Chapter Four: The Great Era, Internet Celebrities, and Campus Belles

Aunt Zhou did not scold Cheng Xiaoyu much for causing the accident. Instead, she spent some time discussing how public opinion outside was turning against him. Online, he had almost been entirely demonized, painted as an utterly incorrigible, depraved playboy. It was fortunate that Cheng Xiaoyu’s uncle, Su Changqing, held the position of Deputy Minister of the Central Publicity Department. After he made a few calls to the relevant authorities, the mainstream media and online reports began to shift their narrative, now emphasizing that the family of the perpetrator was actively offering compensation. Video evidence was released showing that the driver had swerved and crashed into the roadside barrier without regard for his own safety. They further explained that Cheng Xiaoyu had been educated in America, was using an American driver’s license, was unfamiliar with the local roads in Huaxia, and that his vision had been affected by rain that day—excuses, flimsy as they were, to exonerate him. Many extreme posts digging into Cheng Xiaoyu’s family background were also deleted. Luckily, Cheng Xiaoyu had lost consciousness at the time of the accident and did not flee the scene; otherwise, he would have faced a public fate as notorious as “My dad is Li Gang,” with everyone clamoring for his punishment.

Before leaving, Aunt Zhou handed Cheng Xiaoyu a brand new phone and a laptop. He fiddled for a while with the Great Wall-branded phone, which only had three numbers stored in it—entered by Aunt Zhou herself—labeled: Father, Aunt Zhou, and Younger Sister.

The technological development of this era was approximately on par with that of another world he remembered, with only minor differences—especially notable in Huaxia. At this time, Huaxia’s technological prowess rivaled America’s. In 2009, the world’s largest mobile phone manufacturer was Huaxia’s Great Wall, followed by Nokia. Apple’s Pon1 had only launched in America last year, making barely a ripple on the global mobile market, while Samsung had been reduced to Huaxia’s largest OEM factory.

Since p3 technology had not yet become widespread, and with Huaxia’s robust intellectual property protection, there was no threat of piracy. Paid downloads were the norm, and as a result, the music industry was enjoying a golden era.

The pop music of this world was vastly different from what he remembered. The rise of Huaxia had drawn a large portion of the Black population to Huaxia, with many now living in Taiwan and N, drastically reducing their numbers in America. The export of Huaxia’s culture had infused global pop culture with strong Huaxia elements—many Black and White artists could now sing traditional Peking Opera or Yue Opera with perfect articulation. The mainstream of Huaxia’s popular music was folk songs, ballads, and songs from TV dramas and films.

Global popular music, lacking the influence of Black music, showed almost no trace of blues, rap, or soul. Meanwhile, the mainstream of American pop was dominated by rock, jazz, country, and dance music. Pop music as a genre was hardly recognized by the art world; those who performed opera, played piano, composed symphonies, or studied classical music were regarded as true musicians, the “highbrow.” Those who sang popular songs or played rock were considered unserious, their music dismissed as “lowbrow.” Even singers of folk songs could only be called vocalists, never artists.

Cheng Xiaoyu’s health had improved rapidly these days; by the second day after waking, he could go to the bathroom on his own. He had also discovered that, during his two-day coma, he’d been put in adult diapers. The one who had changed them for him was the cool, aloof young nurse Hu Lili. Cheng Xiaoyu, an old hand at life, felt no embarrassment that a young woman had seen him in such a state, but the nurse blushed every time she saw him. She was new to the intensive care ward, and in the general ward, such tasks were usually handled by family members.

Hu Lili’s poor opinion of Cheng Xiaoyu was not just shaped by the news and the internet—after all, the archetype of the unattractive, heartless rich boy was always the villain in film and television. Moreover, the victim was in the special care ward on the floor below, tended by another of Hu Lili’s friends. During breaks, she would hear her friend describe how the victim’s mother wept by her daughter’s bedside—such a pitiable mother and daughter, especially since the girl was said to be breathtakingly beautiful, otherworldly in her innocence.

So, whenever Hu Lili gave Cheng Xiaoyu an injection, she made a point of pricking him as many times as possible. She figured this fat guy’s skin was thick and his veins hard to find; even if he complained, she had her excuses ready for the head nurse. Cheng Xiaoyu remained oblivious to her intentions, merely assuming she was inexperienced and thus never blamed her, enduring the pain in silence. After each injection, he would even give her a gentle smile, which only disgusted her more, making her believe the fatso harbored ill intentions, and so her attitude toward him grew colder still.

