Chapter 35: The Best Reward

In the past two days, Li Tingzhou had only posted two status updates on his Moments.

One was: [New Song: Endless Summer.]

The other was: [Thanks for the concern, I’m well.]

Although short and to the point, he believed the emotions he needed to convey had been adequately communicated.

For the former—is the work good or bad? Everyone can just go listen and find out.

On this point, Li Tingzhou was consistently confident.

Songs that didn’t meet Heartbreak’s quality and style standards were absolutely forbidden from appearing in a release proposal. Their destiny was to be buried eighteen layers deep in the music library.

As for the latter, it was essentially a strategic non-denial, a tacit admission.

He wasn’t some major celebrity whose every move drew countless eyes. He didn’t need to dramatically announce to the world: “I broke up again,” “I’m single now.”

How ugly would that look?

Ugly for himself, and it would also put Xi He in an awkward spot.

A simple notice, to prevent friends from continuing their wild guesses, was enough.

It was Li Songyi, working late until 10 PM to rest, who still found time to leave his little brother a message:

Love isn’t the entirety of life. Family is always your support (hug emoji)

Unfortunately, his little brother was even busier than he imagined.

Li Tingzhou treated everyone equally, replying to no one about the news of his love life. Comfort, probing, or some just watching the drama—he couldn’t be bothered. Only First Sister, with an attitude of “Ahhhh, the buffet has new dishes! Come grab them quick!”, sent a furry little dog emoji with open arms, coming to ask for songs—

【I know you have lots of songs. Hurry up and give me two!】

Li Tingzhou was in the middle of typing a reply when the other party directly called him via voice.

“I won’t say much in the way of comfort, Mengmeng. I expect you don’t want to hear it anyway. A real man who loses out in love must surely succeed in his career. With so many good songs in your music library, how can Heartbreak possibly use them all? After you guys arrive tomorrow evening, how about we eat and chat at the same time?”

Ren Shiyu spoke extremely fast, like a machine gun—rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

“Do you have more songs in the style of ‘Endless Summer’? I really like this kind of song that sounds cheerful at first but is actually full of melancholy.”

Li Tingzhou casually replied, “No.”

“What if I wanted to custom order one?”

“That, there could be.”

First Sister was amused by his attitude. “Alright, alright, no more joking. Asking for songs is real, but the show’s recording is still the priority. My subsequent concert setlist is mostly finalized. For ‘Telepathy,’ we’ll use the version from our first public performance. For ‘Endless Summer,’ I also want to sing it. If you have time, feel free to adapt it—change it however you like, I’ll love it anyway.”

“If you’re free then, remember to come be a guest at my concert.”

These were all points already included in the discussions between their two management teams.

With First Sister’s 18 years of seniority, she wouldn’t have trouble filling a three-hour concert setlist. Purely out of her own liking, she asked others for song rights.

Li Tingzhou had little reason to refuse. “We’ll discuss it when the time comes.”

His “we’ll discuss it” was never a brush-off, but meant advancing the progress.

Having finished the business talk, the voice call didn’t hang up immediately.

“Oh right, there’s one more thing I’m curious about. Are you and Cui Lin friends or what? He’s been very attentive to you lately. Even my girls are gossiping! To be honest, apart from fans these days, who else has the patience to scroll to the very bottom of your social media page? But his liking that blog post about you and Xi He breaking up, that I truly don’t understand.”

“I wrote an ad song for him. There were some minor, slight frictions.”

Hearing that, First Sister understood.

From a producer’s perspective, the client was the most annoying person in the world!

But she still felt compelled to warn Mengmeng: “This is a genuine, thoroughbred capitalist young master, with a huge temper. You can search his parents’ big names online. Going up another generation or two, it gets into old-money, prominent-family territory. Not to mention, his uncle holds a very high position. Before Blossoms settled in S City, it was called Splendid Garden, which was their family’s old theater troupe!”

The phrasing was a bit half-traditional, half-modern, but such practices were once very prevalent down south.

