Chapter 22: The First Album

You say love has hurt you too much, and I understand that kind of pain—welcome to the Republic of Heartbreak~

You fight and scheme just to live for a man, your heart hanging on him—what did they ever give you in return?

You say you hate the weakness of the women in Dream of the Red Chamber.

But when you’re strong, they call you cold.

I tell you, sister, stop torturing yourself.

Overthinking—it’s possible for love to be simple and easy.

A highly rhythmic R&B melody drifted through the studio; Sun Yanzi and Zhang Shaohan sat at the control desk, headphones on, each holding a lyric sheet, their gazes fixed on Zhou Yi as he recorded the demo—eyes wide, as if staring at a monster.

Zhou Yi, eyes closed, swayed slightly to the beat, his swagger flowing as naturally as breath—the rogue’s aura was unmistakable in the lyrics of “Hate Dream of the Red Chamber.”

To Sun Yanzi’s eyes, the rap lyrics in this song were perhaps… too blunt.

If the verses and choruses still carried a hint of restraint, like a veil, the rap lyrics were plain, direct, unfiltered—

Don’t keep wondering if we’re compatible.

I won’t make you hurt—I’ll make you moan.

Worst case, you’ll feel a little tired when you wake up tomorrow.

C’mon, waste those tears—who else can you blame?

Don’t end up like Bao Yu and Dai Yu, so tragic.

No need to regret, don’t fear breaking rules.

This friendly match isn’t wrong.

As long as you’re willing to crawl into bed with me, eh eh~

As the clear rap echoed through their headphones, the two women holding the lyrics wore strange expressions. Even after Zhou Yi finished the demo in one take, their eerie expressions didn’t fully fade.

Heaven knows, in today’s Chinese music scene, Zhou Yi’s lyrics weren’t earth-shattering—but they were undeniably rare.

“The emotion is rich, the immersion complete… you couldn’t write such explosive lyrics unless you’d dated ten or eight girlfriends.”

Sun Yanzi eyed him strangely as he stepped out of the studio: “Maybe even women who weren’t girlfriends.”

Good-looking, tall and strong, not a quiet type—undeniably, women would find him attractive.

“What can I do? Being this handsome is a sin—so many goddesses want to use Buddhist teachings to redeem this demon.”

Zhou Yi, never hiding his playboy nature, shrugged with mock resignation, unapologetically smug: “Clearly, their Buddhist skills aren’t deep enough—all failed.”

“...I think I need to update my understanding of mainland attitudes,” Sun Yanzi said, placing the lyric sheet on the control desk, one hand pressed to her temple, her tone laced with surprise.

“No, I’m just an oddity—I don’t represent mainland attitudes.”

Zhou Yi sat on a chair after recording several demos, picked up his pre-prepared teacup, took a small sip, and chuckled: “You should know—in my parents’ eyes, I’m still a good kid who’s never held a girl’s hand.”

“A good kid who shouts ‘friendly match isn’t wrong’?” Sun Yanzi raised an eyebrow, teasing.

“Unmarried men and unmarried women—we’re all single. What’s wrong? Compared to those playboy stars in the entertainment industry, I might even be a breath of fresh air.”

Zhou Yi smiled faintly: “At least I follow the law.”

Sun Yanzi smiled but said nothing; Zhang Shaohan looked bewildered, unsure what to say.

In the entertainment industry—especially those raised overseas and returned to work in Taiwan and Hong Kong—no one’s mind is as pure as blank paper.

But such things are usually just unspoken rules within the circle.

Zhang Shaohan had been at Foma Records for a year; she’d seen plenty of mutual consent “friendly matches” or career-boosting transactions—but never anyone as open as Zhou Yi.

He’d even written it into his songs—this guy was truly a bit… reckless?

To her, it felt like he was just playing:

Playing music, playing the entertainment industry—ready to walk away anytime, ready to switch tracks.

In the entire history of Chinese pop music, who ever stuffed this kind of risqué song into their debut album right out the gate?

It’s obviously just playing.

“Uh, Yi-ge, aren’t you worried your image might hurt album sales?” Zhang Shaohan, motivated by loyalty to her mentor, couldn’t help asking.

Shouldn’t you be reckless only after you’ve made it big?

“Not worried. Why worry? Haven’t you heard the songs on my album? The quality’s that high—how could sales be bad?”

