Chapter Thirty-Five: A Brawl Sparked by a Song (Part One)

Chapter Thirty-Five: A Song That Sparked a Brawl (Part One)

Lack of education—how terrifying!
Zhang Le’s words came abruptly, without naming anyone, but spoken at that moment, their meaning was clear to all.

Lack of education—how terrifying!
At first glance, these words seemed innocuous. In certain contexts, they could even be interpreted as emphasizing the importance of cultural knowledge—a motivational phrase, encouraging people to study hard and cultivate themselves. It was, on the surface, a statement full of positive energy.

But, in this particular setting, it was undoubtedly a jab at Lin Xiaofan’s lack of education.

The insult was subtle, but all the more powerful for it—far more cutting than any crude invective. A soft knife always wounds the deepest, and hurts the most.

“Are you saying I’m uneducated?” Lin Xiaofan, seething with rage, glared fiercely at Zhang Le and spoke coldly.

“Ah?” Zhang Le looked over in feigned surprise and then replied, “Why would you think that? Excessive humility is just another form of pride, you know.”

Zhang Le was rather pleased with his performance—the startled look, the admiring tone, laced with patronizing advice. It all made his meaning unmistakable: Yes, I’m saying you’re uneducated. What are you going to do about it?

Lin Xiaofan, being overly humble, thus considered himself uneducated. But by saying it aloud, he was actually being proud—and pride is wrong.

You’re uneducated, and yet you’re proud—what on earth do you have to be proud about?

Zhang Le’s words seemed harmless, but the more one mulled them over, the more uncomfortable they became—grating, even nauseating.

For a moment, Lin Xiaofan was at a loss for words, nearly giving himself an internal injury from bottled-up anger. He desperately wanted to charge over and give Zhang Le a beating.

Suppressing his frustration with a cold laugh, Lin Xiaofan tried to regain his composure. He pulled out a tissue and dealt with the runny nose his cold had brought on. His movements were unhurried, almost graceful.

Unfortunately, Lin Xiaofan’s appearance was far from gentlemanly. His rotund figure made even Feng Lei pale in comparison. His skin was sallow with an unhealthy pallor, his head large, ears protruding, belly round, all crowned with a mop of curly hair and a small ponytail dangling at the back.

His style was so bizarre that even those so-called “Shamate” punks were nothing in comparison. Any attempt at elegance became pure comedy.

“I heard you’re exceptionally talented in music. Why not sing a song for us? Let everyone see if it’s true. Name your price—money is no object!” Lin Xiaofan looked at Zhang Le with disdain in his tone and arrogance in his eyes.

It didn’t matter what price Zhang Le named—if he sang, it would be tantamount to admitting he was a street performer, accepting Lin Xiaofan’s earlier insult. If he refused, it was certain that Lin Xiaofan would only press harder.

“Money isn’t the problem; the problem is having none,” Zhang Le replied with a smile, picking up his wine glass and taking a sip. “How about a drink, on my tab?”

With this gesture, Zhang Le was clearly echoing Wu Xiaoyong’s earlier jab at Lin Xiaofan.

“Heh!” Lin Xiaofan chuckled, then turned to one of his cronies and asked, “What’s his appearance fee?”

“There was a report in the media—someone once offered two hundred thousand, but he refused,” the person replied after a moment's thought.

Two hundred thousand was a high sum for someone like Zhang Le, who had only recently made a name for himself—barely an up-and-comer.

“Hmph!” Lin Xiaofan snorted, whipped out his checkbook, scribbled an amount, tore out the check, and tossed it in front of Zhang Le with disdain. “Five hundred thousand. Sing a song!”

Zhang Le picked up the check for five hundred thousand, smiled, and said, “Are you sure you want me to sing? No regrets?”

“Regret? I, Lin Xiaofan, never regret anything I do. Sing! Five hundred thousand—no problem at all,” Lin Xiaofan replied crisply.

“Young Master Wu, I heard you’ve funded the construction of several elementary schools in impoverished areas. I wonder—could five hundred thousand build one more?” Zhang Le glanced at the check and then addressed Wu Xiaoyong.

Wu Xiaoyong immediately smiled, admiring Zhang Le’s quick wit. He was also impressed by how Zhang Le, without a second thought, was willing to give away five hundred thousand. For someone from a wealthy family, it might mean little, but Wu Xiaoyong had read a bit about Zhang Le’s background online.

For Zhang Le, five hundred thousand was a considerable sum.

“Well, that depends on the location, but one or two schools should be possible,” Wu Xiaoyong replied with a smile.

“Then I’ll trouble you with it,” Zhang Le replied, handing over the check before getting up and making his way toward the stage.

This club often featured performances for entertainment; sometimes patrons would go up themselves for a bit of fun. The sound equipment and instruments were all in place. In fact, the layout was similar to many nightclubs, though the clientele here were not just anyone off the street.

Many people were watching the confrontation between Wu Xiaoyong and Lin Xiaofan. Anything lively always attracted a crowd, and when it was two scions of wealthy families at odds, it was all the more entertaining.

As Zhang Le walked to the stage, the crowd’s eyes followed him.

He picked up a guitar, set the microphone in its stand, and said, “Young Master Lin here says singers are just street performers. I’ve never claimed to be a singer, but I do play music. He’s offered five hundred thousand for a song, and I’m tempted. I don’t know how many schools five hundred thousand can build in poor areas, but I’ll thank you on behalf of those children. So, I’ll compose a new song right here for you, Young Master Lin!”

“This is going to be good! Haha, I knew he wouldn’t just get up there and sing like that!” Feng Lei’s eyes gleamed with excitement upon hearing Zhang Le’s words.

Wu Xiaoyong was also greatly intrigued, his earlier doubts now put to rest.

If Zhang Le had simply pocketed the five hundred thousand, Wu Xiaoyong could have understood—many would forfeit their dignity for such a sum, especially when all that was required was to sing a song. To be called a street performer is an insult, but not unbearable; in essence, paid performances and busking are not so different, only the terms are more polite.

If Zhang Le had kept the money, Wu Xiaoyong would not have despised him, nor looked down on him. But to be friends with such a person—perhaps not.

What puzzled him was that Zhang Le had given away the money without a second thought. Clearly, singing was not about the money for him. And Wu Xiaoyong doubted that Zhang Le was so noble as to be motivated solely by funding schools in poor areas.

Now it was clear—the key lay in the song Zhang Le was about to compose on the spot.

The prelude was short, but bright and lively. As everyone watched in anticipation, Zhang Le began to sing.

Pig, your nose has two holes
When you catch a cold, they’re full of snot

“Pfft!”

At the very first two lines, many in the audience couldn’t help but burst out laughing. All eyes turned to Lin Xiaofan, who happened to be blowing his nose into a tissue at that very moment. The scene was so fitting, it was impossible not to laugh.

Pig, you have little beady eyes
You stare and stare, but see no end

Pig, your ears are so big
Flapping and flapping, yet you still can’t hear me call you a fool

Pig, your tail is all curly
Turns out you can’t live without it, running and jumping around...

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