Just like how the kids from the compound generation in B City all invested in movies and filmmaking, striving madly in so-called art, racing to claim the original territories, the south was also very popular for starting companies and doing foreign trade lines.

The reason Blossoms could firmly hold its spot as one of the three major platforms was that they had their own theater chains, with a uniquely dominant share.

“Of course, his family situation is a completely different concept from yours.”

Ren Shiyu could search and find Li Songyi’s encyclopedia entry, but she couldn’t find out who his and Mengmeng’s father was.

The reason was actually quite simple.

At a certain level, all platforms would automatically conceal personal information. The scope of this strongest-ever shielding effect included, but was not limited to: spouses, children, past public statements (non-work settings), even if it was just a single blog post.

Li Tingzhou now benefited from such protection.

Ren Shiyu could not know the details, yet she still considered his soaring career and spoke in a tone that was part warning, part carefully measured: “What I mean is, if you can get along well, it could be another connection to accumulate. If you truly can’t, we just keep him at a respectful distance. Anyway, he’s an actor and you’re a singer, your paths likely won’t cross in the future…”

Li Tingzhou thought about tomorrow’s meeting and also sighed. “Right.”

~

That night, Cui Lin experienced a truly tumultuous range of emotions.

First, he got carried away with the gossip and inadvertently liked a post about Mengmeng breaking up. Then, he somehow prompted Chi Yue to call Mengmeng’s agent to apologize. With a mix of coaxing and urging, he finally managed to close the distance between them.

He also earned the best reward for his quick wit—

Mengmeng agreed to a meal!

The following time seemed to play at double speed: rushing to the airport, successfully catching the last flight today to J City. Landing in J City after midnight, Cui Lin calculated the location of Heartbreak’s studio and booked a hotel to check in.

While the young assistant was sleeping soundly, Cui Lin was still full of energy.

He started filtering nearby restaurants.

For this, Cui Lin did not hesitate to seek advice from Ying Cong: “What absolutely-must-eat restaurants do you have in J City?”

Ying Cong, receiving the message at 1 AM: “Are we on that level of closeness?”

“I’m treating Mengmeng to a meal. Don’t play dead. I saw you interact with him.”

Ying Cong thought to himself, Mengmeng and I are friends. What status, what grounds do you have to ask me? He snorted coldly: “Mengmeng often traveled between B City and J City as a kid. He basically grew up here. You want to treat him to a good restaurant in J City, you think he hasn’t eaten there? Don’t be so pretentious, you’ll just be a laughingstock!”

“How vile you are, just how much info did you get out of Mengmeng?”

Ying Cong said smugly, “What getting info? I’m exchanging sincerity for sincerity.”

Cui Lin couldn’t be bothered to continue this thread. He simply switched to a topic he cared about more: “Right, let me ask you something. Did your senior sister apprentice and Mengmeng break up or not?”

“Whether someone broke up or not, what’s it to you?”

A meal’s a meal, don’t be prying into everything.

“If you didn’t check Weibo marketing accounts, they said the tarot cards revealed they already broke up.”

Even if he didn’t know the truth from Mengmeng in advance, Ying Cong found these words truly laughable: “Why don’t you listen to what you’re saying? What the marketing accounts say, what the tarot cards calculate—which one of those can actually be taken seriously?”

“I think they’re broken up. I’ll have to comfort him properly tomorrow.”

“Psycho.”

~

“Endless Summer” performed better than expected; Li Tingzhou had a restful sleep.

After waking up, a memo reminded him he was having lunch with Cui Lin at noon.

At the same time, voice commands automatically kicked in, starting to play a message from Liu Lusi: “Don’t bother coming to the studio this morning, manage your own time. I’ve already communicated with Cui Lin’s agent. He took a last-minute flight to J City overnight. It really doesn’t mean anything else; he just wants to sincerely apologize and try to become friends.”

After tidying himself up, Li Tingzhou exercised for half an hour.

Finishing his morning workout and a quick shower, he finally had time to reply to messages.

