Chapter Two: Night Conversations

“Is this what you call having something to tell me? You call this ‘something’?”

“Dad, Dad, don’t get worked up, keep your voice down, don’t let Mom hear. I’m just trying to talk to you first.”

“No way, this is nonsense! You want to be an actor? Do you think you’ve got what it takes?”

Zhang Qianjun thought to himself, Old Zhang, you’ve never seen these new young stars who suddenly pop up from nowhere and inexplicably become famous. Many don’t even look as good as I do.

As long as you have followers, anyone can act in films or appear on variety shows and make money—no need for acting skills, singing, or dancing. First, they’re promoted, then it’s all about looks; eventually, looks don’t even matter if you have backing from investors.

Just as Zhang Qianjun was about to explain, his father launched into a lecture:

“Son, it’s not that I don’t support you. It’s great you have your own ideas about the future—you’ve always been a headstrong kid. But when making choices, you have to be realistic and grounded in reality. Without that, it’s just wishful thinking.

You’ve loved martial arts since you were little. In elementary school, you wanted to learn it, so I signed you up for classes. In middle school, you said you wanted to train in sanda, and I agreed, even used my connections to get you into a good school for it.

In your first year of high school, you competed and, to everyone’s surprise, took first place in the city, almost qualifying for the provincial team to compete nationally. But after a trip to Jiangcheng, you gave up and told me you wanted to focus on studying.

Coaches, teachers, and school leaders all came to persuade you to keep going, but you said no more training. I supported you, even though I believed in your talent. When my son decides, a father must stand by him. You then seriously applied yourself to your studies, and we lived a straightforward life focusing on exams and work.

But now, you suddenly tell me you want to take the art entrance exam and apply to the Film Academy—I find that very hard to accept.

When I agreed to your sanda training, it was easy. You climbed mountains daily as a kid and had a strong physique. Training during holidays didn’t interfere with your studies; it was just a matter of spending some money and building your willpower, giving you some manly spirit.

You actually made a name for yourself. I thought our Zhang family was going to produce a national champion—unprecedented and a source of great pride. Although you stopped training later, that experience was invaluable for your growth and gave you positive motivation—a rare chapter in your life.

But now you want to be an actor. I can’t agree.

Training in sanda was local at the city sports school. I could use my connections, you didn’t have to live on campus, and you could come home every day. It was all within a system I had influence over. Your Uncle Zhao could look out for you. If you quit, you could transfer back to a regular high school.

But acting? Let alone whether you can pass the exam—do you think it’s easy to be an actor? Do you have connections? Do I? Last year when we went to Hengdian, didn’t you see those extras? What kind of life do they live?

Our ordinary family can’t support you in show business. If you can’t get acting jobs, what will you do for work when you come back?

If you go to the capital to be an actor, you have no roots there! And besides that, you can’t even lie convincingly—how do you expect to be an actor?”

After five minutes of his father’s relentless lecture, Zhang Qianjun finally found a chance to speak. He suppressed his urge to complain and said:

“Dad, what I’m telling you today is after careful thought. I’ve planned my future, this isn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“Go on, tell me how you’ve thought it through and planned.”

“First, I’ll say again why I quit sanda—I have no talent for it!

Dad, you think I’m good because I’m better than average. I developed early—when I was fourteen or fifteen, I was already as tall and long-armed as I am now. I had a physical advantage over peers my age and weight class, bullying others with my height and reach. But that advantage is only temporary. There will always be someone taller, stronger, and faster.

Besides, my boxing IQ is average, and my sense of distance isn’t sharp enough. In junior groups, I relied on strong execution, toughness, and willingness to throw punches. But once I became an adult, opponents were seasoned fighters with over ten years of experience from all over the country.

That’s why after one trip to Jiangcheng for the national youth championship, I quit—I couldn’t win!

I couldn’t even break into the top eight in the youth group, let alone the adult group. I have a big frame, so as an adult, I’d fight in the 75kg or 80kg classes, which are the toughest nationwide.

This isn’t something you can just train harder to fix. There’s no gray area—it either works or it doesn’t.”

After hearing this, Zhang senior’s expression softened slightly, showing understanding and a hint of pride. His son had a clear mind and logical thinking, not just a passing whim.

“Then why do you want to apply to the Film Academy? Tell me from two aspects. Let’s see if it makes sense.”

“My grades are average, a bit above the middle. I’ll get into university for sure, and my estimates are accurate. I can probably make it into a first-tier university, but there’s no chance for 985 or 211 universities.

With so many university graduates now, I think by the time I graduate, the difference between first- and second-tier universities won’t matter much. It’s only the distinction between bachelor’s level and prestigious schools like 211, 985, or elite universities like Tsinghua, Peking, Zhejiang, Jiao Tong, and Fudan that counts.

Also, I’m introverted, straightforward, bad at socializing, and have no business talent. I can’t even negotiate prices—I can’t lie convincingly, as you say.

