Chapter 67: Classic (An 8,500-Word Mega Chapter—Please Vote for Me This Month)

The icy beauty’s expression was colder than ever. Zhang Yang's recently manicured nails pressed so deeply into her slender palm that they left pale, indented marks. She didn’t say a word—just fixed Old Qin with a glacial, unblinking stare as he finally recovered from his shock.

In an instant, the temperature in F Group’s workspace seemed to plummet to the freezing point.

Old Qin, are you so bored with peaceful days that you're itching for trouble? Li He shivered involuntarily, praying silently for the old comrade. But at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a hint of anticipation. After all, sitting back and watching a good show is a universal human trait.

Old Qin, may fortune be with you. Let's hope we see your intact body tomorrow... The lyricists and composers of F Group mourned for him in their hearts.

Right now, Old Qin wished he could slap himself senseless. How could he have been so quick with his tongue? He hadn’t thought before he spoke. Zhang Yang's icy gaze made his hair stand on end; he felt utterly ill at ease. Still, he was grateful that, for now, the frosty beauty hadn’t turned and walked away. As long as she didn’t leave, there was still a chance—still time to explain.

His aging mind raced, searching desperately for a sliver of hope. After a split second, a flash of inspiration appeared: a white sheet filled with elegant characters. Of course! The new song. Right now, only a new song could distract—could shift Sister Yang’s attention...

He clutched the sheet of lyrics and music, and under the breathless gaze of the entire office, he strode toward the icy beauty.

Come on, Old Qin, face her head on! I believe in you... Li He, who never missed a spectacle, cheered him on inwardly.

He won’t get kicked out the window, will he? This is the twelfth floor... Wu Wei, fearing collateral damage, quietly rolled his chair to a safe two meters away.

As Old Qin approached the head of the lyric and composition department, he cursed his colleagues for their lack of humanity. He spotted someone surreptitiously raising a phone to record the scene.

Truly, heartless beasts.

“Sister Yang, you’re here,” Old Qin forced out, braving the awkward tension. “Jia Bei has written a new song—would you take a look?”

He held out the sheet, pinched delicately between his fingers. Zhang Yang didn’t move, though she was fighting the urge to drive her black high heel straight into Old Qin’s shins.

So close—how satisfying it would be to land a kick. But in the end, with so many colleagues watching, reason triumphed over fury and she refrained. If they were in her office, she wouldn’t hesitate for a second to let Old Qin experience a taste of sorrow.

“Sister Yang,” Old Qin prompted, his voice soft and cautious.

So it really was Li He who wrote that half-finished song, and sang it himself… Zhang Yang’s feelings tangled within her: torn between the urge to kick the infuriating Old Qin and the desire to see the second half of the song. Such a difficult choice.

“It’s Li He who saved you,” she whispered, in a voice only the two of them could hear.

Having chosen curiosity over anger, the frosty beauty snatched the sheet.

Her brows, furrowed in anger, gradually relaxed. The frigid air in the office began to thaw. Clutching the complete lyrics and music of “Friends,” Zhang Yang felt her rage ebb.

But the moment her eyes landed on the song’s title, her brows once again drew together, and the atmosphere threatened to return to winter chill. This wasn’t “Friends”—was Old Qin trying to fool her?

Her sharp gaze pinned him again. Old Qin, once more under threat, was startled—but quickly explained, “This song was written by Jia Bei after last night’s welcome banquet.”

Her attention returned to the sheet.

“‘Ten Years,’” Zhang Yang murmured.

Her eyes drifted down.

“If those two words had not trembled,
I wouldn’t have realized how much it hurt,
How to say it out loud—
It’s just a breakup.
If there’s no demand for tomorrow,
Holding hands is just like traveling...”

The icy beauty grew serious; Old Qin was forgotten, his fate now irrelevant. Zhang Yang, herself a top-tier composer, was exquisitely sensitive to melody. After only a few lines, she was already enchanted by the tune, and the lyrics—Li He’s craftsmanship—were, as always, exceptional.

