Chapter 49: Seeking a Matching Couplet

Although it didn’t cause the same sensation as the release of “Night Star,” Zhang Qiyang’s latest livestream still drew a significant number of new users to Dongfang Music Network, all interested in his music. His extraordinary musical talent, displayed during the program, caught the attention of many in the industry as well as countless music lovers.

Anyone who set aside their preconceptions, even for a moment, could see that this young master possessed a wealth of versatile musical gifts. Even if one were to question whether he wrote all those songs himself, simply listening to him sing was already an experience filled with flavor and depth.

In fact, all industry insiders, Dongwang included, were convinced that the mature works Zhang Qiyang recently performed couldn’t possibly have been written by him alone. Perhaps the song “Old Chinese Doctor,” which he improvised during the livestream, was his own creation, but the others clearly were not.

Dongwang had long been probing Dongyu Music for information, trying to find out what kind of team the company had assembled to develop Zhang Qiyang. But Dongyu turned the question right back at them, asking if Dongwang had sent anyone to help Zhang Qiyang. The entire Dongyu Music department, including Chen Ke, was deeply curious about the mysterious team behind Zhang Qiyang, yet they hadn’t been able to find a single clue.

This led them to suspect that the Oriental Group might have secretly hired a top-tier international team to shape Zhang Qiyang’s career. The release of the song “New Shit” only deepened these suspicions, as its style suggested overseas expertise was involved in his development.

Yet that night, when Zhang Qiyang flirtatiously sang “Ten Miles of Spring Wind” with Li Dia during the livestream, the song was clearly rooted in local folk traditions. Unlike his earlier “Night Star,” which had a distinctly British rock flavor, “Ten Miles of Spring Wind” was unmistakably the work of a Chinese team.

This piqued the curiosity of many in the industry: just how vast and international was the team that Oriental Group had assembled? Were they aiming to craft Zhang Qiyang into a superstar equally at ease with Eastern and Western audiences? The secrets behind all this were still waiting to be uncovered, but one thing was certain: “Ten Miles of Spring Wind,” performed that night, had thoroughly enchanted many listeners.

At the moment, none of the pirate music sites had uploaded the audio for this song. As a result, many netizens flocked to Dongwang to leave comments, asking when they would be able to listen to it. Sensing that “Ten Miles of Spring Wind” could spark another wave of popularity, Dongwang reached out to Qin Xueyang shortly after Zhang Qiyang’s livestream ended, requesting the rights to the song.

To their surprise, Zhang Qiyang’s response was: the sooner, the better! If he could assemble a band to record the backing tracks that very night, he’d gladly record the song immediately to satisfy his eager fans.

Receiving this reply, Dongwang wasted no time arranging for a studio and contacting musicians, scrambling to help Zhang Qiyang record the song. After finishing his Zebra livestream, Zhang Qiyang didn’t even go home—he headed straight to Dongwang’s studio to record “Ten Miles of Spring Wind.”

His enthusiasm stunned Qin Xueyang, who wondered if Zhang Qiyang had simply had too much to drink. Although he had indeed been drinking that night, his mind was perfectly clear—he wasn’t acting out of drunken impulse, but out of genuine delight and a desire to do more.

Selling music on Dongwang, at least for now, didn’t bring him much profit. After a week on sale, “Night Star” had astronomical streaming numbers, but only just over thirty thousand paid downloads. The newly released “Who Cares” had just over three hundred paid downloads in its first half hour; it was likely to sell fewer than ten thousand copies even after a couple of months.

That sort of income wouldn’t even cover the cost of sending out two aircraft carrier strike groups. In contrast, that night’s Zebra livestream, including appearance fees and cash-out gifts (after deducting the cost of sending gifts to himself), earned him 3.23 million yuan in total—more than he’d make from selling hundreds of songs, and nearly equal to an entire season’s income from “I Sing.”

Still, some things were worth doing even if they didn’t pay much. For example, no matter how low the appearance fee on “I Sing,” he would always participate if he could, because it brought immense buzz, exposure, and skyrocketing popularity.

Selling music on Dongwang did little to boost his popularity, but it was a way to support the cause of legitimate music, fostering an awareness among fans of the importance of supporting original content. That was what Zhang Qiyang valued most.

