wanwan Eat Today.”
The post contained only one sentence: “I found her practice room video from three years ago.”
The accompanying image was a blurry screenshot from a video. Clicking in revealed a thirty-second phone recording—poor quality, shaky, with muffled audio.
But you could see a girl in a loose T-shirt, her hair tied in a bun, standing in front of a practice room mirror, singing into her phone. What was she singing? It was hard to make out. But the moment her voice came through, everyone fell silent.
It was a voice completely different from “The Qinghai-Tibet Grassland”—gentle, clear, with a hint of huskiness, like someone unable to sleep late at night, softly humming to themselves while gazing at the moon outside the window.
Comments scrolled by:
“That voice… it makes me want to cry.”
“What is she singing?”
“Sounds like an original? I’ve never heard these lyrics before.”
“She was already writing songs three years ago?”
“She was blacklisted for three years—how many songs did she write during that time?”
“Where are those songs?”
“Probably still in the company’s hands.”
Then someone started posting:
“Let’s help her get her songs back.”
“Let’s help her get her money back.”
“Let’s help her get justice.”
By 4 a.m., the super topic was boiling over:
A new post was pinned to the top.
The poster’s ID was “Wanwan’s First Fan,” and the content read:
“Brothers and sisters, I have a proposal.”
“We can’t just stand by and watch.”
“We have to do something.”
The comment section exploded instantly:
“Do what? We have no money or influence.”
“Crowdfunding? She said not to crowdfund.”
“Then what can we do?”
“How about… starting a fan club?”
“Fan club? Isn’t that something only for pop idols?”
“Why can’t she have one?”
“Yeah, why should only idols have fan clubs?”
“We are her fan club!”
“What about a name? What should we call it?”
“Wanwan Fan Club?”
“Too ordinary.”
Someone fell silent for a few seconds, then posted:
“We may lie flat, but our sister must stand up.”
The entire chat went quiet, and then that comment was frantically liked.
“This is it!”
“We may lie flat, but our sister must stand up!”
“This is our slogan!”
At 4:17 a.m., the “Lin Wanwan Fan Club” was officially established.
The first president was an ordinary office worker with the online username “Still Slacking Off Today.”
In the pinned post, he wrote: “I’m a corporate drone, working overtime until dawn every day, with a salary just enough to pay rent. I’ve given up, because I can’t keep up with the rat race anymore. But Wanwan is different. She shouldn’t have to give up. She’s been bullied for three years, hasn’t earned a single cent, and even owes a million. She doesn’t deserve this, so while we lie flat, she must stand up. This is the only thing we can do for her.”
This post was shared 80,000 times and liked 350,000 times.
When Lin Wanwan woke up in the morning, she was stunned once again by her Weibo private messages!
Squinting, she clicked on the 999+ unread messages.
She glanced at her follower count: 1.27 million.
She froze. Wasn’t it only 300,000 yesterday? How did it increase by a million overnight?
She clicked into the super topic and saw the pinned post, along with the slogan.
“We may lie flat, but our sister must stand up.”
She stared at it for a long time. Then, her eyes turned red.
The trending topics updated:
#LinWanwanFanClubEstablished# (7th place)
#WeMayLieFlatButOurSisterMustStandUp# (5th place)
#ThreeYearOldTrainingRoomVideo# (9th place)
Beneath the topics were countless messages from fans:
“I’m not chasing a star; I’m chasing justice.”
“She’s not an idol; she’s our spokesperson.”
“She said what we didn’t dare to say, and we’ll help her reclaim justice.”
“Sharing is power!”
Someone began organizing: “The trial is today. Should we go?”
“Yes! Of course we should go!”
…
At 9 a.m., Lin Wanwan arrived as promised. She was still wearing a white shirt and jeans, with no makeup. But today, she didn’t dare to carry soy milk and fried dough sticks. The moment she appeared, the crowd erupted.
“Lin Wanwan! Lin Wanwan! Lin Wanwan!”
She stood there, motionless. Then, she made a gesture—she bowed deeply to the crowd.
The entire place fell silent. Then, thunderous applause broke out.
Today, the public gallery was packed. Not with reporters or legal bloggers, but with ordinary fans.
They had lined up as early as 5 a.m., just to get a glimpse inside.
The judge entered, and everyone stood up.
Today, there was an additional person at the plaintiff’s table: Li Jianguo, the owner of Xingyao Media.
This time, the owner of Xingyao Media appeared in court personally. He sat there, expressionless, his eyes cold.
Before the trial began, he stood up and walked over to the defendant’s table.
He leaned down, close to Lin Wanwan’s ear, and whispered, “Do you think those people outside can help you?”
“Let me tell you… what do they amount to?”
“Today, I’ll show you what true despair looks like.”
Lin Wanwan looked at him but said nothing.
Li Jianguo sneered and returned to his seat.
The plaintiff’s lawyer stood up and presented a new piece of evidence. “Your Honor, this is the defendant Lin Wanwan’s ‘violation record’ from three years ago.”
“Including: refusing company-assigned work seventeen times, leaving without permission five times, disobeying management three times, and posting inappropriate remarks on social media twice…”
He presented each item one by one, speaking fluently and eloquently.
