Chapter Six: A Recommendation for Thorough Investigation

Early the next morning, Hao Mingxing arrived at the composition department. Wang Mo was there as well.

There was still one crucial matter to address before the official recording: the signing of the contract.

According to the usual agreements with other singers, for newcomers, the company would take seventy percent of all future earnings from a song. Of the remaining thirty percent, the singer would get eighty percent, and only the final twenty percent would be split between the lyricist and composer.

As singers became famous, their share would gradually increase each year. Some superstars could even receive sixty or seventy percent of the profits. After all, with real talent comes real bargaining power.

But the composer’s share? That never changed.

“Utterly insane,” Wang Mo commented.

Just from the split alone, it was clear how insignificant the composer’s position was.

Wang Mo would never agree to such terms. He stated his own: the company still takes seventy percent, but the remaining thirty percent is split equally among lyricist, composer, and singer. As Wang Mo was both lyricist and composer for “Whatever,” he would get twenty percent, and Hao Mingxing ten.

This arrangement was similar to how things worked on Earth, and much fairer.

The finance department employee overseeing the contract was visibly uneasy. Such a demand essentially elevated the composer above the singer—a rare occurrence.

“This…” The employee looked at Hao Mingxing, expecting anger at Wang Mo’s outrageous terms.

Yet Hao Mingxing simply grinned, “Seems fair. Let’s sign as Brother Mo suggests.”

He was grateful just to record a song; who cared about the profit split?

The finance employee was stunned for a long moment before letting them sign. He was certain that if the vocal department found out about this contract, chaos would ensue—it was a direct challenge to their authority.

“Best to leave well enough alone,” he decided, carefully preserving the contract, determined not to let word get out.

—

After leaving the finance department, the two quickly arrived at the recording studio.

As expected, the corridor was full of onlookers, all eager to see what two “losers” might produce.

Wang Mo glanced at the crowd, pulled out his phone, and sent a message to Liu Zhengwen: “Mr. Liu, many in the composition department are slacking off during work hours. Perhaps you should address this? Also, please inform Mr. Qian from the vocal department—many there are also loafing on the job. I suggest a thorough investigation.”

Then he put his phone away and walked into the studio with Hao Mingxing.

He hid his merit and fame.

The excellent soundproofing shut out all outside noise.

“Do you need to prepare?” Wang Mo asked.

“No need,” Hao Mingxing replied.

“Shall we begin?”

“Alright.”

To Wang Mo’s surprise, Hao Mingxing was able to sing without a script—clearly, he had worked hard the previous night.

The recording session went smoothly. Hao Mingxing’s fundamentals were solid, and his voice, enhanced by the equipment, sounded much richer than the day before. Except for a few details that required multiple takes, most sections were wrapped up in two or three recordings.

Neither noticed the change in the two recording engineers. What began as amused skepticism soon turned to astonished disbelief—their pupils practically exploded.

They looked at the equipment, then at Hao Mingxing.

At Wang Mo, then back to Hao Mingxing.

Back and forth, as if seeing ghosts.

This was nothing like they had imagined.

Due to Hao Mingxing’s outstanding performance, the session ended quickly.

“Brother Mo, how did I do?” Hao Mingxing’s voice was full of anxiety. It was, after all, his first recording since his voice was damaged. He knew he couldn’t compete with other singers, but still hoped for affirmation.

Wang Mo gave a thumbs up. “Excellent.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Thank you, Brother Mo. You’re so warm.”

To Hao Mingxing, Wang Mo was just comforting him—he didn’t believe Wang Mo could truly appreciate songs, nor that his own singing could be that good.

“I…” Wang Mo took a deep breath. That sounded awkward. He wasn’t a gentle guy, and even if he was, he wouldn’t be warm toward another man in his thirties.

After stepping outside, he found the previously bustling doorway completely empty.

Clean.

Fresh.

It seemed his message had done its job.

A few steps later, he turned to Hao Mingxing. “Brother Xing, I won’t be involved in the song’s release. You should discuss it with your manager. I have only one request: this song must be released simultaneously with the others at midnight on August first. If there’s any trouble, call me right away.”

The power to release songs was now entirely in the hands of the vocal department. Wang Mo couldn’t intervene even if he wanted to; he could only take it step by step.

Hao Mingxing nodded. “Alright.”

“Oh, right.” Wang Mo suddenly remembered something crucial. “I’m now persona non grata in the entertainment industry, my name is taboo. So you can’t list my real name as lyricist or composer.”

“What should I write?”

“‘Speechless’.” Wang Mo thought for a moment.

“‘Speechless’?”

“Yes.”

Only Wang Mo knew the special meaning behind that name.

