Chapter Thirteen: I... Really Love to Sing

Why would those so-called superstars target an obscure newcomer like him? Ren Qian racked his brains, but could not find an answer. He decided it was better not to trouble himself over it. Instead, he clicked into the back end of his Weibo account and checked his follower count. Nearly a million!

He was genuinely surprised.

His rebellious Cantonese songs were merely beginning to bud, while the citizens of the Empire had been poisoned by traditional-style songs since childhood, constantly brainwashed by music critics with distorted tastes. For nearly a million people to persist in following him at this time meant they truly loved “Boundless Oceans, Vast Skies”—they were diehard fans.

A million followers meant Ren Qian now wielded some real influence. The most basic proof was the presence of a few “upright individuals” in the comments below his Weibo, who occasionally scolded the trolls.

Scrolling further, Ren Qian’s brows drew together; an expression of utter disgust flashed across his face.

After signing with a company, Yang Chen, Qi Fei, and Wang Si had formed a group called boy’k. Now, on their official Weibo, they shamelessly declared: “Those few Cantonese songs were just games we created together as a band, but Ren Qian stole them! For this reason, we kicked him out of the Landing on Mars Band. Mars Entertainment never signed such an immoral singer either. We hope Ren Qian will stop flaunting the fruits of others’ hard work.”

Beneath the post, tens of thousands of comments smeared Ren Qian, and idiots called on everyone to go to Ren Qian’s Weibo and hurl abuse…

“Did I really cuckold your fathers? You go to such lengths to frame me!” Ren Qian was furious. He had seen shamelessness before, but never like this. Not only had they stolen the songs he’d labored over for three months, but now they were slinging mud in public—was it because he was too kind?

Since they were determined to suppress him, he saw no reason to endure it. In matters like this, tolerance would not make it go away. These people bullied the weak and feared the strong; only by striking back hard, by slapping them so they’d never dare be arrogant again, would they quiet down and reveal their servile natures.

So Ren Qian’s fingers flew across the screen, and he finally sent out a long post:

“I thought the superstars with established careers were wise and discerning elders, but today I see you’re unworthy of that title, and unworthy of being called elders at all.

First, if you didn’t know those three plagiarized and still slandered me, then you act without thinking, believing hearsay—this is foolishness.

Second, if you knew they plagiarized and still slandered me, then you are complicit in wrongdoing—this is even more despicable.

Third, if you neither know nor cover for them, yet still slander me, then you cannot stand innovation and wish to destroy a genius musician—this is utter madness.

Now I understand: perhaps this generation of superstars got their titles by cunning and intrigue, since they clearly lack true talent.”

Ren Qian’s Weibo was sharp-tongued and aggressive, directly targeting the superstars.

Once he posted it, he quickly returned to his dormitory to prepare for sleep. When he kept silent, things online were relatively calm; but as soon as he posted, all the idle netizens erupted.

The superstars’ paid trolls swarmed in, rumors and insults flying everywhere. The fans of those superstars flocked to Ren Qian’s Weibo to hurl abuse—clearly mindless fanatics.

Returning to his dorm, Ren Qian hurried to bed, letting the storm rage on Weibo.

If Ren Qian were a nobody, he might have groveled before the superstars.

But he was not! He believed firmly that a person like him could easily be the protagonist of a novel—why should he fear a few washed-up celebrities? There was no reason to be intimidated; soldiers deal with invaders, water is blocked by earth. If they tried to blacklist him, he’d slap them with his talent. It was that simple.

Shaking off his negative emotions, Ren Qian closed Weibo, chatted a while with the nurse girl in his cheeky way, exchanged goodnights, and finally drifted off to sleep.

…

The next day, as always, Ren Qian woke himself with his own handsomeness. He got up, brushed his teeth, washed his face, ran two laps around the track, and headed for the cafeteria.

There were few people in the cafeteria, so he could eat breakfast in peace. Afterward, Ren Qian made his way to the apartment where Wen Run lived. The nurse girl had already received his call and poked her little head out the window with a sweet smile, soon appearing downstairs.

“You really want to come home with me?”

She seemed a bit shy, but still handed her backpack to Ren Qian without hesitation. The question was merely a formality.

