Chapter 66: The Old Comrade’s Reckless Gamble (Please Vote for the Monthly Ticket)

Li He and Old Qin didn’t bother to keep their conversation from their colleagues, nor did they lower their voices on purpose. Besides, everyone in Group F was focused on Old Qin and Gabe.

Old Qin had been tormented by that half-finished song for too long, and with a few seasoned composers egging him on, he finally steeled himself to pressure Gabe into completing “Friends.”

At first, when they overheard Old Qin assigning Gabe the task of finishing “Friends” as his monthly objective, they were as delighted as children. After all, Old Qin had spoken, and finishing a song he had already started was much easier than the usual group assignments.

With both pressure and incentives at play, surely Gabe would finally devote himself to finishing the song.

But the very next moment, Gabe’s actions made it clear to all of them: No. He had no interest in patching up a broken song; he’d rather spend his time writing something new.

So when Li He announced, “I’ve written a new song,” the Group F composers were filled with mixed emotions. What they wanted was the completed version of “Friends,” not a new composition.

Now that Li He had said he was writing a new song, Old Qin couldn’t very well push him any further to finish “Friends.”

As Li He watched Old Qin’s face, he imagined he’d just drunk ten pounds of soy sauce in one go—the look of someone desperate for relief but unable to find it, left hanging in suspense.

Old Qin’s mind was a tumult of conflicting feelings. His intention had been to have Li He finish “Friends,” not only because the fragment alone showed its immense quality and market potential—it was sure to be another hit for Gabe—but also because he thought it would be a valuable learning experience for a newcomer to finish a song born of a sudden burst of inspiration.

Moreover, since this was Li He’s first official day at work, Old Qin wanted to ease him in with a lighter workload, giving him time to transition from student to professional.

In short, Old Qin was looking out for Li He.

But who could have predicted that Li He would throw all expectations out the window? Instead of taking advantage of lingering inspiration to finish the song, he chose to write something entirely new.

Never mind the quality of the new song—the act itself was baffling. Old Qin was at a loss for words; everything he could say seemed both right and wrong at the same time.

After a long, awkward silence, Old Qin’s face flushed red, his expression twisting with frustration. Then he pulled out his phone and forwarded a recorded video from the Group F chat to the ice-cold, elegant Zhang Yang.

After sending it, Old Qin could already picture Zhang Yang stomping her feet in the office.

Suddenly, he felt much better. Sharing really does make you happier—Old Qin, enlightened, patted Li He on the shoulder. “Let me see the new song.”

He paused, then grew stern, adopting a tone of admonition. “Writing quickly is a strength, but remember, quality is the foundation of any song’s success.”

“If you only chase speed without ensuring quality, the song will never stand firm in the market—writing it would be pointless.”

No artist would sing a low-quality song, and performers care about their reputations too.

It wasn’t that Old Qin doubted Li He’s ability, but the interval was just too short—writing another song surpassing “Friends” in only a few hours seemed highly unlikely.

He gave Li He a gentle warning: “It’s hard to balance both speed and quality.”

If the new song didn’t measure up, he’d have to finish the old one—this was Old Qin’s last line of defense.

Li He picked up his pen and began writing lyrics and melody on a folder.

Standing beside him, Old Qin tried to sneak a look at the paper out of the corner of his eye.

The white sheet was covered in elegant, lively black script.

Old Qin was astonished—Li He’s handwriting was exquisite. It would take more than a decade of calligraphy practice to produce such neat characters.

At the same time, Old Qin felt a surge of satisfaction; few young people these days took the time to practice their penmanship. It spoke well of Li He’s steadiness.

In truth, as Li He wrote, he too was startled. The system hadn’t mentioned that the “Advanced Signature Technique Capsule” worked for everyday writing.

Given the system’s usual quirks, a signature capsule should have been limited to autographs. That was why Li He had cursed when he saw it—the limitation seemed hardly worth the hefty cost in negative emotion points.

But now he realized it was a comprehensive upgrade, not just for signatures.

With every stroke, it was as if the ballpoint pen in Li He’s hand gained a life of its own.

The lines it left behind weren’t mere words, but miniature works of art, carved with soul.

Old Qin was so entranced by Li He’s handwriting that he forgot to look at what was actually written.

When Li He finished and pushed the paper toward him, Old Qin snapped out of his reverie.

This kid’s handwriting was stunning—perhaps he could pick up a trick or two…

The not-so-innocent old hand picked up the page covered in lyrics and music.

With Old Qin’s movement, all eyes in Group F converged on the thin white sheet.

“‘Ten Years,’” Old Qin murmured, reading the title.

He read on, right hand holding the lyrics, left hand beating time, quietly humming the melody.

“If those two words weren’t trembling
I wouldn’t have noticed my own pain
How to say it out loud
It’s just a breakup
If we had no expectations for tomorrow
Holding hands would be like traveling...”

