Chapter 10 — The Beauty Drainage System

Song Qiaoqiao was entirely dead to society. No company wanted to sign her, no show dared to invite her, and no brand would touch her. Her name became a joke, a laughingstock, and a warning.

Do not get close to her; be careful of being drained.

One month after our group formation, our debut album was released. First-day sales exceeded one million copies. My solo track topped the weekly charts on major music platforms. Interviews, schedules, and commercial contracts were booked solid for the next three months. Everything was moving in the best possible direction. Yet Song Qiaoqiao did not vanish. She surfaced in a different way. In the fifth week following our debut, a newly registered auxiliary account began posting across major platforms under the headline:

Luc Nian's center position was obtained by sabotaging her teammates. I have proof.

The content featured a heavily edited piece of surveillance footage capturing me eating fried chicken in the training camp dormitory. The caption read:

She intentionally consumed high-calorie food in the dorm to make her roommate, Song Qiaoqiao, smell it and trigger cravings, thereby ruining Song Qiaoqiao's physique management. This was a deliberate act of sabotage.

This logic was so absurd that any rational person would dismiss it. However, public opinion was easily manipulated. A wave of news accounts shared the post simultaneously, and the comment sections flooded with bot accounts churning out identical talking points.

Looking closely, there really is something suspicious here. Why did she have to eat those things in the dorm?

Whether it was intentional is hard to say, but her motive is highly questionable.

Two-faced people are the most terrifying.

My fans and the army of bots clashed fiercely in the comment sections. Chu Dijian called me:

Do you want me to have my father's public relations team handle this?

No need.

What are you planning to do?

Wait.

Wait for what?

Wait for her to slip up.

On the third day, the auxiliary account posted again. This time, it attached a screenshot of a chat history. The image showed a dialogue between "Luc Nian" and someone named "A Ke," discussing how to "take down Song Qiaoqiao." The fabrication was crude. The font sizes were inconsistent, and the timestamps did not match. Yet, some people still believed it.

See? She really did it on purpose.

Pure on the outside, malicious in the back. This kind of person is the most disgusting.

I looked at those images and burst out laughing because there was a fatal flaw in them. The timestamp for when "A Ke" sent the message was three-seventeen in the morning. But precisely at three o'clock that morning, I had been participating in a live-streamed overnight brand event. The entire process was recorded on video. It was impossible for me to be broadcasting live and texting at the same time. I sent the evidence to my management team.

Investigate the IP address of this account.

Two hours later, the results came back. The IP address pointed directly to a residential complex—the exact apartment building where Song Qiaoqiao's family lived.

I did not immediately make the IP address public. I did something far more ruthless. I contacted Fang Yuanyuan.

Sister Yuanyuan, do you still have your records from the training camp? Diaries, photos, chat logs—anything works.

I do.

Fang Yuanyuan's voice was remarkably calm:

Back then, I recorded my changes every day because I felt something was abnormal.

Can you let me see them?

Yes. But what are you planning to do with them?

Return justice.

The materials Fang Yuanyuan sent me were extremely detailed. There were daily comparison selfies, weight logs, chat histories with Song Qiaoqiao, and screenshots of her complaints to the production team that had been ignored. Most importantly, there was an audio recording. In the recording, taken the day before she was eliminated, Fang Yuanyuan had confronted Song Qiaoqiao.

Qiaoqiao, I feel that my deteriorating state is related to you. Every time I am with you, I become uglier. After I leave you, I improve a little.

Song Qiaoqiao's voice was sweet and innocent:

Yuanyuan, what are you talking about? How could I possibly harm you? Are you overthinking things because you are too tired?

I am not overthinking. I have proof. I take photos to record it every day.

Silence hung in the air for a few seconds. Then, Song Qiaoqiao's voice shifted. The sweetness vanished, replaced by coldness and casual detachment.

Yuanyuan, listen to me. Even if what you said is true, so what?

Who is going to believe you?

Are you going to tell the trainers, the producers, and the audience that 'Song Qiaoqiao is stealing my beauty'?

They will only think you are crazy.

So, obediently get eliminated and go home. Do not go looking for trouble for yourself.

The recording ended there. After listening, I gripped my phone tightly. This audio recording was Song Qiaoqiao's death warrant. I organized all the materials, attached the IP tracing results of the fake account, packaged them, and sent them to three major media outlets. At the same time, I posted a message on my own social media account:

Someone is using fabricated chat logs to slander me. I have no desire to waste time explaining. The evidence has been handed over to the media. See you tomorrow.

