Chapter 464: Discussing Music with Zhou Hui (Requesting Monthly Tickets)

Zhou Hui didn’t notice Wei Ming’s worry; she was only happy.

Just now they had been sitting across from each other, but as soon as her mother left, she moved right beside Wei Ming, pressing close.

Amin first picked up a piece of white-cut chicken for Aming: “Eat, it’s tender.”

Wei Ming sighed: “My arm suddenly lost strength—I can’t even lift my chopsticks.”

“Oh, not working? Are you sick?” Amin’s first reaction was concern, but three seconds later, she suddenly bumped her arm against Wei Ming’s.

“Naughty~” Realizing her mistake, Amin picked up another piece with her chopsticks and fed it straight into Wei Ming’s mouth—service complete.

After swallowing that tender piece of white-cut chicken, Amin asked: “Did you get the demo I sent you?”

“Yeah, that one—‘Red Lotus Fragrant, Jade Mat Cold.’”

“How do you feel about it?” Amin asked eagerly.

Wei Ming: “Hmm, it’s full of spirit, but I think there’s room for improvement.”

“Like where?”

“Eat first. After dinner, we’ll discuss it slowly.” As he spoke, Wei Ming also picked up a piece for Amin, lifting her chin and guiding the food straight to her stomach.

As for Zhou Ma, Wei Ming had clearly overestimated the old ghost—by the time she came upstairs, they’d already finished, just in time to watch *The Legend of the Condor Heroes* together, all three of them cheerful.

After dinner, Wei Ming volunteered to wash the dishes to leave a good impression on his future mother-in-law, then followed Amin into the bedroom, closed the door, and began discussing music.

But the moment the door shut, Zhou Hui’s face turned red—music had vanished from her mind, replaced entirely by the Japanese movie she’d watched at Wei Lingling’s place not long ago.

Her mouth went dry, her body heated up.

“Amin, Amin~”

Wei Ming called out twice before she snapped out of her daydream.

“Ah, oh, you were saying?” Amin leaned back on the bed, legs dangling off the edge, letting Wei Ming take her chair.

Wei Ming said: “Do you know how popular you are on the mainland?”

“You said before that Pacific Records in Guangdong released my album, and all the money went to you,” Amin pouted—not angry, just playful.

Wei Ming laughed: “Just a few dozen yuan? Tomorrow I’ll take you out and spend it all.”

“Only a few dozen yuan? How could I be popular? I’ve made a million this past few months,” Amin boasted—every penny was from her own savings.

*First Love · Zhou Hui* sold over seven platinum copies—more than 300,000 units—and *Favorite · Zhou Hui* sold two platinum, and that’s just Hong Kong; Taiwan sold well too. She was her own boss, no middlemen taking cuts—her income rivaled top movie stars.

Wei Ming leaned close and pinched her cheek: “You’re amazing.”

Amin kicked her legs happily, her slippers flew off, and she flopped flat onto the bed.

Wei Ming continued: “Even though you haven’t made much money yet, it’s only because you haven’t come to the mainland. Once you do, as a Hong Kong artist, your treatment will be completely different from mainland singers.”

This wasn’t just flattery—later, a Taiwanese musician named Hou came to the mainland and sang *Descendants of the Dragon*; each record earned him one yuan, something mainland singers simply didn’t get.

“In just a few months, do you know how many copies of your album sold?”

“How many?”

“Over a million. The most popular track is ‘Pink Memories.’ You’re now the best-known Hong Kong singer on the mainland, paired with Deng Lijun as the twin stars of the era.”

Zhou Hui covered her mouth in shock—a million? Even with Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Southeast Asia combined, *Favorite · Zhou Hui* hadn’t reached that number.

Wei Ming smiled: “All this talk, but what I really want to ask—isn’t it time you sang ‘One Cut of Plum · Red Lotus Fragrant, Jade Mat Cold’ in Mandarin? Right now, calling you Deng Lijun’s equal is an exaggeration. Don’t you want to truly deserve it?”

For a song to achieve the broadest influence in the Chinese music scene, it must be sung in Mandarin. Deng Lijun’s *Faint Sorrow* sold millions—no top Cantonese album could come close.

Even in Hong Kong, *Faint Sorrow* easily went platinum.

“Mandarin?” Amin thought. She’d eventually live on the mainland with Aming—he was right. And with Ni Nai’s teaching, her Mandarin was already excellent.

“I’ll try. Put on that blank tape on the table.”

“Red lotus fragrant, jade mat cold, I loosen my silk robe, climb alone onto the orchid boat. Who sends brocade letters from the clouds? When geese return, the moon fills the western tower…” Accompanied by her own arrangement, Amin sang—now in Mandarin, it carried the very feel of Deng Lijun’s *Faint Sorrow* series.

When she finished, Wei Ming clapped first, then offered advice: “Your diction must be soft, flowing, and clear. Try placing your articulation on the soft palate… right here.”

Wei Ming sat right on the edge of the bed and began guiding her physically.

“I’m struggling—this line feels too long,” Amin panted.

“You must ensure deep breaths and maintain expansion in your ribs—that’s how you sustain long phrases.” Wei Ming placed his hand on her ribs, feeling her breath flow—lessons he’d learned watching Gu Jianfen teach Yueyue.