Because Wang Mo was just his stage name; his real name was Wang Yan.

Before his debut, Yuan Xiong took him to a fortune-teller, as was common in the entertainment business.

The fortune-teller said Wang Yan should change his name—he had a calamity in his fate, stemming from too much speech.

“Wang Yan implies excessive words,” the master said. “But you mustn’t talk too much; you must be silent.”

So his stage name became Wang Mo—meaning “less talk,” since disaster comes from the tongue.

Yet, even after changing his name, the master’s prediction came true.

—

After recording, Wang Mo felt much relieved.

Now, everything was ready except for the final push.

He simply awaited the release of “Whatever,” hoping to receive the system’s reward.

“System, display panel.”

With a thought, a translucent attribute panel appeared before his eyes:

[Name: Wang Mo]
[Age: 22]
[Height: 179cm]
[Appearance: 90]
[Reputation: -26,018,200]
[Items: None]
[Lottery: None]
[Store: Not yet open]
[Task: Release ‘Whatever’ on the music platform (in progress)]

“My height is one-eighty, thank you very much,” Wang Mo roared inwardly.

He looked at the reputation section.

After a week of drastic decline, his reputation had finally stabilized at negative twenty-six million.

“A negative twenty-six million reputation—spectacular.” He sighed, thinking, “System, what’s the use of reputation?”

System: [Reputation can be used for lotteries and to purchase items in the store. So please strive to make your reputation positive as soon as possible.]

Damn!

At this rate, who knew how long it would take to reach a positive reputation?

Wang Mo felt like coughing up blood.

As he walked along, muttering to himself, Yuan Xiong approached.

Seeing Wang Mo, Yuan Xiong’s eyes lit up and he hurried over. “Wang Mo, I heard you wrote a song?”

“Mm,” Wang Mo replied.

“You…” Yuan Xiong sighed. “Actually, you don’t have to become a composer. After all…”

Wang Mo smiled, “Are you saying it’s beneath me to be a composer? Or you’re worried I can’t handle the psychological blow? Honestly, I’ve lost everything now—why not write songs? Life must go on, right? Even an ant struggles to survive, let alone a person.”

Yuan Xiong raised his brows, patting Wang Mo’s shoulder. “Well said.”

Many celebrities, after suffering a scandal, never recover—some give up, some grow depressed and lonely, some even jump from buildings. Few can move on.

Yet Wang Mo’s attitude made Yuan Xiong see this young man in his early twenties in a new light.

After a pause, Yuan Xiong said, “Though your mindset is good, you really shouldn’t keep writing songs—it’s a dead-end. Today I brought you one good news and one bad news. Which do you want first?”

A dead-end? Wang Mo raised an eyebrow, not bothering to argue.

Some deeply ingrained beliefs could only be shattered by facts.

“I’ll hear the good news first,” he said.

“The bad news is: although you haven’t been officially banned, your reputation is ruined, so there’s basically no chance for a comeback.”

“Oh.”

Wang Mo had expected as much, so he wasn’t surprised.

“The good news is,” Yuan Xiong continued, “since you haven’t been banned, we can try another path. After careful consideration, the company has decided to let you do livestreams.”

Wang Mo was stunned. “In my situation, I can still livestream?”

In this age of the internet, livestreaming was all the rage. Even superstars couldn’t resist the enormous profits of selling online.

When Wang Mo was still a top idol, the company had considered letting him sell goods via livestream, but thought it wasn’t the right time and planned to wait. Then came the scandal.

Yuan Xiong grinned. “Of course you can. You haven’t been banned—why not? But you can’t use your real appearance; the public wouldn’t tolerate it. The company’s proposal is for you to wear a mask and do an online show, using your real voice. Despite your fall, you still have many die-hard fans. As long as you don’t admit you’re Wang Mo, your figure and voice will still attract huge traffic.”

Wang Mo’s eyes widened. “Using my voice? Isn’t that asking for trouble?”

Yuan Xiong shrugged. “At first, there’ll be suspicion and insults. But as long as you never remove the mask, who can say for sure you’re Wang Mo? As long as there’s traffic, there’s money.”

“But—”

“No buts. This is your only path now. Even if you’ll be suspected and scolded by haters, black heat is still heat, right? As long as you’re trending, you’ll create value.”

“…”

“I don’t like that kind of heat,” Wang Mo said helplessly.

“What kind do you like, then?” Yuan Xiong asked.

“Tokyo,” Wang Mo replied.

“…You’re an artist; you should be careful about what you say.”

“Should I, in this state?”

“True.” Yuan Xiong agreed.

After a moment, Yuan Xiong spoke again. “Actually, I like it too.”