Chapter 34
The next afternoon, trending on Weibo:
#Director Lin: In my films, I will never invite Fang Huai to sing the theme song.#
Comments flooded in:
[Isn’t ‘never’ a bit too strong? I think Fang Huai has potential. Maybe in a few years, he’ll be skilled enough.]
[His team was clearly trying to ride on Frost’s fame! He should know his place. Winning some random reality show doesn’t mean he’s qualified to sing an Oscar-level theme song. Lin Shengyun isn’t blind.]
[Oh wow, so picking theme song singers isn’t about talent anymore? It’s just about seniority now? If that’s the case, let’s just have Zhang Qing sing every movie theme from now on.”
(Zhang Qing is an 80s-era veteran singer.)]
[He barely qualifies for variety shows. Can he write songs? Can he compose? He’s not even a singer-songwriter, just another internet celebrity.]
Fang Huai’s fans and Shi Feiran felt completely wronged.
They definitely hadn’t bought this trending topic—who in their right mind would? Fang Huai wasn’t lacking in popularity, and jumping ranks to “cling onto” a top project like Frost was just asking to be scolded.
Fang Huai wasn’t lacking in talent, but he did lack achievements—no albums, no major awards, just a rising newcomer.
The rumor that “Fang Huai might sing the theme song for Frost” had purely spread organically due to the hype surrounding his red carpet performance.
After all, aside from the actual award winners, Fang Huai’s song for his fans was one of the top three most discussed moments of the event. The video was going viral, every detail was being scrutinized, and since Frost was also trending, the rumor naturally took off.
If anyone was to blame, it was Wang An for casually asking, “Is he available soon?”—and Lin Shengyun for being short-tempered and brutally straightforward.
A little bad press was fine—everyone in the industry had haters.
What worried them was offending Lin Shengyun.
If Fang Huai wanted a long-term career, he couldn’t afford to start off by angering someone so influential—especially if he ever wanted to break into film soundtracks in the future.
Shi Feiran quickly did the math, discussed with a few fan group leaders, and made a decision.
Since Lin Shengyun clearly looked down on them, and they never intended to aim for Frost in the first place, why not cut ties completely?
Time for damage control.
Clarifications flooded in:
[@LittlePaws: Checked with our idol! No plans to sing a movie theme song anytime soon—he’s focusing on preparing his first album.]
[@HuaiHuaiCanIDoIt: This was a misunderstanding! We’re already working on removing the trending topic. Apologies for the unnecessary trouble! Frost’s theme song has nothing to do with Fang Huai—Director Lin must have a different singer in mind.]
[@Today’sNews (Verified): The claim that Fang Huai will sing Frost’s theme song is a false rumor. Legal action may be pursued against marketing accounts for spreading misinformation.]
…
Lin Shengyun, who had just opened Weibo: “…?”
His entire screen was flooded with posts saying:
“Clarification—Fang Huai will NOT be singing Frost’s theme song.”
“Director Lin has high standards. Our idol wouldn’t dare aim that high.”
Meanwhile, on the other end of the call, music director Wang An was still rambling on:
“Director Lin, why did you have to speak so fast?! I only asked about him on the red carpet because I thought he might fit your requirements… Be honest—what do you really think about this kid?”
Lin Shengyun: “Not bad.”
Or rather, better than expected.
Not just his voice—his composition and lyrics were impressive too. Especially his composition—it had a certain innate talent, something incredibly rare. Some people spend a lifetime writing music and never achieve it—a gift that can’t be forced.
What truly moved Lin Shengyun was that melody.
Wang An: “Not bad?”
Lin Shengyun’s expression darkened. He spoke the truth, “…Very good.”
Wang An: “Ah, see?—”
Lin Shengyun took a deep breath and poured himself a cup of tea.
Great. Now he felt like he was about to have a heart attack.
*
That morning, Fang Huai was discharged from the hospital.
Being young and naturally healthy, his fever had come quickly and left just as fast. When he woke up, aside from a lingering fatigue, the dizziness and sore throat were completely gone.
With his recovery, it was time to move forward with other things—
Such as his official signing and the recording of his debut album. This album was one of the rewards for winning Starlight, and the production team was top-tier—from composition to lyrics, Fang Huai had the final say in everything.
Shi Feiran advised him to rest a little longer, but Fang Huai felt he had rested enough in the hospital. That afternoon, he went to Starlight Entertainment to sign his contracts.
Artist contract and album contract.
“Looking forward to working together?”
“Looking forward to it.”
Shi Feiran and Fang Huai shook hands formally. Fang Huai had thought this through carefully—he wasn’t sure how strong Shi Feiran’s connections were, but he felt comfortable working with him.
