Chapter Forty-One: The Filming of "A Touch of Flaw in White Jade"

Ren Qian was drenched in sweat.

Should he just catch a ride and escape this place of trouble as soon as possible? After leaving, he could call his mother-in-law and tell her that something urgent had forced him to depart.

But she had gone so far as to move all her kitchen utensils here! That meant he could never return to record his songs and poems at this place again; otherwise, every visit would subject him to her cooking. He would not die, but his lifespan would surely be shortened.

“If I can’t record here, there will be other places for me. Even if I have to take a cab to the south side, I won’t risk visiting my mother-in-law again.” Ren Qian mulled over his options, turning them over in his mind until he settled on a plan. He nodded, turned, and strode away with resolute determination.

“Little friend Ren Qian, could you give old Niu a lift? I need to get my stomach pumped—please have mercy.”

“Senior Niu, I’m sorry.” Ren Qian offered a respectful bow, then turned and plunged into the crowd. He had to get out before things took a turn for the worse.

“Good son-in-law…”

Ha. He had feared exactly this, and now it had come to pass—not even while cooking! Why had she suddenly come downstairs?

Ren Qian was forced to stop, turning back with an awkward smile. He recalled a saying: A true hero dares to face the bleakness of life, dares to confront fresh blood.

“You truly do miss your mother-in-law’s cooking, don’t you? Wonderful! You’re just in time to taste my latest invention. Look at them—they all say it’s delicious. Old Niu, right?” His mother-in-law’s beautiful eyes swept over to the constipated-looking old Niu.

The old man’s expression changed. He straightened his chest and laughed hollowly, “Delicious, delicious. Eating it moved me in ways I cannot describe, hahahaha…”

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, Ren Qian’s face was dark with frustration. He cursed his own convincing performance the other night, which had inflated his mother-in-law’s pride and fueled her urge to poison the masses—she had even come to the company to show off her skills, and now he was the unlucky one.

“Mother-in-law, your culinary skills are indeed unmatched, but I ate quite a lot for lunch today. You came to benefit the company, so I shouldn’t intrude. Otherwise, if the employees go hungry, they’ll blame me.

Besides, I need to record a few songs first. I must protect my voice. I’ll eat after the recording. If that’s not possible, perhaps you could pack some for me to take home for dinner.”

Ren Qian chuckled nervously. The situation was already as it was—he couldn’t just leave, but staying would mean suffering at the hands of her cooking. Suddenly, inspiration struck—he found an unassailable excuse.

“Very well, go record your songs. I’ll continue experimenting with new recipes.”

At her words, Ren Qian finally breathed a sigh of relief.

...

“Ren Qian, you’re truly our savior! We’ll record with you all afternoon. Whatever effect you want, we’ll deliver. Please promise you won’t leave until we’re off work!”

Ren Qian had gathered the pianist, drummer, bassist, harpist, guitarist—all the available staff from Rolling Verse Entertainment Company. Saving them was, in a way, saving lives.

They rushed over, deeply moved, wiping tears and snot as they took their seats in the music hall.

After sampling the diva’s cooking, their taste buds were utterly ruined. Their mouths were filled with the flavor of burnt charcoal, and a vague nausea lingered.

Alas, she could have relied on her looks, but insisted on cooking—truly mad!

“Alright, let’s get serious. I’ve shown you all the sheet music. The first song we’ll record is ‘The Tale of the Stone.’ I want you to evoke an ethereal, dreamlike atmosphere—misty and expansive. Take ten minutes to prepare, and we’ll start recording!”

‘The Tale of the Stone’ was a song of such caliber that, even with Ren Qian’s excellent vocal condition, he feared he might not do it justice. His tone was noticeably grave.

He took a deep breath and signaled the ensemble to begin.

The harpist laid her hand on the instrument and gently plucked the strings. An arpeggio, like celestial music from the isle of Penglai, washed over them.

At first, the musicians had doubted the inclusion of a harp. Now, they understood—the effect was truly extraordinary.

The main melody of the chorus poured forth after the harp’s opening note. The twin guitars surged ahead, stirring the heart and pulling them into a dream in an instant.

‘Having seen the cold wind blow and snow drift, growing thicker
Shoes worn, roads wet through
Looking again at distant green hills, willow fluff tossed, weak willows
Once drunk alone, illness and emaciation’

Ren Qian, skilled in the lower registers, did not need to force his voice, giving him more freedom to focus on emotion.

Through drunken eyes, he surveyed the Red Chamber, witnessing a once-glorious family’s rise and fall…

Yet he would not sigh, for he was not a storyteller, but the immortal grass that had perished—its tears spent, soul returned to the Jade Pool. He was also Jia Baoyu, who after becoming a top scholar, set out to seek immortality. The love and passion that unfolded in the Grand View Garden, the unforgettable vows, could only become fleeting shadows.

Just as in the song.

‘Listening to the faint music drifting through the world,
Dancing alone, clothes and hair in disarray,
Trying to cast away all thoughts, as illusory as real,
Old dreams rise and fall in the deep courtyard,
Drinking life and death knots with wine,
Who knows the laughter hides traces of tears,
Calculating little by little,
Yet always far apart,

Round and round,
Becoming fragments of mortal fate,
Entangled and troubled, marrying off,
Love turns into longing,
Truth and falsehood,
All joys and sorrows are but deception,
Calculating little by little,
Yet always far apart,
Round and round,
Becoming fragments of mortal fate,
Entangled and troubled, marrying off,
Love turns into longing,
Truth and falsehood,
All joys and sorrows are but deception.’

Ren Qian sang as if floating on clouds, the final note fading, leaving the music hall in utter silence. Not a sound was heard. This song, purely by feeling, could surpass ninety-five percent of all others! With Ren Qian’s magnificent bass, it was breathtaking.

He was indeed the man who wrote ‘Rogue’ and ‘The Voice of the Wanderer’; his reputation was well deserved.

The musicians couldn’t help but straighten their backs. They had once accompanied a diva, once played for a superstar, and had worked with so many top artists their fingers could barely count. Accompanying stars was business, and playing with divas only stirred a ripple within them.

Yet recording with Ren Qian gave them a sense of pride—not for any other reason, but simply because they had encountered a truly great piece, like a master discovering a remarkable painting or a prized stone.

“Next song! Ten minutes to prepare!”

Ren Qian was in his element. The ensemble was equally energized, quickly scanning the music and then seamlessly collaborating with him. Each song was recorded in a single take.

Ren Qian was astonished. Talented singers could record several songs in one day, but few actually did so, since recording too many tracks could affect voice and performance quality, making it hard to guarantee the best results for each single. Yet Ren Qian could not bear to stop. After recording, he reviewed each track with the ensemble.

‘Boundless Oceans,’ ‘The Guardian,’ ‘Lingering Regrets,’ ‘Farewell to Ideals,’ ‘It’s Really Not Like the Real Thing,’ ‘Contented Heart,’ ‘Shallow Dimples,’ ‘Long Time No See,’ and other songs from Dream of the Red Chamber were played in turn—everyone listened intently.

“There are no flaws! Just a bit of necessary sound polishing, and some places could be refined for even more brilliance…”

Ren Qian nodded. They all had professional expertise—their suggestions were well worth considering.