Chapter 406: Lion City Concert

Chapter 406: The Lion City Concert

Meng Fan possessed exceptional looks, an intense charisma, and a natural affinity for the camera, which translated into an effortless expressiveness that made his photographs incredibly arresting. Combined with his undeniably hard-boiled aura—a byproduct, naturally, of his massive frame and sheer physical weight—the visual impact struck the mainstream aesthetics of contemporary idol culture like a tidal wave.

Why single out the mainstream aesthetics of idol culture? To be fair, the aesthetic preferences of the general public remained grounded as always. However, the sheer economic might of idol fandoms drove a massive media engine, manufacturing a ubiquitous illusion that certain media outlets and capital interests simply refused to puncture.

There was another reason to highlight this phenomenon: all else aside, Meng Fan had truly captivated a massive following of female fans through his looks and charisma alone. Their numbers were staggering, and the community had somehow begun mutating into a bizarre sort of "alternative idol fandom." It was deemed alternative precisely because this particular fandom had absolutely no way of contacting Meng Fan or his management team.

Typically, an idol fandom maintained a tight, symbiotic bond with the artist. This did not mean fans saw the celebrity constantly, but there was usually an "official fan club" bridging the gap. In Meng Fan’s case, even if such a group technically existed, it operated in a state of perpetual radio silence. The only channels with any inkling of a connection to Meng Fan were a handful of live-stream gaming groups. Yet, these groups never accepted new members, refused to expand, and actively clashed with this "alternative fandom." All in all, it was a bizarre dynamic.

Of course, this arrangement carried its own benefits: Meng Fan’s unorthodox fans rarely grated on the nerves of the general public.

As for Meng Fan himself, he had never intended to feed off the idol economy. Even if he caught wind of it, he simply ignored it. His philosophy was straightforward: if he published a manga, those who liked it would buy it; if they felt his matches were worth watching, they would tune in.

This mindset was, to some degree, influenced by Meng Wei.

Meng Wei had once remarked during an interview that she hoped her relationship with her audience would never be degraded by terms like "fans." She made movies, and if the audience found them good and worth the admission price, they would buy a ticket. She begged them never to watch her films merely because they "liked her." A willing buyer, a willing seller, value for money—a clean, pristine financial transaction untainted by murky emotions.

In truth, Meng Wei’s words laid bare the core nature of the relationship: a transaction between a consumer and a content provider. Some consumers preferred to dress it up in more romantic vocabulary, and some content providers used sweeter words to mask the reality, but at its heart, it remained exactly the same.

Most people, however, lacked the courage to be so direct. After all, many simply could not provide content that was genuinely worth the price, while those who could were still reluctant to speak so bluntly.

Conversely, Meng Wei possessed the authority to say it because, first, she truly delivered value, and second, the sentiment aligned perfectly with her temperament. In the eyes of outsiders, it fit her established persona. Knowing the storms she had weathered throughout her career, the public found nothing jarring about her stance; instead, they gave her their unreserved applause and support.

Indeed, Meng Wei was neither reckless nor socially inept. Her greatest social intelligence lay in her ability to wield a swift blade to sever Gordian knots, appearing blunt while deftly sidestepping a mountain of potential complications.

Looking back, Meng Fan had once been a part of the ACG fandom himself. He had witnessed the toxic feuds, the fans abandoning their idols, and the bitter smear campaigns that followed. He had no desire to see such drama unfold around him one day, which was why he had steadfastly refused from the very beginning to authorize any official fan clubs or groups.

The sole element connecting him to the "fan economy" was that handful of live-stream groups, which explained why he always allocated an extra round of prizes specifically for them during his giveaways.

It was admittedly a bit fastidious, but a man running on a cheat code certainly possessed the capital to indulge in such eccentricities.

To return to the matter of Meng Fan’s appearance: when his solo dual-cover issue hit the stands, leaving all else aside, his sheer aesthetics, charisma, and photogenic power earned him the title of the finest male cover model in the history of Marie Claire. Furthermore, in an incomparable, league-of-his-own accolade, he was voted the "hardest" cover figure across the Big Five fashion magazines.

Unless one of those magazines decided to put a Gundam or a Transformer on their cover, the title was practically uncontested.

Because he was so undeniably "hardcore," the merchants who subsequently approached Hu Yijing were predominantly of the same caliber—either monolithic, powerhouse brands, or companies offering distinctly rugged, heavy-duty products.

Hu Yijing temporarily held them at bay under the pretext of consulting Meng Fan, while simultaneously conducting a preliminary screening. She compiled a shortlist, which was bound to be whittled down even further in the coming days.

She had already reached an agreement with Meng Fan and Meng Wei: endorsements could be accepted if necessary, but the rule was strictly set at a maximum of one. If no perfect match appeared, they could comfortably decline altogether for the time being.

The rationale was simple: the Olympic Games were imminent. If Meng Fan clinched an Olympic gold medal, his commercial value before and after the event would be worlds apart.

Of course, even if they signed nothing right now, this entire maneuvering was far from a pointless exercise; its significance was profound. The greatest achievement was striking a definitive posture and establishing a consensus: Meng Fan was an athlete, but he was not *merely* an athlete. Plainly put, it signaled to merchants that they did not need to be a sportswear brand to approach him. Come one, come all.

And the merchants and brands did indeed come in droves. To be fair, the magazine cover was only part of the draw; the far more crucial catalyst was the Olympics.

Securing the endorsement of an Olympic champion had always been a coveted prize for brands, and the period leading up to the Games was notoriously a fever pitch of commercial activity. It was, pure and simple, a gamble.

