It wasn't just that it felt familiar; soon, people made the connection to the album release when songs had been released one by one.

It was the same gradual build-up over time, step by step, driving the atmosphere towards a climax.

Both the quality of the songs and the timing of their release seemed deliberately planned.

Take the current situation, for example. At 8 a.m., during the peak of the morning commute when office workers were most active online, the first song appeared—like the first tender shoot of early spring, or the first thunderclap of early summer.

Then the second song followed, bringing more news.

By noon, office workers were on their lunch breaks, and night owls were just starting their day. The aroma of cooking wafted from kitchens nationwide as people prepared lunch. Simultaneously, internet activity peaked—the perfect moment to drop the concert announcement.

To say it wasn't orchestrated was something no one would believe.

Experience had proven this tactic effective. Every step seemed to hit the mark perfectly. Anyone with experience could tell at a glance that this was classic marketing.

There was no helping it; Chu Tian was also a product of such an environment. Only those who had lived through it could truly understand how intense the rat race could become in such a society.

One only needed to look at how content creators on short video platforms in his past life, to maximize traffic, meticulously planned everything: from script to pacing, content to location, from target demographic profiling to market positioning.

Eventually, the competition intensified to the point where even promotional campaigns were targeted down to age range, user profession, and exact locations. Even the release timing needed precise calculation.

Which sizable company didn't have big data analysts?

Chu Tian's original studio was no exception. To better coordinate with publicity, his manager had strictly required him to cooperate with the marketing department.

Even something as simple as buying a plane ticket required meticulous calculation of boarding and landing times, the amount and depth of information to be disclosed, fan loyalty analysis, crowd control at the airport, and more.

Being a popular celebrity wasn't easy, and even talented artists couldn't conquer the world on talent alone.

It was like talent shows: from the initial raw state to professional training, and then to assembly-line production and packaging—that was just the preliminary stage.

The intermediate stage included persona building, fan management, hype manipulation, and a host of other things.

The advanced stage involved much larger aspects, like big data, which smaller companies simply couldn't manage.

It was safe to say that when technology became advanced enough and the stakes high enough, stars were no longer their original selves. They became puppets of capital—mere wooden dolls manipulated at will according to preset programs.

This was a major reason Chu Tian had no desire to be a star in this life. While ordinary people might not have felt it deeply, he, as an industry insider and a resilient individual, knew far too much.

One of the most chilling things he recalled was a chance encounter in his previous life with a top-tier American management company.

And confidential information indicated that this company, in collaboration with a top-tier Korean entertainment conglomerate, had once devised a "Popular Star Creation Plan."

He didn't know the specifics, but he had caught wind of some details. Rumor had it that the strategic departments of both companies had once forecast—or rather, conceptualized—an optimal future model: the Star Factory Plan. The core of this plan was face-swapping!

Based on big data analysis, they aimed to identify the market's hottest or most anticipated "star types"—styles, even, much like fashion apparel.

From personality and appearance to height, public persona, family background—a whole suite of characteristics.

Then, much like writing a character for a novel, they would fabricate a persona. Using methods such as hypnosis, conditioning, plastic surgery, and more, they would craft a star perfectly aligned with the fandom's desires.

Once launched, these stars would inevitably become sensations. However, stars manufactured this way had extremely short lifespans, often fading into obscurity within three to five years, making the costs exorbitant.

So, how could this be solved? The resources poured into cultivating a person's talents from a young age—like dance and vocal skills—couldn't simply be replicated by a machine. Once a star was past their prime, all that investment was truly wasted.

That was where the second part of the plan came in: if a star's popularity waned, they would return to the Star Factory for an "update"—yes, a version update. This meant choosing a new identity, a new role, a new persona, and a new... appearance! To this end, they even developed the latest face-swapping technology based on advancements in plastic surgery.

This wasn't about stars anymore; it was purely a capitalistic frenzy. If this plan were actually implemented, he wondered, what would the entertainment industry turn into? Chu Tian's first instinct had been to get out. This wasn't a stage for talent but a cage built by capital, and the "stars" were merely disposable tools!

Unfortunately, he hadn't managed to leave before his unexpected death. But looking back, perhaps it was a stroke of luck.

He would never have participated in such dehumanizing plans, but a few clever marketing tactics were certainly still usable. Especially employing them now, when the local industry was just starting out, felt like a "dimension-lowering strike"—an attack leveraging a completely different level of sophistication.

As expected, within a short hour around noon, news of Xu Qingqiu's new song and her upcoming concert successively climbed the trending charts.

In addition, the search terms related to the advertisement Xu Qingqiu had cleverly embedded in her statement the previous day also hit the trending topics.

This, along with King of Mask Singer, which reappeared at the bottom of the top fifteen trending searches, was just the beginning.

"Fuck! Is this never going to end? Not again!"

"Oh my God! Save me! I just got to work! Why are you doing this to me?!"

"Shit, I quit! This is too damn unfair, isn't it?"

People who had worked overtime until past three a.m., only to be jolted awake and rush to the office, had barely sat down, breakfast untouched, when they saw the online landscape erupt. One by one, their composure shattered.

Many stared at their computer screens, tears welling in their eyes, a sudden wave of depression washing over them. Who could possibly understand? After toiling all night, we finally managed to push down other trending topics and painstakingly boost our own album's popularity. We thought that would be enough, right? But now, before our seats are even warm, they're telling us a whole night's work was for nothing? Is there any justice left in this world? Is there no law? How are we supposed to make a living?!

"RING! RING!"

"BRRP! BRRP!"

"BEEP! BEEP!"

Across the country, in various upscale residential complexes, jarring phone alarms blared from luxury homes.

Executives who had worked late into the night, finally falling asleep with plans to resume work in the afternoon, were jolted awake by their ringing phones.

"What's wrong?"

"Director Xie, our trending topic got pushed down again."

"What the hell? What happened?"

"It was this morning..."

"Damn it! Wait for me, I'm heading to the office right now!"

...

Similar scenes unfolded in companies everywhere. Marketing department heads arrived at their offices, their expressions grim. As they looked at the heated discussions online, their faces grew so dark they seemed on the verge of a storm.

Apart from their own dedicated fans, casual netizens showed little interest. The most popular topics were either current news or Xu Qingqiu's new song and concert.

A quick scan of the top ten trending topics revealed nothing even remotely related to them. It was utterly maddening.

"Manager, what's our move?"

"Switch to Plan B!"

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