Chapter 33: Endless Summer

In the past, Heartbreak had limited popularity. Outside the band circle, practically nobody cared.

When a small band like this released a song, they couldn’t afford to pick and choose the date.

A star as big as First Sister, for example, would start building hype for a new release well in advance. This was partly to hold their own—reassuring sponsors and advertisers—and partly to secure enough marketing push to grab market share, laying the groundwork for the song’s ongoing promotion. With such a massive build-up from the big players, the small fry had no choice but to get out of the way, or else they’d be crushed to dust.

Now that Heartbreak was on the rise and Mengmeng himself was attracting attention from all sides, the environment for releasing new music was bound to be better than before.

Liu Lusi reconsidered: a surprise song release was actually viable.

This would also show how many capable new fans had been retained during this period, how much fighting spirit the old fans had been galvanized to, and what the two groups combined could truly achieve.

Otherwise, if they didn’t release it Monday, they’d have to fly to G City on Wednesday to record the show.

Then, when the fourth episode of “Sing My Heart Tonight” aired on Friday, the weekend’s buzz would inevitably focus on the variety show. Fans riding that high would probably find it hard to split their attention and promote Heartbreak’s new song. In that case, the hype wouldn’t stack perfectly but would clash, making it a net loss.

After running through the scenarios, Liu Lusi found that Monday was indeed the most suitable choice…

“Monday it is. I’ll contact Old Qu.”

Speaking of Qu Yanni, one had to mention her and her team. Due to their incredibly close business ties, Boss Qu and her core staff had practically become Heartbreak’s unofficial PR department. Aside from handling some urgent jobs, the bulk of their resources and energy was spent on matters related to Mengmeng.

She liked Mengmeng out of a sense of appreciation.

And because their work often intersected, she had gotten to know him more deeply.

To be honest, working overtime for someone like Mengmeng was the only thing that even slightly lessened Qu Yanni’s soaring resentment. Just thinking about that authoritative, handsome face made life seem hopeful again.

“I know, I’m on my way.”

After rushing through yet another emergency proposal, the late-night snacks also arrived.

Mengmeng and Dai Jier were working overtime in the recording studio. Mao Maoyu had left early to visit his parents. Everyone else was in the lounge, sharing the snacks and eating merrily. In a small conference room with no one else present, Liu Lusi extended a partnership invitation to her old classmate: “So, do you think our Mengmeng is worth it?”

Of course, Qu Yanni was deeply tempted!

In fact, she had been waiting for this invitation for a very long time.

As old classmates, the two knew each other inside and out.

After a tacit, mutual observation period, they could finally lay everything out on the table.

She liked Mengmeng, but that didn’t mean she could work for free like a hardcore, obsessive fan. Boss Qu ran a studio with skilled, systematic, and well-regarded operations. It was her duty to be responsible for her employees, and making big money was the core motivation.

Of course, anyone who wasn’t blind could see Mengmeng’s brilliant future.

And it wasn’t just Mengmeng; the entire Heartbreak label had limitless potential.

So, in response to her old classmate’s sincere invitation, Qu Yanni didn’t waste words. She got straight to the point: the scope of her responsibilities needed clearer division of authority, how would team profits be split, what was the specific standard for label dividends… none of these things could be settled in a few words.

However, once the intent was confirmed, things would move forward quickly with legal assistance.

With this new layer to their relationship, Qu Yanni’s perspective on Mengmeng shifted again.

Appreciation turned into meticulous contemplation.

All sorts of feelings of fondness and protectiveness transformed into even more detailed strategizing.

Issues she could have put off addressing before now had to be brought to his agent, Liu Lusi, all at once, to hear her opinion.

“The best way to showcase a song is on stage, but the nearest stage available for Heartbreak isn’t until late July. Honestly, that’s not enough exposure. I’m not talking about Mengmeng’s personal exposure, but the song’s own. Without enough performance opportunities, its reach will be very limited.”

Qu Yanni was in marketing; she knew exactly what a hit song looked like in its infancy!

Top-tier quality, the best singer, the most carefully chosen release window… without sufficient promotion, an adequate environment to ferment, and quality stages for it to be revisited, even a great song could be buried alive.

