Chapter Sixty-Four: "The Stairway to Heaven"-God of Song in a Flourishing Age(The Lazy Book Devoured by Tigers)

I Am a Singer: Live Show.

The once empty and desolate studio was now renewed, transformed at astonishing speed. In order to expedite rehearsals and ensure the best possible debut episode, the production team had invited the nation’s most renowned harmony ensembles, string orchestras, percussion groups—all brought in, paid handsomely, with meals and accommodation provided.

Ren Qian calculated the expenses Jiangnan TV had incurred over these days, and realized that even before formal recording had begun, they had probably spent over fifty million already. The aura of extravagance was palpable.

He did a quick estimate: Jiangnan Broadcasting’s profit-sharing arrangement granted him eighteen percent. In other words, if this show generated one and a half billion in profits, Ren Qian would receive two hundred and seventy million.

Jiangnan Broadcasting, ever shrewd with their money, would not offer such generous terms without reason. The high percentage was meant to motivate Ren Qian, to stir that spirit of “a scholar dies for the one who knows him.” They would throw money at him, mountains of gold and silver, to drive him to pour his soul into the show’s design.

Truthfully, Jiangnan TV was hardly troubled by this expense. Two hundred million was just soup with a little garnish; the real feast was reserved for Jiangnan Broadcasting itself, which would eat heartily and drink deeply. They would take Ren Qian’s golden ideas, seize most of the profits, and amass reputation and popularity.

Moreover, if a show’s ratings soared, there were countless invisible benefits—such as “I Am a Singer” boosting the average viewership of other programs. A single percentage point rise could mean astronomical profits.

In any case, since Broadcasting had not sought to squeeze more from him, it showed their attitude, and the director Hong Tao’s high hopes for “I Am a Singer.” At least, their ambition was vast.

But who cared now? It was a win-win, and Ren Qian could use the high-quality recording studio for free, long-term. Such thoughts felt a little petty, but so be it.

“Are all those ‘musicians’ here today? Quite responsive, aren’t they?” Ren Qian joked.

“It’s all thanks to your letter, making such solemn promises: ‘Lay aside superficiality and return to music’s purest essence, let more people in the empire appreciate the beauty of music, use music to save a world in peril’… Your magical persuasion skills—if it were me, I’d hop aboard your pirate ship too!” Director Hong laughed heartily. He loved Ren Qian’s shameless boasting.

His eyebrows involuntarily arched. My god!

Ren Qian was taken aback. The old Hong used to have no eyebrows, matching his bald head, looking out of sync. But over time, he’d grown them back. Not only that, but they seemed to have mutated—thick, dark, and bold, starkly contrasting his shiny bald crown. Like a monk returning to secular life—hair everywhere.

Ahem… back to business.

On stage, the ‘musicians’ had all assembled, and were already playing together. The enchanting notes stirred Ren Qian’s heart.

A singer who loves music is always drawn to a grand, high-quality musical stage.

“Hong, ask the lighting engineer to prepare. I want to test the stage effects in a moment. Also, please give this score to the orchestra, have them copy it and practice two or three times. In fifteen minutes, we’ll start singing!”

He was eager now.

“Alright! I’ll also get the recording crew to capture it for playback later.”

Director Hong, a seasoned veteran of TV production, always knew how to bring out his experience with a simple reminder.

“Go, go! I’m already hunger… thirst… can’t… wait!”

Taking advantage of the lull, Ren Qian wandered backstage, looking over the equipment.

It was top-tier.

The main speakers were from LA (L-Acoustics… Kudo… V-Dosc), the founder of line array speakers, a benchmark of cutting-edge technology, outrageously expensive.

Stage monitors were also from LA (L-Acoustics... HiQ15), virtually monopolizing high-end stage monitoring, with unsurpassed quality.

The mixing console was from England’s Digico SD10. Digico, with its predecessor Soundtracs, had been making analog mixers since the 1980s, always leading innovation. In 1992, they pioneered digital mixing, becoming industry leaders.

Then there was the Sennheiser SKM9000 wireless system—another world-class piece.

Listing all this, Ren Qian simply wanted to emphasize one thing: “Our production team has style; we redefine your expectations every minute!”

