Chapter 3: The Abrupt End of "Dissolving Sorrow"

In one respect, He Luo was right: if "Dissipating Sorrow" were sold, it would certainly fetch a handsome price.

The issue, however, was that what Li He needed was not just money, but also negative emotion points.

Only by having a close friend perform the song could he freely manipulate the manner of its release afterward.

"Whatever you say," He Luo replied with a chuckle, holding the lyric sheet as if it were a treasure.

He understood perfectly what this song meant—if his rendition became popular, entertainment companies would soon be lining up to sign him. This was an opportunity gifted by his best friend, and he was determined to seize it.

Li He said, "Just sing the first half. I’ll record a video to post on DouHand as a teaser. Once you’ve fully mastered the song, we’ll get you into a studio for the complete version."

"Alright." He Luo had no objections and reminded him, "Tomorrow, I’ll go with you to register the copyright for 'Dissipating Sorrow.'"

Their conversation ended, and both focused on their own tasks.

He Luo lightly strummed the guitar, his deep voice echoing through the classroom.

"Hear it buried in the noise."

"You lift your glass and say to yourself—"

"One toast for the morning sun, one for the moonlight."

"Awakening my longing, softening the cold window."

As Li He listened, he seemed to return to that summer, to the days of an awkward boyhood.

Maomao’s lyrics were simple yet evocative. Though his own singing skills lagged behind the top performers, He Luo’s voice filled that gap, elevating the song to new heights.

Li He took out his phone and opened DouHand, scanning the trends in this world’s short video scene.

Here, the short video industry was healthier and more developed, with high activity across various fields. There was only one dominant app, DouHand, unchallenged by rivals, and its traffic was simply unimaginable.

After forty minutes, He Luo set the guitar aside and said, "I’m ready. Filming a video won’t be a problem."

Recording a short teaser required less from the singer; for a studio recording, however, one had to be in complete command.

He Luo struck a pose, ready to perform.

Li He adjusted his phone camera, crouched at a distance, shooting from a low angle to make He Luo look taller and more striking.

Once Li He gave the nod, He Luo’s right hand gently brushed the strings, his deep, emotive voice singing:

"When you walk into this hall of joy,"

"Carrying all your dreams and hopes."

…

It took three takes to get it right.

He Luo scratched his head, embarrassed. "I’ve shot plenty of short videos before. Not sure why I was nervous this time."

Despite being well-prepared, he’d needed three attempts. The nerves were uncontrollable, as if the one filming was not Li He, but the goddess he secretly adored.

Li He used DouHand’s editing app, QuickCut, and in just a few minutes produced the version he wanted.

Having worked in video editing in his past life, Li He was adept with both mobile and desktop software.

He set his phone down. "Register a new DouHand account—best to pick a stage name."

He worried that once the video went public, He Luo would be bombarded by angry fans demanding the rest of the song.

He Luo didn’t protest. He already had a DouHand account with over a hundred thousand followers, but since Li He suggested a new one, he simply registered with a different number.

Once registration was done, Li He sent the edited video to He Luo.

He Luo opened it eagerly, only for his face to fall.

In the video, it was impossible to recognize him—just a black silhouette singing and playing guitar.

He said nothing, but after watching, asked with confusion, "Why is it so short? I sang a lot more."

The video cut off right at "one toast for the morning sun, one for the moonlight," leaving listeners desperate for more.

Li He grinned. "That’s why you’re using a new DouHand account and not showing your face."

He was saving He Luo from the wrath of those craving the rest of the song.

"I’ll be roasted alive," He Luo laughed bitterly, understanding his friend’s reasoning.

Releasing only half the song and stopping at the chorus would drive people mad.

If he’d posted it on his main account or shown his face, he could practically open a shop selling razor blades to his fans.

It was a ruthless move.

Li He added, "When you post, credit the lyrics and composition to 'Jia Bei'—Jia as in ‘plus,’ Bei as in ‘shell.’"

He didn’t dare use his real name either, and the DouHand account was newly registered.

Nervous, He Luo posted the elusive video on his new account.

He named the new account ‘He Luoluo.’ He immediately regretted it—he should have followed his friend’s example and picked something untraceable.

But it couldn’t be changed now; DouHand required a week before changing usernames.

Li He patted the still-excited He Luo on the shoulder. "While practicing ‘Dissipating Sorrow,’ make sure you keep a low profile. If you’re discovered, your identity will be exposed—and so will you to a flood of razors."

He Luo pulled a face. "Li, I hate you."

He could already foresee his account being overwhelmed.

He suddenly felt a chill down his back.

Li He, meanwhile, was looking forward to it all—the more people, the more criticism, the greater the negative emotion points he would collect.

In his previous life, Maomao’s "Dissipating Sorrow" had become an overnight sensation. In this world, with its even deeper artistic culture, there was no reason it wouldn’t ignite as well.

Now, it was just a matter of seeing how far this "halved" version would spread overnight.

After leaving the teaching building, the two returned straight to their dorm.

At a little past nine, anyone else still wandering campus—apart from couples—was a rare sight.

Li He went to bed early. He’d been through a lot that day: transmigration, rebirth, and system binding.

Each was a life-changing event, and he needed time to rest and process.

He Luo, however, couldn’t sleep. He kept refreshing the "Dissipating Sorrow" short video page all night.

…

Li He wasn’t the only one to sleep early; He Luo wasn’t the only one to stay up late.

In fact, going to sleep at ten was "elderly style" for college students.

If you didn’t stay up past midnight, you could hardly call yourself a university student.

Lights off, lying under the covers, phone in hand.

Four faint lights glimmered in the four corners of the dorm room.

The night owl life had officially begun.

Wang Xinling, a third-year vocal major at Kyoto Conservatory of Music, lay in bed, eyes red, aimlessly scrolling through DouHand.

Tonight, she had finally mustered the courage to confess to her longtime crush on the school track, only to be rejected on the spot.

To be refused in front of so many students was a devastating blow.

Her dormmates had comforted her for over two hours before her emotions finally stabilized; she’d skipped her shower and crawled into bed.

She barely registered what was playing on the short video feed—her mind was blank, unable to understand what was lacking in herself.

Aside from a flat chest, she was otherwise a beauty—dressed in Balenciaga, she could still turn heads.

Her nose twitched as she stifled her sobs; though her tears had stopped, her eyes remained swollen.

Then—

Her scrolling finger froze. A video’s cover caught her eye.

A vast black background, a lone white silhouette outlined in delicate brushstrokes—solitary, desolate. At the top, two bold characters: the song’s title.

"Dissipating Sorrow—can sorrow really dissipate?" she murmured.

Could it erase two years of longing for her crush?

Could it erase the humiliation of being refused so publicly?

Could it erase the homesickness gnawing at her, far from home and alone?

Wang Xinling, almost without thinking, paused; she wanted to hear this song.

Perhaps, it might ease her sorrow.

The video unfolded—on screen, a shadowy figure sat alone with a guitar, singing.

The deep, emotive voice flowed out with the music.

There was something enchanting about it, gripping Wang Xinling’s wounded heart.

She stared intently as the first lyrics floated across the screen; at that moment, her heart seemed to tremble.