Chapter 63
“Fang Huai, this is Professor Dong,” the staff member introduced as they led him inside. “A renowned Kunqu opera artist in our country, currently teaching at Nan City Academy of Traditional Opera—ahem.”
The elderly man was dressed in a traditional Tang suit. His face was deeply lined with wrinkles, but his posture remained upright even as he sat in a wheelchair. His gaze was sharp and focused, exuding a clarity rare for his age.
This was Dong Rulan.
“Professor Dong, hello.” Fang Huai paused for a moment before giving him a slight nod. “My name is Fang Huai.”
This unexpected Mid-Autumn work session was arranged to finalize Fang Huai’s debut album—an album so new that even its title hadn’t been decided yet. Due to Fang Huai’s stunning Kunqu-style singing in Stellar Light, the team had considered incorporating elements of Kunqu opera into the album and sought advice from experts in the field.
What no one expected was that Professor Dong had personally reached out to them.
Professor Dong seemed to be lost in some distant memory, his gaze fixed on the teacup in front of him. It was a long while before he slowly shifted his focus to Fang Huai’s face. His eyes traced over the young man’s features, from his brows to the corners of his lips, inch by inch. Then, after a brief pause, he gave a gentle nod and smiled.
“Fang Huai, hello.”
His voice was remarkably well-preserved. Even with age, his tone and pronunciation carried an elegance that set him apart from others—smooth and refined, like the finest silk.
Beside Dong Rulan stood a young man—his great-grandson, Dong Chu. At that moment, Dong Chu poured Fang Huai a cup of tea and offered him a friendly smile, gesturing for him to sit.
“The ‘Huai’ in Fang Huai,” Dong Rulan started conversationally, “is it from ‘Huai Jin Wo Yu’ (cherishing virtue like jade)?”
Fang Huai felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity and warmth toward the elderly man. As he listened to Dong Rulan’s voice, he instinctively searched his memory while answering,
“No.”
He hesitated briefly before rubbing his nose in slight embarrassment.
“It’s from ‘Huai Bi Qi Zui’ (one is doomed by possessing a treasure).”
This was something Fang Jianguo had told him.
When Fang Huai was a teenager, he had thought his name was chosen too carelessly—after all, Huai Bi Qi Zui carried a rather negative connotation. But since he personally didn’t care much about it, he never made a fuss.
“Huai Bi Qi Zui,” Dong Rulan murmured, repeating the phrase.
Something about those words seemed to stir a deep emotion within him. After a brief silence, he suddenly turned away, his frail hands trembling as he wiped the corners of his eyes. He took a deep breath.
Dong Chu immediately stepped forward to steady him, pouring another cup of tea.
“Professor Dong?” Fang Huai stood up, unsure of what to do. “I… I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, it’s not your fault,” Dong Rulan said after calming his breathing. “I’m just old now… I can’t handle these things anymore.”
No one asked what “these things” were. Everyone understood that he had lived through an era full of untold hardships, experiences too painful to be shared.
After a moment, Dong Rulan smiled gently and spoke again, as if making casual conversation.
“I actually met you when you were little,” he said. “Back then, you went to the Grand Theater with your grandfather. I was performing The Peach Blossom Fan. Do you remember?”
“The Peach Blossom Fan?” Fang Huai raised an eyebrow slightly, repeating the title.
“You must be mistaken.”
Dong Chu hesitated for a moment before speaking in a soft voice.
“The Peach Blossom Fan…”
Dong Rulan’s last performance of The Peach Blossom Fan was forty years ago. That final performance had been a farewell to an old friend. After that friend left for a distant land, Dong Rulan never performed it again.
Forty years ago, Fang Huai hadn’t even been born. There was no way he could have attended The Peach Blossom Fan with his grandfather.
“Yes, yes,” Dong Rulan seemed to wake from a dream, nodding. “I’m old now, I must have remembered wrong.”
Fang Huai’s grip on the armrest suddenly tightened. A strange feeling welled up in him—a mix of unease and something on the verge of revelation. Fragments of images twisted and intertwined in his mind—the abandoned grand theater, the tide of applause, the elegant singing of a dan role.
And outside the theater doors, Fang Jianguo standing beside him, waiting for someone.
A young man in a military uniform and a boy in full opera costume walking toward them, smiling.
Dong Rulan was younger than Fang Jianguo. When he last performed The Peach Blossom Fan, he had been only twenty-four. That same year, he had just gotten married, and his eldest son had yet to be born.
At the time, Fang Jianguo and Lin Shuheng were already nearing thirty.
History books recorded Dong Rulan’s name. It was known that he and Lin Shuheng were friends. That when he was younger, he had once represented the country in a performance tour in Russia…
But how had Dong Rulan and Lin Shuheng met?
By all logic, their paths should never have crossed. Their ages, their social circles—nothing about them overlapped.
“Fang Huai? Fang Huai?”
The elderly man’s warm voice pulled him back to reality.
“Let’s talk about you,” Dong Rulan said kindly. “Let’s talk about your music.”
Fang Huai couldn’t make sense of his thoughts, so in the end, he could only nod.
