Chapter Sixty: The Finalization of My Song’s Lineup

Seven days later.

Ren Qian sat leisurely at Director Hong Tao’s desk, his head lowered as he toyed with an exquisitely crafted tortoiseshell teacup in his palm.

The tea within shimmered emerald, and with a gentle sip, its sweet clarity coursed down his throat, as if he were tasting nectar from the heavens.

“This bald monk really knows how to enjoy himself,” Ren Qian thought, conceding his admiration. He was never one for the refined arts, and could hardly pretend to be cultured when it came to tea.

Though he knew little of tea, it was obvious—anyone could tell, even thinking with their toes—that the water used for this brew was painstakingly selected. Only pristine, unpolluted mountain spring water could yield such pure fragrance and exhilarating taste.

Having a couple of cups when one is perfectly healthy was indeed a delight. Especially after seven straight days of intense work, a mouthful of hot tea sent waves of relief through every pore, as if his whole body sighed in pleasure.

The one flaw was the “expressive dumpling” before him, whose ceaseless pacing spoiled the mood.

“Impossible… You actually finished sorting the list in just seven days!?”

Hong Tao sat across from Ren Qian. Moments ago, Ren Qian had brought in a small box and tossed a booklet onto the desk.

The box was filled with CDs, and the booklet contained information on more than forty singers: their profiles, unique qualities, and selling points for the show—each singer occupied half a page.

Hong Tao could scarcely believe it. Did half a page of notes mean he fully understood the singer’s details? Hardly.

So he picked two singers he usually followed and browsed through their sections.

He hadn’t expected much, but a quick glance shocked him. Ren Qian’s analysis of each singer—their strengths and deeper qualities—was razor-sharp, often capturing the essence in a single sentence.

He imagined those analyzed singers would be moved to tears by such insight, grateful for guidance from a master.

As an observer, after barely ten minutes of reading, Hong Tao felt his own judgment had grown keener.

“I really have befriended a true prodigy,” he thought.

Hong Tao recalled that seven days ago, Ren Qian had requested all CDs and singles stored by the TV station.

At the time, Hong Tao wondered what Ren Qian was up to.

Now it was clear: to select contestants for “I Am a Singer,” Ren Qian had analyzed over three thousand CDs in just seven days!

Seven days.

One hundred sixty-eight hours.

Ten thousand and eighty minutes.

Subtracting rest, on average he had to capture every detail—vocal range, timbre, enunciation, breath—within two minutes per singer, then simultaneously output an analysis of their skills, strengths, weaknesses, and selling points for the show…

Within two minutes.

Listening to the singer’s work, extracting their vocal techniques, analyzing the details in his mind, then recording the key points in the notebook—every step meticulously completed. It was the work of someone beyond human.

Hong Tao was awestruck.

He thought himself a workaholic, but this young man was even more committed—committed, and unimaginably efficient.

No wonder Ren Qian, unknown three months ago, had risen so swiftly.

“I have three non-negotiable requirements. First, once the seven singers are invited, the program must not interfere with their song choices. I’ll compose and write lyrics myself. Quality is not your concern.

Second, the scale must be grand! The backing musicians must be the most experienced and skilled in the country—no exceptions. I repeat, not only should there be a traditional Chinese orchestra, but also strings, percussion, harp, piano, guitar… It must never be on the level of an ordinary singer’s concert.

Lastly, producing one season will cost about a hundred million, but the returns… conservatively estimated, will exceed one billion.”

Hong Tao furrowed his brows, deep in thought.

Ren Qian’s statements were resolute. Hong Tao had weighed the plan time and again; he knew Ren Qian’s proposal brimmed with originality.

The ratings would undoubtedly be stellar.

Yet, some requirements seemed extravagantly wasteful.

The elaborate orchestration, the insistence on assigning every singer a dedicated photographer, scriptwriter, and temporary manager—it sounded alarmingly complex.

He hesitated.

“If you want ratings, you must invest effort. Visually, the audience must be indulged. If the program’s effect lets viewers experience the live impact from their own homes, do you think the ratings would be low?

As I understand, a 2.5 percent rating versus a 1.5 percent brings profits worlds apart.”

“Agreed!” Hong Tao clenched his fist.

Just reading Ren Qian’s proposal, it was clear: when this program aired, it would break records for viewership. As for risk—so long as they didn’t fumble during production, it could be ignored.

Besides, with such a show, how could ratings possibly be low? With ratings assured, there were no worries left. Without worries, all that remained was to forge ahead.

First, establish the initial lineup.

Hong Tao eagerly selected several of the most formidable singers:

Sun Mu Nan, a long-established artist with many classic hits, though he seemed to be slowly fading from the music scene—an aging warrior. Yet his participation would surely stir viewers’ nostalgia.

Sha Pu Liang, a singer past his prime, once swept the music world with his distinctive raspy voice, and was the go-to performer for drama theme songs a decade ago.

…

…

The seven chosen singers were diverse in style, yet equally skilled. Seeing how Hong Tao selected them, Ren Qian nearly spat out his tea in outrage.

“Can’t you use your brain?! Starting off with a bunch of bottom-drawer singers—what are the viewers supposed to look forward to?! And who gets eliminated? Don’t you know to pick a couple of cannon fodder? There needs to be a dark horse! The dark horse is a vital highlight!”

Hong Tao was stunned by the sudden rebuke, his face turning dark and embarrassed.

It was awkward.

But he could hardly be blamed.

After all, he had never worked with a program like “I Am a Singer.” Keeping pace with Ren Qian’s thinking was no easy feat—were he capable, the top TV station in the country wouldn’t have needed to buy the rights from Korea.

“No one is perfect. You have your strengths—like designing suspense and managing singers’ relationships. I’m best at controlling the live scene and composing. If we want to create a ratings legend, we must compensate for each other’s weaknesses. So disagreements are inevitable.”

Hong Tao laughed heartily. Ren Qian’s “flattery” was perfectly timed, giving Hong Tao a graceful exit and clarifying their division of labor.

That’s emotional intelligence—easing tensions with those around him.

Otherwise, that earlier unpleasantness might have led to a rift in their collaboration.

“All right, the detailed plan is yours. As for the first batch of singers, I’ll write them down. Use your contacts to reach out. Once you’ve made arrangements, call me.”