The attached image featured the fake chat next to the timestamp screenshot of my late-night brand live stream. Placed side by side, the chronological contradiction became instantly obvious. The comment section flipped swiftly.

The fabricator could not even get the timeline right. Such a worrying level of intelligence.

You can tell at a glance that Song Qiaoqiao did this. Who else could it be?

Sitting back and waiting for tomorrow's big news.

The next day, the three media outlets simultaneously published in-depth investigative reports. Their headlines read:

Former trainee Fang Yuanyuan's exclusive audio exposed: Song Qiaoqiao personally says 'Who is going to believe you?'

Ten victimized trainees speak out in unison: Our beauty was stolen.

The mastermind behind the slander targeting center Luc Nian identified: IP address points straight to Song Qiaoqiao's residence.

Three articles from three different angles completely nailed Song Qiaoqiao to the pillar of shame. The audio recording was the fatal blow.

Even if what you said is true, so what? Who is going to believe you?

That single line was cut into a short video, garnering over ten million views in just two hours. Everyone heard that chilling voice—completely different from her sweet persona in front of the camera. Song Qiaoqiao's final veil of pretense was violently ripped away. She was not some pitiful girl whose state collapsed due to excessive pressure. She was someone who knew she was harming others yet completely did not care—someone who chuckled coldly when another begged for help and replied, "Who is going to believe you?" She was someone who, even after her own downfall, still wanted to drag others down with her. That afternoon, Song Qiaoqiao's parents stepped forward to issue an apology on behalf of their daughter. But no one in the comment section accepted it.

If apologies worked, what would we need the police for?

Fang Yuanyuan's three months—who is going to compensate her?

The youth of ten girls—who is going to return it?

That evening, I received a message from an unfamiliar number.

Luc Nian, it is me. I know you will not reply. But I want to say, I am sorry.

I stared at it for two seconds before deleting it. Then I opened a food delivery app and ordered myself a large portion of fried chicken. Not to channel it to anyone else, but simply because I wanted to eat.

Three months after our group formation, tickets for our concert tour officially went on sale. They sold out in just thirty seconds. I stood on the concert stage while the screams of twenty thousand audience members washed over me. The lights shone down, and sweat trickled along my face. I smiled so wide my eyes curved into crescent moons. This was the stage that belonged to me. Not stolen, not drained. It was a stage I climbed to step by step through my own efforts. At the post-concert celebration party, Chu Dijian walked over holding a glass of champagne.

Luc Nian, my father said he wants to invite you as a permanent guest on his new variety show. The annual salary has eight digits.

How many zeros?

Take a guess.

I burst out laughing, clinking my glass gently against hers. Zhang Xiaoyu and He Meiqi also came over. Although they failed to make the debut lineup, thanks to the narrative of "counter-attacking after having one's beauty drained," they had signed with decent agencies and were developing smoothly. Fang Yuanyuan participated in another survival show, won third place through pure skill, and debuted successfully. She sent me a message:

Thank you, Niannian. Without you, I probably would never have been able to turn my life around.

I replied:

You were always very talented. It was just that your light had been stolen by someone else.

As for Song Qiaoqiao, I heard she returned to her hometown, deleted all her social media accounts, and completely vanished from the public eye. No one knew what she looked like now. But I guessed that without a system and without targets to drain, she was probably just the most ordinary passerby. Neither ugly nor exceptionally pretty, blending into the crowd. That was already the best possible ending for her. The day after the concert, I went alone to the convenience store near the training camp. Three months ago, right here, I had bought my first large portion of fried chicken and started my "reverse-feeding" plan. I pushed the door open. The fried chicken on the shelf was the same brand as before. I picked up a box and walked to the counter. The cashier was a young girl. The moment she saw me, she gasped in astonishment.

Are you... Luc Nian?

Yes.

Oh my god! I am your fan! Can we take a picture together?

Of course.

After taking the photo, she looked at the box of fried chicken in my hands, hesitating for a moment.

Niannian, aren't you managing your physique? Fried chicken is very high in calories.

I chuckled.

It is fine. Whatever I eat now will only make me gain weight on my own body.

She did not understand, but she smiled and nodded. I carried the fried chicken out of the convenience store. The sunlight was just right. I tore open the packaging and took a large bite. The oil melted in my mouth—salty, fragrant, and crispy. Truly delicious.

The End.