Suddenly, Old Qin stopped humming, his left hand froze, his face grew grave, and he clenched the paper tightly.

The rest of the group felt a chill run through them.

Old Qin’s entire demeanor announced to Group F that this song was of the highest caliber—perhaps even surpassing “Friends.”

Tapping out the beat and humming along was a common practice among composers; their voices might not match professional singers, but they could always carry a tune.

Wu Wei, a Level 3 composer with a desk closest to Li He, could see the gravity on Old Qin’s face as clearly as day.

Perhaps the song Gabe just wrote was even better than “Friends,” Wu Wei thought to himself.

Some couldn’t resist the urge to get a closer look—what kind of song could move Old Qin to such seriousness?

It felt as though they were witnessing the birth of a classic.

As soon as that thought occurred, a wave of disbelief swept through the room.

They exchanged glances, each seeing the same shock in the other’s eyes.

“It can’t really be a classic, can it?” someone joked, though his tone grew somber by the end.

He couldn’t believe it—didn’t dare believe it.

Gabe was so young, with so little time in the business.

To the Group F composers, Gabe was still a newcomer, a rising star.

And now, they were being told that a composer with barely four months of experience had written a classic.

No one would believe it; it was too far-fetched.

Someone couldn’t take it anymore and stood up, intent on seeing for himself what had made Old Qin act this way.

As he got halfway there, Old Qin, still deeply engrossed in the lyrics, suddenly spoke: “Don’t come any closer.”

The man’s raised foot froze in mid-air.

At that moment, everyone in Group F knew the impossible was true.

Gabe had really written a classic.

Of course, for a song to be called a classic, it must stand the test of the market—be proven by both results and reputation.

But a seasoned composer could tell the quality of a song just by reading the score.

If a song was of extraordinary quality, as long as the performer and the promotion didn’t fail, its success was almost guaranteed.

If this truly was a classic, Old Qin’s protective behavior made perfect sense.

In the entertainment industry, any company with a potential classic on its hands would treat it as a top secret. Until copyright was secured, the fewer people who saw the lyrics and score, the better.

There had been a notorious case where a company’s own staff registered a classic before the original creator could, and ever since, companies had taken extreme measures to protect promising works.

Everyone held their breath, waiting for Old Qin to announce the verdict.

Silence fell over Group F—you could hear a pin drop.

Suddenly, the click-clack of high heels shattered the stillness.

Everyone turned in unison toward the source of the offending noise.

Whoever it was, they couldn’t be forgiven.

Silence and anticipation were a mark of respect for a classic—an unspoken rule among composers.

The next moment, the ice-cold, elegant Zhang Yang strode in, her face expressionless.

And then a strange scene unfolded: dozens of emotionless eyes locked onto her, the Group F composers caught between wanting to explode and being too afraid to do so, their faces twisted with conflicting emotions.

Zhang Yang, meanwhile, stared blankly at the bizarre scene, utterly confused by what was happening in Group F.

Dozens of eyes seemed ready to tear her to pieces, leaving the usually unflappable Zhang Yang rattled and at a loss. She had only come down because Old Qin’s torturous video had driven her to the edge—she couldn’t swallow her anger without giving him a piece of her mind.

As for the singer, the video had been filmed from behind, so she couldn’t see the face. But Zhang Yang had her suspicions, though she dared not believe them—the truth was too shocking.

She had only planned to scold Old Qin for getting bolder by the day, and to find out who had sung and written that half-finished song.

Her intentions were innocent enough—she just wanted to “gently” ask where the rest of the song was.

But upon entering, she found herself at the center of a bizarre tableau.

Feeling unsettled under the weight of so many stares, Zhang Yang shivered involuntarily.

Not wanting to linger a second longer, she hurried through Group F, searching for Old Qin.

Soon, she spotted him, standing stock-still, with another man nearby frozen mid-step like a golden rooster.

What on earth were these people doing?

Zhang Yang quickly skirted around the clearly deranged group, heading for Old Qin.

The sound of her heels snapped Old Qin out of his trance; turning, he saw Zhang Yang, her face cold as ice.

Just as he was about to report his earth-shattering news to the head of the lyrics and composition department, Old Qin’s lips moved, and he uttered a phrase that made the entire Group F’s jaws drop.

“Xiao Zhang.” For some reason, that’s what Old Qin called her—without even realizing it.

Li He shot Old Qin a look full of admiration.

Impressive.

Yesterday he said he’d never dare say it to her face, and today he just blurted it out.

The old man had guts.

Li He almost wanted to kneel and ask for lessons—how did he develop such fearlessness? He’d love to learn.

Everyone in Group F nearly spat out blood.

Sure, in private they called the head of the department “Xiao Zhang,” and Old Qin “Xiao Qin,” but never to their faces.

That would be suicide.

Hearing those words, Zhang Yang’s steps came to an abrupt halt.