If a brand invested in an obscure or rising athlete who then went on to capture gold at the Olympics, it represented the ultimate, highest-return endorsement strategy imaginable.

Take the legendary hurdler Liu Xiang before his 2004 Olympic triumph: in 2003, when his star was just beginning to rise, his total annual income—including endorsements, commercial appearances, and various prize moneys—was a mere 1.6 million yuan. At the time, his primary endorsements were with Nike and Coca-Cola, both as a regional representative. This meant that split apart, each contract was likely worth only five or six hundred thousand yuan, and they were not single-year deals. When he became a national hero after winning gold, he was still bound by those pre-existing contract cycles. One could only imagine what an absolute steal that was for both brands.

Naturally, while the returns on such a strategy were astronomical, the risks were equally immense. Global giants like Coca-Cola and Nike had always cast a wide net, ensuring they would always ensnare a prize fish or two.

This was precisely why characters in web novels who traveled back in time to do business loved using their foresight to sign athletes on the cusp of Olympic glory; the profit margins were simply too lucrative.

Average brands lacked the resources to cast a net as wide as Coca-Cola or Nike. To unearth a hidden gem in this arena, they had to rely entirely on sharp scouting, particularly sports-related brands that utilized sophisticated big data analysis to select their investment targets.

Meng Fan was, by any analytical metric, the athlete most guaranteed to win gold, making him the most lucrative and lowest-risk investment on the market.

Of course, low risk demanded a monumental upfront investment.

No one was blind; everyone could see exactly how high Meng Fan's odds of winning were. Trying to secure his signature with a negligible contract was an absolute impossibility.

Yet, everyone also understood that his pre-championship price tag was bound to be vastly lower than his post-championship rate. Thus, he remained an incredibly worthwhile investment, universally acknowledged as the athlete with the highest commercial value at present.

Most crucial of all was the fact that Meng Fan had not accepted a single endorsement to date. Whoever secured his maiden contract would spark a massive wave of public interest. Simply put, even without an Olympic medal around his neck, he possessed the gravity to draw immense attention and wield staggering influence.

Some netizens even speculated that Meng Fan was deliberately withholding his signature to drive up the bidding war, drawing comparisons to how the internet celebrity Papi Jiang famously auctioned off her first advertisement for a record-breaking sum.

Amidst the online frenzy, topics debating when Meng Fan would accept an endorsement and how high his fee would be began trending everywhere.

The excitement reached a fever pitch when news arrived from the front lines that Meng Fan had secured qualification for both the individual and team judo events. Leaving the team event aside, the individual judo competition represented yet another gold medal opportunity for him. Compounded with the two wrestling events he had already qualified for, this marked his third discipline. With three events holding a victory probability upwards of ninety percent, walking away with at least one gold was an absolute certainty. And as long as he clinched just one, the title of Olympic Champion would be set in stone.

While the domestic internet was boiling over with excitement, the venue where Meng Fan currently sat was equally electric—he was attending Shi Shiwu's concert!

The arena, packed with over ten thousand seats, was completely sold out. The tickets for Meng Fan and his fellow athletes had been arranged at the last minute, though the seats themselves were excellent, courtesy of the venue's reserved allocation, if perhaps a bit tightly squeezed.

At the end of each set of songs, Shi Shiwu would interact with his fans. Having just finished performing "Long-Term Plan," he held the microphone and addressed the crowd: "As you all know, I originally wrote this song for A-Mei. In recent years, I’ve been gradually reclaiming songs I wrote for others to sing myself, while also continuing to write new music for different artists. I suppose it’s a natural cycle. Aside from taking commissions, there are times when I hear a truly magnificent voice and feel compelled to write something specifically for its owner. Some time ago, I heard a spectacular voice cover the song I wrote for Bai Zhi, 'The Long-Term Plan.' The thought of writing a song for him did cross my mind, but then I thought better of it. First, because he isn't a professional singer, and second, because this gentleman is far too adept at cross-disciplinary leaps. I was honestly terrified he would cross over into the music industry and steal my livelihood. Do you all know who I'm talking about?"

The audience erupted into laughter upon hearing this, shouting in unison, "Meng Fan!"

Instantly, a spotlight cut through the arena and bathed Meng Fan's section in brilliant light.

This wasn't an instance of Shi Shiwu forcing a cue on Meng Fan; rather, Meng Fan's presence was simply too massive to ignore. During the previous song, he had already been captured by the camera as a standout figure in the audience, his face flashing across the giant stadium screens. His sudden appearance had given Shi Shiwu quite a start, while the crowd had naturally gasped in surprise.

The vast majority of the concertgoers were ethnic Chinese, intimately familiar with Meng Fan, and they recognized him in an instant.

"Iron God, I must first congratulate you on securing yet another Olympic qualification, and wish you an early victory at the Games!"

Shi Shiwu had met Meng Fan once before in the backstage area of the Double Eleven Gala, where they had shared a brief conversation. He had even tried to invite Meng Fan through Bai Zhi to collaborate on a sand animation music video, though the project had ultimately fallen through due to Meng Fan's grueling schedule.

Shi Shiwu had penned several tracks for Bai Zhi, and "The Long-Term Plan"—the very song Meng Fan had performed as a duet during his guest appearance at Bai Zhi's concert—was one of his creations.

Capitalizing on the warm atmosphere, Shi Shiwu smiled and added, "I really never expected you to attend my concert. Seeing you pop up just now gave me quite a shock. Is there any particular song you’d like to hear? We’ve reached the request segment of the night. Of course, if you’re willing to sing 'The Long-Term Plan' yourself, that would be even better."