Chapter Twenty-Two: The Eccentric Band’s Artistic Performance

After returning home and finishing dinner, Cheng Xiaoyu gave the matter little thought; to him, it was nothing more than a trivial episode. If not for Ji Yunyu being a relative of Teacher Ji, he wouldn’t have meddled at all. Everyone has their own path in life, and what path one takes is, to a great extent, determined by character. Even though he witnessed and prevented harm that might have befallen Ji Yunyu, he felt he had no right to intervene—he was nothing to her. Besides, what is destined to happen will inevitably happen; perhaps he was merely a minor obstacle in someone else’s life, powerless to change their fate.

Though Ji Yunyu was indeed a striking natural beauty, she held no fatal allure for someone like him, with over forty years of life experience. He was not fond of literary girls, and most young women at her age were just that—dreaming of romance and beauty, without realizing how complex love truly is, far removed from the dazzling poetry they imagined.

Cheng Xiaoyu returned to his study to resume the work he’d left unfinished the night before—there was still a mountain of intricate tasks: arranging music, entering melodies, editing sounds, and more. When a complete piece of music reaches the ears of its audience, it may last only a few minutes, but for its creators, it demands untold devotion.

A song, from composition to recording, goes through countless stages; arranging is especially complex. Modern arrangers must possess not only extensive experience and solid theoretical foundation, but also a broad vision and a unique understanding of instruments. One could say that the singer merely completes the final—and simplest—phase of the song’s journey, yet reaps the greatest rewards in the musical chain.

In his previous life, music producers gradually gained recognition for their role, but for now, the world still belonged to the singers. Cheng Xiaoyu wasn’t sure if he still wanted to be a star; now, he yearned more to be a producer. He truly loved the steady pleasure of immersion in a task, the undisturbed peace of mind. Once he finished arranging the song, a new idea sparked immediately, and he began writing a fresh score. If the previous piece could be completed smoothly and achieve the desired effect, he wanted to add something special to enrich the whole performance.

The next day, Cheng Xiaoyu trudged to school with panda eyes once again; it seemed the nickname “Panda Man” was destined to stick—but at least it was better than “Creepy Guy,” he consoled himself.

Su Yuxi and Cheng Xiaoyu still existed in two separate worlds, like parallel lines that drew infinitely close yet never touched, no matter how near they seemed, always separated by an unbridgeable distance. Unless life folded like a blank sheet of paper, they would never intersect.

Su Yuxi knew about Cheng Xiaoyu’s wager with Li Liwei, but she did not have much faith in her brother. Although she loved “Castle in the Sky” that night, its difficulty was far too low. Later, she searched online for its sheet music but found nothing. She wondered if Cheng Xiaoyu had written the piece himself, but the possibility seemed slim—her brother had always struck her as lazy and unimpressive, and someone lacking sincere passion for music and deep insight into life could never write such a song. She had always disliked those who used music as a stepping stone or a ticket—music, to her, was faith, not a tool for profit; it was meant for sharing and expressing, not for show or suffering.

Cheng Xiaoyu had no intention of actively changing his frosty sister’s opinion. Time would tell; character is revealed with the years, he thought. Let things take their course, and so he did.

Time, especially when busy, passed swiftly. Cheng Xiaoyu was like a tightly wound clock: class, break, exercises, class, lunch, class, dismissal, rehearsal, home, arranging music. His life was strict and regular, without deviation. The results of the rehearsals surprised him—they were unexpectedly satisfying. The trio grew ever more in sync, their performance ever more polished.

Huang Yong, who worked at Lantern Forest, started by occasionally visiting the basement to fetch water, but soon lingered after cleaning to listen to their rehearsal, refusing to leave. He’d become their band’s very first fan, and even after hearing the same song for days, he never tired of it.

Eventually, even the owner of Lantern Forest, after Huang Yong’s enthusiastic recommendation, came to watch their rehearsal. The owner, Chen Jinglong, was Chen Haoran’s brother. He praised Xia Shamo’s singing, loved the song, and hoped that Cheng Xiaoyu’s group would perform at the bar—but Cheng Xiaoyu declined; for now, study was their top priority. Chen Jinglong didn’t ask about the composer, never imagining it was the work of high school students—his assumption, in a way, was not entirely wrong.

Cheng Xiaoyu was troubled by this issue as well. The song, for him, was a transcription from memory of a non-existent work. If he didn’t write it out, it might never appear in this world; by rights, he should be considered its author. Yet the music wasn’t truly his own creation, and he felt it shouldn’t belong to him. This dilemma tormented him; he couldn’t bring himself to openly claim it as his work. In his confusion, he could only comfort himself: he was merely borrowing music that belonged to God, sharing it with the world—a most elegant act, and not one deserving of moral reproach.

When their small band could perfectly master this difficult song, the idea of adding another piece to follow it entered Cheng Xiaoyu’s rehearsal schedule. With the school selection just a day away, he remained unworried. What mattered to him was the impact of their New Year’s performance—the selection tomorrow was a minor matter. His teammates were the same; none cared about the selection, and the three, with nerves of steel, didn’t discuss it at all, each going home punctually.

During this period, a small incident occurred in Senior Three, Class Two. The campus belle from the neighboring class, Ji Yunyu, came looking for a chubby boy named Lei Feng, but no one knew him. It happened to be Cheng Xiaoyu and Wang Ou’s break time, so they missed her. Ji Yunyu checked other classes but still couldn’t find Lei Feng. She dared not ask her aunt, afraid her aunt would learn about that day. After a few attempts between classes, the amusing fat boy seemed to have vanished into the crowd, and Ji Yunyu had to give up for now. But since they were in the same school, she figured she would eventually run into him, and found herself inexplicably looking forward to it. This subtle emotion was something she herself could hardly believe, subconsciously insisting she only wanted to repay the money he’d spent.