…

He held his breath and stepped onto the stage.

Dim lights cloaked Ren Qian’s figure, making him visible for filming but not too exposed, creating an air of mystery and tension.

He stood still.

Suddenly, the lights went out, plunging his face into darkness.

Here, there should be the heavy thud of a heart…

As the crisp piano notes sounded, everyone felt as if a mountain spring had suddenly bubbled up in a silent valley. Or as if gentle footsteps echoed up a slowly ascending stone stairway. Melancholy and solitude.

Like a young woman, in the blossoming spring of March, burdened with sorrow, choking back tears as she traversed the six thousand steps that witnessed half a century of love.

No rain, only petals drifting in the air. Gone, too, was the beloved partner.

He spent his life carving a heavenly stairway to keep her safe, loving her unwaveringly. Though his soul had returned to heaven, his true love endured as the stairway.

“How to find an isolated island?
Escape the bitterness of life in the future…”

God favored Ren Qian, granting him a bass with deadly impact. Coupled with his technical skill from his previous life, his voice seemed to carry a built-in tear-inducing effect. Every word pressed against the tear ducts, each phrase striking the heart’s softest spot.

Three words: Speak and they kneel!

…

When love meets the scorn of the world, do you choose to succumb to gossip, give up, and grow old in sorrow? Or do you abandon everything for a lifetime of companionship?

In Ren Qian’s heart-wrenching performance, Liu Guojiang clearly chose to risk everything for love.

“Like winter without a heater,
Embracing you is a gamble with heaven.
No matter how high, even if it’s a dead end,
Cut off from the world, I only want to grow old with you,
Step beyond the map…
No need for reward—just want you well.”

This was Liu Guojiang’s choice. Why seek comfort in life? If you are by my side, even the coldest winter becomes spring. Even if mountain paths and cliffs block the way, to spend eternity with you is bliss.

“To climb the heavenly stairway with you,
No need to hide…”

“To defend against slander and gossip,
To keep you,
No matter how others boast,
I feel no shame!
With you, I could lose everything…”

The reason Liu Guojiang and the beautiful widow’s love moved millions was the rarity of such devotion. The man shielded her from every storm, bore all pressure, endured the cruel sting of rumors. The woman, unwavering, shared his life, supported him, raised their children, honored him.

“How many couples love to such an age?
When life can be risked for you!
Amidst condemnation, who cares if we’re right?
Still holding hands through the world’s ups and downs,
How many couples understand the true essence?
Can we… endure?
Even if it costs all, love must be fulfilled,
Hold tight and never feel weary…”

At this point, Ren Qian’s vocal cords rubbed with exquisite delicacy, each vibration lingering in his throat, swallowed, then echoing in his chest, until emotions could no longer be contained and finally erupted like a volcano.

It was pure technique—no need for shattering high notes, yet it felt as if hearts were torn, guts wrenched.

The violin goddess cried. Though she didn’t understand Ren Qian’s lyrics, his voice was a sorrowful instrument itself, like a silver needle piercing the heart—not deadly, but causing pain with every breath.

Her eyes blurred with tears, her wrist trembled, and the violin missed a beat.

In the otherwise synchronized orchestra, that miscue was abrupt, like a crack in a mighty dam, water pressing and surging through. The listeners’ emotions broke, tears streaming uncontrollably.

This wasn’t in the original score.

Yet the musicians, all experienced, didn’t panic, instead abandoning the sheet music for spontaneous solos.

Though improvising, the performance remained harmonious, unified in spirit. The violinist’s slip was a blessing in disguise, heightening the atmosphere of sorrow.

“Still fog ahead…
Reaching the cliff or the sea, perhaps never knowing…
To embrace till our hair is white, grow old together…”

With the last faint trailing note, Ren Qian drew a trembling breath. Seemingly accidental, it was a masterstroke—a single breath, like a sob, as if mourning a parting.

All the musicians looked at Ren Qian, faces sorrowful, rising to acknowledge him.

For a singer, nothing is more gratifying than striking a chord in the hearts of fellow musicians—a sign of approval, an honor.

Ren Qian bowed, saluted, and softly panted. Applause, unnoticed, had already begun…