Chapter Four: The False Beginning of Ascension

Finally, the results of the art entrance exam were released. Zhang Qianjun checked online and saw he ranked 23rd. The acting class of the 2010 cohort was admitting 60 students, so as long as his academic subjects didn’t falter, he was almost certainly in.

Given the cutoff scores of the Film Academy, even though Zhang Qianjun had graduated over ten years ago, if he picked up his studies again, it would be hard to score below 270 points. Time flew by as he relentlessly practiced problems every day. Before he knew it, June arrived. The two days of the college entrance exam went smoothly. He wouldn’t dare claim 400, but 350 was definitely achievable.

Next, it was time to see if Italy would continue their strong performance in the World Cup.

The reigning champion being eliminated in the group stage seemed to start this tournament. Italy’s matches—1:1, 1:1, 2:3—were still vivid in memory. As a patriotic youth raised under the red flag, Zhang Qianjun felt compelled to support the national sports cause by buying sports lottery tickets, contributing to the thriving development of his country’s athletic endeavors.

After the exam, the first thing he did upon returning home was to book a music studio to record songs the next day. The studio charged 600 yuan per hour, including post-production, so he paid 4,800 yuan for a full day.

He recorded three songs he had composed over time: “The Wind Rises,” “Confession Balloon,” and “Bubble.” The sound engineer was astonished, exclaiming, “What kind of operation is this? Such incredible work, and it’s being recorded in a small town like ours?”

After finishing the recordings, the engineer half-seriously, half-jokingly said, “Handsome guy, now that you’ve finished, I’m under a lot of pressure. If the original tracks leak, I couldn’t bear the responsibility.”

Zhang Qianjun replied calmly, “If they leak, it’s no big deal—I’ve already registered the copyrights. As you can tell, I’m just a casual online singer. These songs are meant to be released directly on QQ Music and Kugou Music for everyone to listen freely.”

The engineer internally scoffed at his singing skills being called “online singer,” but said aloud, “These are basically finished versions. Listen to them; if there’s no problem, just release them.”

“Okay, no problem. Thanks for your hard work today, teacher. I’m off now.”

“Wait, can we take a photo together for memory? I feel like you’re going to be famous soon. When everyone knows these songs were recorded here, I can bask in the glow of a big star too.”

“No problem at all. If I really become famous, this place will be the launchpad of my dreams. Don’t move away. When we shoot a documentary, I’ll need you to arrange the locations.”

“This isn’t a trouble; it will add glory to my little studio. I’ll handle everything.”

After exchanging polite words with the engineer, Zhang Qianjun took the recorded songs home and uploaded them to QQ Music and Kugou Music, then waited patiently for their gradual rise. There was no concept of paid music at the time, but as long as the songs became popular, benefits would naturally follow.

During the following days, aside from filling out his college application, Zhang Qianjun was absorbed in how best to contribute to his motherland’s sports cause, completely forgetting about the three songs he had uploaded. Yet, unbeknownst to him, the music forums online were already stirred into a small frenzy.

“What kind of deity is this? He starts off with three divine tracks, all written and composed by the same person. Any one of these songs alone could sustain a lifetime. Is a new king of the mainland about to emerge?”

“That’s an exaggeration. Kings aren’t so cheap, and no single song can sustain a lifetime anymore. Do you think they’re all ‘Gong Xi Fa Cai’?”

“I’m sad I couldn’t accompany you through the hardships, but thankfully there is ‘White Hair’ and ‘Youth’.”

“I think this is a very beautiful story: two people reunited, yet ultimately it’s a tale of regret.”

“The Wind Rises is truly beautiful—so beautiful I want to turn it into a film. Why don’t I have such a love worth commemorating for a lifetime?”

“To the commenter above, this isn’t a love song between man and woman. It’s a song dedicated to motherly love, praising maternal affection and family bonds. Look at the last stanza:

‘The evening wind stirs the white hair at your temples, smoothing the scars left by memories. Your eyes mingle light and shadow, a smile blooms like a flower. Twilight hides your faltering steps as you enter the bedside, hiding pictures. In the painting, you lower your head and speak.’