From “Dissolve Sorrow” to “Foam,” then to “A Bridge Called Fate,” and finally to the half-finished “Friends”—every lyric was stunning, as if he alone could combine the simplest words into something extraordinary. Such depth of culture and experience was required to write lyrics of this caliber.

She knew something of Li He’s past: reborn from hardship, as every genius must be. In those darkest days, with his heart sealed shut, he must have had only books and knowledge for company.

Four complete songs and one unfinished, and two of them about breakups... Clearly, Li He’s first love leaving had scarred him deeply. Zhang Yang felt a pang of sympathy. For a girlfriend to suddenly leave at such a time—anyone would struggle to accept it. She couldn’t imagine how he had survived those years.

“Since you’ve come to Shengshi, joined the composition department, you’re now one of mine. Naturally, An Chuxia becomes our department’s public enemy,” she thought. If Li He knew her thoughts, he’d cry injustice—the original owner had long since let An Chuxia go. If shameless He Luo heard, he’d say: a kindred spirit indeed.

Zhang Yang’s gaze lightened as she continued to read.

“Thousands and thousands of doorways,
Someone always leaves first.
Since embraces cannot linger,
Why not, at the moment of parting,
Enjoy it while you weep...

Ten years ago,
I didn’t know you,
You didn’t belong to me,
We were still the same,
Accompanying strangers...”

A tremor passed through Zhang Yang’s heart.

This song was no ordinary piece; its quality far surpassed Li He’s previous works. Not that the others were lacking—they had all topped the charts—but this one was simply too good.

A classic.

The word surfaced in her mind. She had written classics herself and knew how hard it was to create a golden hit. Shengshi Entertainment was one of the titans of the music industry, its composition department boasting nearly nine hundred lyricists and composers, but fewer than sixty had ever produced a true classic.

Zhang Yang’s expression grew solemn. Shengshi might soon have another gold-tier songwriter—and this one, she had (stolen) recruited herself.

“Walking past familiar streets,
Ten years later, we are friends,
We can still greet each other,
Only that gentle warmth
Will never find a reason for another embrace—
Lovers inevitably become friends in the end...”

This song had the makings of a classic. The frost melted from the icy beauty’s face, her breath coming short and quick. Old Qin, finally able to relax, thought to himself: Li He, I owe you one. Next time, I’ll introduce you to my daughter.

Jia Bei is a friend I’ll keep for life—not even Jesus could stop me, Wu Wei resolved, scooting his chair back to his desk.

Beneath the icy beauty’s business attire, her chest rose and fell with excitement.

“If those two words had not trembled,
I wouldn’t have realized how much it hurt,
How to say it out loud—
It’s just a breakup...
In the end, lovers become friends.
After years as friends,
I realized my tears
Were not just for you,
But for others as well.”

Zhang Yang let out a long breath, her tumultuous emotions settling.

Absolutely a classic.

After calming herself, she looked at Old Qin and asked, “Has anyone else seen this sheet?”

Old Qin, now composed, answered gravely, “As far as I know, just Jia Bei and us two.”

There’s someone who wants to see it, but is still standing on one leg in anticipation.

The icy beauty beckoned to Li He, who was regretful at missing the drama, and said when he approached, “Come to my office.”

With that, she strode out of F Group’s office, heels clicking, hips swaying.

“Let’s go,” Old Qin called.

Li He nodded and followed.

When the three took the elevator down, the office was silent for three seconds—then erupted.

“Judging by Sister Yang’s reaction, it must be a classic.”

“Incredible—how old is Jia Bei, anyway? Barely twenty, right? I heard he hasn’t graduated yet—he’s only a senior in college. A college student writing a classic will blow up the industry.”

“When I was twenty, I was still pining after a goddess. Jia Bei at twenty is already the object of his goddess’s affection.”

“Have you noticed, all of Jia Bei’s songs—lyrics and music—are his alone.”

“Amazing!”