When the 25th arrived, the day felt long for some, like class monitor Li Liwei; for others, like Cheng Xiaoyu, it was just routine; for Wang Ou, it flew by.

At this time in Huaxia, Christmas was neither as frenzied nor as grand as in his previous life’s country; most people didn’t even know who Jesus was. In his former life, Cheng Xiaoyu found it bizarre that so many countrymen celebrated the birthday of a foreigner who had nothing to do with them, but such was the irrationality of that world—a crowd with no religious faith flocked to observe a religious holiday. Some might argue they only wished for peace on Christmas Eve, to bless family and friends. In truth, they just wanted to join the fun. People in Huaxia loved to join the excitement; this tradition ran deep, and even here, it was no exception.

The small auditorium at Fudan High School, where the New Year’s program selection was held, was packed to bursting. Even the cold, merciless enforcers of the Discipline Committee could not quell the crowd’s overflowing enthusiasm.

Cheng Xiaoyu, Xia Shamo, and Chen Haoran sat idly in the performers’ area, watching the show on the stage. A segment from the Peking opera “Changban Slope,” also known as “Riding Alone to Rescue the Lord,” was being performed. The role of Zhao Yun was played by Sun Zihao, the campus heartthrob from Senior Two, Class Three, and his supporters erupted in waves of screams. Sun Zihao’s singing was competent, but overall unremarkable.

The trio, whose artistic standards were notably higher, quickly grew bored of the high school programs and turned to their own pursuits. Chen Haoran listened to jazz drumming on his headphones, Xia Shamo diligently solved math problems, and Cheng Xiaoyu dozed in his chair. Among a crowd of bright and beautifully made-up girls, the three stood out like aliens. Most onlookers assumed they were only there to fulfill obligations, aiming to be eliminated, probably hadn’t even rehearsed. Though it was just a selection, everyone else had prepared in earnest, donning performance attire and exquisite makeup; even if eliminated, one should showcase their flair. Except for these three thick-skinned introverts, all other acts had seriously prepared.

Most acts were dance, with occasional sketches and comic dialogue, and few instrumental performances—mostly solo, and only two folk singers. Cheng Xiaoyu’s group was scheduled near the end, third from last, so they carried on unbothered, undisturbed by the anxious atmosphere around them.

When Ji Yunyu’s class took the stage, the audience erupted in howls and cheers. Her class performed a Xinjiang dance; the girls all revealed their slender waists, wore sparkling Uyghur caps, red veils, wrists laden with metal bracelets, red lace bustiers paired with long Uyghur skirts—a display of infinite charm, outshining earlier acts. Especially when Ji Yunyu led, the wolf whistles below were deafening, stirring quite a commotion. After that, nothing else excited the crowd. As the remaining acts dwindled, so did the audience—since results weren’t announced on the spot, many left after performing, unwilling to stay till the end.

At last, when Ji Xin announced the twenty-seventh group from Senior Three, Class Two, the trio ambled onto the stage. Once there, they could only stare at each other in confusion. Cheng Xiaoyu, seeing the bare stage, felt his head swell, grabbed the microphone and asked, “Teacher Ji, where are the instruments?” At once, the few people left in the audience burst into laughter.

Ji Xin, exasperated, replied, “You expect the teacher to prepare instruments for your performance? Get down and see if you can borrow something. Next, Senior One, Class Five, take the stage.”

Cheng Xiaoyu had assumed the school would supply everything, and Chen Haoran hadn’t even considered bringing instruments. To their surprise, there wasn’t a jazz drum set or even an electronic keyboard. Cheng Xiaoyu frantically searched the auditorium but found nothing usable, not even the organ he’d once used to accompany the choir—it had disappeared without a trace.

After the last group finished, everyone bid farewell to Ji Xin. Cheng Xiaoyu could only sigh, lamenting his bad luck.

Ji Xin, sorting performance materials, asked, “What happened? No preparations at all?”

Cheng Xiaoyu knew that with another teacher, they might have been kicked out, so he lowered his voice, “It’s all my fault. I didn’t know the school had no instruments.”

Ji Xin genuinely liked this unremarkable chubby boy, so she didn’t blame him much. “So what program did you prepare?”

“Xia Shamo will sing, Chen Haoran and I accompany.”

“Then let Xia Shamo sing a cappella,” Ji Xin said, looking at Xia Shamo.

But Xia Shamo did not speak; she looked up at Cheng Xiaoyu. Seeing Ji Xin wasn’t angry, Cheng Xiaoyu quickly put on a charming smile, “Teacher Ji, a cappella might not be very effective. Why not take a little time to come to our usual rehearsal spot and give us some guidance? It’s not far, just near Fudan University.” His face was full of ingratiating smiles.

Ji Xin was both annoyed and amused, “Only you would dare ask a teacher this.”

Cheng Xiaoyu, undaunted, replied, “Teacher Ji, it’s precisely because you treat music so seriously that we dare make such a request. We wouldn’t have the nerve to brush you off. If you come, satisfaction guaranteed—or your money back if not!”

Ji Xin pointed at him, “You—if I’m not satisfied, let’s see how you explain yourself.”

Cheng Xiaoyu was delighted that Ji Xin agreed, and hurried to add, “Teacher Ji, though we're not the most reliable, our attitude toward music is always earnest and serious—we never cut corners. Otherwise, Xia Shamo and Chen Haoran wouldn’t team up with me.”

Ji Xin glanced at Xia Shamo and Chen Haoran and saw an unusual level of agreement with Cheng Xiaoyu, especially the admiration in Xia Shamo’s eyes. Suddenly, Ji Xin felt a surge of anticipation for their program, wondering what these three oddballs could possibly produce together.