“Just look at ‘Purple Jasmine’. It’s a good song, right? Yet, since its release, its popularity has been limited, let alone any ‘breakout index’. But its fate could be reversed at any time—with enough marketing push! Even if it’s not positive press. A Mengmeng love triangle sounds shocking at first, right? But taking the topic a bit further, the keyword becomes ‘first love’, and netizens naturally get curious and search for what kind of song it is.”

“Last Saturday morning at 10 AM, nearly 180,000 listeners online. What level is that?”

If a good marketing plan had been used from the start, why would it have taken over two years to get the praise and attention it deserved? Even with limited abilities back then, they could have at least captured some of the buzz!

Qu Yanni urged, “Sis, we can’t just sit on this great situation and do nothing!”

Liu Lusi sighed. “I’ll be honest with you; I want to reach for something even better.”

Sister Lusi had truly forgotten her humble beginnings.

Around the beginning of the year, she had clearly said that performing at a combined concert of multiple artists in a 10,000-seat venue would be great…

Back to the point. Having seen the top-tier stage production of “Sing My Heart Tonight,” Liu Lusi was now very restrained in accepting commercial performances for Heartbreak. After filtering through options, she had only confirmed the Fragrant Lemon Music Festival in July. The venue was only 12,000, not matching the scale of Radiance or Frost Palace, but the organizers and ticketing were trusted veterans, so there wouldn’t be any messy complications.

“A single show is too few.”

“I know. But we’re still observing the landscape, aren’t we?”

Liu Lusi knew Qu Yanni wanted to get things done. To reassure her, she revealed a little bit of inside info: “Zhuang Yifan will be eliminated in Night Heart Seven’s fourth public performance round. In August, Wang Chao starts his first solo tour in U State. The venue is good, and the timing is also appropriate. I can go negotiate terms.”

“Wang Chao… his relationship with Mengmeng looks pretty good?”

“More than just good. Wang Chao interacts on social media even more frequently than Zheng Bing and the others.”

By this point in the recording process, Ancient Style King had practically become a die-hard fan in Mengmeng’s comment section.

Their good relationship and ability to get along was one thing. On another level, both were in a period of rapid ascent, so borrowing each other’s momentum was harmless. But the most important point was that Mengmeng and Ancient Style King weren’t in the same lane. Since there was no core competition conflict, they could collaborate without worry.

A large portion of Wang Chao’s songs were soundtracks or scores for film and television. The copyrights were split and scattered everywhere, which meant his personal concert setlist was subject to many restrictions.

Under these circumstances, singing other people’s songs to fill the time was unavoidable.

Who would be willing to grant the license—would it be a full catalog opening or selective? How would royalties be split—a friendly fee of a cup of milk tea and a meal, or would a legal team be hired to calculate everything down to the last cent?

This was an issue Wang Chao’s team had likely been considering for a long time.

“Alright. I’ll go check on Mengmeng and the others’ progress.”

Being part of the inner circle really was different, huh. Places like the recording studio—before, Qu Yanni wouldn’t have even dared to enter the external master control room. Now, carrying a cup of palate-cleansing lemon tea, she strolled in as if taking a casual walk.

Soon after, Mengmeng came over to greet her. “Sister Yanni, want to hear a song?”

Qu Yanni was secretly delighted, but her expression remained composed. “Am I allowed to?”

Dai Jier laughed. “Why not? In a few more hours, this song will be officially released online. We’ll have to wait until daytime for the reactions from netizens and fans…”

Qu Yanni understood. She took a big gulp of her lemon tea. “Play it! I’m listening!”

The prelude of “Endless Summer” was like the ending credits of a romance film. A violin drew out a long, lingering note, met by the chords of a piano and double bass. This section had a misty, slightly bittersweet feel. But as the first verse crashed into the main melody with a half-step-up guitar chord, the mood instantly became bright and clear.

Like a heavy rain just stopping, the sky clearing again.

You carefully walk, avoiding puddles, and glance at the white cat by the roadside, doing the same.

Such a tacit understanding with that cat, it truly makes you happy!

