Chapter One: The Son of the Wealthiest Tycoon

September 9, 2017.
Saturday.
Nine o’clock in the evening.
Star City TV.
The third competition of the second season of “I’m a Singer” was in full swing.

Ordinarily, viewers tuned in for the show’s top-notch vocalists and their incomparable performances. But tonight was different. Word had spread that Zhang Qiyang, the son of the nation’s richest man, was joining as a challenger. Many people, eager for spectacle, locked their televisions onto Star City TV, waiting for Zhang Qiyang to stir up trouble.

Three years earlier, at just twenty, Zhang Qiyang had entered the entertainment world as an independent singer, and instantly set off a storm. He’d exchanged barbs with countless celebrities, insulted anyone he disliked, and even got into physical altercations with several hot-tempered stars—all of which had been captured by paparazzi and splashed across the tabloids. While this brought great shame to the wealthiest family, it provided endless entertainment for the common folk.

Thus, Zhang Qiyang earned the nickname “Cannon King,” becoming notorious as the entertainment world’s loudest troublemaker.

The fact that the richest man’s son was so reckless and sharp-tongued gave ordinary people a sense of superiority. Whenever Zhang Qiyang made a fool of himself, the public would spare no effort in cursing him online, venting all their resentment toward the wealthy. The thrill was exquisite.

That night, hearing he was about to take the stage on the prestigious platform of “I’m a Singer,” countless netizens grew restless. Even before Zhang Qiyang appeared, the show’s forum was ablaze. No one discussed the other performers; all attention was fixed on Zhang Qiyang’s impending arrival—

“I wonder who Cannon King will roast tonight. The other singers must be breaking out in cold sweats! Hahaha!”

“Cannon King’s going to sweep ‘I’m a Singer’!”

“He’s a complete waste of space! His presence on this show is an insult to the stage!”

“The director’s lost his mind, inviting trash like Zhang Qiyang. Change the channel!”

“Cannon fodder, send your votes for Cannon King—only if he makes the top three can he stay on ‘I’m a Singer’!”

“It’s good to be loaded. He could strum a pillow and still get on the show. I feel sorry for all the real singers who never get this chance.”

“Trash Zhang, get off the stage!”

“Cannon King, show your might! Blow ‘I’m a Singer’ to pieces!”

“I’ve got my dad, mom, and sister’s phones ready—four votes coming your way, Cannon King! Tonight, we’ll make you number one!”

“Anyone who votes for Zhang is an idiot!”

“Anyone who doesn’t vote for Cannon King is the real idiot!”

“For a singer destined to sweep every award in the music world, joining your show is a favor! Tremble, mortals!”

“If you dare not vote for Cannon King, he’ll just buy the show and shut it down! If he can’t play, none of you can!”

“Cannon King, hurry up and get on stage! This little cannon fodder can’t wait to hear your uniquely off-key singing.”

“Cannon King, for someone who can sing as badly as you and still call himself a singer, there’s no second like you in the Chinese music scene! I salute you!”

“Even if you’re off-key all the way to grandma’s house, I still love you! Send me a red packet!”

“Toot toot toot! All cannon fodder, get ready to charge!”

...

The moment for the challenger’s appearance was near.

Backstage at “I’m a Singer,” every staff member was on high alert. Everyone feared Zhang Qiyang might say something outrageous during the live broadcast, causing trouble for the station.

The show’s director, Xiao Meiyun, took charge personally, repeatedly speaking with Zhang Qiyang’s agent and assistant, urging them to remind him: go on stage, say nothing unnecessary, just sing.

On “I’m a Singer,” none of the contestants needed to introduce themselves. The stage was purely for singing—bring your best performance, nothing more.

The staff had been on edge for a while. As the final contestant was about to finish, they suddenly realized Zhang Qiyang was nowhere to be found!

“Where’s Young Master Yang?” The crew was frantic.

“He had a stomach upset and went to the restroom. He’s been in there almost ten minutes—should be out soon,” replied his assistant, Qin Xueyang, a plump girl in a black baseball cap and mask.

“Nothing’s gone wrong, has it? Someone, go check the restroom!” The assistant director wiped sweat from his brow, panic rising.

Qin Xueyang quickly stopped them. “No, no! Don’t rush him. If anyone bothers him in the restroom, he’ll lose his temper. And once he’s on stage, you won’t be able to stop him from saying whatever he wants.”

Hearing this, the staff were beside themselves with frustration, wishing they could kick Zhang Qiyang off the show on the spot.

If he weren’t the son of Zhang Zhenhua, the richest man, none of them would be so anxious.

Inside the restroom.

The much-anticipated Zhang Qiyang was bracing himself against the stall walls, wracked with pain.

Tears stung his eyes. He felt as though his insides were about to explode.

Moments ago, he had been in another world, comfortably typing away at his online novel. Suddenly, a blow struck the back of his head, and he blacked out. When he awoke, he found himself in the body of the richest man’s son, suffering a near-fatal bout of diarrhea.

During that agony, his memories merged with those of the original host.

Had he awoken in comfort to discover he’d transmigrated into the scion of a billionaire, Zhang Qiyang would have been ecstatic. But now, wracked with pain that felt like childbirth, he was anything but happy.

The original host—pampered heir though he was—had a taste for street food. This time, a binge at a roadside barbecue had done him in. It was likely that he’d died mid-attack, giving the new Zhang Qiyang his chance to cross over.

No sooner had he arrived than he was forced to endure this hellish pain. Zhang Qiyang was in utter misery, gritting his teeth, wanting to scream in despair.

Just then, two staff members walked into the restroom. They had no idea the much-watched Zhang Qiyang was fighting for his life in one of the stalls.

As they relieved themselves, their conversation turned to him.

“Do you think the young master is scared by the atmosphere of our show? He’s in the restroom right before going on stage—probably too frightened to come out,” said a middle-aged man, his voice somewhat effeminate.

“Cough, cough,” the younger staffer, likely new to the team, quickly interrupted. “Brother Bao, don’t say that. He might be in here right now.”

“No way, there’s a restroom in his dressing room.”

“Oh.” The young man relaxed, then began to vent: “I really don’t get it. Why did Director Luo invite that trash onto our show? For ratings? I heard we’re breaking records tonight—almost six percent, higher than last season’s finale. Unbelievable. How does that kind of trash have such pull?”