Once the conversation started, it flowed naturally. Dong Rulan was a teacher by profession and never put on airs despite his accomplishments. He gave Fang Huai constructive feedback on his compositions, pointing out several weaknesses.
“Your breath control still needs work. Practice more when you go back.”
When their discussion ended, Dong Rulan stood up with the help of Dong Chu. He gently patted the back of Fang Huai’s hand.
“Happy Mid-Autumn Festival, Fang Huai.”
In that moment, Fang Huai was struck by a strange feeling—Dong Rulan hadn’t come today just to discuss Kunqu opera.
Rather, it felt as if he were a long-lost family member, finally reuniting with him after many years apart.
This person gave him a sense of deep familiarity, a warmth that did not come from blood ties—but from something buried deep within his soul, a memory long forgotten yet imprinted on his heart.
“Professor Dong!”
Just as Dong Rulan turned away, a sudden thought flashed through Fang Huai’s mind like a bolt of lightning.
His breath quickened.
“Hmm?” The old man turned back, studying him carefully.
“Was the person he loved… Fang Jianguo?”
Fang Huai mouthed a name silently, hesitating before finally speaking aloud.
He had mouthed ‘Lin Shuheng.’
Dong Rulan looked at him for a long time.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
“So you’ve figured it out.”
A small smile appeared on his face.
“You’re a smart child.”
He turned away, wiping at the corners of his eyes, before settling into his wheelchair. His great-grandson slowly wheeled him out.
Fang Huai watched them go, escorting them to the door before returning to his seat.
Lin Shuheng. Fang Jianguo.
He kept going over the two names in his mind. They did know each other—not just that, they were in love.
The album’s project lead finally spoke up, pulling Fang Huai out of his thoughts.
“Fang Huai, we’ve come up with two general directions for you. If you’re not satisfied, you can modify them yourself.”
As he spoke, he slid two documents across the table toward Fang Huai.
The first concept was Superstar Era, focusing on electronic dance music. The second concept was Keep Silent, centered around various love songs.
These were two of the safest, most marketable choices, and also the two most popular EP trends in the domestic market.
To put it simply:
The first option was EDM dance-pop, relying on visuals and performance. It would mainly sell through fan-driven hype, streaming boosts, and chart rankings—essentially monetizing popularity.
The second option was ballads, essentially catchy, easy-to-sing-along-to songs. These would also depend on fan support, and if any of them became a go-to KTV hit, even better.
“This is how the industry works,” the project lead said with a smile. “Besides, you’re a great dancer, and your popularity is high. Don’t worry—the sales will be massive.”
Fang Huai picked up one of the documents and skimmed it for ten minutes, then set it down and looked at the other one.
After a while, he frowned in confusion.
“I feel like I’ve heard this song before.”
Just yesterday, on the streets—some store had been blasting an EDM track through a loudspeaker. It was catchy, sure, but also kind of noisy.
“It’s just a formula,” the project lead waved his hand dismissively. “That’s how these things work.”
Everyone in the industry knew the pattern. These albums were basically mass-produced on an assembly line—the only real differences were production quality and the artist’s level of fame.
No one really cared about how well you sang. What mattered was whether the song blew up—only then could it make money, and only with money could you climb higher in the industry.
“I don’t really like it.” Fang Huai set down the documents.
“You don’t like Superstar Era? What about Keep Silent?”
“I don’t like either.” Fang Huai said honestly.
The project lead studied him for a long moment before finally saying:
“If you insist, it’s not impossible… but let’s be real, this discussion will get pretty dull.”
The domestic music industry had a standard career path:
- Debut through a reality show.
- Release a few albums.
- Move on to endorsements and commercials.
- End up as a judge on other reality shows.
Everyone started off claiming they wanted to ‘chase their dreams’, but give it a couple of years, and they might not even remember how to read sheet music anymore.
Nowadays, “million-dollar sound engineers” could tweak anyone’s vocals into something passable. An album’s success had less to do with music and more to do with popularity and looks.
Everyone needs to make a living. Singing purely for passion? That was something only the young could afford to say. No one was in a position to judge anyone else.
“What exactly don’t you like about them?” the project lead asked. “We can adjust.”
Fang Huai thought for a moment, rubbing his nose.
“I just don’t like them.”
He walked over to the keyboard, casually playing a segment—then another.
He was playing the melodies from the proposed concepts.
Then, he improvised a few of his own.
It wasn’t hard.
These songs had a formula.
They were all cut from the same mold.
It’s more like a standardized “product” than a piece of music.
Manager: “…”
“What do you want, then?”
“I just thought of it,” Fang Huai’s fingers paused on the electronic keyboard. “The album should be called… ‘Abyss Moonlight.'”
“Dance? Any electronic music?” the manager asked. “Do you have any ideas for the MV?”
“No dancing, no electronic music. There will be an MV, but not… not that kind of MV,” Fang Huai answered one by one. “I don’t want to sell albums with my face.”
Manager: “…”
To be honest, from start to finish, this album screamed just two words—Flop!
The manager had seen too many people like Fang Huai—getting a little success, then getting carried away, chasing dreams, proving themselves, thinking that even without their face, without their popularity, people would still love them just for their music.