Zhou Yi pointed at the stack of lyric sheets on the control desk and smiled: “Besides, this is a form of distinctive marketing.”

“Distinctive marketing?”

Zhang Shaohan and Sun Yanzi froze, exchanged glances, and asked in unison: “What do you mean?”

“Mainland China is now an era where society’s attitudes are warming up and loosening with the opening of the window.

The older generation hasn’t shifted their thinking yet, but the youth refuse to be shackled by so-called old-fashioned values—they crave rebellion, difference, uniqueness, and the feeling of being the only sober one in a drunken world.

“Essentially, the younger generation just wants a cultural symbol to show they’re different from their parents—a symbol of individuality.

“This holds true in the mainland, Taiwan, and Hong Kong alike.”

Zhou Yi raised his right hand, thumb pointing at himself, radiant with confidence: “My album is that symbol.

“They’ll hear musical elements utterly unlike those of 80s and 90s Chinese pop—they’ll hear love songs with sharper rhythms, more youthful energy;

“And they’ll even see me saying the things they dare not say.

“Believe me—in this turbulent era, the youth’s pursuit of love will be fiercer, more direct.

“And they’ll think I’m cool because I said what they couldn’t—making me their idol.”

Zhou Yi radiated absolute confidence as he spoke.

The early 2000s was a turbulent era; traditional love songs weren’t outdated, but whether a new-generation singer could rise to the top depended on having a label distinct from the previous generation.

Who didn’t dream in their youth?

In his past life, Zhou Yi was a genuine millennium kid—he had absolutely correct experience in this regard.

“My debut album might draw heavy criticism; these songs might turn off fans who dislike this style of expression.

“But it doesn’t matter.

“My album’s target has always been the youth who want fresh expression, crave coolness, and want to date beautiful girls or handsome guys—they’re my core audience.

“And right now, in Chinese pop music, no one else is building this image. That means I’ll be the first to try.”

Zhang Shaohan listened, utterly baffled.

She was only eighteen; since fifteen, her life had been work, singing practice, competitions, home—her small brain couldn’t handle thoughts about the era’s landscape.

Sun Yanzi, however, seemed thoughtful, locking eyes with him: “So you never wanted to be Asia’s Little Dance King?”

Zhou Yi met her gaze, lips curling: “Copying the Dance King is boring. If I’m going to play, I play big. I’ll use one album to shed the ‘Little Dance King’ label and climb to number one.”

For this, he’d prepared another killer track—“Flower Field Mistake.”

He chose “Flower Field Mistake” over Chinese-style songs like “East Wind Break” simply because its style fit his album’s overall tone better—and strengthened his distinctive debut label.

Of course, he had a bit of mischief in mind.

As the internet developed, mainland netizens would launch wave after wave of “archaeology” trends.

When they dug up “Hate Dream of the Red Chamber” and “Flower Field Mistake,” the two would seamlessly fuse into a viral meme—

Even though the songs had nothing to do with each other.

Mistake in the flower field = crawl into my blanket, friendly match isn’t wrong.

Even when the internet age arrived, if he spread rumors, it wouldn’t hurt much—memes could largely neutralize negative news and solidify his persona since debut.

That’s called foresight.

With “Flower Field Mistake,” his debut album was now complete—

Side A, dominated by hip-hop elements, aiming to be the future godfather of Chinese hip-hop:

“Hype Worship”;

“Reverse the Earth”;

“My Microphone”;

“Sound Wave”;

Plus one dance track: “Jingwu Gate.”

Side B, composed of R&B and pop tracks:

“Give Me a Song’s Time”;

“Hate Dream of the Red Chamber”;

“I Love Only You”;

“Can’t Help Loving You”;

Dance track: “It’s Me.”

And one track to pave the way for Chinese-style music: “Flower Field Mistake.”

As for the album title—since he was building a personal image, he’d use his real name: “Zhou Yi.”

Coincidentally, Sun Yanzi’s debut album also used her real name—perfect for Warner to jointly market the “Warner Twins.”

Perfect.

“Zhou Yi, what’s your major at Peking University?” Sun Yanzi, stunned he’d thought through marketing too, couldn’t help asking.

She’d never met a new artist so clearly defined his album’s image—and so precisely identified his target audience.

“Oh, I study law.”

Sun Yanzi: “???”

Zhang Shaohan: “???”