Chapter Forty-Two: Running Under the Streetlights

"Every song recorded today, whether in arrangement or lyrics, was nothing short of a classic. It's rare for a singer to bring a piece that requires no revision from the producer, ready to be published as is. Even fewer can write lyrics that fit the melody so naturally that even professional lyricists are left speechless. Ren Qian is truly an exception.

Even if some singers can compose and write lyrics on their own, it's nearly impossible to reach the level Ren Qian has achieved. It's not hard to imagine that, in the future, Ren Qian will hold an irreplaceable position in the music world. Perhaps... even the title of 'Song God,' which has remained untouched for fifty years, might finally meet its match.

It's not flattery from the senior instrumentalists—Ren Qian's songs are of extraordinary quality. He doesn't follow the usual path, boldly experimenting with instruments from all times and places. At first, his choices of instrumentation and blending might seem bizarre, even at odds with mainstream tastes. Yet, when you're presented with the finished track, you realize Ren Qian's methods are entirely harmonious, without the slightest sense of discord.

That's precisely why these old hands of the orchestra can't help but praise him.

"Ren Qian's music feels almost foreign, with none of the decadent airs of traditional styles. I thought our Rolling Poetry Entertainment was at the forefront in abandoning old-fashioned trends, but it seems Ren Qian broke free from those shackles long ago."

"You're too kind. It's just the reckless attempts of youth, hardly worthy of such high praise."

Ren Qian thanked everyone, glanced at the time, and saw that evening was drawing near—it was time to leave.

"Son-in-law, finished recording? Hurry up and try the new dishes your mother-in-law has crafted!"

His mother-in-law had appeared at the door without anyone noticing. Suddenly, a burnt, acrid smell seemed to permeate the music hall, and the senior musicians immediately held their breath. Some shrank their necks, others turned pale, and a few pretended to be busy cleaning their instruments.

"Haha, thank you for your hard work, mother-in-law. Wenrun was just telling me yesterday how eager she was to try your cooking. Could you pack some for me? I'll take it home so we can have dinner together."

One lie always begets a hundred more. Over these past days, lying had become second nature to Ren Qian, and not once did his face betray him.

Yet, sometimes an ominous sense of entrapment would creep up on him, as if he were spinning his own cocoon.

But so what? As long as he could avoid the consequences for now, there was still time before they caught up to him.

The diva at the door thought it over—it made sense. Her son-in-law had been focused on recording all day, exhausted from the effort. He should go home and spend some quality time with Wenrun.

With that, she no longer pressed the issue. She quickly packed two boxes of her latest culinary experiments for Ren Qian, sending him off in a hurry—perhaps so Wenrun could try them too.

Who knows, maybe after one taste, the two youngsters would be hooked and come running back to her every other day.

She was all smiles as she watched Ren Qian step into the elevator. The feeling of having her cooking appreciated was so wonderful—she knew she'd chosen the right son-in-law. She still remembered how, last time, he had praised every single bite with a new compliment, never repeating himself, his thumb raised high, devouring her food with gusto. The diva could almost feel her confidence swelling to the point of bursting.

To create dishes so moving that they brought people to tears, to leave them so full their limbs went weak—such culinary artistry could only belong to a woman like her.

Downstairs, turning left and heading to a deserted spot, Ren Qian lifted the lunchboxes, his hands trembling slightly. He knew his mother-in-law had put her heart into them—the packaging was almost extravagantly ornate. With a long, weary sigh, he couldn't help but feel frustrated. He had good looks to make a living—why did he have to get involved in cooking?

Though his time at Rolling Poetry had gone well, earning the respect of many masters, he swore he'd never set foot there again.

"Where to, young man?"

A dingy yellow taxi pulled up by the curb. The driver stuck his head out the window, beaming.

"Take me to the north end of University City," Ren Qian replied.

"You got it!"

With that, the cabbie set off, though the rush hour traffic made for a slow journey.

"Another jam. Want to listen to some music, kid? I've got a few great tracks lined up."

Ren Qian nodded. Anything was better than staring out the window at the standstill traffic.

But as the intro started, Ren Qian was taken aback—the song was "Boundless Seas and Open Skies."

"You don't know, kid, but this song is legendary!"

"Oh?" Ren Qian's curiosity was piqued. There was always something strangely satisfying about hearing praise for your own work.

"This song is my miracle cure for constipation! The moment I put it on, nothing can hold me back. Just recently, my sister-in-law was having a tough labor. I belted out a few lines of this song—and wouldn't you know it, the baby started wailing right then and there.

And that's not all! Ever since I found this song, I've been eating better, my digestion's improved, and my wife makes me kneel on the washboard less. My manliness has gone through the roof!"

As he finished, the driver even shot Ren Qian a flirtatious wink in the rearview mirror.

Ren Qian could only remain silent.

Silence is golden, silence is golden.

The city lights of Jiangnan shone brightly as, after winding through the streets for almost an hour, Ren Qian finally arrived at the north end of University City. He slammed the car door shut with a vengeance.

"At last—what a journey, like fetching scriptures from the West. First my mother-in-law, then that eccentric driver—each one more torturous than the last."

The streetlights on the roadside were dim. Ren Qian tossed the lunchboxes into a trash bin and hurried upstairs.

Behind him, a ragged beggar emerged, trembling as he lifted the lid of the bin and fished out the box of "dark cuisine." His eyes lit up as if he'd found treasure, and, glancing around, he seized the box and fled under the streetlights.

For years to come, whenever he recalled that desperate flight beneath the streetlights, he would feel as if his insides were being torn apart, his very soul consumed.

Where was the basic trust between people?

He'd been so hungry that he devoured the food in a dark corner without hesitation—only to realize, halfway through, that something was terribly wrong. A wave of nausea surged over him.

Oh lord, what was this?

Terrified, eyes streaming, he tried to make himself vomit. By all appearances, the box had contained real food—but why did it taste so abominable? It was like eating filth itself!

As for the one who started it all—Ren Qian returned home, exhausted, to the small apartment he and Wenrun had temporarily rented. The moment he walked in, he was stunned: the table was covered with steaming, fragrant dishes. They weren't rare delicacies, but in the warm light, they radiated a gentle, homey comfort.

"Hungry?" his nurse-girlfriend asked as she opened the door, gentle and gracious, brimming with charm.

The sight was enough to shatter any man's defenses. Ren Qian, unthinking, shed all his armor, slipped off his shoes, and sat down to enjoy the warmth.

You might think that life is all about the rise and fall of business, intrigue, and eventual fame, but true happiness is really just sharing simple meals with a loved one, growing old together.

That's how it should be.

Ren Qian accepted a bowl of special eight-treasure porridge, brewed to soothe his voice.

"Remember that song 'Contented Heart'?" he asked.

"Of course," she replied, her smile radiant.

"I'll sing it for you later."