Chapter 40

In 1999, the mainland singer Pu Shu released his debut solo album, *I’m Going to 2000*.

The critical and commercial success of this album marked the official entry of the mainland music market into a period of rapid growth, as young people urgently sought new music distinct from their parents’ generation.

By 2000, although the mainland music market had begun to catch up, striving to emulate the Hong Kong and Taiwan markets, there remained a noticeable gap in the vitality, number of pop singers, and the themes and styles of their songs compared to their counterparts in Hong Kong and Taiwan.

This was evident from the most popular songs on the mainland market at the time.

While Hong Kong and Taiwan saw a constant rotation of singers taking the spotlight, the mainland’s hottest and most talked-about song by late June to early July was *The Heavenly Road Is Wide and Long*.

Yes, that’s right—the classic theme song from *Journey to the West: Sequel*: *The Heavenly Road Is Wide and Long*.

As a faithful continuation of the 1986 *Journey to the West*, the 2000 February 8 release of *Journey to the West: Sequel* swiftly dominated both ratings and music charts.

The iconic line, “Just caught a few demons, subdued a few more—why are there so many evil spirits?” could be hummed by anyone from the elderly to toddlers.

Beneath *The Heavenly Road Is Wide and Long* was another song from the *Journey to the West* TV franchise—the theme of *Journey to the West: Postscript*, titled *I Wish to Become an Immortal*.

Sung by Liu Huan, who was already approaching legendary status, it also achieved impressive results.

That was it.

The top male mid-career singer Sun Nan and top female singer Na Ying had not released any songs yet this year.

On the major music charts, aside from Chen Ming’s *I Will Find You* and Jin Haixin’s *So Proud*, only the rock band Baojiajie No.13 stood out—but their commercial performance was poor, and they officially disbanded in May.

The rest of the charting songs couldn’t be called widely popular; at best, they were unremarkable.

In this lackluster environment, Zhou Yi couldn’t imagine how his songs could lose on the mainland.

Whether it was *I Am Me* or *I Love You*, which fit 2000’s style, or *Give Me a Song*, with its catchier, more forward-thinking arrangement.

If these songs couldn’t completely dominate the current mainland chart-toppers, he wouldn’t be surnamed Zhou.

As for Hong Kong and Taiwan, it didn’t matter—*Happy Worship* would be released.

On July 1 at 7 a.m., Warner Music officially announced the release of new artist Zhou Yi’s album, with the self-titled *Zhou Yi* launching simultaneously in Taiwan, the mainland, and Hong Kong.

Simultaneously, they released a photo book specifically showcasing Zhou Yi’s looks—

According to Warner’s marketing department, such good looks were too precious not to photograph.

On the same day, Xie Tingfeng, Warner’s rival under Emperor Entertainment in Hong Kong, dropped his Mandarin new album *Understanding*, with the lead single *Because of Love*.

“How’s your confidence? This guy’s a real dragon—his popularity rivals Ren Xianqi’s.”

Warner Music, General Manager’s Office.

Zhou Yi, back here again, met Sun Yanzi after her rise to fame—she still greeted him with the same playful energy, clapping him on the shoulder.

“What’s there to fear? Just go head-to-head.”

Zhou Yi turned, waved the photo book in his hand, and teased: “Win, and I get the club’s new models; lose, and I enter the adult film industry. With my looks and build, even porn producers would offer me top dollar.”

“You might’ve been born in the wrong era—the golden age of Hong Kong Category III films is over; now you need to look to Japan.”

Saying this, Sun Yanzi sized him up, snatched the photo book from his hand, flipped through it, and seriously commented: “But your body and face are way better than the male leads in those old Category III films.”

“Sounds like you’ve done your homework?” Zhou Yi leaned back, arms resting on the sofa’s armrests, legs crossed, tilting his head to look at the woman seated directly across from him, eyebrow raised.

Sun Yanzi, still flipping through the book, looked up—eyes met eyes—and a playful glint appeared on her brow: “I’m twenty-two, okay?”

“Even if I’ve never eaten pork, haven’t I seen pigs run?”

“Believe me, just like boys secretly pass around Category III films, girls’ dorms have them too—Hong Kong Category III films from the 80s and 90s were famous even in Singapore.”

Turning smut into a best-selling cultural product, even squeezing out Japanese competitors, Hong Kong cinema’s output from the late 80s to early 90s was truly powerful.