“He’s on track for dual gold status—no, I think he’s got the makings of a legend.”

“Don’t forget, he only debuted recently. In mid-April, he wrote ‘Dissolve Sorrow,’ helping He Luoluo snatch the title and win Newcomer of April and May’s top chart. Jiang Qi’s ‘Foam’ is set to take June’s top spot, and He Xier’s ‘A Bridge Called Fate’ caught Director Wen Shan’s eye. When ‘Guardian’ is released, that song might top July’s charts too. Plus last night’s ‘Friends’ and today’s classic—Jia Bei’s talent is frightening.”

“Not to mention, he sang ‘Friends’ himself last night—his vocals rival professional singers.”

“If Jia Bei doesn’t become famous, there is no justice.”

“He’s talented and, crucially, devastatingly handsome,” praised the department’s ‘Sleeping Dragon.’

“Yes, in terms of looks, Jia Bei stands out in our department like a crane among chickens,” sighed the ‘Young Phoenix.’

Suddenly, everyone fell silent.

Wu Wei glanced at the ‘Sleeping Dragon’ and cursed inwardly: You two didn’t notice we were all praising Jia Bei’s talent and youth, deliberately avoiding mention of his looks, which makes us feel inadequate.

Just like Old Qin, no filter between brain and mouth... The songwriters all resolved to keep their distance from the two. If they stayed, they might start considering plastic surgery.

It’s normal for artists to feel that way, but for those behind the scenes? We don’t need to show our faces—why should we conform to beauty standards?

Usually, everyone looked average enough—just regular faces. Then suddenly a genuinely handsome guy joins—one who everyone agrees is good-looking. The balance of ‘we’re all ordinary’ is shattered.

Especially when someone keeps reminding you, “You’re ugly, look how handsome he is.”

Handsome, my foot.

The F Group crew all wanted to send those two off to another team—they were too exhausting.

What a pair of little monsters—

After entering the elevator, Zhang Yang considered pressing sixteen—where Liu Kang, head of the singers’ division, had his office. But she reconsidered. Right now, with the composition department pushing for independence, going to Liu Kang’s turf would only signal submission.

She decisively pressed fifteen instead. Stepping out, she called Liu Kang: “Come to my office. It’s urgent.” And hung up.

Liu Kang, in the middle of signing paperwork, was left baffled—he hadn’t even managed a single word, not even a greeting, before the traitor from the singers’ division cut him off.

So arrogant.

Li He, trailing behind, silently gave Sister Yang a thumbs up. It was easy to guess who she’d called—at a time like this, only the singers’ division’s unfortunate boss would be summoned.

Once in her office, Zhang Yang poured disposable cups of water for Old Qin and Li He.

“Thank you, Sister Yang,” Li He said, taking a sip.

“Thank you, Sister Yang,” Old Qin echoed, but immediately spat out the water he’d just drunk.

Li He shot him a puzzled look—was he afraid Sister Yang had poisoned him?

Zhang Yang smiled sweetly. “What’s wrong, Old Qin, can’t even drink water properly?”

Old Qin’s lips were bright red, trembling. After a moment, he gritted his teeth and said, “Sister Yang, the water in your office is really hot.”

Li He gasped.

Zhang Yang—no, Sister Yang—was ruthless.

After a brief moment of sympathy for the old comrade, Li He resolved never to follow in Old Qin’s footsteps. That scalding mouthful—thank goodness Old Qin’s work relied on his brain and hands, not his mouth.

“It’ll cool down soon,” Zhang Yang said offhandedly.

I swear, if I dared, I’d pour the rest down your throat... Old Qin raged inwardly, but outwardly only pursed his lips and stayed silent.

Zhang Yang turned to Li He. “Will you sing this song yourself, or should we let one of the singers perform it? Or do you have someone in mind?”

For anyone else, she wouldn’t even ask about singing it themselves—Li He was probably the first songwriter to open that door.