In the public gallery, fans gritted their teeth, suppressing their anger.
Lin Wanwan listened quietly, her expression unchanged.
Only after the plaintiff’s lawyer finished did she stand up.
She looked at the judge and said, “Your Honor, may I ask the plaintiff a few questions?”
The judge nodded.
Lin Wanwan walked to the plaintiff’s table and looked at Li Jianguo. “Mr. Li, you said I have a ‘violation record.'”
“Then let me ask you…”
“The work I refused included singing at bars, warming up at nightclubs, attending multi-level marketing annual meetings, birthday parties for rich second-generation heirs, advertisements for plastic surgery hospitals, and borderline PKs on live-streaming platforms—do you admit to these?”
Li Jianguo remained silent.
“I left without permission because I was locked in that storage room with no windows, no sunlight, and I just wanted to step out for some fresh air… Does that count as a violation?”
Li Jianguo’s face darkened.
“I disobeyed management because the management demanded I accompany clients for drinks… Does that count as a violation?”
The courtroom fell silent.
Lin Wanwan continued:
“I spoke on social media because I told the truth… Does that count as inappropriate remarks?”
She stared at Li Jianguo, enunciating each word clearly. “Mr. Li, do you dare answer me?”
Li Jianguo stood up and said coldly, “Your questions are irrelevant to this case.”
Lin Wanwan laughed. “Irrelevant?”
“Then tell me, what is relevant?”
“Is it relevant that because I signed a contract, I must become your slave?”
“Is it relevant that because I earned eight million, I must not receive a single cent?”
“Is it relevant that I slept on the floor, ate boxed meals, was forced to accompany clients for drinks, and still had to smile and thank you?”
Her voice grew louder. “Is this what you call ‘relevant’?”
Li Jianguo’s face turned pale and then flushed with anger. He took a deep breath to calm himself.
He signaled his lawyer to present a document.
The lawyer said, “Your Honor, this is the defendant’s signed contract, clear in black and white.”
“All terms were voluntarily agreed upon by both parties.”
“Including profit distribution, work arrangements, and liability for breach of contract.”
“Now, the defendant breached the contract first but is turning around to falsely accuse our company…”
Before he could finish, someone suddenly stood up in the public gallery.
She was a young girl in her early twenties, dressed plainly. Her voice trembled but was clear. “Your Honor, I can testify.”
The judge frowned. “Who are you?”
The girl said, “My name is Zhou Xiaoyu, and I am a signed artist under Xingyao Media.”
The courtroom erupted in murmurs.
Li Jianguo abruptly stood up. “You—”
The bailiff stopped him.
The girl continued, “Your Honor, I also signed that kind of contract.”
“Ninety-one split, with the artist taking one.”
“A penalty of five million for breach of contract.”
“For three years, I haven’t received a single cent and still owe the company eight hundred thousand.”
“I also lived in that storage room.”
“I was also arranged to accompany clients for drinks.”
She looked at Li Jianguo, tears streaming down her face. “Mr. Li, you still owe me eight hundred thousand.”
As soon as Zhou Xiaoyu finished speaking, another person stood up in the public gallery.
“Your Honor, I am also a Star Glory artist.”
Another one.
“Me too.”
“And me.”
“Me.”
“Me.”
In just five minutes, twelve people stood up.
All of them were signed artists under Star Glory Media.
There were young people, middle-aged individuals, and familiar faces who had debuted many years ago.
Some spoke through tears, some spoke through gritted teeth, and some could no longer speak, simply standing there, their eyes filled with accusation.
Reporters frantically snapped photos.
In the live stream, the barrage of comments had completely obscured the screen.
The judge struck his gavel countless times before finally restoring order in the courtroom.
He looked at Li Jianguo, his gaze icy. “Plaintiff, do you have anything to say?”
Li Jianguo stood there, his face ashen. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but no words came out.
The judge announced a recess, with proceedings to resume in the afternoon.
Lin Wanwan walked out of the courthouse and was surrounded by fans. But this time, it wasn’t reporters—it was the artists who had stood up.
They gathered around her, some crying, some smiling, and some just looking at her, unable to speak.
A young girl grabbed her hand. “Sister Wanwan, thank you. You gave us the courage to speak.”
Lin Wanwan looked at her, said nothing, and simply gave her a gentle hug.
Lin Wanwan returned home, lay on her bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Her phone suddenly vibrated. She opened it to find a private message.
The ID was unusual: “Capital Bane.”
The message contained only one sentence: “I have a way to help you.”
Lin Wanwan narrowed her eyes.
[Eye of Truth] activated.
But the other party’s profile picture was blank—she could see nothing.
She replied, “Who are you?”
The other party responded instantly: “Someone they’ve also harmed. And I have evidence. Evidence that can completely bury them.”
Lin Wanwan remained silent for a few seconds before asking, “What evidence?”
The other party sent a picture—the cover of a document.
It read: “Star Glory Media · Artist Escort Service Income Details · 2019–2021”
Seeing this document, Lin Wanwan’s pupils suddenly contracted.