Every time I listen, I’m moved to tears. So I lean toward interpreting this as the reflections of a wanderer returning home after years of struggle—lamenting that the changes in his hometown have blurred his childhood memories, looking back on his life’s journey; youth has passed, only nostalgia remains.”

“Support. If it’s a song for mothers, many lyrics’ meanings make sense.”

“If this is a song for mothers, I’d like to know how you interpret ‘I still marvel at the vast world and am intoxicated by youthful sweet words.’ I think setting ‘her’ as a childhood sweetheart isn’t wrong either.

‘The evening wind stirs the white hair at your temples, smoothing the scars left by memories.’ ‘Twilight hides your faltering steps as you enter the bedside, hiding pictures.’ Can a girlfriend not age? Can ‘I’ not return to my hometown in old age?

Also, it’s fine for you to have your own interpretation, but yours is quite niche—less than 100 likes in total.”

“Everyone here makes valid points. I think it’s unnecessary to be so rigid about who the song is for. Maybe you’re young, just experiencing friendship or love, so you think the song sings about those. But if you have a family, when you hear this song, it’s entirely about familial love, the mother, singing of your lifetime’s journey, ending with returning home in glory.”

“Just a song—everyone has different experiences, environments, and understandings. I won’t force you to agree with me, and you shouldn’t force me to agree with you. Everyone lives their own life.”

“By the way, this singer must be from Qiantang, right? Look at this line: ‘And the sky over Qiantang remains warm.’”

“Huh? What does ‘turning youth into waves for her’ mean? I really don’t get it.”

“No need to understand. Just pretentious rhyming.”

“Hahaha, a bunch of fools still trying to analyze this? The song is just pure word salad, content all over the place, illogical and empty. They wrote nonsense just to force rhymes, yet people praise it endlessly!”

“This song is average, lacks depth, not as good as ‘Bubble’.”

“‘Bubble’ is a bit difficult, hard to sing along, and feels like a woman’s song.”

“Funny, saying ‘Bubble’ is hard to sing, as if ‘The Wind Rises’ is easy.”

“Don’t you think ‘Confession Balloon’ is the best song?”

“‘Confession Balloon’ is a shallow pop song, not worthy of being discussed with the other two. Get lost.”

“Exactly. We’re discussing art and interpreting the meanings behind songs. ‘Confession Balloon’ is just bourgeois infatuation with old European lifestyles, plus the Seine River setting—it’s clearly pandering to foreign tastes.”

No matter the varied opinions, the fact remained that all three songs had become popular.

After more than a month of spreading and fermenting, the three songs steadily entered the top 100 of QQ Music and Kugou Music’s popular charts. Among them, the highest-ranked was “Confession Balloon,” considered a shallow pop song, which had reached the top 30. The other two songs also entered the top 50 on the new song charts. For an unsigned online singer, this was an extraordinary achievement.

One day, while Zhang Qianjun was at home tallying whether his diligent support of the national sports lottery had earned him seven hundred eighty or seven hundred ninety thousand yuan, an unfamiliar call came in.

He picked up and saw it was a number from the capital.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Mr. Zhang Qianjun?”

“Yes, speaking. Who is this?”

“Mr. Zhang, hello. I’m an agent from Wheatfield Music, my surname is Li, full name Li Yanjing.”

Li Glasses? Li Throat? Zhang Qianjun silently mocked the odd name in his mind.

“Oh, Mr. Li, hello. What can I do for you?”

“From your voice, you don’t sound very old. I heard your three songs on QQ Music—they are rare masterpieces. I’d like to know if you’re currently signed to any record company?”

“Not yet.”

“Have you heard of our company, Wheatfield Music? We are the largest record company in the country. Big names like Li Chunchun, Pu Su, Sun Bei, and Zhou Xun are all signed with us.

We are very interested in you. If possible, we’d like to arrange a meeting soon to discuss details.”

“Isn’t Zhou Xun an actor? She sings too?”

“Master Zhou has released albums. A few years ago, the trend was to be active in film, television, and music simultaneously.

