Chapter 465: Where Is the Jade Beauty Teaching the Flute? (Requesting Monthly Tickets!)

Because he slept late, he naturally woke up late—Wei Ming was woken by a full bladder.

Zhou Hui was jolted awake by the sound of urination: “Huh? Flood?”

The powerful stream of urine snapped Hui awake, and she was stunned to realize she’d overindulged in pleasure again last night in her dream.

Oh no, terrible—I didn’t bring spare underwear!

“You’re awake too, Hui?” Wei Ming glanced at the Rolex she’d given him. “It’s already eleven. Should we get something to eat?”

Hui said, “I need to use the restroom too.”

“Alright, I’ll wait for you.”

Hui smoothed her skirt, entered the restroom, felt uncomfortable, and ultimately decided to ask Wei Ming for help.

“Ah Ming, can you go out and buy me something?”

“What?”

“Buy me a pair of… underwear.” Hui closed her eyes, utterly embarrassed.

Wei Ming froze: “Hui, you’re not on your period, are you?”

“Ah yes yes yes,” Zhou Hui quickly seized the opening. “So I also need sanitary pads. Thanks so much!”

“No problem, I’ll go right away.”

Wei Ming wasn’t some naive boy—he wasn’t embarrassed buying this stuff. He wasn’t even a big star; he just put on a mask and went.

“Cotton, right? This one, this one, and this one.” Wei Ming bought three styles—all the same size; he knew exactly what Hui wore.

He then bought sanitary pads, and also picked up some food. Hui was too famous now to appear in public, especially with a man.

Back at the hotel, Hui had just finished showering and was wrapped in a towel waiting for Wei Ming. Blushing, she took his shopping bag and hurried into the restroom.

When she came out, there was a fresh, clean little Hui—though, well, she wasn’t so little anymore. Wei Ming was deeply impressed by his own restraint last night. I’m really awesome!

Hui still had two unused pairs—adorable ones—and she asked Wei Ming: “Want one?”

Wei Ming paused. Hui burst out laughing: “You haven’t seen the latest episode of Dragon Ball yet, have you?”

Wei Ming shook his head, so Hui said: “Sun Wukong and the villains collected all seven Dragon Balls and summoned the Dragon. The villain almost wished to rule the world—but luckily, Wulong blurted out his wish first…”

By now Hui was laughing uncontrollably: “His wish? He wanted a girl’s underwear.”

Oh, that’s all? I wrote it—I know it well.

Wei Ming laughed along for two seconds, then Hui suddenly grew serious: “This is your story, so… do you want one?”

Wei Ming pulled Hui into a tight hug, one hand slipping under her skirt: “I don’t have any collection fetish like that. But if you insist on giving me one, I’d prefer one you’ve worn.”

Hui blew a tiny puff of air against his chest with her fist, dared not tease him further—how could she possibly match him? He’d had girlfriends before, even foreign ones.

They began eating their late breakfast, casually discussing the latest Dragon Ball plot.

The first summoning of the Dragon was a major climax in Dragon Ball. According to Hui, when this episode came out, a third of her class bought it—boys and girls alike.

Dragon Ball appealed to both genders, and upcoming arcs like Goku transforming into a giant ape under the full moon and the World Martial Arts Tournament had been long foreshadowed.

After eating, they discussed their plans for the rest of the day. Hui had already decided: “First, buy instruments, find teachers, then dinner, a movie, back to the hotel.”

Wei Ming corrected one detail: “Home.”

Two consecutive nights in a hotel—even if Ni Nai pleaded till she was blue in the face—Zhou Ma would surely fly into a rage.

Seeing Hui’s reluctant expression, she muttered softly: “But I haven’t finished ‘Bodhisattva Mantra’ yet.”

Wei Ming gently patted her back: “I’ll still accompany you tomorrow. We can meet every day before we leave Hong Kong.”

Hearing this, Hui’s spirits lifted. She smacked a kiss on Wei Ming’s cheek: “Let’s go!”

Previously, Hui had only bought the guzheng, pipa, and erhu—to understand traditional instruments and enrich her compositions. This time, they added the xiao, di, xun, and several types of drums.

Later, through the instrument seller, they found a music teacher who taught guzheng and pipa.

For a girl, learning these two was enough. If Hui wanted to learn wind instruments like the xiao, di, or xun, Wei Ming could offer some guidance.

Hui’s guzheng teacher was Cai Yasi, a relatively famous guzheng performer in Hong Kong and a member of the Hong Kong Chinese Orchestra—the only large-scale professional Chinese orchestra in Hong Kong.

So they found their pipa teacher through Cai Yasi’s recommendation.

After one lesson, both were satisfied. Wei Ming and Hui exchanged glances—they understood each other’s intent.

After leaving Cai Yasi’s studio, Hui said: “We can directly invite Cai Teacher’s team for the album recording!”

“Exactly. You can release one or two songs first, then make a full album during summer when you have more time.”

“Will you be my producer?” Hui pulled Wei Ming’s hand in the car. “Our company will be a pair.”

Wei Ming could only say: “Okay.”

Over dinner, Wei Ming asked: “Can we still watch A Project?”

A Project, Best of the Best 2, and New Legend of the Seven Swordsmen—all came out a month ago.

“Definitely not anymore. Maybe in the morning?” Hui said. It was practically off-screen already.

“Alright, we’ll buy a VHS tape later.” Wei Ming asked about the box office for these films.

