Chapter Four: Why Did You Have to Provoke Him?

Only the sound of the morin khuur remained at the audition venue.

Chen Fang gazed into the distance.

In that moment, the sense of loneliness emanating from him was overwhelming, saturating the air. No hint of forced performance could be found on his face; the weariness in his eyes and the serenity in his expression moved people to tears.

The entire venue was silent.

Even the barrage of comments on the live streaming platform was conspicuously blank.

In an instant, the eyes of everyone present turned red, their hearts weighed down by an indescribable heaviness.

The music continued for thirty seconds.

Not a second more.

Not a second less.

When Chen Fang finally put down the morin khuur, the stage returned to its previous a cappella state, yet the sound of the instrument lingered, echoing in everyone’s ears, reverberating in their minds, unforgettable.

Before he played the morin khuur, the song only brought a mild sense of regret; but that sublime passage unleashed all their emotions to the fullest. Most people’s eyes reddened instantly, memories of the past flooding in, tears streaming unbidden.

◤I know
Those summers, like you, will never return.
I will no longer
Hold high hopes for anyone.
I know
Each day this world is full of regret.
So, hello, goodbye.◢

As he sang the final line, Chen Fang withdrew his distant gaze, lowering his eyes gently.

True silence.

The music faded.

The venue remained hushed for a long time, as if submerged in stagnant water, not a ripple in sight.

No one knew how much time had passed before enthusiastic applause erupted backstage. Chen Fang collected himself, looking toward the back, where Pang Tong, one hand gripping his phone to keep recording, slapped his arm with the other, trembling with emotion—a man nearly two hundred pounds, his eyes red.

Compared to others, Pang Tong was the one who understood Chen Fang’s song most deeply.

Chen Fang knew.

Pang Tong’s emotions encompassed so much: affirmation of his performance, regret for past experiences, acceptance of inevitable loss.

...

A faint smile curved on Chen Fang’s lips as he gave Pang Tong a thumbs-up.

Pang Tong’s applause brought everyone out of their reverie; the next second, the whole venue erupted in thunderous applause.

Backstage, all staff could not help but join in. This song deserved every bit of fervent applause, and Chen Fang, the singer, deserved it as well.

After a long while, the applause gradually faded.

Chen Fang stood from his chair, bowed to the audience—not to the four judges, but to all those who had applauded him.

When Anhe Bridge resounds, even the stray dogs by the roadside feel regret.

If this cannot move the judges, nothing can.

At the judges’ table.

Ke Min’s face was stiff.

Just minutes ago, she had mocked him as a worthless street singer, and now he was the brightest star in the room, while she had become the greatest fool.

The other three judges breathed a sigh of relief, grateful they hadn’t mocked Chen Fang as bluntly as Ke Min had; otherwise, they would have shared her humiliation.

The middle-aged male judge sighed.

Chen Fang’s words had been true.

Reduced to serving as judges at an audition, what airs could they possibly put on?

Hearing this song today was not Chen Fang’s good fortune, but theirs. In an otherwise ordinary audition, they had witnessed the rise of a future star!

“Contestant Chen Fang, your performance was outstanding!” one judge spoke.

“Both the quality of the song and your singing were flawless. Any further praise would be redundant. From me, you pass.”

“It’s hard to believe you’re just a street singer. With your ability, you should perform on a larger stage. I hope to see you in the official program. So, from me, you pass as well.”

Two judges spoke in succession.

Only the middle-aged man and Ke Min remained.

The man glanced discreetly at Ke Min, then smiled kindly: “A street singer is not your end. Keep going, you pass.”

“Luckily, I only shook my head earlier and didn’t attack him like Ke Min did. Otherwise, I’d be the one unable to step down now.” He felt grateful—the most awkward person now was not him, but Ke Min.

At that moment.

All eyes fell on Ke Min.

Those attentive gazes should have made her feel honored, but now they stabbed her like needles.

She was restless and uneasy.

A few seconds later.

Ke Min bit her lip and looked at Chen Fang on stage.