Mr. Zhang, are you interested in signing with a record company? Do you have time soon? If so, we could meet at our headquarters in Beijing, or I could come to your city.”

“I’m from Qiantang. I have time now since it’s summer break. I’ll be going to Beijing at the end of August. If it’s not urgent, we can talk then.”

“Are you still a student, Mr. Zhang?”

“Yes, I just finished the college entrance exam. I’ll study in Beijing at the end of August.”

“You’re truly a young prodigy, Mr. Zhang—so talented and accomplished at such a young age. With your talent and our professional support at Wheatfield Music, you could become king of the charts within five years, maybe even setting the record for youngest ever.

Would this be acceptable? I’ll set off for Qiantang today. Tomorrow, you pick a place and we’ll meet in person.”

“My level is just so-so. You’re exaggerating. If you do come, let’s meet tomorrow at 3 p.m. at Sea Witch Café near Dongpo Lake subway station.”

“3 p.m. tomorrow, I’ll be there on time. Don’t miss it.”

“Okay, goodbye.”

‘I haven’t acted in a film yet, but I might become a singer first? Doesn’t matter, as long as I can make money. The sports lottery ceiling is low; making money is really hard.’

On the other end, after hanging up, Li Yanjing clenched his fist tightly and opened his computer to book train tickets.

‘I’ll book a sleeper for the night to save on hotel costs. But sitting on a train all night will hurt my image. How can I negotiate looking so defeated? Ah, I can’t save on lodging after all.’

“Old Li, are you treasure hunting online again? Didn’t I tell you the last singer you signed lost money? Online singers are unreliable; they crack under pressure, got it?”

“Exactly, Old Li, go back to schools and scout properly. Professional training is different. If you sign another loser, you might have to change careers.”

Li Yanjing just smiled and said maybe this one’s different, then packed up and left the office.

“This Old Li always dreams of signing the mainland’s next Zhou Naicha. But there’s more than one Zhou Naicha. If he wants to sign the mainland’s Zhou Naicha, fine—he should go home and sleep first. Dreams have everything.”

“Yeah, no idea what he’s thinking day after day. Almost forty, still playing little agent. Ten years in the business, nothing left.”

“Can’t say much. For his sake, no one listens. Only President Zhang respects him as a company elder, out of sentiment. A change in leadership and he’d be out.”

The next afternoon, by Dongpo Lake, at Sea Witch Café.

Li Yanjing arrived 30 minutes early and chose a seat by the window with a good view of the entrance, ordering two cups of coffee.

After 25 minutes, his phone rang.

“Hello, I’m here.”

Li Yanjing was certain it was Zhang Qianjun the moment he saw him at the door.

Eyebrows arched like wings, eyes shining like black stars, a face as refined as jade, a striking demeanor.

Upon closer look, the brows and eyes resembled a delicate painting—the eyes slightly oval, double eyelids shaped like fans, inner corners defined, thick eyebrows with high brow bones, narrow distance between brows and eyes.

His gaze was steady and fearless, typical of young people—calm yet bold.

His nose was straight and refined, without a hump; nostrils shaped like raindrops; the tip slightly drooping so that no nostrils showed from the front.

His lips were thin on top and fuller below, with a slightly upturned chin and a defined jawline.

At least 185 cm tall, broad shoulders, narrow waist, straight legs—the entire figure seemed to draw in surrounding light, elongating height and broadening shoulders, like a filtered image of Erlang Shen.

Upon entering, Zhang Qianjun spotted Li Yanjing—not only because he was holding up his phone and waving, but also because the man was easy to recognize.

He had an ordinary face, wore metal gunmetal glasses, a simple hairstyle, and bore a slight air of authority. Neither fat nor thin, he looked like an office worker on the verge of burnout.

The only unusual thing was his outfit: a medium gray suit with a black tie in July’s Qiantang. He neither looked like a real estate agent nor a financial elite; the suit and his aura didn’t quite match.

“Hello, I’m Li Yanjing, the agent from Wheatfield Music.”

“Hello, I’m Zhang Qianjun.”