Chapter 24: A Dispute That Had Nothing to Do with Ren Qianluan

“Do I look presentable today? Not timid, but also not like some country bumpkin visiting the city for the first time, right?” As the two of them waited for the staff to receive them, Ren Qian suddenly reached out and smoothed his nurse sister’s sleek bangs.

“Why are you asking that?”

Wenrun was taken aback, bewildered by Ren Qian’s peculiar train of thought.

“Clothes make the man, and gold adorns the Buddha. Even a rundown temple needs incense to attract worshippers. Dressing up is always a good thing.” Ren Qian explained earnestly. He remembered an essay by the educator Zhu Kezhen, whose central message was that one must pay attention to their attire: even in the face of misfortune, one must not look downcast.

He had always kept that in mind—no matter how plain you looked, you should still carry yourself with dignity. Though times had changed, his outlook on life remained unaltered.

“Someone’s coming. We can go upstairs now. Honestly, I feel as nervous as Granny Liu entering the Grand View Garden,” Ren Qian joked at his own expense. This was one of the three major entertainment companies, after all. In his previous life, visiting a top entertainment company in Heaven’s Empire had been like a pilgrimage; yet, each time, he had been cold-shouldered due to his lack of fame. It was clear that a man without influence truly had little say.

Now, finally able to walk into such a place with his head held high, Ren Qian’s emotions were oddly unsettled.

After a roundabout journey, the two were finally led by a receptionist into his father-in-law’s studio.

The studio was a cacophony of voices and chaos.

Some people’s faces were flushed, necks bulging with veins; some were pounding on tables, shouting; others argued their points with fervor. Clearly, these were talented figures—big names in the music industry. Among peers, no one wished to lose face, making them all the more sharp-edged. Any disagreement threatened to erupt into all-out war.

The dispute had been sparked by two ancient-style songs from his father-in-law’s album, intended as tributes to a legendary singer. These pieces had been painstakingly selected for their traditional charm.

However, some felt the lyrics were a jumbled mess, incomprehensible—mediocre enough to drag down the whole album.

But how could one simply dismiss the painstaking work of others, and even call their creations generic? That was just picking a fight for the sake of it.

Thus, the conflict raged on—from noon until now.

While the argument was in full swing, Ren Qian quietly slipped into the studio with Wenrun, standing to the side to watch the spectacle.

These industry heavyweights usually maintained a benevolent image, but today, their facades were in tatters, veins bulging as they fought tooth and nail. Their obsession with art was evident.

Most of them were people of integrity, and quite a few were former “generals” who had defected from Mars Entertainment, titan of the imperial entertainment world. They loathed King Wan Feng’s self-satisfied smirk, despised the leadership’s rigid and distorted aesthetic, and abhorred formulaic, pedantic creation. In pursuit of artistic freedom, they had willingly left behind generous salaries to come to Rolling Poetry.

“All right. Enough. This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Lin Ruowan clapped his hands to halt the dispute. “If both sides remain deadlocked, we’ll simply remove the two weaker tracks from the album. Because I have already invited a remarkably talented young man to contribute two songs. He’ll perform them now for your review. If they’re suitable, this quarrel can be put to rest.”

If left unchecked, these stubborn old bulls could easily escalate from music to literature, then from literature to history, launching into scholarly sparring that might end with barbed greetings to each other’s ancestors.

“A young man? Our team here must be nearly a thousand years old combined, and even we’re stumped. What can a youngster possibly contribute? Honestly, the young people I see these days have little pursuit of true artistry. They just echo others, never have their own opinions, lack the very soul of an artist. How can you expect them to create anything worthwhile?”

This old man’s direct and forceful nature was plain to see; he spoke his mind, likely a firebrand in his youth as well.

“Come now, Old Niu, that’s unfair. What about those songs that have been causing a stir on Weibo lately: ‘Boundless Seas and Sky’ and ‘Guardian of Flowers’? Heroes have often been young—don’t underestimate the new generation.”

The kindly old man’s gentle smile was no act; even during the argument, he’d worn the same genial expression. With his benevolent face, he truly resembled a laughing Buddha.

“Ahem… enough. I heard ‘Guardian of Flowers’ yesterday and my legs were actually shaking, felt like I was back in my dashing youth. That young man is impressive, to handle melodies with such ease.”

Old Niu flushed. Having just criticized the young, he now had no choice but to admit Ren Qian’s talent. The turnaround was uncharacteristically humble for his stubborn temperament.

“In that case, there’s no need for secrets. The young man I invited is the very one you’ve been talking about—Ren Qian. Both ‘Guardian of Flowers’ and ‘Boundless Seas and Sky’ are his work. Even that song you all kept praising for its dual lyrics—that inspired Cantonese version? He wrote those lyrics on the spot!”

Lin Ruowan seized the moment to introduce Ren Qian. When Li Feifei had first brought this group together for an album, he’d insisted that “Last Order” and “New Order” be included—though at the time, everyone opposed it. But after hearing Lin Ruowan sing, all objections vanished, and they obediently prepared the rest of the album. Now, to reveal that the Cantonese lyrics were Ren Qian’s, and written extemporaneously?

It was like thunder rolling across the sky.

In this era, with uninterrupted Chinese cultural heritage and no wave of blind Western worship, classic Chinese-style songs had been cultivated for decades. Musicians were, accordingly, rather scholarly—some almost like the literati of old, proud and unyielding. They cherished legends, and the story of Lin Ruowan singing impromptu in a languid bar while Ren Qian, struck by inspiration, composed lyrics on the spot in Cantonese was already the stuff of legend for their idle conversations.

But all that could wait. Where was this young man?

All eyes turned, ablaze, to where Ren Qian stood. He spread his hands, giving a rather odd greeting.

“Hello, esteemed seniors. I’m Ren Qian—please take care of me…”

“Enough with the formalities. Just show us what you’ve got,” Old Niu cut in briskly, uninterested in pleasantries. What mattered to him was the quality of the music. He’d been the one to decry the two ancient-style songs as generic, and to provoke the argument. If Ren Qian’s material didn’t measure up, he was ready to unleash a torrent of mockery.

“Very well, I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve brought two Cantonese songs, both in keeping with the album’s theme—‘The Prodigal’s Return.’ But I have no demos, just the music and lyrics. If you want to hear them, we’ll have to head to the music room and play them live.”

Fine then…

A roomful of elders stared at each other, curiosity burning. What kind of songs could they be? To tease their appetites and leave them hanging—didn’t he know how anxious they were?

Old Niu, ever the straightforward one, immediately threw open the studio door, face flushed, and with a booming voice led the crowd charging for the music room.