Another undeniable advantage: selling songs on Dongwang was a one-time effort. He recorded, uploaded, and then didn’t have to worry about it again. Even if single-track sales were pitifully low now, who could say what the future held? If, by some miracle, the country ever launched a massive crackdown on piracy—criminalizing downloads and forcing everyone to go legit—then the musical assets he’d left on Dongwang would be a treasure trove.

With an eye to the future, Zhang Qiyang was determined to upload as many songs as possible to Dongwang—the more, the better. Now that he possessed a voice that could hit any note he wished, singing was pure joy for him. Music was a hobby and a pleasure, never a chore.

At least, not for now.

By contrast, were he to return to his original profession as a film director, he’d soon find the work tedious and exhausting. Making movies involved far more work and stress than singing. So much was out of his control: the whims of fate, the moods and performances of actors, even the attitude of the crew. In a large production, if any department failed to cooperate, the director would be driven to distraction.

Zhang Qiyang knew all too well that directing a film was an ordeal that left one battered and worn. He wasn’t ready for that, not yet. Though he had the backing of Dongyu and plenty of resources to break into the film industry, he’d wait until he’d had his fill of fun before taking on something so exhausting, both physically and mentally.

That night, at ten o’clock, Zhang Qiyang arrived at Dongwang’s recording studio. Armed with a fully formed template in his mind and his uncanny, precision voice, he recorded the full version of “Ten Miles of Spring Wind” with the band in under an hour.

At 11:11 p.m., Dongwang premiered “Ten Miles of Spring Wind.”

On the way home, sitting in his van, Zhang Qiyang posted a promotional message on Weibo:

“Spring waters newly born, spring woods newly lush, ten miles of spring wind—all pale before you. — Who will give me a matching line? ‘Ten Miles of Spring Wind’ premieres on Dongwang. Leave your couplets in the comments; the most interesting ones win big prizes!”

By the time he posted this, his earlier Zebra livestream had already sent shockwaves across the internet, with netizens lambasting his brazen and irreverent trophy-giving antics. Many more, having watched the replay and heard his flirtatious “Ten Miles of Spring Wind,” found the song unforgettable.

Now that the official version was out, both fans and critics flocked to Dongwang—some to try their hand at a matching poetic line, others to vent their indignation at Zhang Qiyang. The fans of other singers, especially the Xuan’ai Family, were incensed by his cavalier trophy giveaway on “I Sing,” and had been barraging him with insults throughout the livestream.

Now, seeing Zhang Qiyang in high spirits, premiering his new song on Dongwang, these fans once again stormed the site, spending money to download the track—only to leave furious comments afterward:

“Zhang the Big Mouth, don’t think your money lets you do whatever you want! Get out of ‘I Sing’!”

“Don’t get smug—no one’s even replying to your couplet. You’re just a big fool!”

“What do you mean, no one’s replying? Let me give it a try—Spring waters newly born, spring woods newly lush, ten miles of spring wind—all pale before you. Summer rivers begin to swell, summer woods grow dense, summer nights filled with stars—none can match you. Autumn rivers slowly fade, autumn branches quietly fall, a thousand autumn sorrows—where are you to be found? Winter ponds frozen still, winter leaves drift to earth, a hundred winter nights of solitude—only longing remains.”

“Ten miles of spring wind pale before you; three lifetimes of reincarnation, I still remember you.”

“Ten miles of spring wind pale before you; let this longing be buried in my heart.”

“Ten miles of spring wind pale before you; I can’t control myself, I can’t help myself.”

“Ten miles of spring wind pale before you; a fallen phoenix isn’t as good as a chicken.”

“Ten miles of spring wind pale before you; I’ll dream, wake up, and wash my own mess.”

“Ten miles of spring wind pale before you; somehow, it does make sense.”

...

“Hahaha.”

Ignoring the insulting posts, Zhang Qiyang found himself laughing at the endless creative couplets from netizens. He wanted to share them with Qin Xueyang. Turning to look, he saw her slumped helplessly in her seat, her plump face filled with existential despair, not even in the mood for a snack.

Zhang Qiyang frowned and asked, “Why do you look half-dead? We made so much money tonight—you’re not happy?”