Chapter Five: Advancing to the Next Round

Ke Min’s face was so dark it seemed it might drip water; asking her to go on stage and sing now was practically a death sentence. She hadn’t sung in years. The only reason she still had any name in the industry was her sharp-tongued, combative style—her explosive presence on variety shows, which people both loved and hated. But if she really had to get up and sing, she wasn’t confident at all.

Yet at this moment, she had no choice.

In her earpiece, the production team made it clear: if she didn’t go on stage, it would count as a breach of contract. Not only would she have to pay a huge penalty, but she’d also lose all face in front of the audience.

“The melody of this song is very simple. It’s not hard to sing,” she thought to herself. “Even a street busker can sing it well. There’s no way I’ll be worse.” Even after years of silence, there was no chance she’d be outdone by an amateur nobody.

With this thought, Ke Min stood up with renewed confidence and walked toward the stage. “I’ll show you how a song should really be sung!”

Watching her, Chen Fang only smiled, retreating to one side of the stage without leaving altogether. The soul of “Anhe Bridge” lay in those thirty seconds of the morin khuur. The original arrangement had many instruments—hand drums, drums, morin khuur, guitar, and so on—but since this was a live audition, Chen Fang had pared it down to just the morin khuur. Other instruments could be omitted, sacrificing only some of the song’s effect, but without the morin khuur, the entire emotional core would collapse.

Chen Fang was certain: Ke Min didn’t know how to play the morin khuur. She’d probably never even heard of it before.

Indeed, after going on stage, Ke Min picked up the instrument and tried a few notes, then frowned and tossed it aside. The morin khuur’s playing technique was unique; unless you had some kind of supernatural system like Chen Fang’s, you couldn’t master it in a short time—it took real practice.

Ke Min’s idea was simple: she would sing a cappella.

After all, Chen Fang had sung mostly a cappella as well, only adding a short instrumental break in the middle.

“Ms. Ke, do you still remember the lyrics and melody? I could write them down for you to look at again if you want?” Chen Fang called from the edge of the stage.

Ke Min shot him a venomous glare and sneered, “This song is so simple, I don’t need to hear it a second time!”

Chen Fang said no more.

Ke Min withdrew her gaze, recalling the tune and lyrics of “Anhe Bridge.” Indeed, the melody wasn’t difficult—but to sing it well was another matter.

Online, the barrage of live comments was relentless.

“Ke Min hasn’t sung in four or five years, has she?”

“Who even cares about her singing? People only watch for her insults.”

“If I want to listen to music, I’ll go elsewhere. I don’t need Ke Min for that.”

“Come on, Ms. Ke, you’re from the Academy of Drama, right? Singing a little song should be nothing for you.”

“I’d forgotten—didn’t her drama academy go bankrupt?”

The debate was fiery. Viewer numbers soared, surpassing six hundred thousand. An astounding figure, considering this was only a preliminary audition. Many small shows in their main slot couldn’t reach such numbers, but Starlight Road managed it in just one audition.

“Chen Fang is a real lucky star,” Director Ji’s eyes sparkled as she gazed at Chen Fang standing at the stage’s edge, her excitement a mix of possession and anticipation. Whether she, the site’s PD director, would be promoted to the main program depended entirely on Chen Fang.

On stage, Ke Min began to sing. The lyrics and melody were still those of “Anhe Bridge,” more or less unchanged.

But as soon as her voice rang out, the entire hall fell silent, even the scrolling comments paused for a moment—before erupting in a tidal wave of complaints and mockery.

“It’s the same song, but why does it sound so awful now?”

“Damn, Ke Min’s voice is like a duck—my head hurts!”

“She’s dragging down the reputation of the drama academy!”

“This is unbearable, not a tenth as good as Chen Fang.”

“So stiff, it’s like she’s reciting lines instead of singing.”

This was, in fact, a fair critique. “Anhe Bridge” is easy to turn into a monotonous recitation if not sung with feeling. Ke Min didn’t understand the emotion behind the song, and after four or five years without singing, her performance was flat and lifeless, like a robot reading a textbook.

“I actually felt regret before, but after hearing her sing, I don’t anymore.”

“I just want to die now!”

The audience on site couldn’t help but whisper among themselves. Incredible! Chen Fang’s singing made people want to cry; Ke Min’s made people want to die. In a way, Ke Min was indeed “more powerful” than Chen Fang.

