Chapter Thirty-Four: The Ruthless Zhou Miao

In that instant, Li Qin and Zhao Li felt as if they were back in the examination hall, the invigilator distributing test papers and announcing the start of the exam. Both took a deep breath and stepped into the recording studio.

Zhou Miao first let them familiarize themselves with the arrangement, figure out the rhythm and entry points, and then had them practice twice on their own. Once they were truly comfortable, Zhou Miao put on the monitor headphones and started the accompaniment.

Zhao Li felt her heart pounding furiously, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across her forehead. Outside, Cumin couldn't help but feel nervous for her as well.

At that moment, the music began. Zhao Li leaned close to the microphone and softly sang, "The carrying pole is wide, the bench is long, the pole wants to tie onto the bench—"

"The carrying pole is wide, the bench is long, the pole wants to tie onto the bench—" Li Qin immediately harmonized, the playful and amusing lyrics springing to life in their ears.

But in the next second, Li Qin’s gaze sharpened as the drumbeat kicked in. “Marilyn from London bought a cheongsam for her mother, Dostoevsky in Moscow fell in love with beef noodle soup dumplings.”

“All kinds of skin colors, all kinds of hair, everyone starting to speak Chinese!”

The lively rhythm made Cumin unconsciously bob her head to the beat.

“For so many years we’ve painstakingly practiced English pronunciation and grammar, now it’s their turn to curl their tongues, learning the tones and changes, level and oblique tones, such clever Chinese people, such beautiful Chinese language!”

…

After changing clothes at home, Zuo Qiu returned to the company. Time was running out; the company couldn’t hold on much longer and had to push an artist out to earn money. She headed to the production department to check in on how Cumin and Li Qin’s song was coming along. If they hadn’t finished, perhaps it would be better to pick a decent one from the previously rejected drafts.

But as soon as she opened the door, she saw Li Qin and Zhao Li singing in the recording room—she couldn't tell if it was a trial run or an actual recording—and Zhou Miao was there too, sitting sternly at the control console with headphones on, while Cumin was also listening intently, nodding along to the music.

Seeing no one pay her any mind, Zuo Qiu picked up an idle pair of headphones and put them on to hear what they were singing.

"Big brother and little brother sit before the slope, atop the slope lies a goose, below the slope flows a river. Big brother says the river is wide, little brother says the goose is white; the goose wants to cross the river and the river wants to carry the goose, but who knows if the goose crosses the river or the river carries the goose!"

Zuo Qiu’s eyebrows lifted—these lyrics were clever, a tongue-twister?

"The whole world is learning Chinese, Confucius’ words becoming more and more international..."

The chorus wasn’t overly complex, but it was catchy, making Zuo Qiu’s eyes light up. The rapid-fire rap that followed was even more astonishing.

Born into a family of musicians, Zuo Qiu herself had never studied music systematically, but her business acumen was razor-sharp; she could tell after one listen whether a song would be a hit.

And this song, whether in melody, lyrics, or its overall concept, was simply outstanding! If a song like this didn’t become popular, it would be nothing short of an injustice!

The song ended, and Li Qin and Zhao Li walked out, nervous and uneasy. Seeing Zuo Qiu there only made them more anxious.

Cumin glanced at Zhou Miao’s icy expression and dared not speak. When it came to music, this guy became like a mad dog, not tolerating even a speck of dust in his eyes.

Unaware of the situation, Zuo Qiu took off her headphones, delight written all over her face. “Cumin, is this the new song you wrote for them? It’s fantastic!”

Cumin flushed but said nothing, only casting a glance at Zhou Miao.

Zuo Qiu immediately understood—the song was actually written by Zhou Miao! Her heart began to race; she’d struck gold!

But before she could say anything, Zhou Miao’s face darkened. “What was that singing supposed to be?”

The room fell silent in an instant. Li Qin and Zhao Li bowed their heads, silent tears streaming down their faces, their bodies trembling.

They’d ruined it. Zhao Li couldn’t even remember how many lyrics she’d messed up, and muddled through most of the rap sections. Li Qin had it even worse; all the hardest parts were hers, and by the end, she was completely numb.

They were terrified—afraid Zhou Miao would give the song to someone else, which would mean handing over their chance at stardom.

Zuo Qiu, a bit embarrassed, tried to lighten the mood with a smile. “What’s wrong? I thought they sang pretty well.”

But before she’d finished, Zhou Miao’s cold gaze swept over her. Zuo Qiu instinctively shrank back, her voice growing smaller. “Um, but there were some issues…”

“Leave. I’ll find someone else to sing this song,” Zhou Miao declared, merciless as a death sentence.

Zhao Li felt her mind go blank, struck dumb.

It was over—everything was over.

The two left the production department like walking corpses, not even knowing how they made it back to the dormitory. By the time they came to their senses, their tears were already dried up.

Zhao Li couldn’t help but ask herself—what on earth had they been practicing these past two and a half years?

Why couldn’t they even handle a song that was only a bit challenging? They both knew Zhou Miao had already given them a chance today—so long as their performance wasn’t a disaster, the song was basically theirs.

But they’d still botched it. Maybe to outsiders like Zuo Qiu it sounded fine, but as singers, they knew all too well how poorly they’d done.

Singing off key, mixing up lyrics was bad enough, but they’d completely failed to capture the spirit and attitude the song demanded. In this exam that held their fate, they’d failed utterly.

To have only this level of vocal skill and musicality after two and a half years—they themselves were undeniably at fault, but the company’s system shared the blame as well.

Ever since Zuo Qiu took charge, she’d insisted that all trainees excel at both singing and dancing, placing even more emphasis on dance than on vocals.

In her eyes, weaker vocals didn’t matter; the sound engineer could just tweak things during recording. If necessary, they could record word by word and the end result would still be fine. Even performing on stage wasn’t a problem—half-lip syncing or outright miming was the industry norm.

But dancing couldn’t be faked. If your dancing was bad, it showed—and with poor stage presence, how could you be an idol?

Simply put, her expectations for the trainees and for Zhou Miao were not the same. She yearned to cash in on the idol craze with these trainees, while Zhou Miao was responsible for elevating the company’s reputation.

With the boss’s preference for trainees who could dance, countless trainees dreaming of debuting naturally poured all their effort into dance, inevitably neglecting their singing.

Unfortunately, they’d run into Zhou Miao—a man obsessively serious about music. If you wanted to sing his songs, you had to play by his rules. No one else’s opinion mattered.

Back at the company, Zuo Qiu was still trying to persuade Zhou Miao in a gentle tone. “Can’t we lower the standards a bit? Or at least watch them dance—they’re really amazing!”

Zhou Miao gave her an odd look. “What’s the point, even if their dancing is superb? Can she sing with her feet?”

If it weren’t for the company’s dire straits, he wouldn’t bother writing songs for people to whom he had no connection.

But that didn’t mean he had to lower his standards. When he said he’d find someone else to sing it, he meant it.