Chapter 4

“Hello, my name is Zhou Yi.”

After a polite handshake, Zhou Yi returned with a sunny smile: “I’ll count on your guidance, Senior Sister.”

Terms like “Senior Sister,” “Junior Brother,” “Senior Brother,” and “Junior Sister” were extremely popular at the time, whether in media promotions or within company internal culture.

Leaving aside whether someone was popular or not, artists from the same company still needed to observe seniority.

“Sure, if I can help you—I haven’t even debuted yet, so I might end up needing you to look out for me instead.”

Sun Yanzi, already a college graduate, was no stranger to social nuance; she smiled and pointed to the closed office behind her, then curiously opened the topic: “Junior Brother, how did you learn Mandarin? How did you get so fluent?”

Compared to her, whose Mandarin clearly carried an international accent, Zhou Yi’s simple two sentences revealed a fluency that was almost miraculous.

Though she had grown up in Singapore and could speak Mandarin and sing Mandarin songs without much trouble, her accent remained hard to hide in daily conversation.

Since arriving on Baodao, everyone she interacted with was either from Hong Kong or Baodao, and whether middle-aged, young, or even students, their accents were unmistakable.

Only Zhou Yi’s sudden, perfectly enunciated Mandarin caught her off guard.

“Senior Sister, I’m from the mainland—how could my Mandarin not be good?”

Zhou Yi sat down casually on a chair in the lounge area and grinned: “But I think I still have a bit of an accent—mainly because the teachers who taught me as a kid led me astray.”

“You’re from the mainland?”

Sun Yanzi suddenly understood, her eyes filled with curiosity as she studied the man with the excellent proportions: “I’m from Singapore, but my grandparents originally came from Guangdong Province on the mainland.”

“I’m from Jiangxi Province—roughly speaking, we’re fellow provincials. Senior Sister, when you become famous, don’t forget to give me a hand.”

While Zhou Jianhui was conversing with Warner’s top producer, Zhou Yi, with nothing else to do, happily chatted with the yet-to-debut future diva, deepening their fellow-disciple bond.

Not to mention, the offer to help him was utterly sincere.

It was May now; Sun Yanzi was still just an ordinary top student at Nanyang Technological University in Singapore. By early June, after releasing her first solo album, she would become the blazing new queen of the Mandopop scene.

As for just how famous she’d become…

One-line assessment: the only female singer of her generation who could rival Zhou Dong in popularity between 2001 and 2003.

The prestige was obvious.

By June, he figured he’d still be working on album tracks—just an unknown, zero fame.

“Definitely, definitely—I’ll take your good wishes.”

Having someone her own age to talk to, Sun Yanzi relaxed, her eyes curving into crescents.

In fact, because Warner had placed such heavy bets on her album, the closer it got to release, the heavier her psychological pressure became.

She had few people to confide in.

Her parents and family weren’t nearby—she could only call them—and she had few friends on Baodao.

She couldn’t possibly talk to Zhou Jianhui, the man who discovered her and brought her to Warner—he probably had even more pressure than she did.

As for other artists in the company…

Guo Fucheng and Zheng Xiuwen, the king and queen, were permanently based in Hong Kong—their status was far beyond anything she could reach now.

The already-debuted artists each had their own cliques; most didn’t understand why the company was betting so heavily on her and privately watched her new album with indifference.

In this situation, a fellow junior brother with no roots at Warner, who seemed like a decent guy, suddenly appeared—Sun Yanzi naturally treated him well.

It was simply the environment.

After all, this junior brother shared one key trait with her: both had been personally discovered and signed by Warner’s general manager, Zhou Jianhui.

From another perspective, the two of them were a genuine faction within Warner right now.

Especially after she heard Zhou Yi’s eerily similar signing story.

Both attended prestigious universities in their own countries; both were noticed by Zhou Jianhui after singing a few songs during college; both turned him down multiple times before finally signing with Warner…

Zhou Yi also realized this, and his expression turned slightly odd.

“What kind of songs do you write?”

As they chatted, Sun Yanzi’s eyes lit up when she learned this junior brother wrote his own songs: “Do you have demos? Can I hear them?”

“I do have demos, but I left them all in my school locker—I didn’t bring them. As for genres, I’ve dabbled in all of them.”

Zhou Yi spread his hands, indicating he’d brought nothing but himself: “But lately, I’ve been singing mostly folk-pop-rock songs.”

It wasn’t that he particularly loved these styles—it was just that around the year 2000, the bars and clubs in Beijing’s music scene had more patrons willing to tip for these kinds of songs.

As someone with no grand musical ambitions, who wrote songs purely by copying from memory, Zhou Yi naturally didn’t fight against the trends.

The reason he made his first fortune in 1998 with a few friends during the World Cup was entirely from singing part-time and collecting tips.

After the World Cup, he sang purely for fun—after all, money was money, and why not take it?

“You’ve dabbled in all of them? Then you—”

“Zhou Yi, you can come in now. I’ve shown your original works to them—you can talk.”

Before Sun Yanzi could finish her sentence, the office door behind her suddenly swung open—

Zhou Jianhui, in a sharp suit, stepped out, saw the two young people chatting amicably, and smiled: “I’ve also arranged your accommodation in Baodao for the past month—after you finish talking with Li Sisong, come find me.”

“Understood, thank you, Boss Zhou.”

Zhou Yi gave Sun Yanzi a gesture to continue later, rose from his chair, and walked away from the lounge, pushing open the office door.

Li Sisong, the music producer born in 1966 and now 34 years old, sat in his chair and immediately looked up at the sound of the door opening—

Zhou Yi, wearing a white printed T-shirt and blue jeans, stepped into view.

Simple, sunny, fresh, handsome.

Merely upon first sight, as a professional music producer, Li Sisong instantly envisioned several artist personas he could craft for an album.

“Zhou Yi, right? Please sit. I’m Li Sisong—call me Brother Li.”

Facing this nineteen-year-old boy, the thirty-four-year-old Li Sisong spoke warmly: “I’ve seen the works Jianhui brought me—he said you’re especially skilled at writing folk, pop-rock, and ballads?”

As he spoke, Li Sisong lifted the stack of sheet music in his hand—titles like “Nanshan Nan,” “Mercury,” and “Qimei Di” were faintly visible.

“Yes, Brother Li.”

Zhou Yi sat directly across from him, unflinching—he too was quietly sizing up the producer.

He wore a striped shirt, black dress pants, and leather shoes that clearly cost a fortune; his hair was slicked back, and black round glasses rested on his nose.

“What about other styles? Any others you’ve explored or particularly like? R&B? Dancing?” Considering Zhou Yi’s age and his ability to write lyrics and compose independently, whether self-taught or guided, Li Sisong assumed he’d likely been exposed to more Western styles.

He asked because of Tao Zhe, currently dominating Baodao, and Warner’s top artist, Guo Tianwang.

Zhou Yi instantly understood his meaning and fell into thought.

At this time, Tao Zhe’s album “I’m OK” had ignited an R&B craze on Baodao, topping sales charts from last December through this first quarter—everyone on the island was either singing “Hua la la la la, it’s raining” or obsessively dancing to “Big Manager.”

As for the latter, Guo Tianwang was simply a complete dance king—singing and dancing flawlessly. Since they were from the same company, Zhou Yi could theoretically debut as an “Asian Junior Dance King” and even get Guo Tianwang to mentor him.