Aunt Zhou came every night, always bringing a variety of takeout from Deshantang: chestnut-braised black chicken, red-braised lion’s head meatballs, crab roe tofu, and fermented bean curd pork—never the same dishes twice. Cheng Xiaoyu, untroubled by dietary restrictions, would eat until he was sweating and stuffed, reflecting afterward that he had already entered a carefree, idle existence, eating his fill and waiting for whatever might come.

When Aunt Zhou visited, she rarely spoke much. She would smile as she watched him eat, tidy up his room, chat a little, and then leave. Only on the first day did she mention anything about the accident, and after that, never brought it up again. Cheng Xiaoyu once suggested visiting the girl he had injured, but Aunt Zhou told him to wait for his father’s instructions, and the matter was dropped.

Cheng Xiaoyu never did get to see the victim who was just one floor below him before he was discharged. When he was almost fully recovered, he tried walking around the hospital to stretch his legs, but soon discovered people whispering and pointing at him, so he stopped going out. Instead, he spent his days in bed, surfing the internet on his laptop—this special care ward had broadband, a rare luxury in this era.

He browsed the campus forum of the Shanghai Theatre Academy out of curiosity. The top post on the homepage was all about him, titled “Rich Kid’s Reckless Driving Causes Tragedy—Campus Beauty Still Unconscious.” Public discussion in this era was quite open; even someone like Su Changqing from the Central Publicity Department couldn’t simply ban all talk, only requesting that websites delete posts violating privacy clauses involving Cheng Xiaoyu’s family. Cheng Xiaoyu himself was not spared; his admission photo was plastered all over the internet. Compared to the ethereal beauty of the victim, his own unflattering appearance only fueled the flames of public outrage.

Clicking into the post, he learned that the girl’s name was Xia Yancheng. She was the newly crowned campus beauty, top scorer in liberal arts in Hunan province, and had dazzled everyone during her interview. Her talent performance—a rendition of Daiyu Burying Flowers—left everyone amazed, and she had been admitted to the opera performance program as the top candidate, regarded as the brightest future star since the famous Jiang Lan.

The Shanghai Theatre Academy and the Central Conservatory of Music were considered the twin cradles of Huaxia’s performing arts, known as “South Theatre, North Conservatory”—the hardest art schools to get into. Almost all opera masters came from these two institutions. Every year, the prestigious Plum Blossom Awards for opera were almost entirely swept by students from these academies, while other schools could only look on in envy. For instance, last year’s Plum Blossom Award for Best Qingyi went to Jiang Lan, the fourth-generation inheritor of the Cheng school from the Theatre Academy, while the most coveted award, Best Opera, went to the Conservatory’s “Phantom of the Opera.” In another world, this would be akin to the Oscars for Best Actress and Best Picture.

With a future star like Xia Yancheng struck down by a playboy, how could it not cause a sensation? Fortunately, she hadn’t been at the school long enough to have much sway—if Jiang Lan had been the one injured, there would probably have been student strikes demanding harsh punishment for the culprit.

There were several of Xia Yancheng’s photos in the post, apparently submitted for her application—plain, everyday shots, but as the media said, she was a beauty seen only once in a thousand years in Huaxia. Looking at her photos, that was no exaggeration. In an age before Asia’s “three great sorceries” had become widespread, such pure beauty was truly rare—an unblemished, makeup-free face and a slender figure enough to topple kingdoms. Even Cheng Xiaoyu, whose taste had been refined by a decade’s exposure to the three great sorceries, could find no fault with her—except perhaps that her bust was not particularly full.

Turning the page, he saw a flood of images of himself, all heavily photoshopped—his head swapped onto Zhu Bajie’s body, being chopped with an axe, stuffed into a toilet, and a number of animated gifs. They had even given him a nickname: “Creepy Bro.” Faced with this, Cheng Xiaoyu was at a loss for words. The fame he’d never achieved in his previous life had come so easily this time.

He was, it seemed, famous now.

He wondered if the term “internet celebrity” even existed in this era. If it did, he would surely be hailed as the progenitor of all internet celebrities—a legend in his own right.