Amin thoroughly enjoyed these intimate moments with Aming, and studied harder because of them.

Gradually, with Wei Ming’s help and revisions, the song took on his shape, growing closer to An Wen’s *Moon Fills the Western Tower*.

Previously, Liu Jiachang in Taiwan had composed a song titled *Moon Fills the Western Tower*, but on the mainland, everyone knew An Wen’s 1990s version—exactly Li Qingzhao’s original lyrics, unchanged, carried by powerful composition and arrangement.

An Wen played Qingwen in *Dream of the Red Chamber*, so the song carried a distinct *Dream of the Red Chamber* flavor.

Finally, Amin sang it through completely—it still differed slightly from An Wen’s version, retaining some of Zhou Hui’s personal traits, less traditional, yet still very beautiful, like later-generation gufeng songs that felt modern yet preserved classical essence.

With this song out, middle schoolers would never again worry about memorizing it.

Wei Ming excitedly said: “Amin, you must credit me as composer—I contributed.”

Zhou Hui blushed: “Contributed? It feels like you wrote it all—much better than I did.”

“No, I only made minor revisions to your foundation.” Insisting, Wei Ming made it a co-composition—lyrics still by Li Qingzhao.

The arrangement needed adjustments too. Amin asked Wei Ming to hand her the pipa. Looking at him twisted awkwardly on the bed’s edge, she said: “Aren’t you uncomfortable? Take off your shoes and get up here.”

“Oh, I’ll bring this,” Wei Ming picked up the erhu and climbed onto the bed. “I learned a bit from a guy named Hu Weili.”

Hu Weili had deep mastery of traditional instruments; his erhu intro for Liu Dehua’s *Days We Walked Together* was pure genius.

One pipa, one erhu—they played together on the bed, laughing.

With Wei Ming’s help, the song grew fuller. Amin was overjoyed—she felt that once a professional orchestra finished the arrangement, this would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with *Faint Sorrow*. In her heart, it might not surpass *Wishing We Last Forever*, but it matched *Alone on the Western Tower*.

“What should we call this song? ‘One Cut of Plum’?” Amin asked excitedly.

Snowflakes drift, north wind howls… Wei Ming’s mind flashed with those lyrics—and the image of Yuan Hua calling. No, no—too catchy, too distracting.

Wei Ming suggested: “Pick a line from the lyrics. How about ‘Moon Fills the Western Tower’?”

“Yes, good. I was just thinking of Deng Lijun’s *Alone on the Western Tower*,” Amin beamed.

Wei Ming: “See? One song done. Write a few more—we can release another Mandarin album.”

Wei Ming envisioned alternating between Mandarin and Cantonese albums, occasionally testing the waters with English or Japanese ones too.

Since Amin wanted to deeply pursue music, as her boyfriend, he’d fully support her—not just write songs for her, but cultivate her own creative ability.

“Alright, which poem should we tackle next?” Amin couldn’t wait to keep creating.

Wei Ming looked at Amin’s snow-white cheeks and waterfall of hair, then asked: “Do you know Wen Tingyun’s *Bodhisattva Mantra · Small Hills Overlap, Gold Glitters*?”

Zhou Hui shamefully shook her head. She recognized Wen Tingyun’s name, but hadn’t seen this poem while reading Song lyrics.

“Wen Tingyun was a Tang poet and lyricist, hailed as the greatest Tang lyricist—a romantic figure, famous for his story with the Taoist nun Yu Xuanji…”

Wei Ming first explained the historical context, then described the content of *Bodhisattva Mantra*.

He noticed a complete anthology of Tang poetry and Song lyrics nearby, picked it up, flipped through, and quickly found Wen Tingyun’s famous piece.

Wen Tingyun loved *Bodhisattva Mantra*—he wrote fourteen lyrics using this form. The one they were reading was the most famous; legend says there were originally twenty, but only fourteen survived.

“Small hills overlap, gold glitters, cloud-like hair brushes snow-white cheeks. Lazy, I rise to paint my brows, delay my makeup and wash. Facing mirrors front and back, flowers and face reflect each other. New embroidered silk robe, paired golden pheasants.” Zhou Hui read it aloud in Mandarin.

Though this poem lacked a single immortal line, it vividly captured a woman’s languid beauty as she dressed. Wei Ming thought of her face and immediately recalled this poem—it was also a piece later successfully adapted.

Together they discussed how to turn this short lyric into a song, occasionally plucking strings, then drawing the bow.

As they talked, Amin asked: “Aming, are you cold?”

“I…” Wei Ming saw she was still in her nightgown, nodded. “Cold.”

Amin swiftly spread the quilt, covering them both, leaving only their heads exposed.

Upstairs, *The Legend of the Condor Heroes* ended. The old ghost and Zhou Ma had thoroughly discussed separating the milk tea business from Holiland—and finally decided: split it!

Milk tea was indeed popular at Holiland, but many customers—especially women—came only for the milk tea. A swarm of middle-school girls would each order one, sit for an hour, and severely hurt Holiland’s core business.

Plus, as milk tea varieties multiplied, kitchen space grew scarce, and a separate staff member was needed. In the end, profits were lower than before milk tea existed.

Worse, others had started copying their milk tea. Better to expand and strengthen the business themselves than wait for competitors to dominate.