Qu Yanni had paid attention to the lyrics. It was the same seasoned lyricist who wrote “Purple Jasmine.” There was no need for overly forced parallelisms or strict rhyming; everything felt just right.

Perhaps because the recording cycle was relatively early, she could hear Li Tingzhou’s different state of mind.

“A very refreshing and pleasant style.”

At the end, there were even the sounds of boys calling to their friends, laughing and playing. Included in the official audio track like a little Easter egg, it gave a sense of anticipation—a story not yet finished.

It wasn’t an overly obvious Heartbreak style, but it had a typical Mengmeng-esque structure.

That was probably why it had been pulled from the album and made into a standalone summer single.

Dai Jier was very confident in this song. The drum rhythm arrangement had truly won his heart. Unlike other Heartbreak tracks where the arrangement credit often listed only Mengmeng, this “Endless Summer” also credited Eldan for arrangement work. Dai Jier expressed interest in meeting this legendary figure who had postponed his graduation for three years.

“Eldan isn’t Chinese?”

“No, he’s half-Russian, half-American. But Eldan promised me he’d come work with us after graduation.”

Dai Jier fell silent for a second. Too many elements to unpack.

“Does this guy actually want to come or not?”

If he wanted to, he should be grinding on his graduation project to finish early!

If he didn’t want to come… Eldan was visibly an unofficial Heartbreak member. His composition and arrangement skills were equally excellent. He often accompanied Mengmeng working overtime across time zones, occasionally wrote lyrics, and his relationship with Mengmeng was even stronger than Mao Maoyu’s. That level of trust to entrust him with their music catalog was truly extraordinary.

“Let’s wait a bit longer for him. He’ll definitely graduate this summer.”

~

Monday morning, 10 AM, Heartbreak released their summer single, “Endless Summer.”

Very suddenly.

Even the fan support club had only gotten word from the official blog operators the night before. The core fan group scrambled all night, but at least they managed to prevent the song from falling flat upon release.

Soon after, members of the Mint Candy Band and Tipsy Cookie Band also joined the promotion efforts.

The band circle had its internal fights, but for a promotional activity like this, not inviting someone was actually considered a slight. Plus, with Mengmeng riding such a wave of popularity lately, even those not so familiar wanted to show goodwill.

With more people involved, the scene quickly became lively.

By the minor peak at noon, “Endless Summer” began to show its power.

Unlike its predecessors, whose paths to popularity were rough and difficult, “Endless Summer” was a new child met with eager anticipation and a surprising birth!

And this child delivered. The moment it was born, music review media were already chasing it down to rate and review.

For a pop song, artistic breakthrough wasn’t the most important thing, but that didn’t mean musicians could treat it half-heartedly, slapping together a framework, arrangement, and lyrics just to release something and cash in.

“Endless Summer” had a low entry barrier, easy to sing along with.

It gave a deceptive feeling of, “I could sing this song, no problem.”

However, singing it exactly like Mengmeng was very difficult.

First, his timbre and singing style were hard to imitate—a pure talent freak. Second, Mengmeng’s vocal ability and breath control were beyond the reach of ordinary singing enthusiasts. He seamlessly integrated various minor techniques into his singing habits without any showy acrobatics. There were no intentionally daunting high-difficulty runs or extreme high notes that made people back away.

Finally, Mengmeng was Mengmeng. He was singing to me with such a stunning face. Even if he were chanting sutras, it would still sound good.

Heartbreak released the song at 10 AM, and by the afternoon, secondary creations were exploding across all platforms.

Various covers were popping up faster than bamboo shoots after a spring rain, and the cover quality was quite high.

It was clear that after the “Brittle Glass” cover contest battle, bloggers big and small now recognized Mengmeng as a guaranteed traffic driver. Many high-quality content creators had rushed to record in their studios. Some more efficient ones had even already filmed a two-minute DIY music video, even finding a white cat just like the one in the lyrics…

By evening, slowed-down 0.8x melancholic BGM versions and 1.5x sped-up cute “Mengmeng voice” love-themed BGMs also emerged.

Liu Lusi finally breathed a complete sigh of relief.

Fan fighting power provided a safety net, but to truly succeed, you needed appeal to the general audience.

