Chapter Seventy-Five: The Touching Moment of "Hair Like Snow" at the Incense Altar

Cai Chengyu’s performance was met with little commentary from Ren Qian and only sparse applause from the audience. Yet Cai Chengyu seemed completely oblivious, unaware of how dreadful his singing had been, striding off the stage with an inflated sense of pride.

“Now, the next contestant.

He writes his own songs, arranges his own music, possesses remarkable vocal skills, and is still young...
But he carries a composure uncommon for his age.
He’s always buried in his scores, tirelessly playing with the notes in his hands. Through countless hours spent in the company of music, he’s learned how to make each note shine with emotion.

Please welcome…”

Despite the lengthy recording of the show, there wasn’t a hint of fatigue on the faces of the audience. Each member seemed invigorated, clapping fervently when required, and standing up to cheer with feverish excitement.

The cameraman in the front row finally realized—his earlier decision to start filming before the official recording was unnecessary. This level of enthusiasm from the audience meant the footage required little editing. The subtitle team would just add a few captions, and the post-production crew could quickly polish it for broadcast.

The lights went out across the venue. Hu Yanbin stood at the entrance to the stage, took a deep breath, and his temporary manager handed him an opened bottle of mineral water.

He took a small sip and flashed a brilliant smile.

The tracking cameraman hurried to capture this moment and followed Hu Yanbin’s silhouette as he walked onto the stage.

Thump, thump… thump, thump… thump, thump…

The nervous heartbeat resonated through the hall. The audience began to close their eyes to feel the prelude—an action learned from Ren Qian, who stood at the edge of the stage.

Eyes shut, head tilted back at a forty-five-degree angle, the sweeping lights fell upon his hair, his Adam’s apple moved gently; it was strikingly cool, almost dramatic.

Thus, the whole audience adopted this pose.

Ren Qian glanced at the crowd, all closing their eyes in unison, and suddenly found the gesture lost its allure.

A torrent cascaded down a mountain valley, cold moonlight stripping warmth from the skin, and then the plaintive piano began. The desolate atmosphere sent chills down the audience’s spines.

“Wolf’s tooth moon, my beloved wan and frail...
I raise my glass, drinking away the wind and snow…”

Hu Yanbin’s voice carried the spirit of literature; as he sang “wolf’s tooth moon, my beloved wan and frail,” a romantic scholar seemed to leap from the pages.

Was it Liu Sanbian?
Or Wen Tingyun?
Who else could paint such a frosty, haunting scene with just a few words?

Each lyric was autumn wind and cold frost, sweeping across the senses.

The audience’s minds filled with the image of a wolf’s tooth moon—though they were sitting in a studio, it felt as if raising their eyes would reveal the palace moon rabbit and the fairy goddess Chang’e.

“Who tipped over the cabinet of past lives?
Stirred up dust and old disputes…
Fate’s decree, cycles of reincarnation, you furrow your brow…
Cry for beauty that cannot return…”

When he sang “Fate’s decree, cycles of reincarnation, you furrow your brow,” many in the audience rose to their feet in a wave—a reflex born from the beauty of the melody, the brilliance of the lyrics, and the singer’s heartfelt delivery. In that instant, they were moved beyond composure, compelled to stand and applaud.

Ren Qian smiled faintly. This Hu Yanbin was impressive; in a previous life, he had stunned everyone with a reimagined version of “Hilltop,” and now, with his own interpretation, he gave “Snow-like Hair” a distinctive style. It was no small feat.

“Though history has turned to ashes…
My love will never fade…
Splendor like three thousand rivers flowing east…
I only take a ladleful to understand love…
Only to love you, transformed as a butterfly~”

Backstage, the cameraman focused his lens on Sun Munan.

Sun Munan was watching Hu Yanbin’s live performance, swaying to the rhythm.

He said to the temporary manager beside him, “This song is extremely difficult; the chorus reaches a high note of b4, straddling the line between ‘complete vocal change’ and ‘single word vocal change’—both challenging techniques.

Even singers skilled in high notes find it hard to master. But look at Yanbin—he’s under no pressure at all! Truly a talented young artist. I feel my own pressure mounting.”

“Your hair like snow, graced the sorrow of parting,
Whose heart did my incense move?
Invite the moon, let memories shine bright…
Love is perfect beneath the moonlight…
Your hair like snow, scattered with tears…
For whom do I await, growing old?
Worldly intoxication, the gently tipsy years…
I carve a monument of everlasting love with my unwavering heart…”

As the song drew to a close, Hu Yanbin finished with a gentle hum, wrapping up this plaintive, yearning melody.

Yet another beautiful classic!

The audience had been moved to tears by song after song; mere applause was no longer enough to express their excitement and respect for the performers, so someone took the lead in standing up to cheer and clap.

No one could have expected that, as the recording went on, the audience became not fatigued but increasingly wild. It was as if they’d seen a ghost in broad daylight…

If every variety show audience responded with this level of enthusiasm, the hosts would surely give their all, the guests would perform their hearts out, and the ratings would soar.

Yet, in all these years, no show had ever reached such heights—not even the Spring Festival Gala!

“Thank you, band teachers, thank you, piano teacher, thank you, Teacher Ren Qian, thank you to the five hundred members of the judging panel.”

After a round of bows and thanks, Hu Yanbin left, gasping for breath—awaiting him were another two or three minutes of filming.

“I haven’t sung like this—so restrained, yet so free—for a long time. This is the stage of ‘I Am a Singer.’ I will fight to stand till the end! I want to grow! I want to prove myself!”

He clenched his fist and waved it before the camera—a bold, open challenge. Hu Yanbin’s performance revealed only the tip of the iceberg, tightening the nerves of the veteran singers even further.

This show was truly exhilarating, but perhaps that was precisely what gave it its unique charm.

“This song is called ‘Snow-like Hair’—such a beautiful piece… The next song is also from a young singer. What interpretation will he bring?”

“Please welcome…”

By now, Ren Qian had grown weary of introductions.

The audience’s eyes were red, each eagerly awaiting the next singer to take the stage and deliver another dazzling performance.

“This is my first time singing a Cantonese song. Although Brother Qian kept encouraging me, I’m still nervous.

Whew…

I’ll do my best, show what I’ve practiced—hopefully even perform beyond my usual level, and rank near the top!”

Xu Zhiqian had watched so many powerful performances that his heart was inevitably uneasy.

Moreover… Ren Qian had specifically chosen a classical Cantonese song for him. He was afraid of messing it up.

“Don’t overthink it when the time comes, just sing with heart!” The temporary manager patted his shoulder, offering encouragement.

Though he was just a manager, not a contestant, somehow he was caught up in the tense atmosphere, his heartbeat quickening, his mood unable to settle.

The cameraman quietly filmed this scene.

The venue plunged into darkness again; Xu Zhiqian stood a little awkwardly to the side, waiting for his pounding heart to calm before slowly walking to the center of the stage.