Hui usually didn’t care about box office figures, but A Project was Wei Ming’s screenplay—she’d paid attention.

“A Project did great—over 20 million in box office. Less than Best of the Best 2, but better reviews.”

For the Spring Festival season, Best of the Best 2 made 22.6 million, A Project 20.5 million, and New Legend of the Seven Swordsmen around 15 million.

A Project is now third in Hong Kong film history. This result surpassed Zou Wenhua and Cheng Long’s expectations. Crucially, it performed even better overseas, and Cheng Long successfully transitioned from kung fu kid to cop—a persona the authorities loved.

Wei Ming nodded. That meant he’d earn over one million Hong Kong dollars in screenplay fees—good value, roughly equal to Hui’s two albums.

“What movies can we watch now?” Wei Ming asked.

Hui shrugged: “I don’t know.”

She hadn’t been to a cinema in ages, and March was a dead month for films—nothing good usually came out.

But for couples, what’s on screen rarely matters—it’s who’s beside you that counts.

After dinner, they arrived at a nearby cinema. Before seeing any new film schedules, they spotted several young couples gathered around something.

Hui tiptoed: “It’s a claw machine!”

After the blind box vending machine, Langning Factory officially launched the claw machine.

Langning Factory didn’t operate them—they just sold the machines and the toys.

Promoting new things was still hard. The claw machine didn’t catch on as easily as the blind box machine. These machines were simply given to cinemas for free.

They bought tickets first. Among the new releases, there was even a Cheng Long film—Dragon Roaring, Tiger Leaping—but almost no one watched it; it was scheduled late. The cinema mainly showed the Hollywood film Dance Fever.

Wei Ming knew why. Dragon Roaring, Tiger Leaping was produced by Lo Wei Pictures.

Cheng Long had once been signed by Lo Wei. Though Lo Wei had a good eye for talent, his directing skills were weak, so Cheng Long switched to Shaw Brothers. Lo Wei then re-edited unused footage from Cheng Long’s Kung Fu Master and Laughing Kung Fu, added stand-ins for close-ups and backshots, and stitched together a “new film.”

Even this mess earned Lo Wei over a million in box office. Cheng Long was furious—he now fiercely protected his personal brand.

Wei Ming chose the next showing of Dance Fever. With time to spare, he went to the claw machine—there was still a queue.

Hui had already played. One dollar per game—you could insert a one-dollar coin, or directly insert five or ten-dollar Hong Kong bills. Ten dollars gave you eleven plays.

The cabinet was packed with plush toys—not just historical meow, but also animal toys like giant pandas. Wei Ming suddenly missed Gang Dan and the others.

Compared to the IP-backed historical meow, other toys had weaker appeal. But impatient youths just wanted to impress their girlfriends—any toy would do as long as they caught it.

After seven or eight tries, the yellow-haired guy finally caught a dolphin and left happily with his girlfriend.

Wei Ming stepped forward: “Which one do you want?”

“Giant panda, and lion.”

Wei Ming inserted a ten-dollar bill. Soon, four plush toys popped up: giant panda, giant lion, giant tiger, and a Bao Qingtian meow. The efficiency stunned the nearby youths—this guy was a pro!

He finished, brushed off his clothes, and walked away. Hui hugged the toys as Wei Ming wrapped his arm around her and entered the theater.

“You were amazing just now!” Hui praised.

“Nothing special—just practice.” Of course, the key was that these claw machines had tighter claws than the ones from his past life—giving him a much higher success rate.

Even so, with plush toy costs and electricity, these machines still made a profit—and they attracted young people.

The movie they picked tonight was good too. Dance Fever sounded unfamiliar—if it were called Breakin’, it’d be instantly recognizable. Seeing this film made Wei Ming think of Zhen Zidan—he was probably still training hard under Master Yuan.

No Hong Kong youths were doing breakdancing now. Its later explosion likely began with this film—singers like Chan Siu-kwan and Do Wei first rose to fame through breakdancing.

After the cinema, on the way home, Wei Ming and Hui talked about breakdancing and American culture, then moved to Michael Jackson’s globally shocking album Thriller from last year.

“I heard about it,” Wei Ming said. “Since its release, it’s held the top spot on Billboard’s album chart—extremely impressive.”

For Hui, selling tens of thousands of albums already made her the top in Hong Kong.

Deng Lijun’s albums sold in the millions—already the peak of the Chinese music industry.

Michael’s Thriller would easily surpass ten million sales this year, with total sales eventually breaking a hundred million.

When Wei Ming went to the Grammys last time, this little black guy was a guest performer—not yet a top star. After Thriller, he was instantly deified.

Hui said: “I bought it. Some songs have strong melodies and inspired me, but I don’t really like most of them—I still feel my taste differs from Westerners’.”

Wei Ming knew she liked slow songs and ballads. He asked: “Did you buy the music video VHS?”

“VHS?” Hui shook her head. “No.”

Of course—Hong Kong didn’t even have music video VHS yet. America had just started; the first MTV channel launched in 1981.

Thriller’s music videos transformed from simple promotional clips into “short films” with dramatic storytelling, refined cinematography, and brilliant choreography.

It changed how music was distributed and launched the MTV era.

Wei Ming smiled: “The music videos for this album were absolutely key to its success. You’d regret not seeing them. Tomorrow I’ll look for a copy—we’ll watch them together. Better than this movie.”