Li He had already considered this. Though he’d inherited Pu Shu’s vocal talent, Pu Shu’s style didn’t suit “Ten Years,” and Li He’s own voice wasn’t right for it either. As much as he’d like to earn all the royalties, he had to admit defeat on this one.

Nor would his shameless friend be suitable, though he’d promised to write a custom song for him when he’d racked up enough negative emotion points.

“Let someone from the singers’ division perform it,” Li He replied.

Just then, the office door swung open and the unlucky boss, Liu Kang, strode in.

No knock... Zhang Yang’s brow twitched. Another mark against her former boss.

Liu Kang, seeing Li He, smiled, “Jia Bei, you’re here. How are you settling in to the—company?”

He caught himself just before saying the wrong thing.

So you want to poach my people... Zhang Yang shot him a glance, then said coolly, “Sit down, I have something to discuss.”

Liu Kang sat. “What is it? Make it quick, I have a mountain of work.”

Zhang Yang didn’t respond, just handed him the sheet she’d been clutching.

Then she leaned back, lounging in her chair, watching Liu Kang with the air of a queen.

Liu Kang picked up the sheet and read.

“‘Ten Years.’ Who wrote this?” he asked, glancing at the title.

With an air of authority, Zhang Yang ignored him.

Old Qin, his lips recovering but blistered, answered, “Jia Bei wrote it—lyrics and music both.”

Liu Kang almost wanted to give up on the spot. He’d discovered Jia Bei, signed him as a third-tier lyricist in a rare three-year contract, only to have Zhang Yang swoop in and snatch him away. Now she had the nerve to show off in front of him.

This was outrageous.

But Liu Kang valued Jia Bei highly—even saying he had the makings of a legend. It was only Zhang Yang’s underhanded tactics that had stolen him away.

Resigned, Liu Kang read on.

“If those two words had not trembled...
...
...”

Five minutes later, he finally emerged from his daze.

The icy beauty was quite satisfied with his reaction. He might not be a lyricist, but as long as he was shocked, it was enough.

She arrogantly reclaimed the sheet.

This belongs to us—if the singers’ division wants it, they’ll have to ask.

Liu Kang ignored the gesture and sprang up, eager to win Li He over. “Jia Bei, I have excellent tea in my office—come, let’s have a taste!”

Such talent had to be courted.

With Jia Bei, the composition department's independence was out of the question.

“Liu Kang, what do you think you’re doing?” Zhang Yang snapped.

Trying to poach my people right in front of me—do you think I’ll just stand by and watch?

Liu Kang moved quickly, but so did Old Qin, who blocked his path. “Minister Liu, Jia Bei is part of our department and a student. You don’t want him to form a bad impression of the singers’ division, do you?”

Zhang Yang, now brimming with satisfaction, nodded approvingly.

Not only did Old Qin confirm Li He’s status, he also subtly implied the singers’ division was rash and inferior. As for the fact that the composition department wasn’t yet independent—she’d conveniently forgotten that.

I can cross Old Qin off my blacklist... The icy beauty was pleased.

Foiled, Liu Kang sat back down, feigning nonchalance. “I just wanted to offer him some tea—I have plenty going to waste.”

Not poaching—just offering tea.

“Minister Liu, as head of your department, you should mind your image. Poaching is beneath you,” Zhang Yang said coolly. “Li He’s new song doesn’t have to go to your singers—our department could handle it entirely on our own.”

Liu Kang bristled. So you stealing my people is fine, but me taking them back is disgraceful? Women—impossible to reason with.

But then her words struck him: the composition department could deliver the song without the singers’ division. Ridiculous! Songwriters might have perfect pitch, but that didn’t mean they had the right voice or image—Jia Bei excepted.

The icy beauty smiled, savoring her victory.

Then she forwarded a video Old Qin had sent her to Liu Kang. “Check your messages,” she said, all authority.

Old Qin, realizing what was coming, moved protectively closer to Li He, worrying that Sister Yang was pushing Liu Kang too far.

