Chapter 17: No One Understands Songs Better Than I Do

“You—dream on!” Han Jiangxue’s eyes darted away, her expression flustered. The moment she heard Su Chen say that, she fled straight back to her room and shut the door with a bang.

Su Chen gazed at the tightly closed bedroom door, rubbing his nose awkwardly. He had outdone himself this time. After all, with two lifetimes’ worth of experience, what storms hadn’t he weathered? Yet now, just because of a girl, he’d gotten so flustered that he even spoke nonsense.

Clearly, he still had much to learn.

“…If you get hungry later, just come out and eat. Don’t wait too long, or the noodles will get soggy and won’t taste good!” Su Chen called through the door. “I’m heading out to the studio to pick up a song. If you want anything else, message me and I’ll bring it for you.”

With that, Su Chen didn’t linger a second longer. He opened the front door and left.

Less than ten seconds after the door closed, a thin crack appeared as Han Jiangxue stealthily pulled her bedroom door open. She poked her little head out, surveyed the surroundings, and only when she was sure Su Chen had really left did she breathe a sigh of relief and step out.

“Han Jiangxue, what on earth are you doing?” she scolded herself. “He took care of you all night, and you didn’t even thank him. Instead, you… And it’s the twenty-second century—so what if he saw your feet? It’s not the end of the world!”

The more she thought about it, the more she felt she’d been unreasonable. She picked up her phone, intending to send Su Chen a message to apologize.

Just then, her stomach growled at the worst possible moment. She hadn’t eaten in over twelve hours, not since last night.

“What’s that delicious smell…” Her nostrils flared as she caught a familiar aroma. Squinting, she followed the scent to the dining room and found the noodles Su Chen had packed up for her.

Now she felt even more guilty.

“…Forget it! I’ll eat first—then apologize when he gets back!” The enticing smell of noodles promptly shut down her thoughts. Giving up on overthinking, she tore open the packaging and dug in heartily.

Meanwhile, Su Chen was on his way to Studio 442, riding in a Didi Express. He knew that after what had just happened, staying at home would only make things more awkward.

So he’d grabbed an excuse to leave. Besides, picking up the songs wasn’t a random pretext—the studio owner had really messaged him that morning. Both songs and the half-finished track were now complete.

After nearly half an hour’s drive, Su Chen asked the Didi driver to stop at the intersection closest to Studio 442, so the driver wouldn’t have to make a U-turn. It was just a short walk, convenient for both parties.

He pushed open the studio door. The owner, who doubled as receptionist and host, immediately stood up to greet him with a beaming smile.

“Su, you’re here so soon! I was thinking, if you weren’t in a rush, I could drop the songs off after closing!”

Su Chen could sense the difference in the owner’s attitude compared to last time. But he knew this wasn’t because he’d suddenly gone viral—it was because of those songs. True musicians never change their attitude based on someone’s reputation. Only the work itself earned their respect.

With a smile, Su Chen replied, “It’s just a few steps—I couldn’t trouble you with that.”

Without much small talk, the owner quickly produced a USB drive containing the two and a half songs and handed it over.

“Actually, I have a question… Did you write all these songs yourself?” the owner asked.

“More or less,” Su Chen nodded.

“They’re really well written! They’ll definitely contend for next month’s new song chart!” the owner exclaimed in admiration. “Trust me—with these songs, you’re bound to make it big!”

Su Chen laughed, “Well, I’ll take your word for it!”

Leaving Studio 442, Su Chen didn’t head home but instead found an internet café nearby and went in. Uploading music to the website required a computer, and he didn’t want to keep bothering other people.

He registered his ID with the front desk, topped up fifty yuan, and sat down at a computer in the main hall.

He was surprised to find that a seat here cost nearly ten yuan per hour! “I remember sneaking into old black-market net cafes after school—they were two or three yuan an hour. Now they’ve changed the signboard to ‘internet café,’ just added a word, and the price has tripled,” Su Chen mused.

Maybe it was the price, but Su Chen moved quickly. He first registered an account on Penguin Music’s backend, then plugged in the USB drive and imported all the tracks. He found the songs in the client, clicked upload, and named them “Queen” and “Actor.”

With that, the song release process was complete. All that remained was to wait for Penguin’s approval; once he published them, listeners could search for them online.

He didn’t log off right away. Instead, he opened WeChat and sent the demo to Zhang Fuyu, with a message:

Su Chen: “Sister Fuyu, I’ve written the song. Give it a listen. If you’re not satisfied, I have others you can try.”

Less than a minute later, Zhang Fuyu replied with a surprised emoji.

Zhang Fuyu: “You really finished it? Wait, I’m free now—I’ll listen right away!”

Su Chen: “OK.”

He glanced at the time. Not even half an hour had passed, and since the internet café charged by the hour, logging off now would be a waste. So he relaxed, opened his browser, and scrolled through Weibo.

It was already the third day after Zhang Fuyu’s concert. By rights, Su Chen’s trending topic should have dropped out of the top ten. But when he checked, he was still high on the list—and there were two new trends, just described differently.

“Gold-Label Musician Zhou Qiang Reviews ‘Queen’,” “Wang Qi’s New Song Crushes ‘Queen’…” Su Chen read the trending topics aloud.

He arched an eyebrow, talking to himself: “Aren’t Zhou Qiang and Wang Qi both with Stardust Entertainment? Looks like Xu Fangyuan and Lin Yanran are getting nervous.”

Curious, he clicked into the trending topic “Gold-Label Musician Zhou Qiang Reviews ‘Queen’.”

[Gold-Label Musician Zhou Qiang: Lately, everyone seems to be searching for a song called ‘Queen.’ I was curious too, so I listened to the clip circulating online. I went in with curiosity but was bitterly disappointed. The lyrics are plain, the melody monotonous—the whole song is just mediocre at best. Maybe the song itself isn’t that bad, but this Su Chen’s performance is simply unbearable! To put it plainly: it’s downright awful! His enunciation, emotion, stage presence—I can’t stand any of it! It’s the most off-putting live performance I’ve seen in years, bar none! He sings with heartbreak, but I feel nothing.]

Zhou Qiang’s review had stirred up a storm online. Many replies below said things like, “I thought it was fine,” “I actually like it,” “It’s not that bad.” But Zhou Qiang had only one response:

[Gold-Label Musician Zhou Qiang: I’m a gold-label music critic. No one understands songs better than me! If you want to hear good music, listen to my new song, ‘Midnight Whiskey,’ performed by Wang Qi!]

A crowd of unidentified users replied in support: “Teacher Zhou speaks my mind,” “Sharp words but fair,” “‘Queen’ really can’t compare to ‘Midnight Whiskey’”…

Of course, besides these, there were also Wang Qi’s fans—the self-styled “Women of the King.” “The King’s women never admit defeat!” “That trash ‘Queen’ isn’t worthy of being compared to Qi’s new song!” “‘Queen’? Ew!”…

With all this coordinated commenting, public opinion of “Queen” on Weibo was taking a nosedive. Even the attention originally focused on “Queen” was now shifting toward “Midnight Whiskey.”