As a liberal arts student, I can’t take on technical jobs. What can I do after graduation? Even if I try civil service, public institutions, or state-owned enterprises, I’ll just be a low-level employee, a lifelong plodding worker.

You studied hard, Dad. You came from a poor rural town in the northeast and got into university, then settled here in Qiantang. You’re honest and can’t stand disorder, and even though you taught for decades, you’ve seen many less capable people rise to leadership.

Take the special education position—you were qualified long ago but never got it. After Uncle Zhao was promoted to a leadership role overseeing things, you finally got the post. If it’s hard in the school system, imagine the bureaucracy.

For ordinary families, entering the entertainment industry as a star is one of the few ways to break through the ceiling. If I follow the usual path of exams and work, I’ll probably live worse than you and Mom. I might even end up relying on you for support.

You always told me, ‘Son, you’ll live better than me someday.’ But with the current situation, that’s uncertain.”

Zhang senior was silent for a long moment, his expression gloomy, still processing. Seeing his father silent, Zhang Qianjun continued:

“Dad, I looked up past art entrance exams and found photos and videos of the live tests. Many boys aren’t that impressive; quite a few are shorter and less good-looking than me.

In this line, once you gain some fame, you can earn in one or two years what ordinary people make in a lifetime.

The acting exam tests five areas: recitation, lines, talent such as singing, physical movement and dance, and live performance. I’m confident in two of those areas, and with some practice, I think I have a good chance. Once I pass the art exam, my academic subjects won’t hold me back.

Besides, being an actor doesn’t mean being a star, but stars can be actors. Even if I’m not a great actor, I feel confident I can be a star. I think I have a talent for being a star.”

At that last statement, Zhang senior’s face showed disbelief, and he snapped:

“You think you can be a star? What kind of star?”

“A singer!”

“With your skills? A singer? Then I’m the singing god!”

“How can I not be a singer? I can sing, dance well, and learn rap. Why can’t I be a singer?”

“Don’t kid yourself. You can only shout through ‘One Night in Beijing.’ It’s just that you’re young, and your breath control is better than most, or you’d have lost your voice by now. And do you have good songs? Who’s going to write songs for you? Do good songs get given to you?”

“Dad, actually, besides telling you about applying to the Film Academy, I need your help with something else. I wrote a song…”

Huh? Zhang senior’s eyes suddenly sharpened.

“Old Zhang, now please enjoy the new piece ‘The Wind Has Risen,’ performed by the renowned singer Zhang Qianjun.”

Walking along with stops and starts, hesitating just before stepping out of the station, tracing the boy’s drifting path—

—I still marvel at the vast world, intoxicated by childhood promises where truth and falsehood no longer matter, no struggle, no pointless laughter—

—Would you still be willing in the name of love?

When the song ended, the two sat in silence for a while before Zhang senior finally spoke:

“You wrote this?”

“Yeah.”

“Impossible!”

“Check online, look it up!”

At that moment, Zhang’s mother’s voice came from the living room:

“What are you two doing? Why are you singing?”

“Ah, nothing. I’m asking Dad about music theory.”

“Always messing with useless things. Instead of that, how’s your mock exam? Did you hit 600 points yet? Should be focusing on studies.”

It’s time to introduce Zhang Qianjun’s parents. His father was born in the early 1960s in a rural village in northeast China. The youngest of seven boys, he lost his father at nine and was raised by his grandmother and older brothers. A determined man, he studied hard even when food was scarce, farming and attending school. At nineteen, he became the family’s second university graduate, moving from a frozen border town to the prosperous south.

After graduation, he stayed in Qiantang, working as a high school math teacher for his entire career.

Because his family was poor and they were outsiders, Zhang senior married late through an introduction—a local woman from a nearby village named Zhang’s mother, a teacher’s college graduate who taught chemistry at the county middle school.

Somehow, she was transferred to a Qiantang middle school as a lab assistant, likely with help from Uncle Zhao, Zhang senior’s university friend and a local resident.

Zhang’s mother was ambitious. After two years as lab manager, she became a chemistry teacher due to a shortage at the school, beginning a decades-long teaching career. This is why Zhang Qianjun, though born locally, sometimes slips into a northeastern accent.

Though a math teacher, Zhang senior has artistic talents unrelated to his profession. He dabbles in painting, chess, calligraphy, and music. In college, he was skilled at accordion and played in a band (by the way, Uncle Zhao was the band’s violin principal).

Zhang Qianjun is relatively ordinary, except for his straightforward temper and superior physical fitness.

Academics are average; he inherited no artistic talent—he’s clueless about painting, chess, calligraphy, or music. He asked his father to help write and compose a song.

“Dad, help me transcribe the music and make a simple score—I can’t read music notation.”

Zhang senior frowned, staring at the computer screen silently. After a moment, he turned to his son with a look of disdain and said:

“You so-called original singers can’t even write staff notation properly, and you still dare to call it composition? That’s ridiculous.”

My old man, well, there will be plenty of ridiculous things ahead—this is just the beginning.