Chapter Ninety-Five: The Eagle’s Nest, Part One

To look handsome as a singer is really like a special-effect buff. Without it, nothing disastrous happens. But with it, whether you sing, dance, or even speak, everything seems to carry a little more weight.

In plain terms, this is a face-obsessed society, and it is brutally honest.

For Li Daimo, people mutter, “With that ugly, bald face, if he does drugs, he deserves what he gets.” For Ko Zhendong, they say, “He’s so handsome—drug use doesn’t seem so unforgivable.”

So everyone could experience the frightening upgrade that this “buff” gives.

Ren Qian’s was already fully revealed at Jiangnan University’s New Year’s Eve gala. Back then, the moment he stepped onto the stage and opened his voice, the girls began to flutter like startled deer, breathing hard, so emotionally charged they could barely contain themselves.

Now, Ren Qian merely sat in a chair holding a guitar, and he still gave off that deeply affectionate, ideal-hero feel. It made anyone feel spontaneous reverence.

“When you are old, your hair turns white, sleep comes in waves...”

When the first line came from Ren Qian’s throat, Murong Xue shivered all over, hit by a strange mix of shame and satisfaction, as if her ears had been startled into awakening.

She had sung *When You Are Old* over a hundred times and was already numb to that lyric, that melody. Yet Ren Qian’s way of singing still struck the innermost string of her heart.

It was like she was really walking, hand in hand with the man she loved, through the years of a silver wedding, then a golden wedding, stumbling and steadying each other, until old age itself, wandering together under the long shadows of a sunset avenue.

“When you are old, your steps grow weak, you nod off by the hearth, and remember your youth…”

The warm scene, the loving phrasing, the irresistible voice, and his perfect lover-like face made Ren Qian seem to embody the song itself.

Murong Xue watched him, dazed.

He had to be the sort who is romantic before marriage and a nurturing husband after it. He would wake early to make breakfast, then kiss her awake while she was still half-asleep, watch her dress in deep affection, and even brush her hair with care...

“How many have ever loved you?
In youth’s bright, jubilant hours,
admiring your beauty—
pretending or true—
only one still loves you,
a faithful soul,
only one who loves the wrinkles
on your aging face.”

How poetic it is. Each word is ordinary on its own, but put together, it flows with soul-touching tenderness.

“Only one still loves you, a faithful soul,
loves the wrinkles on your old face.”

Hearing this, Murong Xue tossed her hair behind her ear; a flash passed through her eyes.
She was wondering, when comparing her all-around qualities with Wenrun’s, who truly stood higher.

Wenrun is gentle, refined, and elegant. As for her... her figure needed no praise—curved in front, lifted behind—and she was practical enough to suit all settings, social or domestic. Even in serving a man, she could, if she wished, learn every kind of posture.

What was most dangerous was her temperament, slightly soft at the edges.
Although Qian brother treated her with great care, she knew that care was like an elder caring for a younger one, with no ulterior motive at all. It was pure satisfaction from shaping a new talent into someone who could soar.
“Sigh. A man like him should probably prefer a girl who is bolder, with stronger opinions.”

While Murong Xue was drifting into that daze, Ren Qian had already demonstrated for everyone what emotions folk songs were meant to pass to their listeners.

“Excellent!”

The photographer, sitting on a rig high in midair, clapped with gusto, triggering a round of amused laughter.
“Ren Qian, he’s truly made for music. We old crew can’t keep up with him.”

“Honestly, even a guy can’t stand it when Qian sings ‘When You Are Old’—he might even be tempted to stray. He’s got a charm for everyone.”

It was Xu Zhiqian making jokes again.
He posted bits every day on Weibo and was praised online as a true comedian of the soul. Of course, in life too, he had the restless energy of someone who can’t sit still.
Today he amuses Zhang Nianwei; tomorrow he flirts with some backstage beauty, making a full sport of it. Yet he handles the limits of joking perfectly—never overdoing it, always making everyone smile.

That made Xu Zhiqian all the more popular. During breaks, staff members were willing to chat with him for a few words.

“Great song, great arrangement…”

Hu Yanbin paid all his attention to the arrangement. “That C chord in this section is high difficulty—amazing!”

To Ren Qian, this one seemed a wooden-brained man: his focus was always, stubbornly, only on music. No matter what amusing stories you told him, he’d close the topic in two or three lines. Only when music came up would his treasure chest open and he’d talk on and on.

In any case, these singers had rather obvious traits.
After the demo, Ren Qian handled their questions one by one, giving each the proper remedy.
Since he himself came out to give direct guidance, the singers all accepted him wholeheartedly, not only accepting, but actually eager for it.

Do not be fooled by his age. Though Ren Qian was only twenty, his musical attainment was like that of a veteran with two decades of practice. He was seasoned, strategic, and often sharp to the point.

After rehearsal, he had the driver take him to Great River City and specifically pay the down payment, while also checking the villa’s facilities. The villa was over four hundred square meters. In an instant, Ren Qian’s savings were emptied.
He was still carrying more than ten million in debt.
“A full-belly load of debt,” he thought.

He sighed that if it had been another life, he might have gone to the corner shop for a bottle of pesticide and taken off on a walkabout from which there would be no return.

The villa was priced at more than twenty million; the developer gave him a favor, a six-million discount, meaning he had to pay fourteen million in the end. Of course, the developers would also use Ren Qian’s name for promotion.

Still, Ren Qian felt he had gained. To earn six million in endorsements so easily—he was in no mood to deny how good that felt.

He was very satisfied with the villa.
The whole estate felt like a Jiangnan garden, each step a scene, blending traditional culture with Western architecture in a subtle way—at once simple and grand, with a lingering elegance. At night one could feel the Xiang River breeze, and after dinner they could walk together and take the air.
Inside, the villa even came with a built-in thirty-square-meter garden.
It was worth it.

“Not bad. Later, set up a music room on the second floor and bring in some equipment, like a piano and the like.”

After checking out the villa, Ren Qian got in the car again. He wandered through the furniture city and appliance city, finalized the furniture and home electronics he had already discussed with Wenrun, and left addresses and phone numbers for delivery.

As a traditional Chinese man, Ren Qian valued the pull of having a home to return to, even if he was not the type to live rigidly and farm in the countryside. But to have a house of his own, a harbor behind him, has always been his lifelong pursuit.
No matter how high he flies in the future, this would be an eagle’s nest.
And if he ever falls, it can act like a cushion, preventing him from being shattered to pieces.