Chapter 80: The Wild Horse Prairie

Last week, Zhang Qiyang had Dong Huan laughing and crying with a song called “The Old Chinese Doctor.” Now, he announced he wanted to turn her into a literary woman with stories to tell, and Dong Huan felt a twinge of anxiety, fearing some sort of trick from him again.

But then the melody beneath Zhang Qiyang’s fingers shifted, becoming slow and profound, like the tolling of an evening bell at dusk. The deep resonance from the guitar’s soundbox soothed Dong Huan’s wavering mood, gradually calming her.

In the live broadcast room, aside from Qin Xueyang who was still busily munching on spicy bean curd sticks, everyone else had set aside their tasks to listen intently to Zhang Qiyang’s soul-stirring tune. At the other end of the video, over a million restless viewers were gradually pacified by the deep, story-laden music he played.

With the slow tempo, Zhang Qiyang’s chin moved in subtle rhythm. Eyes closed, he sang out the rugged and unadorned “Miss Dong”—

“Miss Dong, you’ve never forgotten your smile, even if, like me, you long for old age…”

“Miss Dong, your downward-turned lips are beautiful, just like the clear water beneath Anhe Bridge…”

Most of the audience was still caught up in the flamboyant style Zhang Qiyang had used last week. Yet now, his voice was so lonely, deep, magnetic, and even carried a hint of restrained charm, refreshing everyone’s senses and evoking the same emotion as when they listened to “Spring Breeze Ten Miles” the week before.

The opening melody was simple and unvarnished, Zhang Qiyang’s singing full of age and depth. There were no noisy shouts, no passionate calls. It was merely a solitary confession, as if he were telling his own story, successfully drawing everyone’s attention to this song.

His casual slides between notes, the slow pauses between bars, all were perfectly measured. Dong Huan, listening at close range, felt the allure of folk music emanating from his guitar, a deep intoxication written in her bright eyes.

She wondered if her own downward-turned lips truly resembled the clear waters beneath Anhe Bridge. But the song made her feel beautiful. Just from the opening, she was already falling in love with this remarkable folk tune.

Zhang Qiyang continued his soulful monologue, singing on:

“Miss Dong, I’m a complicated creature, passing things off with words but repeating them in my heart…”

“Miss Dong, the nights at Drum Tower pass quickly, strangers please give me a cigarette from Lanzhou…”

[No comparison, no pain. — Funeral Flower, Burying Love]

Zhang Qiyang had barely finished the second verse when Burying Love couldn’t hold back any longer, launching a fleet of virtual aircraft carriers to cheer him on.

Seeing the striking words atop the carrier fleet, Dong Huan couldn’t help but sigh. Without comparison, she truly hadn’t realized how weak she was.

Zhang Qiyang’s impromptu rendition of “Miss Dong” had left her own “Mr. Zhang” miles behind. In her self-composed song, she had tried to weave in several intricate modes and carefully crafted lyrics to portray Zhang Qiyang as tall and melancholic.

She had felt quite accomplished performing it herself. But now, after hearing Zhang Qiyang’s plain and earnest “Miss Dong,” she realized just how hollow her song had been.

“Miss Dong,” from the perspective of a monologue, didn’t dwell much on Miss Dong herself, but from the lonely tone of a man in unrequited love, it was clear Miss Dong must be a very literary, storied woman.

The confessional singing conveyed sincerity, unlike her own, which now sounded sycophantic. Yes, on reflection, hers was all about showing off and ingratiating. Far from Zhang Qiyang, who sang with genuine feeling.

This was the essence of folk music. Funeral Flower’s comment, “No comparison, no pain,” was spot on.

Dong Huan, fully convinced and humbled, listened on.

Zhang Qiyang grew even more impressive, expanding his vocal range slowly, singing with a voice full of restrained passion—

“So maybe it’s all just a lie. Miss Dong, you’re not just another classmate without a story…”

“Falling in love with a wild horse, but there are no prairies in my home, and that makes me despair, Miss Dong…”

That line, “Falling in love with a wild horse, but there are no prairies in my home,” brought Zhang Qiyang himself to despair as he sang. Yet it stirred a bittersweet resonance in countless listeners’ hearts.

The song carried the helpless confusion of love and a sense of melancholy and solitude embedded in its melody, instantly striking a chord with many, provoking intense emotional empathy.

Even Jiao Shuangxi, who deeply disliked Zhang Qiyang, found his hardened heart softening at that line. In that moment, it was as if he heard his own inner voice.

For him, the carefree and dashing Huan Ye was just such a wild horse longing for the prairie. Tragically, his home lacked the prairie that wild horse yearned for.

Zhang Qiyang played and sang on, conquering more and more people with his lonely confession—

“Miss Dong, you put out your cigarette and talk about the past, you say the first half of life is just like this, but there’s still tomorrow…”

“Miss Dong, do you know I’ve said goodbye enough, and on a May morning finally lost sleep…”

“So maybe it’s all just a lie. Miss Dong, you’re not just another classmate without a story…”

“Falling in love with a wild horse, but there are no prairies in my home, and that makes me despair, Miss Dong…”

This otherworldly “Miss Dong” by Song Dongye became a sensation across the land, not by chance.

The melody is simple, easy to spread. Yet it’s not as blank as a sheet of paper.

There’s a touch of lyricism and depth, making it easy to capture people. This kind of independent folk song can be dedicated to the weathered backup lover, or to the wandering goddess, and matches perfectly the mindset of those truly or falsely weathered and lonely.

In Zhang Qiyang’s new world, aside from some key figures changing, society remains much the same as before. The hearts of ordinary people, yearning for calm amidst restlessness, are no different from before.

Thus, as Zhang Qiyang sang this song with the most weathered and solid voice since arriving in this world, countless listeners’ hearts were stirred by his deep singing.

From Zhang Qiyang’s lips, the song flowed out like a slow, restrained stream, sweeping away the haze.

It made people imagine Miss Dong’s alluring figure, her sparkling gaze behind the smoke ring, her clear, serene laughter, and those shadowy stories…

The parched world, under Zhang Qiyang’s aged and profound singing, began to tremble and collapse.

Hearts fell, one after another, like dominoes, utterly enchanted.

In this world, the most tumultuous love is the love that is held back.

The most lingering affection is the one that cannot be touched.

In the course of a lifetime’s emotional journey, the most beautiful days are those when the heart stirs with spring.

Each of us, man or woman, has probably loved someone in life whom we cannot control or whom we can only look up to.

When you look up to him or her, your heart is surely stirred.

Even if you cannot express it, it leaves you with the most unforgettable memories.

“Falling in love with a wild horse, but there are no prairies in my home” is a poison that evokes memories.

Northwest suburb of the capital.

Inside a certain villa.

Listening to “Miss Dong,” the third of the female porcupines, her dry eyes, like the arid world itself, were moistened by Zhang Qiyang’s deep, restrained singing.

Painful memories surged over her like a flood.

She turned, glancing at the innocent three-year-old boy playing with a big yellow duck on the bed.

With a sigh of relief, she thought, “Grow up quickly, Jude. Only when you are grown will your wild-horse father return to your little prairie of melancholy.”