Peninsula: Aiming for a Grand Slam

Chapter 86 Starship Conference (Seeking first subscriptions)

Several days have passed since Go Dong-hyuk posted his manifesto, and there are only a dozen or so replies in the comments section.

"Go Donghyuk!"

"Korean tennis needs you."

"Well said, capital really has ruined everything."

Then, it got overwhelmed by the algorithm.

A contestant ranked outside the top 600 has no buzz, no fan base, and not even anyone who criticizes him.

His account was last updated three months ago, with a training photo and the caption "Still playing".

It received less than a hundred likes.

This manifesto, like those ninety-odd likes, should have quietly sunk into the depths of the internet, never to be unearthed again.

But one day, a YouTube channel called "Tennis Observation Room" shared this article.

This channel mainly focuses on match highlights and equipment reviews. It has over 40,000 subscribers, which isn't a large number, but it's considered a significant hub among Korean tennis enthusiasts.

The channel operator was clever; when he reposted it, he only added a caption: "A veteran who has played for sixteen years said some unpleasant things."

It doesn't sound very good.

These four words are more dangerous than "well said" or "nonsense".

It doesn't give a specific attitude, but it implies that an attitude exists. It invites everyone who sees it to click in and make their own judgment.

[A Proclamation Against Chen]

"It's been sixteen years since I first held the racket."

"Over the years, I've accumulated a lot of injuries. None of them are major, but each one makes me a little slower."

It's a bit more tiring.

"But I'm still playing—I don't know how to do anything else besides playing basketball."

"Last month, Monastir. I negotiated a wildcard, along with accommodation subsidies and priority training slots."

"Outsiders may not understand, but for a player at the bottom of the tennis circle, this is a lifeline."

"I've been in this industry for over a decade, and I've built all this up little by little through my reputation."

"Then, I received a call from my agent: the wildcard was gone, the accommodation allowance was gone, and the training venue was gone too."

The organizers said: Resources are limited, so they gave priority to a player with more commercial value - a Chinese kid, seventeen years old, who has never played a professional game.

Why should a young player who has never played professionally have more commercial value than a veteran who has played for sixteen years?

"Based on his tournament record? He's only won one junior tournament. Based on his experience? He's never even played a qualifying match."

"Because of his face!"

"I searched for his news. The search results weren't photos of the matches, but fan-taken pictures. High-definition, color-corrected..."

Fan-taken photos with filters applied.

The comments section was filled with screaming girls. Some said, "This face is the champion's face," and others said, "My legs went weak when I saw this face."

Few people watch his match highlights, but his fan-taken videos get hundreds of thousands of views. Nobody cares about his ranking, but his scandals make it to the trending topics.

"Whether it's true or not, it doesn't matter if he's associated with two female idols; what matters is the traffic, the buzz, and the commercial value."

"This is how capital selects people. They don't look at ability, they look at appearance. They don't look at results, they look at popularity."

Some people say he represents the future. I don't think so; he represents capital.

"Capital doesn't care how hard you work, or how many years you've dedicated to this goal. Capital only cares whether your face can be sold and whether your online traffic can be monetized."

"What value do we, who can only play ball, have in this era? We've played for over a decade, covered in injuries, and yet we can't even keep a wildcard."

"We don't manage social media, we don't take fan-taken photos, we don't have collaborations, and we don't have female idols associated with us—we just play basketball."

"If looks can win you a championship, then why are we even in this industry!"

"Capital is destroying tennis!"

"If you're not good-looking enough, don't have enough fans, and don't have enough commercial value, then you deserve to be eliminated. Not by your abilities, but by capital."

"This system is rotten. We need to stop and think about what tennis should really be about."

"Is it looks or skill? Is it popularity or results? Is it capital, or just an ordinary person struggling at the bottom who only knows how to play basketball?"

Within thirty minutes, the comment section was flooded with more than two hundred replies, and then the algorithm began to intervene.

Every time the number of reposts doubles, the discussion splits into a new direction.

Initially, people were still arguing about the "wild card" issue.

Some people believe that veterans should be taken care of.

Some argue that wildcards are meant to discover promising new stars, not to provide a safety net for established players. Ko Dong-hyuk's failure to receive a wildcard isn't a matter of financial resources.

He blamed his failure on capital, trying to save face.

Some people started digging up Chen Jixian's fan-taken photos and scandals, piecing together the FILA collaboration posters with previous trending topics screenshots, and the result was only one problem:

Are these resources obtained based on merit or connections?

Seoul.

Starship.

"You saw it?"

Park Jung-soo pushed a tablet to the center of the conference table.

Director Kim of the Risk Management Department nodded: "I see, but that's not all—there's also this."

"

Director Kim took two sheets of printed paper from the folder and placed them on the table.

The first image is a screenshot of the comments section below the FILA collaboration teaser poster, where several highly-rated comments are circled in red.

"So the model is Jang Won-young?"

"IZ*ONE's Yuan Ying? Starship has gone mad?"

"Someone embroiled in scandals is being linked to our Yuan Ying?"

The second image is a screenshot of an internal email, with the sender field completely crossed out with a black marker.

Director Kim began, "A cooperation agreement that has not yet been signed and should have been kept absolutely confidential has now been made public."

"Regardless of who leaked the information, this incident itself is a huge red flag."

Park Jung-soo did not speak.

Director Kim continued, "The current situation is: someone who hasn't even signed a contract is being questioned by the entire internet."

"But at this very moment, someone within our ranks leaked the information."

"If we continue to push forward at this point, all the risks will be shifted onto Zhang Yuanying."

Park Jung-soo: "What does Chief Kim mean?"

Chief of Staff Kim: "My suggestion is to pause. Let's wait until this wave of public opinion subsides, and let him fulfill his condition of winning his first championship in his debut game."

Park Jung-soo leaned back in his chair and didn't speak immediately.

In the entertainment industry, "pause" is often synonymous with "termination".

Once you quit today, you'll have a million reasons to quit again in the future.

The controversy surrounding J. Chen will never cease—that is precisely where his value lies.

Park Jung-soo's tone remained unchanged: "Chief Kim, the core concern you have is brand security."

"But we only reached a verbal agreement, and everything is contingent on him winning the championship in his debut."

"In other words, we haven't even boarded the ship yet; we're just observing from the dock."

"Isn't it a bit premature to worry about the ship sinking now?"

He paused, then leaned forward slightly.

"But have you considered what if this ship sets sail?"

Chief Kim frowned, and couldn't help but ask, "You trust J.Chen that much?"

Park Jung-soo shook his head in denial: "I have never believed him."