Chapter 479: My Account Was Hacked

Chapter 479: My Account Was Hacked

The ex-boyfriend of the cyberbullied female lead stepped forward for an interview and “confirmed” that Li Meiyuan was putting on an act. As soon as the news broke, it caused a sensation in South Korea.

Those netizens who had insisted all along that Li Meiyuan was acting were truly overjoyed now, nearly jumping for joy—the “nearly” because they were probably glued to their computers or phones, furiously spewing their vitriol.

Before, though they held firm that Li Meiyuan was faking it, they’d heard she’d slit her wrists, lost a lot of blood, and been hospitalized. Deep down, a flicker of unease lingered—they knew, after all, that they were part of the cyberbullying mob. But now, “facts” had proven them right, wise, sharp-eyed, and far from being online thugs—they were patriots fighting for the nation!

That confidence was a whole different beast! Their typing sped up, their words grew sharper, and the smiles and fury on their faces burned brighter than ever. After posting, they’d refresh the page, dancing with glee at like-minded comments, or baring their claws to clash with anyone who disagreed.

Hoisting the banner of national righteousness, seizing the moral high ground, charging forward with unstoppable force—who could stand against them!

Such was the sheer power of their momentum!

Of course, there were also those who had never believed Li Meiyuan was an actress from the start—especially some who had protested Meng Fan at the airport. They knew exactly what had happened; there was no room for acting. Meng Fan had just gotten off the plane when they went to protest together. Even if Meng Fan had known in advance and prepared for some so-called “whitewashing,” the question remained: how could that U-shaped decoration have fallen? That couldn’t have been staged unless airport staff were in cahoots with Meng Fan.

If airport staff were complicit with Meng Fan, then this wasn’t just about protesting a foreign athlete or cyberbullying. On a simple level, it meant a massive safety hazard at the airport, a man-made one. On a grander scale, it meant national security had been infiltrated by Meng Fan!

Wasn’t that utter nonsense?

These people genuinely couldn’t fathom how others’ minds worked. Such a simple issue, yet they couldn’t grasp it. If Meng Fan could really orchestrate this whole drama, the relevant authorities would have stepped in long before any of them had a chance to blabber!

As for Li Meiyuan’s ex-boyfriend coming out with his so-called exposé, that was even more absurd, and it thoroughly enraged a subset of this group. Wasn’t this just another attempt to drive Li Meiyuan to her death?

And the key point: where was the evidence?

Weren’t they saying Li Meiyuan was an actress colluding with Meng Fan? Claiming to know it all—then where was the proof?

Just those few screenshots of chat logs?

Any discerning person could see that some parts were taken out of context, and others were photoshopped.

And calling her suicide attempt fake—was the hospital’s injury assessment also fake?

The assessment clearly stated how much blood Li Meiyuan had lost; she was barely saved!

Could an actress go that far?

Were they all blind? Couldn’t they see that?

It wasn’t stupidity—it was malice!

But no matter how loudly this group shouted, their voices couldn’t break through, completely drowned out.

Not everyone was stupid, blind, or deaf—but too many chose to be selectively blind and deaf. Meanwhile, the majority were bystanders munching on popcorn, clear-headed and rational, even priding themselves on their wisdom. Some just watched the drama, thinking everyone else was an idiot; others felt it was best not to comment rashly until the final outcome emerged.

A small fraction, after reading foreign comments, felt too ashamed to voice any opinion on domestic networks.

In any case, under the combined weight of various factors, with certain people fanning the flames, South Korean online discourse blazed in stark contrast to foreign networks. Those who believed Li Meiyuan’s ex-boyfriend and thought she was acting dominated the mainstream, while those condemning the cyberbullying became the fringe.

And so, the second wave of cyberbullying against Li Meiyuan took shape once more, barely 24 hours after the first—a spectacle unmatched anywhere in the world.

“This country is so disgusting!”

“I’m so glad I withdrew from the Busan competition immediately! I swear I will never set foot in this country again, nor participate in any event they host, even if they manage to secure the World Championships or the Olympics!”

“I wish the plane would take off sooner!”

“Have they all gone mad?”

“What a terrifying place!”

“North and South are cut from the same cloth—the North has no regard for life, the South has no shame!”

“I hope that girl doesn’t do anything rash again!”

“I wanted to speak out against cyberbullying, but now it seems they’re all deaf!”

“...”

After the second wave of cyberbullying, the athletes who had withdrawn and were preparing to leave voiced their opinions on Twitter and other social media. Condemnation was secondary; what dominated was helplessness and disgust—they were truly sickened.

The athletes were revolted, but someone was pleased.

Park Jae-hae was overjoyed. He never expected things to go so smoothly. Finding Li Meiyuan’s ex-boyfriend had been almost effortless, and what both delighted and disgusted him was that the ex had actually swallowed his story whole, lying through his teeth, claiming he’d known all along that Li Meiyuan was that Chinese man’s actress, which was why he’d dumped her—but because he loved her too much, he’d kept it secret. Now, for the sake of national righteousness, he had no choice but to sacrifice family for justice.

The tone, the expression—Park Jae-hae almost believed it himself.

What surprised him even more was how easily online opinion had tipped in his favor, with so many idiots believing Li Meiyuan was an actress.

As long as this narrative held the upper hand for now, no matter how the truth later reversed, there would always be people on his side. After all, the world was full of those who refused to admit mistakes; even when proven wrong, they’d stubbornly persist. As long as there was no definitive proof, there would be endless room for wrangling.

In the future, even tomorrow, the tide of public opinion wouldn’t flip entirely. So the bickering would continue. He knew well that while the internet had a memory, netizens had none. After a while, this matter would fade, and he could keep moving forward.

How delightful!

“Bang!”

In high spirits, he was at a club, about to enjoy a Finnish sauna, when suddenly he heard the door kicked open.

Before Park Jae-hae could see who it was, a fist slammed into his forehead, sending stars spinning before his eyes.

“Hae—Hae-bin sunbae! Why, why are you doing this?”

Park Jae-hae finally recognized the man: Kim Hae-bin.

Furious, Kim Hae-bin pulled out his phone, played an audio clip, and thrust it in Park Jae-hae’s face: “You fucking dared to record our conversation and post it online! Did you think that would give you a shield, let you survive in this world?”

“Huh? What? I didn’t!”

Hearing the audio of their earlier discussion about framing Li Meiyuan as an actress and recruiting her ex-boyfriend, Park Jae-hae was utterly stunned. He shouted frantically, “That’s not a recording! I would never record that!”

“Then why was it posted from your account?”

“I didn’t post it! I didn’t! Hacked—I was definitely hacked!”

(End of chapter)