Wishful thinking.
In the end, they’d all obediently come back for marketing and hype, the manager thought.
*
By the time Fang Huai stepped out of the company, it was already dusk. He let out a soft breath, the air carrying the crisp coolness of autumn. The days were getting shorter, and the golden-red sunset painted the world in warm hues.
Ye Yuyuan stood outside, quietly waiting for him. It wasn’t a workday, so he wasn’t in a suit. Instead, he wore a trench coat, giving him a different look than usual. The evening sun fell gently on his shoulders, and for a fleeting moment, the sharp lines of his dark brows and eyes were softened by warm colors.
Fang Huai quickened his pace, walking toward him.
“Sorry, have you been waiting long?” Fang Huai asked.
“No,” Ye Yuyuan shook his head slightly. “I just got here.”
Ye Yuyuan’s home was nearby, so they decided to walk instead of driving. It was the Mid-Autumn Festival, and they would be watching the moon later that night. The streets were bustling with people, some dressed as jade rabbits taking photos with passersby.
Fang Huai wore a street-style hoodie today. Ye Yuyuan hesitated for a moment, then pulled the hood over his head.
Fang Huai was also wearing a mask—now he was almost unrecognizable. Though, perhaps not entirely. His light-colored eyes had an elegant shape, visible above the mask, still hinting at his handsome features. His overall aura remained striking.
Though Ye Yuyuan was a well-known public figure, he rarely made public appearances, so most ordinary people wouldn’t recognize him. But the two of them together, with their eye-catching looks and unusual pairing, still drew attention.
Fortunately, they soon turned off the main road and into a quieter alley, away from prying eyes.
The last traces of daylight faded bit by bit. The sunset burned through its brightest moments before gradually dimming, giving way to the night.
Neither of them spoke.
Fang Huai was lost in his thoughts, while Ye Yuyuan quietly walked beside him, not interrupting.
Night fell quickly. By the time they reached the alley just before Ye Yuyuan’s home, the sunset had completely vanished, replaced by the soft glow of moonlight. The full moon had yet to rise, but its gentle radiance already bathed the earth, and the night breeze swept past.
“I don’t want to dance.” After a long time, Fang Huai finally spoke.
Ye Yuyuan looked at him, then after a brief pause, asked softly, “Hmm? You don’t like it?”
Fang Huai hesitated, feeling a bit confused himself.
“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just—”
He didn’t mean to look down on dancing. Dance was an art form, just as meaningful as music.
When he participated in Stellar Light, he had practiced dancing intensely. Without that period of training, he wouldn’t have been able to win the championship in the end.
But…
Later, when he started composing Frost, when he joined the production team, met more people, and encountered new experiences—Lin Shengyun, Feng Lang, Dong Rulan—he gradually realized something.
“It’s not that dance is at fault,” Fang Huai struggled to explain with gestures. “But it seems to have become an accessory, a supplement. Like… because the song itself isn’t good enough, because it can’t satisfy the audience on its own, it needs dance, looks, and all sorts of other things to make up for it.”
“…”
“I want to be the best,” Fang Huai said seriously. “The absolute best, without any extras. If it’s even a little less than that, I don’t want it.”
“Am I being…” The young man rubbed his nose sheepishly. “Too stubborn?”
Or maybe just arrogant.
Back in that office, he could almost see the words written all over the manager’s face: Arrogant and conceited.
At some point, the two of them had stopped walking.
The street they stood on was a bit old, with no pedestrians in sight. Further ahead was the neighborhood where Ye Yuyuan lived—an area with sky-high property prices, peaceful despite being near the city’s bustle, making even the surrounding atmosphere feel tranquil.
The street had retained its original look from the last century, never renovated, carrying a touch of old Hong Kong’s charm. A radio repair shop stood by the roadside. Moonlight stretched quietly over the pavement, while shopkeepers packed up to head home and celebrate the festival with their families.
On a night like this, almost everyone in the country was reuniting with their loved ones. Whether they had a home or were homeless, they all looked up at the same moon.
Ye Yuyuan stared at him for a long moment, not answering directly. Instead, he asked in a calm voice, “What’s wrong with being stubborn?”
Fang Huai: “…?”
The man was silent for a few seconds, his gaze softening slightly, as if he wanted to say something.
Just then, a car sped past behind Fang Huai. Instinctively, Ye Yuyuan reached out and pulled him into his arms.
In a low voice, he murmured, “If only you could be a little more stubborn.”
“Huh?” Fang Huai blinked in confusion. “Did you just say something?”
“No,” Ye Yuyuan rubbed his thumb over his cufflink and cleared his throat lightly.
“You can do whatever you want,” Ye Yuyuan looked straight at him. “Dance or sing—so long as it’s what you love.”
Ye Yuyuan thought to himself, I have a lot of money and enough power to protect Fang Huai, no matter what happens.
All these years of hard work and careful planning were merely to give him the right to be willful.
But this child was far too sensible.
Ye Yuyuan wished Fang Huai could be a little more selfish.
…And rely on him a little more.