Gradually, Ke Min realized something was wrong. The murmuring from the audience grew louder, even overpowering her own voice, reaching her ears. The praise she’d expected was nowhere to be found; instead, she saw head-shaking, sighing, mocking faces everywhere—even the three judges looked at her as if they were suffering from constipation.

The song came to an abrupt halt. Ke Min’s face was ashen.

Everyone exhaled in relief.

The middle-aged male judge coughed awkwardly and said, “Ms. Ke, please return to the judges’ table. There are more contestants waiting to perform.” As for her singing, everyone tacitly agreed not to mention it.

At that moment, Chen Fang began to clap, his face radiant with a smile. “Ms. Ke, what a wonderful performance—truly worthy of a seasoned veteran! I learned a lot today.”

The venue fell silent; Chen Fang’s applause and words were especially conspicuous—sounding like praise, but dripping with sarcasm.

Backstage, Director Ji rubbed her temples. This guy! The battle’s over, yet he won’t stop attacking. Truly, he holds no grudges—he settles scores on the spot.

Without a backward glance at the glare that seemed to want to devour him, Chen Fang left the stage. As for whether he’d advance to the next round, he didn’t care—there were plenty of singing shows out there, plenty of auditions. If not Starlight Road, there’d be another, and another.

Backstage, Pang Tong was still filming with his phone.

“Fatty, was I cool or what?” Chen Fang’s lips curled into a charming, roguish smile.

Handsome! But seeing Chen Fang’s cocky expression, Pang Tong found himself unable to say the word aloud.

A few seconds later, Pang Tong raised his middle finger, then slowly turned it into a thumbs-up.

Chen Fang burst out laughing, throwing an arm around Pang Tong’s shoulders and lowering his head to check the recording.

To be fair, Pang Tong had found the perfect angle. Whether it was Chen Fang’s profile while singing or the stage lighting, he always managed to capture the most flattering shots.

“Come on, let’s go home!” Chen Fang’s smile bloomed.

“Let’s go home!” Pang Tong echoed.

Today had at least proved that street performers like them weren’t trash or nobodies.

The next second, a voice called out to Chen Fang.

He turned to see a woman approaching, dressed in a gray shirt under a tight black blazer. Chen Fang’s eyes brightened. This woman’s figure was nothing short of stunning; the gray shirt hugged her curves, emphasizing her ample chest, and the professional skirt above the knee outlined her perfect silhouette. Even in his old entertainment company, it would have been hard to find a female artist with a better figure.

Her features, while not breathtaking, were easily an eight out of ten.

“Hello, Chen Fang, I’m Ji Mei, the chief director of this audition,” she said, her eyes cunning as she took in Chen Fang up close. She couldn’t help but marvel—this face was simply too handsome, especially that mischievous curve of his lips, dangerous yet captivating.

“Get a hold of yourself, Ji Mei. You’re five years older than this man,” she reminded herself, pushing the thought aside.

Chen Fang grinned. “Director Ji, what can I do for you?”

“Is ‘Anhe Bridge’ your original work?” Ji Mei asked.

At those words, Pang Tong bristled, about to protest, but Chen Fang stopped him. Meeting Ji Mei’s bewitching eyes—eyes that seemed to seduce without a word—he had to admit, she was dangerously alluring. If he hadn’t been so experienced with women, he might have fallen for her on the spot.

“Yes,” Chen Fang replied.

Ji Mei looked into his eyes; there was no evasiveness, no hesitation.

“For the next round, do you plan to perform another original piece, or a classic old song?”

“Original.”

This answer satisfied Ji Mei greatly. She slowly raised her slender, fair right hand, smiling as delicate dimples appeared on her cheeks. “Congratulations, Chen Fang, you’ve advanced to the next round!”

Hearing this, Chen Fang reached out and grasped her soft, fair hand. In that instant, a flush crept across Ji Mei’s cheeks, her limpid eyes sparkling as if she were tipsy.

“Thank you. Let’s keep in touch,” Chen Fang said, releasing her hand and throwing an arm around Pang Tong as they left backstage.

Watching Chen Fang’s figure disappear, Ji Mei slipped her right hand into her pocket, the warmth lingering in her palm. Out of sight from everyone, Chen Fang’s fingers had lightly tickled her palm.

“You little rascal,” Ji Mei muttered, but there was no trace of anger on her face.

“I hope you can come up with another high-quality original for the next round.”