Chen Fang regarded Ke Min with a mocking gaze.

Seeing this, Ke Min’s expression nearly faltered. She took several deep breaths to suppress her irritation.

“The song’s quality is good,” she said. “Especially the composition—the addition of a rare instrumental passage was very fitting.”

Her face was expressionless as she continued, suddenly changing her tone: “But your singing isn’t up to par. If someone with real skill sang it, the effect would be much better.”

“I can only say: if a person isn’t good enough, no matter how good the song is, it’s garbage. So I will not pass you.”

As her words ended.

The venue fell into a dead silence.

The other three judges stared at Ke Min in astonishment.

Good Lord!

None of them were deaf.

Chen Fang had sung so well, and she still claimed he lacked skill—how brainless must one be to say such a thing!

But on second thought, Ke Min never had much sense to begin with—it fit her character perfectly.

And she wasn’t done yet.

Ke Min continued: “Also, you claim this song is original. I have my doubts. I don’t want someone to take the stage for the official program and then be exposed for plagiarism. I’m thinking of the production team.”

Sorry!

You’ll never pass with me—not in this lifetime.

Today, Ke Min was determined to belittle Chen Fang, to make him realize his place—that he was just a worthless street performer.

In an instant.

The crowd erupted.

“Is she out of her mind? Chen Fang sang so well, and she says he’s not good enough?”

“Ke Min’s insults have gone off the rails!”

“If Chen Fang is eliminated in the audition, this Starlight Road show might as well be canceled.”

“In fact, Ke Min has a point. Can a street singer really write such a song? There’s a strong suspicion of plagiarism.”

“There’s nothing about Anhe Bridge online—it must be original.”

“Not necessarily—maybe some great composer wrote it but hasn’t released it online yet, and Chen Fang got it first.”

“That’s unlikely…”

Simply put.

Ke Min’s words were vicious.

Everyone’s focus shifted from the performance to whether the song was plagiarized.

Ke Min smirked coldly.

Today, I will see you fall!

Seeing this, Chen Fang’s face showed no fear or worry, only increased mockery in his gaze. When the venue reached a boiling point, Chen Fang picked up the microphone and spoke slowly: “Why can’t a street singer write such a song? If you think like this, today’s audition is a joke.”

“The production team might as well just pay big stars to perform. Wouldn’t that be better?”

Suddenly.

The venue quieted quite a bit.

Yes!

The purpose of the audition was to select outstanding performers from ordinary people.

And wasn’t Chen Fang exactly who the audition hoped to find?

Chen Fang looked at Ke Min, his eyes full of ridicule: “Ms. Ke Min just said if someone else sang my song, the effect would be better. Then why don’t you come up and sing it, Ms. Ke Min? Let me learn from you.”

...

Backstage.

Sister Ji felt a headache coming on.

This Chen Fang was a bit too sharp—he’d cornered Ke Min.

But Ke Min had brought it all on herself!

Sister Ji had a feeling that Ke Min would suffer a major setback because of Chen Fang.

“Sister Ji, should we ask Chen Fang to leave the stage?” a staff member asked.

Sister Ji glanced at the real-time stats—they’d already surpassed five hundred thousand.

The screen was filled with: Have Ke Min sing!

“Tell Chen Fang to move to the side of the stage, and inform Ke Min—she’s to sing,” Sister Ji instructed.

The staff member hesitated. “Really have Ke Min go up and sing?”

“If she doesn’t, our official account will be bombarded until we have to shut down comments. Ke Min is nothing! If she refuses, it’s a breach of contract.” Sister Ji showed no mercy; she’d been paid by the production team and had to deliver, and all the trouble had been caused by Ke Min herself—she had to clean up her own mess.

Meanwhile.

All four judges received the backstage message through their earpieces.

Suddenly.

The other three looked at Ke Min with pity and sympathy.

Honestly!

You picked the wrong fight.

Now even the production team won’t protect you.

Given the choice between supporting a promising new star and offending a washed-up industry veteran, anyone with sense knows what to do.