Zhou Ling sent congratulations: “Heartbreak’s new song is great! When Shiyu does her solo concert later, could she get the rights for ‘Endless Summer’? We can’t control random covers by the public, but for official covers, we should prioritize our own people.”

Ren Shiyu’s concert wouldn’t be until after September or October.

Two, almost three months. Even for a minor hit, the peak index period should be over by then. After that, it would either rely on a miraculously good stage performance to extend its life, or promotional efforts through other channels to support a long-tail effect.

Ren Shiyu’s idea was excellent—a very proper, win-win solution.

Liu Lusi knew Li Tingzhou wouldn’t refuse, but she still had to go through the motions: “I’ll ask Mengmeng later, but you know how he is with his First Sister—nothing but the best.”

The relationship between Ren Shiyu and Mengmeng was now far more than just comrades-in-arms.

She had actually thought about officially recognizing him as a younger sworn brother.

But then she reconsidered. Mengmeng’s closest blood-related brother was a full department-level official. Even the secretary holding his jacket was a deputy division-level. Who was she to try and curry such favor?

It was better to keep interacting as they always had. That way, she felt comfortable, and Mengmeng did too.

After replying to a large circle of congratulations from people like Zhou Ling, Liu Lusi finally had time to review the first-day high-rising release data with Qu Yanni.

Heartbreak’s rank was limited; their songs were always released on all platforms, non-exclusively. Although the revenue split negotiated varied by platform, every little bit added up. Overall, “Endless Summer” by itself had utterly outperformed all its older sibling songs, becoming Heartbreak’s most successful child.

The assistant sent her the prepared summary text. Liu Lusi logged into Weibo to post it.

But squinting closer, she realized—huh, it was logged into Mengmeng’s account.

Among the mutual follows, there was an unread private message:

@Cui Lin: 【Mengmeng, why didn’t you tell me you were releasing a new song? Got my hopes up for nothing, thought you were releasing the one you wrote for me (fingers-fidgeting emoji)】

Liu Lusi couldn’t help but read it again.

She recognized every single Chinese character. She understood the tone and meaning implied by every punctuation mark.

But when these characters combined to form this sentence, she suddenly couldn’t comprehend it.

She took the phone and walked next door, knocking on the door of the external master control room.

“Come in—”

“Earlier, you said you didn’t know Cui Lin. You weren’t lying to me, right?”

Li Tingzhou was busy with the “Sing My Heart Tonight” fourth public performance matters. His desktop, with one main and two secondary monitors, was packed with audio tracks. He checked the file save progress before swiveling his chair to face Liu Lusi’s expression. “No, I don’t.”

Aside from that one troublesome ad track, they had no interaction whatsoever.

“Then why did he send you this?”

As she spoke, Liu Lusi showed the private message page to Li Tingzhou.

Li, who had been busy all day, finally noticed something odd.

This guy had selectively liked many of his original Weibo posts. The beautifully taken flower photos, he didn’t like. Qiaoqiao King’s occasional open-mouthed, yawning, butt-ugly photo, he liked. J City’s outrageously beautiful Begonia Flower Path in spring, he didn’t like. But the poisonously marinated raw seafood Li Tingzhou took pictures of in G City, he liked.

The last like was on the promotional post for “Endless Summer.”

Okay, they had just mutually followed; liking posts to show friendliness was understandable.

Similarly, at first glance, this private message didn’t seem problematic. But it conveyed a sense of, “I don’t know when I could become familiar with you, but it should be okay if I act familiar now, right?” This left Li Tingzhou equally confused.

“I really…”

Li Tingzhou didn’t want to overthink it. He casually made an excuse for the other party: “Forget it. Maybe he thought Heartbreak was releasing that ad song of his. Do actors not understand? Can I freely release an ad track just because I want to? What if the brand hates the leak and swaps the song last minute? Can he compensate me for my losses?”

He really wanted to punch this overly troublesome VIP young master.

Liu Lusi pondered. “Then I’ll reply that the release date is entirely up to the brand and magazine?”

“Fine.”

Li Tingzhou had just turned his chair back when Liu Lusi called him again: “Wait, Cui Lin replied again, he said—”

“Mark the message as unread. Let it go, Sis.”