Chapter Forty-Nine: Qian Lun’s Steadfast Heart

Not long after Wang Mo left Liu Zhengwen’s office, news spread throughout the company that he had submitted a theme song to the national broadcaster. It was Liu Zhengwen himself who made the announcement, since Wang Mo would soon have to select a singer from within the company to record the song, so there was no way to keep it under wraps.

And so—

The company’s composition and vocal departments were instantly thrown into an uproar.

“Silent Word is competing for the national broadcaster’s theme song?”

“Silent Word’s third song!”

“That’s so sudden, isn’t it?”

“Countless eyes outside are watching for Silent Word’s next release.”

“Submitting for the broadcaster’s theme, Silent Word is playing it safe.”

“You’re right. Songs for the broadcaster are always so upright and proper. It’s hard to fit them into a pop style, so there’s little chance of a major hit.”

“No kidding. Silent Word is already at the center of public scrutiny—so much pressure. Playing it safe is the best option. Submitting to the broadcaster is leaving a way out.”

Yunhai Media had once issued a strict order: whether inside or outside the company, everyone had to refer to Wang Mo by his pseudonym, “Silent Word,” the composer, never by his real name, to avoid complications from any slip of the tongue.

So naturally, everyone used “Silent Word” in their discussions.

Over time, it became a habit.

At this moment, most people believed that Silent Word was submitting his third song to the broadcaster in order to play it safe—not aiming for glory, but seeking to avoid mistakes.

But there were still those who thought Silent Word wasn’t playing it safe at all, but still challenging himself.

“Just look at his first two songs and you’ll know he’s not the cautious type.”

“Exactly. If he were the steady sort, he wouldn’t have picked Hao Mingxing to debut his song.”

“Especially when he released ‘Invisible Wings’ just five days into the new song chart cycle. That’s practically begging for trouble. Do you really think he’s got a cautious streak?”

“Setting aside the fact that both songs were massive hits—he’s a reckless guy.”

“Yes. There’s nothing but madness in him, never caution.”

Soon, the two sides were arguing fiercely.

Some even started making bets.

Was Silent Word’s third song a conservative move, or another bold advance?

Either way, the atmosphere was electric.

…

Wang Mo paid no attention to the chatter around him. At this moment, he reopened the company’s vocal department roster and began carefully choosing a singer.

With the experience gained from his previous two songs, he was much faster this time.

In just over two hours, he had already selected four candidates suitable for “Dragon Scales of Heaven and Earth.”

One newcomer: Zhao Pingyi.

Two third-tier singers: Fu Zhuang and Xiao Zixuan.

One second-tier singer: Lu Chengxu.

This was something Wang Mo had not expected at all—and it was a delightful surprise.

He’d thought that finding even one or two suitable singers in the company would be quite fortunate.

After all, “Dragon Scales of Heaven and Earth” was extremely difficult to perform, especially since the highest note reached the fifth octave—a pitch that is exceedingly high.

At such a pitch, the singer must avoid cracking, sustain for a minute or two, and convey the song’s vast and heroic spirit. The vocal demands were self-evident.

“I have to admit, Yunhai Media truly is a den of hidden talent,” Wang Mo thought to himself.

There was a reason Yunhai Media had become an entertainment giant in China. Their talent pool alone set them above the rest.

Having chosen his singers, Wang Mo immediately called Qian Lun.

“Looking for singers to try out?” Qian Lun had just finished a meeting and was unaware that Wang Mo had written a new song.

He was momentarily stunned by the call, then asked, “You’ve finished your third song?”

“Yes,” Wang Mo replied.

Qian Lun’s expression became complicated.

Even though Wang Mo was one of their own, his meteoric rise had put a lot of pressure on the vocal department—especially since composition manager Liu Zhengwen had recently become far more assertive, no longer the humble figure he once was.

If things continued like this, who knew if the composers would one day take charge?

And Wang Mo’s third song would be the key to whether the composition department could gain the upper hand.

Qian Lun shook his head to clear his thoughts, then continued, “What kind of song is it?”

“It’s for the Forbidden City program—a submission for their theme song,” Wang Mo replied.

“What?” Qian Lun was briefly taken aback, then immediately understood.

A sense of relief washed over him.

A thought sprang up: Wang Mo is playing it safe!

Ha! This meant even Wang Mo had lost his confidence facing his third song. That’s why he chose the safer path by submitting to the Forbidden City program.

As expected—

Composers could never truly rise to prominence.

They were just tools—two hits did not mean anything.

Only the vocal department could remain at the top.

Wang Mo’s cautious move was a sign of retreat, of uncertainty.

And Wang Mo hadn’t even waited for the program’s response before selecting singers in the company.

What did this suggest?

It meant he himself didn’t believe his song would be chosen by the national broadcaster.

Otherwise, wouldn’t he use the official state singers?

Thinking of this, Qian Lun felt completely reassured.

Ha, Liu Zhengwen, what are you so proud of?

I told you, composers can’t be that important. Their brief moment in the sun doesn’t make them the stars.

Singers are always the true protagonists!

Qian Lun’s thoughts twisted and turned like a mountain path.

Not hearing a reply for some time, Wang Mo tentatively asked, “Director Qian?”

“Ahem…” Qian Lun suppressed his thoughts and said, “Wang Mo, which singers do you want to try out? I’ll check with them.”

These days, thanks to Wang Mo, the company had already gotten used to letting singers audition for new songs after they were composed.

To Qian Lun, this was not a good sign.

He was already planning that, if Wang Mo’s third song only received a mediocre response, he would step forward and restore the singers’ dominance.

Only singers should have the right to choose songs—composers had to stand aside.

This was a deep-rooted tradition in the Chinese music scene, and he wouldn’t let it change on his watch.

For now, though, he had to go along with Wang Mo.

Wang Mo said, “Zhao Pingyi, Fu Zhuang, Xiao Zixuan, Lu Chengxu—these four.”

“Alright,” Qian Lun replied, already familiar with his department’s singers. Hearing these names, he immediately understood: “Your third song needs to showcase high notes? And strong lung capacity, too?”

These four singers all had one thing in common: solid technique, impressive high notes, and excellent lung power.

“That’s right,” Wang Mo replied.

Qian Lun was curious. “No problem, you can contact them yourself. But before that, could you let me take a look at your song?”

What kind of song required such powerful vocals and high notes?

But on reflection, many official songs were indeed of the stirring, high-pitched variety.

It looked like Wang Mo couldn’t avoid falling into the usual pattern.

That was only natural—if he wanted to play it safe, this was the way to go.

In just a few minutes, Qian Lun’s thoughts spun more than a teenage girl’s.

Wang Mo had no idea how much had flashed through Qian Lun’s mind. Smiling, he said, “Of course. I’ll send it to you now.”

With that, he forwarded the email he’d previously sent to Liu Zhengwen.

In the vocal department manager’s office, Qian Lun opened the email absentmindedly.