Then came the album discussion.
“An album is a collection of songs,” the person in charge of the project, a young woman named Guan Tingyu, explained with a warm smile. Her long, curly hair added to her gentle aura. “It needs a theme—and that’s up to you.”
This album was a gift from Starlight to Fang Huai.
Meaning—no restrictions on sales, no limits on style. Fang Huai had full creative control, while the team handled production, promotion, and quality control.
Guan Tingyu liked Fang Huai. She was a casual fan—during the finals, she had even secretly held up a lightstick for him. Knowing he wasn’t familiar with industry procedures, she spoke with infinite patience, as if explaining things to a kindergartener.
Fang Huai listened carefully.
The late summer sunlight cast a soft glow on the table. He held a pencil, scribbled a string of notes, then quickly crossed them all out.
A melody lingered in his mind, but it was hazy—as if veiled by mist.
…His song?
“Any ideas?” Guan Tingyu asked. Then, after a pause, she reassured him, “No rush.”
Just looking at Fang Huai made her want to smile. She was almost thirty, had never been into idols, yet something about this clean, handsome young man filled her with a bubbly kind of joy.
“Mm.” Fang Huai nodded.
He had written many songs.
Ever since childhood, inspiration would strike from all sorts of places—rain dripping from rooftops, steam rising from a fireplace, the soft sound of breathing.
But sometimes—it wouldn’t come at all.
Just like now.
The last melody he had written was Stars—that quiet, gentle night. But after that? It had been two days, and nothing.
It was as if there had once been a door—one that opened to an endless flow of melodies, colors, and sounds. But now, for some reason, that door had silently shut.
In simpler terms—a creative block.
This was unusual for Fang Huai.
He was the kind of person who could write a melody just by sitting in the sun for a while. This unfamiliar feeling brought a faint sense of anxiety and frustration.
He closed his eyes.
The soft afternoon light fell on him, catching the slightly upturned tips of his hair, its color a shade lighter in the shifting brightness. He looked like a youth stepping straight out of a medieval oil painting.
Yet, even with his vision gone and his hearing amplified, no melodies came to him.
Only darkness—heavy and unyielding, from sight to sound.
It was… confusing.
*
While Fang Huai and Guan Tingyu were still inside talking, Shi Feiran stepped out to take a call.
“Hello? Yes, this is me… Sorry, could you say that again?”
His expression grew increasingly strange.
He pulled the phone away for a second, checked the caller ID, then even pinched his own thigh before continuing the conversation.
When Fang Huai stepped out, he noticed Shi Feiran’s odd look and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Shi Feiran patted his beer belly, his face flushed with excitement:
“Good news. Big news.”
No one else knew about this yet. Thinking back to that Weibo frenzy from earlier, Shi Feiran felt a mix of emotions—but mostly, vindication.
Those keyboard warriors who had been saying, “Lin Shengyun would have to be blind to consider Fang Huai,”—how would they react when they heard this? Just picturing it made Shi Feiran want to laugh out loud.
Because just now—
Lin Shengyun had personally called him!
Suppressing his excitement, Shi Feiran explained everything to Fang Huai.
Fang Huai listened, then fell silent for a moment before saying, “…I don’t think I can do it.”
“I haven’t been able to write any songs lately.”
Shi Feiran’s heart skipped a beat.
*
Evening.
Fang Huai walked home, carrying a bag of fresh vegetables along the old city walls.
He had been so busy lately—it had been a long time since he cooked for himself. He figured making a meal might help him clear his mind and think through the problem.
After all, not being able to write songs wasn’t the end of the world. He knew that many “stars” didn’t compose their own music—they only sang.
And technically, he wasn’t completely incapable of writing. With his foundational skills, if he forced himself to follow the rules, he could still come up with something.
But Fang Huai wasn’t satisfied with those melodies.
He pushed open his front door, left the lights off, and sat down on the worn-out sofa to think.
The room had a vintage 1980s feel—the enamel cup still sat on the wooden table.
This was the one place where he felt truly at ease.
Fang Huai closed his eyes, but still, no melody came.
He rested his hands behind his head, stretched his long legs out on the sofa, and stared blankly at the ceiling.
Until the phone rang.
His old-school phone was getting worse lately—half the screen was broken, making it impossible to see the caller ID. Fang Huai pressed the answer button.
“Hello?”
Silence on both ends.
The evening light spread faintly across the tiled floor. Night was approaching, and the late-summer breeze drifting through the open corridor was already a little cool.
A few seconds later—
“…Not in a good mood?”
The voice, low and smooth, carried a slight electronic hum—like frost and snow seeping through the receiver.
It sounded more like a statement than a question.
