Chapter Twenty-Five: Master Wang, Drawn by the Sound

The man before them exuded a certain neurotic, artistic aura. His signature long hair, though not quite reaching his shoulders, brushed the nape of his neck— a style Wu Xiang rarely saw anymore since Brother Kun had shaved his head for a film. Beneath a large pair of black, square-framed glasses gleamed a pair of deep, melancholic eyes. His attire was unremarkable: a simple tracksuit paired with jeans. But there was no mistaking it— even from three meters away, anyone could tell he was an artist.

“You’re the one who wrote that song— Run Forward!—that one?” The artistic man seemed skeptical, even singing a line to confirm, then turned to ask Huang Yi beside him, “Are you sure you’ve got the right person?”

“What’s wrong with you? Believe it or not, it’s him. I’m leaving!” Clearly deciding that artists were all a bit off, Huang Yi, ever rational, made to leave swiftly.

“It’s really you?!” The man was stunned. He had not expected the creator of such a song to be such a young student— younger than himself, even. What’s more, this youth didn’t seem to possess any artistic air: short hair, ordinary clothes, and all wrinkled at that, looking altogether like some country bumpkin.

“Yes,” Wu Xiang answered, caught somewhat off guard.

“Wonderful! Could you tell me, what inspired you to write this song?”

Yet, as soon as the man spoke these words, Wu Xiang instantly recalled who he was.

Wang Feng! Old Master Wang!

Indeed, it was this very question, this presence, this tone—identical to his manner on that famous red chair. This was truly a case of the pillow appearing just as one grew sleepy. But—

Why had he written that song?

Wu Xiang couldn’t very well admit he’d written it just to outdo that girl from earlier.

“Well, this song came from a shout in my heart. I just couldn’t hold it in any longer,” Wu Xiang replied, making up an excuse on the spot.

“Ah! You put it perfectly, that’s exactly how I feel!” To Wu Xiang’s surprise, Wang Feng grasped his hand and shook it fiercely.

What was the meaning of this?

After Wu Xiang had sung the song at last year’s freshman event— since he’d, in truth, borrowed it from elsewhere— he hadn’t given much further thought to it. But it was a genuinely good song, voicing the secret desires of youth, and so it began to spread. At first, it circulated within the film academy, then gradually among the student body in Yanjing University, though only by word of mouth, so the spread was slow. Wang Feng only heard it a few days before, and by then it was already the end of 1998. He and his band had been busy working on their second album and were rather out of touch with campus trends.

But when the Baijiajie 43 band happened to return to their old haunt, 43 Baijiajie, and heard the song, they were ecstatic— it was beautiful, moving, and perfectly suited to their style.

So, Wang Feng discussed it with his bandmates and resolved to find the songwriter.

Why? To secure the rights, of course: sign a deal, buy the song, whatever it took to get permission to perform it.

This was a fundamentally honest matter of copyright. True, even if Wang Feng and his band claimed the song as their own, Wu Xiang could do little about it, since he hadn’t publicly acknowledged himself as the author. Even if there were trouble, a claim of adaptation would suffice. But Wang Feng would not do that; he insisted on finding the original author.

That was the mark of a true musician. Piracy was rampant at the time, a sad reality, but genuine musicians despised piracy and would never stoop to it themselves.

Once Wu Xiang understood Wang Feng’s purpose, he smiled.

“Sure, the song was just a sudden inspiration, something I did on a whim. I’ve heard of your band— you’re very good. If you want to use it, by all means.”

Wang Feng was overjoyed; he hadn’t expected such straightforward agreement— a real man!

“Then let’s sign a contract. Don’t worry, we’ll never take your song for nothing. Come, let’s—”

But Wu Xiang interrupted, “No rush on that. There’s something I’d like to show you first.”

“No rush?” Wang Feng was puzzled.

“Come on, follow me. I have something I want you to see.”

Huang Yi, who hadn’t gone far, saw clearly that Wu Xiang was smiling— the same sly smile he wore whenever he was about to trick someone, just as he had with Wen Zhengrong and Zhang Yanyan before. She quietly trailed after them. After all, she was well acquainted with the boys’ dorm— she came often. She felt it her duty to rescue a wayward youth, and besides, she was curious to see what Wu Xiang was up to this time.

Inside, the room was pitch dark, every window sealed. In the center stood a simple machine, projecting a beam of light onto a screen, creating a cascade of dazzling images.

Wu Xiang and Wang Feng sat before the screen, utterly absorbed, not making a sound.

Tick, tick...

No one knew how much time had passed before Huang Yi realized her tears were out of control, soaking her collar, yet the tears kept falling.

Sobbing, Huang Yi fled— she couldn’t bear to see those images any longer. She simply couldn’t stop her tears, and didn’t want that scoundrel Wu Xiang to see her crying. It wasn’t even sadness— just something uncontrollable, and it was strange.

“What’s going on?”

“Why is she crying?”

Wang Hongzhi and Hao Yi returned from dinner to see Huang Yi running out in tears. Mystified, they opened the door to room 307 and found two men inside, also wiping away tears.

Wu Xiang swiped at his eyes. “Perfect timing, you two. Let me introduce you—this is Wang Feng, lead singer of Baijiajie 43. He’s agreed to compose the soundtrack for our film.”

“Hello,” they both greeted, quickly moving to shake hands, though they were both wondering— how had they ended up with Wang Feng? Was this really Wang Feng?

“Wait! You’re that rock musician?” Wang Hongzhi suddenly realized.

“Yes, that’s me,” Wang Feng replied.

Instantly, Wang Hongzhi and Hao Yi were ecstatic, clamoring for autographs as if meeting Michael Jackson himself.

The 1990s were a time of ferment for Mainland rock. Thanks to the bold experimentation of their predecessors, young people— especially university students—were passionate about rock music. Figures like Wong Ka Kui, Cui Jian, Tang Dynasty, and Black Panther were hugely popular, and Wang Feng, who had released his debut album the previous year, was already quite famous, particularly among students.

Wu Xiang even recalled an old acquaintance, a “half-hometown” relation, always first in every exam from childhood, who was accepted to Tsinghua but left to pursue singing. A few years later, he formed a group that became rather popular, and eventually even invested in a film, directing it himself—a story based on his own life. That person had been inspired by Ka Kui, and his name was Lu Gengxu; the group, Shuimu Nianhua.

With Wang Feng agreeing to help, Wu Xiang was reminded of a song that would be perfect for his film. He hummed a few bars, and Wang Feng was immediately taken with it. The two hit it off, creative sparks flying.

After Wang Feng left, Wang Hongzhi pulled Wu Xiang aside. “Xiangzi, what did you do with Wang Feng? Why did Huang Yi run out crying?”

“She ran out crying?” Wu Xiang hadn’t realized Huang Yi had been watching from outside. As for her frequent visits to the boys’ dorm, he was entirely unbothered. But seeing Wang Hongzhi’s sly grin, he quickly added, “Don’t get any ideas!”

Don’t get any ideas? As if that were possible.