Faced with Sun Yanzi’s unflinching openness on this topic, Zhou Yi laughed and took back his photo book: “If you haven’t had enough, go buy it yourself—boost my official sales. Thanks.”

“Why waste money when you’re right here?”

Sun Yanzi, who’d been swamped since her rise, now felt a rare sense of ease in front of Zhou Yi, sinking into the sofa and grinning up at him: “First, give me a striptease—show me something my fans didn’t pay for.”

“No way.”

Zhou Yi, utterly unconcerned about his album’s sales, replied firmly: “That’s a different price. You’ll have to pay extra.”

Sun Yanzi, utterly stunned by his reply, burst out laughing, grinning widely: “Fine, fine, I’ll pay extra—I’ll buy ten or so albums myself!”

“Ten or so? Ten thousand would be more like it.”

Zhou Yi waved his hand dismissively, feigning disdain: “Do you think I care about ten or so sales?”

“Then go ask Xiao Yaxuan—she’s rich.”

“I did. She told me to sell my looks.” Zhou Yi lazily recounted the few condolence calls he’d received since arriving in Taiwan.

In contrast, Zhang Shaohan, Zhou Jielun, Liu Hihong, and Wen Lan each bought ten or so albums to show support—acting on their words.

Especially Liu Hihong and Wen Lan.

Though not yet major stars, they had some recognition in Taiwan, so their promotion wasn’t useless.

As for Cheng Hao on the mainland, she was even more extreme—Zhou Yi had no idea how many copies she planned to buy, so he just told her not to waste money.

“You seem to be in good spirits.”

Seeing Zhou Yi’s genuine, unfeigned calm, Sun Yanzi finally relaxed.

She’d specifically taken time off from home just to comfort Zhou Yi, who might have panicked during his album’s launch.

She’d been through it herself—knew exactly how it felt.

Zhou Yi just smiled.

July 2.

Sitting in his office, Warner’s general manager stared at the first-day sales report compiled by his team, adjusting his glasses in disbelief—

“*Zhou Yi* sold 14,317 CDs on day one? 23,000 cassette tapes?! How is this possible?!”

For heaven’s sake, Zhou Yi hadn’t even started promotion yet—how did he pull off such insane first-day sales?!

Was fabricating scandal really this effective?!

Others had tried fabricating scandal before—this…

Zhou Jianhui stared at the report, utterly baffled.

Zhou Yi, lounging on the sofa, flicking his nails, glanced at Sun Yanzi, who’d also come to check sales, and smirked: “Isn’t this normal?”

“Yanzi’s explosion in June was a once-in-several-years phenomenon in Taiwan, amplified by Xiao Yaxuan’s popularity—”

“In the last two weeks of June, over 80% of entertainment magazines covered Yanzi and Xiao Yaxuan talking about me and my album.”

“Add Warner’s PR campaign, and under this saturation-level brainwashing, it’s natural some fans got curious and bought my album. This first-day sales figure is expected.”

Fundamentally, this was the same tactic used in later years to inflate opening-day box office through fan circles.

But he borrowed Sun Yanzi and Xiao Yaxuan’s fan bases.

He leveraged their transferred popularity and credibility within their respective fan communities to give himself a powerful boost.

After all, one or two promotions were fine—but two straight weeks of saturation-level bombardment? No one would think it was forced promotion; it naturally sparked curiosity.

Zhou Yi hated starting from the typical rookie sales of a few thousand—he played big or not at all.

As he’d said: win, and he got the club’s new models; lose, and he went into the adult film industry.

“Increase! Increase! Get our team to ramp up production immediately! The original target won’t be enough—raise it! Raise it higher!”

Having held his position at Warner for three years, watching his seat grow increasingly unstable, Zhou Jianhui had staked everything on his two newly discovered artists—and now, he lost all composure—

His ears flushed red from excitement as he shouted into the phone.

“Damn it, who said you can’t win with kids?! I’ve won everything!”

The final heavy burden lifted—thinking of all the schemers who’d coveted his position, Zhou Jianhui finally had the courage to vent.

According to Hong Kong and Taiwan standards, 50,000 actual sales equaled a platinum album…

Damn it, I’ve got *Sun Yanzi* and *Zhou Yi* both heading straight for double platinum, maybe even triple platinum—who dares say another word?!

“Zhou Yi, relax and wait for your appearances—I’ll arrange your songs for chart promotion now.”

After Sun Yanzi, Zhou Yi had become the man who made Zhou Jianhui stand tall again—his stride now carried wind.