“Of course! Don’t worry, with my eloquence, I’m sure I can convince my future father-in-law.”

Ren Qian took her backpack with practiced ease, winked confidently, and then—for the first time—gently took Wen Run’s soft, jade-like hand in his.

“We won’t arrive until noon. He’s never home during the day. In the evening, he usually goes to that little pub. We’ll have to wait until then… Is that too much trouble?”

“Not at all. Let’s go. We’ll stop by the market to buy groceries. You’re a great cook, right? Let’s prepare a sumptuous dinner, pick up your dad, and then officially announce that from today on, I’ll be your legal guardian!”

Ren Qian teased her.

“Legal guardian? Are you delirious? I could slap you all the way to the next county.”

The nurse girl’s face flashed with mock anger, and she gave a playful smack to Ren Qian, who was proudly showing off.

…

Winter nights were cold. On a lonely street, two figures paused outside a shabby little bar. Two bright red lanterns hung over the door, shivering in the chill wind.

With such a scene, who would come in to drink? Ren Qian rolled his eyes, grumbling inwardly.

“What a tenacious bar—looks like this place never goes out of business, no matter how bad things get.”

The nurse girl shot him an annoyed glare.

“He’s here. He often drinks alone, talking to himself…”

She pushed open the door, brows knitted, her eyes instantly seeking out the haggard middle-aged man slumped at the bar.

The man reeked of alcohol, surrounded by empty glasses. Between them sat a small plate of spiced beans, now nearly empty, only a few green shells left.

“Shh…”

Ren Qian pulled Wen Run aside, moving quietly. The middle-aged man—her dejected father—was tilting his head back with a sigh.

“Fifteen years gone in a blink! My daughter is twenty-one today, and I’m still like this—no one understands my talent. I truly love singing… but who could understand?”

Ren Qian hugged the nurse girl, feeling a lump in his throat.

“I truly love singing.”

That phrase reminded him of a story from his previous life, about his idol Leo Ku:

Back in the early 2000s, there was prejudice in Hong Kong against the mainland. Hong Kong artists disdained going north, believing only those who couldn’t make it at home would try to develop in the mainland.

At that time, Leo Ku’s career was soaring, yet he took a risk and went to film “Romance in the Rain” and “My Fair Princess” in the mainland. Both series became massive hits. He could have ridden that wave and made a fortune, but he wasn’t interested in money. He faded from the public eye and returned to writing his songs.

When he returned to the Hong Kong music scene, people mocked him: “Why’d you come back?” The sneers were obvious. Ku acted like he didn’t care, rarely mentioning it to the media; even later on, he spoke of it lightly. But it was clear he endured much scorn and pressure for returning to sing in Hong Kong.

Former colleagues pretended not to recognize him; the media mocked his clothes as “straight out of the Qing dynasty.” Cold words, ridicule, and prejudice were everywhere.

After promoting “My Fair Princess” in the summer of 2003, he signed with Paco and began recording and releasing music. His single “Killer Move” took second place at the end-of-year Ultimate Song Chart Awards, also winning Most Popular Song.

The DJ, Sammy, said: “Coming back so full of hope, only to get a chilly ‘Oh, you’re back?’ This singer was gone from the award stage for two years, and his first single back took second place. I really want to say to him: ‘Welcome back, Leo Ku!’”

Leo Ku, in tears, replied, “I truly love singing.”

That phrase became one of his most iconic tags in later years.

“I truly love singing”—those few words revealed a steadfast faith. Perhaps they carried a hundred emotions, but there was a kind of open-mindedness: let others be strong, I remain unmoved, like a breeze brushing the mountains.

Cold stares, mean words, ridicule, and alienation—all were unimportant.

Again and again, Ren Qian had been frustrated in his past life, his path strewn with thorns, yet he made that phrase his motto. Now, hearing it in a foreign land, he was overwhelmed.

Because, he too truly loved singing.

…

While Ren Qian was lost in thought, Wen Run’s father picked up a battered guitar from the corner and played a rough melody—the kind that would fit an epic ballad, slow and gentle, suddenly sending a chill down one’s spine. This was music from a man with stories, lyrics from a man who had lived.

“It’s alright, really alright
Maybe, I should have gone back long ago…”