Li He edged away as well. He’d seen the video in the group chat and knew what was coming.

Zhang Yang leaned back and looked between the nearly fifty-year-old Old Qin and the thirty-something Liu Kang.

Deciding it was still risky, she got up and locked the office door, then stood beside Old Qin, forming a human barricade between Liu Kang and Li He.

Much safer.

After a long silence, Liu Kang finally put down his phone. As he tried to stand, he saw the two-person wall and sat back down, sighing. “Zhang Yang, Jia Bei has an incredible voice; it would be a shame if he didn’t sing.”

He meant—keeping him in the composition department would waste his talent.

Zhang Yang smiled. “True, it’s a pity if Li He doesn’t sing. So, let’s have him perform ‘Ten Years’ himself.”

“You—” Liu Kang sprang up.

Was that what I meant? Impossible to reason with.

Eventually, he slumped back in defeat. “Jia Bei’s voice doesn’t suit ‘Ten Years.’ Forcing him would ruin the song and his career. I know you wouldn’t do that. So—what do you want?”

“Let the composition department become independent,” Zhang Yang replied.

“No way.” Liu Kang refused instantly. “The two departments are one—I won’t allow a split. Give up on that idea.”

Though he valued Jia Bei, he wouldn’t cross that line for a single song. The two divisions were linked—independence would be disastrous for the singers, making them beholden to the songwriters. While songwriters were already somewhat above singers, that was limited and conditional. If the department became independent, only the company’s top brass could mediate disputes—hardly practical.

That was why Liu Kang always opposed independence—he had to look out for the singers' interests.

Zhang Yang shrugged. She’d only tried on the off chance he’d agree. All her provocations had been meant to make him act on emotion rather than reason. But in the end, her gambit failed.

Mouth like steel, she thought.

“Then I want Han Feng to sing ‘Ten Years.’ He must be the one,” she said.

Han Feng... Liu Kang fell silent, deep in thought.

Li He frowned, trying to recall who Han Feng was. He remembered seeing news about him, but the name didn’t stick.

“He’s one of our signed singers,” Old Qin whispered. “The closest to a king among them.”

Old Qin was surprised she’d picked Han Feng—not that she’d ask a king or queen, but Han Feng was special. One classic hit, and he’d seal the title at the end of the year. Whoever wrote that song would take a giant leap toward legendary status.

Li He was startled too. Having a soon-to-be king perform the song was even better than having a current one—it would elevate his own status more.

Liu Kang finally spoke. “You want Jia Bei to use ‘Ten Years’ to crown Han Feng, and in doing so, cement his own place in the industry.”

“One move, two gains—why not?” she replied.

Liu Kang smiled. “Han Feng could get what he needs from many songwriters here, but only he can give Jia Bei what he seeks.”

Han Feng’s crowning might not be solely Jia Bei’s doing, but the final, crucial step would be his. It wouldn’t make him a legend overnight, but it would rocket his status past many gold-tier writers.

“So, you think ‘Ten Years’ isn’t worthy, or that Jia Bei can’t reach that height?” Zhang Yang asked.

“No need to provoke me. I value him as much as you do,” Liu Kang replied. “But Han Feng will have to decide for himself.”

“Fine. As long as you don’t object, I’ll approach Han Feng,” Zhang Yang said.

Liu Kang smiled wryly. “You make me out to be the villain, Zhang Yang. That’s unnecessary.”

“I never said that,” she replied, stretching and tracing a graceful curve. “You can go now—this is an internal meeting.”

So—used and discarded.

Liu Kang laughed. No need for him here anymore; he had plenty left to do. At the door, he turned to Li He. “Jia Bei, drop by my office if you have time—I have some excellent tea. Take a few tins for yourself.”

Before Li He could reply, Zhang Yang cut in, “So stingy. If it were me, I’d send down a dozen tins at once.”

A dozen? Easy for you to say... Liu Kang smiled, said nothing, and left after unlocking the door.

——

PS.
First draft, later revision.
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