The top one was from the newly added Cui Lin:

He had used some means to cut the line and book an old restaurant near Xiangling Road, and had already marked the restaurant’s coordinates in the message.

Li Tingzhou looked closely. Isn’t this the restaurant where Xi He and I had our first date?

Back then, the Begonia Flower Path on Xiangling Road had been a magnificent scene of spring blossoms. The old town thus radiated an annual burst of vitality, its sidewalks and stone bridges packed with tourists…

Mao Maoyu’s call interrupted his reverie: “Mengmeng, not coming in this morning?”

“I’ll come after noon. We’ll still go to the airport together in the afternoon as usual.”

“Oh, I wanted to tell you, Auntie says it seems Qiaoqiao has babies…”

Li Tingzhou was greatly startled. “Isn’t Qiaoqiao a boy?”

“What Auntie means is, Qiaoqiao’s mate had his babies. While cleaning this morning, she saw Qiaoqiao leading a very small but fluffy white kitten. The father and son circled twice in the flower bed outside the door and then left.”

Li Tingzhou fell silent, but he quickly consoled himself.

No matter when the babies were born, at least Qiaoqiao had the responsibility of a father, knowing to bring the kid to acknowledge the home. From now on, besides the nutritional cans and kibble prepared for Qiaoqiao, they’d also have to consider the baby’s appetite.

“Alright, keep an eye out for them around noon, remember to feed them.”

Mao Maoyu answered crisply, “I’ll remember.”

As soon as this call ended, another from Jiang Hu quickly came in: “Mengmeng, how are you? Doing alright?”

Brother Huzi’s voice sounded very spirited. “Saw the news online yesterday about you breaking up. Thought about it, and still had to ask. If you’re feeling down, just think of some happy things. That show of yours, Night Heart Seven, you’re gonna record the whole season, right? How about we take this great opportunity to release a few more songs? Releasing singles doesn’t conflict with the album, either.”

As expected of Jiang Hu, he fully understood the benefits of a blitz of song releases.

This was exactly how Heartbreak had slowly accumulated heat back then, forcefully singing themselves back into spring.

Others released singles because their stash of good songs wasn’t enough for an album.

Heartbreak released singles purely because they had too many songs—a single album couldn’t contain them all.

And now, coinciding with Mengmeng’s heartbreak…

Jiang Hu was also somewhat hinting that he should shift his focus: Think more about your career, and you’ll have no time to be heartbroken. Watching the royalties roll in, who has the leisure to wallow in sentimentality?

“Brother, I’m fine. More importantly, have you followed up on what we discussed before?”

“Could I not? The doctors and nurses limit my time on the phone and computer. Any chance I get, I’m fighting with my eyes glued to the screen to filter candidates for you. And let me tell you, seriously—this season of All-Star Launch… the good ones are so good it’s a waste they went to a talent show—overqualified. The bad ones are so bad it’s like a gorilla’s soul transmigrated into a human body, only to have its voice snatched by a water buffalo.”

Li Tingzhou really wanted to hold back his laughter, but failed.

“There’s one named Si Yuan. His dancing is truly rotten, even worse than Mao Maoyu’s two seconds of shaking in a KTV, but that kid has a great set of pipes.”

“Si Yuan? What’s his rank?”

Jiang Hu hesitated a moment. “44. Not very optimistic.”

“Many voting for him is due to the 3-pick system. His hardcore fanbase is pitifully small. Popular contestants’ fans think of choosing a powerful main vocalist, but they’re scared his terrible dancing will drag their fave down, so they support him hesitantly. To put it bluntly, a one-trick-pony like Si Yuan with limited screen time is like the two stalks of green onion you get free when buying corn at the grocery store. Very few specifically come for the scallions. It’s just that you throw in two for your dish, he throws in two for his soup—serving the purpose of rounding out the numbers and adding a bit of flavor.”

Li Tingzhou was amused by this metaphor. “Then that’s a bit pitiful.”

“Let’s see if he still has the will to keep developing after elimination. I already got Lusi to contact him in advance. Being a singer or being an idol—the difference is huge.”

Indeed. Two completely different natures.

This was also something Li Tingzhou had only fully comprehended after recording “Sing My Heart Tonight.”

The production team, after confirming Ren Shiyu as the main guest, had found six other main guests around her. Each of the seven headliners was matched with a group of guest singers. The selection range included, but was not limited to: traditional professional singers, musical theater actors, Chinese opera actors, pop singers, bands—but absolutely no idols.

This wasn’t discrimination; this was disregard!

Idols who couldn’t sing on stage would dance with a seemingly functional headset mic that wasn’t even connected to a receiver pack, serving a purely cosmetic function.

Those who could produce sound, who could maintain pitch and breath control, were an extreme minority.

And within that minority of idols who could actually sing, even if they had the ability, they weren’t in Tide’s consideration because the vibe didn’t match.

“Yeah, let’s just wait and see.”

After a quarter of adaptation and adjustment, Li Tingzhou had gradually gotten the hang of the workload from both sides. He could manage the balance between being a producer and a lead singer. His urgency for a new lead singer wasn’t as pressing as before; he could even accept a “training-on-the-job” approach.

~

Li Tingzhou and Cui Lin agreed to meet at 11.

After parking the car, it was exactly 10:50.

Li Tingzhou didn’t enter the restaurant immediately. Instead, he stood at the top of the slope, looking down at this familiar Begonia Flower Path. The begonia blossoms had faded, replaced by green crabapples that looked, upon first glance, incredibly sour and astringent.

He raised his phone and took two photos, but for a moment didn’t know who to send them to.

This place was less than 15 kilometers from Xi He’s theater troupe. Same sky, same temperature and humidity. The two crabapple trees at her troupe’s entrance must be bearing fruit now too, right?

“Mengmeng?”

Someone called him from behind.

Li Tingzhou turned his head and saw Cui Lin, dressed in all black in the middle of summer.

Surprisingly, it didn’t give off a hot, stuffy feeling at all. Instead, it was very composed.

His shirt was perhaps too perfectly fitted. The shoulder blades stretched the fabric wide and structured, yet it wrapped snugly and smoothly around his defined muscle lines. Beyond that, Cui Lin looked very energetic. His eyes, dark and bright, brimmed with a smile. He didn’t look like someone who’d taken a red-eye flight as Liu Lusi described. Nor did he resemble the overly self-centered, bad-tempered young master Ren Shiyu had spoken of. He just seemed like a normal, mature man.

“You just got here too?”

Cui Lin took two more steps forward, stopping at about a meter away with deliberate ease, and explained, “No, I was watching you park from upstairs. Seeing you hadn’t come up, I came down to find you.”

He raised his head and, just like Li Tingzhou, observed the crabapple tree.

“Are these crabapples? First time seeing one. Are they edible?”

Li Tingzhou didn’t actually dislike people being a bit forward, but Cui Lin’s approach was still somewhat overwhelming. He emphasized, “They’re not edible.”

Cui Lin didn’t believe him. He reached out, plucked one, opened his mouth, and bit.

Since he couldn’t be stopped, Li Tingzhou simply prepared to appreciate the expression of someone shocked by its sourness. He watched as Cui Lin covered his mouth with one hand, abruptly turned around, and crouched down: “Pwah—ptui—”

He even remembered to spit it into his own hand, not on the ground.

“I told you they couldn’t be eaten.”

Swallowing madly, Cui Lin stood up, still unwilling to face Li Tingzhou directly.

“Let’s go. Go back to the restaurant and rinse your mouth with some bottled water.”

Li Tingzhou walked ahead. Cui Lin, making sure he wouldn’t suddenly turn back, quickly took out his phone to check his state. Confirming he had no weird expression, his mouth was wiped clean, and his tongue hadn’t been dyed any strange colors, he quickly strode to catch up to Mengmeng.