Chapter 44: Sun Nan: Did I Lose My Number-One Spot?

On August 2, 2000, after Warner officially announced that Zhou Yi’s album had surpassed 300,000 sales, Warner’s executives, recognizing that the album’s short-term potential had been nearly exhausted, sent a signal to Rock Records: cease all further promotion.

Issue a grand invitation to host a lavish celebration.

Rock Records, being seasoned veterans, understood perfectly and Moqidi matched Warner’s move—both sides withdrew. Thus, the heated “New and Old Thrones” rivalry came to an end.

Liu Ruo, turning misfortune into fortune, saw her fading attention not only return to its early-year peak but also leap significantly higher in the public’s perception of status.

Zhou Yi, with his debut album alone, ascended to superstardom, becoming a singer whom the public now placed on equal footing with the biggest male and female icons.

Most cutting of all, whether to express his “generous joy” or not, Zhou Jianhui personally sent an invitation to Yang Shoucheng at Emperor Entertainment, inviting him to witness this historic moment for Warner’s Zhou Yi.

Yang Shoucheng nearly smashed his desk in rage.

Fortunately, he later found a woman to vent his anger on, calmed down, and then replied with brotherly warmth, assuring he would attend.

At once, every tabloid and paparazzi outlet sprang into action, pulling out all stops and employing every trick imaginable to infiltrate the grand celebration.

Especially after learning that Rock Records would send Li Zongsheng and Liu Ruo.

Countless onlookers eagerly awaited whether these two, who had battled on the charts for half a month, would clash at the celebration.

After all, Zhou Yi was only nineteen—youthful, impulsive, who knew if he’d lose control and blow up?

Xie Tingfeng, his neighbor and fellow youth, was a perfect example—every tabloid knew this guy had a blunt mind, easily worked up and unable to hold his temper; since his debut, controversy followed him everywhere, keeping half the paparazzi employed.

“Finally, I can take a breather.”

Since the celebration was scheduled for August 8—a lucky date—Zhou Yi, needing to be in top physical and mental condition, received his first real break since his explosion in fame.

Lying in the new home Warner had arranged for him, sprawled out without a care for his image, Zhou Yi exhaled deeply.

That place was no longer livable.

After he went viral, the paparazzi in Baodao dug up every detail of his past haunts there. To avoid disturbing other non-entertainment residents in the neighborhood, he had to move out.

This time, Warner rented Zhou Yi a top-tier mansion—five bedrooms, three living rooms, sweeping views, excellent security; from the balcony, he could directly gaze at Baodao’s most beautiful urban skyline.

Most importantly, it cost him nothing.

Considering his money was still tied up in investments, Zhou Yi accepted this luxury without guilt.

He didn’t live in Baodao permanently; there was no need to buy property there, and the ROI compared to other investments he knew about wasn’t high enough.

If you can get it for free, take it.

“Ah Yi, Fuma Records has asked us several times—they want to commission songs from you for Zhang Shaohan.”

His diligent agent Qian Jiang flipped open his schedule log, looked at the rare relaxed smile on the boy’s face, and sighed: “‘Happy Worship’ and ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ didn’t just earn you top-tier popularity—Zhang Shaohan from Fuma rode your coattails and gained massive listener attention.”

“From what I know, Fuma is desperate to capitalize on this momentum and launch Zhang Shaohan. Since she can credibly claim you made her famous, they want you to write one or two custom songs for her—price is no issue.”

If Xiao Yaxuan and Sun Yanzi were already famous before Zhou Yi emerged, Zhang Shaohan was entirely propelled to fame by his two songs.

The explosive success of Zhou Yi’s album also lifted Zhang Shaohan, whose voice and vocal pressure were uniquely distinctive.

She might not become a household name, but at the very least, she gained massive short-term attention—Fuma would be insane to keep her hidden.

“No problem. I get along well with Shaohan. Set up a meeting time, and send me the contract once it’s ready.”

Zhou Yi closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, agreeing.

There were so many future songs in the industry—he couldn’t sing them all. Giving them to female stars he got along with was fine.

Besides, Zhang Shaohan already had a mountain of classics ahead of her.

Now, if he wrote them, he’d earn extra royalties from lyrics and composition.

Maybe one day, when he retired, some Bilibili uploader would make a “Top 100 Songs of the Millennium” list—and when his name appeared as writer, he’d see a flood of comments like “Zhou Yi pulls out a sniper,” “I’m shooting myself,” “High-level self-duel,” and so on.

“Oh, one more thing—your three songs submitted for promotion in mainland China performed just as well. In fact, your popularity there exceeds even your success in Baodao.”

“Except for a few charts where you couldn’t beat ‘The Broad and Open Road to Heaven,’ your songs all cracked the top fifteen on every major mainland music chart.”

As he spoke, Qian Jiang handed Zhou Yi a document.

Because the mainland music market in 2000 had no strong players and was still immature, Zhou Yi’s main battlefield had been Baodao this past month.

Compared to his fierce battle with Liu Ruo in Baodao, his rise in the mainland was far easier.

Of course, the criticism was also heavier.

But after Zhou Yi swept aside the Four Kings, toppled Zhou Hua, even defeated Ren Xianqi and Liu Ruo, the criticism vanished completely.

Newspapers like Beijing Entertainment Daily and Southern Entertainment Daily forgot their earlier bandwagon criticism and began reporting his bloody victories in Baodao, praising him as the sole supreme ruler of entertainment.

His songs on mainland charts began replicating his Baodao domination, even sweeping the top ten on Beijing Music Radio.

In his hometown of Jiangxi’s request station, Zhou Yi’s album claimed the top eleven spots outright.

In this era, ordinary audiences still held strong regional biases toward stars.

Zhou Yi was born in Jiangxi, grew up there, studied in provincial schools, and was watched over by neighbors since childhood—he naturally enjoyed higher support and goodwill in Jiangxi.

Of course, as long as he didn’t play roles like Song Jiang or Madam Rong, which made people want to smash rotten eggs at him.

Because of this, across Jiangxi, except for official media showing restraint, every other outlet screamed how glorious Zhou Yi, their hometown’s superstar, was—

Sun Nan? Pu Shu? Zheng Jun? All empty noise, only brave in their own backyards.

Look at Zhou Yi—our province’s own boy—he went straight to Baodao’s stronghold, slaughtered them bloody, overturned everything, and avenged the mainland entertainment industry’s lifelong feeling of inferiority.

In the year 2000, when Hong Kong and Taiwan’s cultural dominance was still thick, Zhou Yi, having shattered Baodao’s entertainment circle, became the sole light among mainland male singers.

If Liu Huan hadn’t been too revered and already semi-retired, they’d have dragged him out to criticize him too.

Because the hometown media praised him so fiercely, Zhou Yi had to give up reading any more newspapers after just a few.

He feared if they kept this up, his childhood brick-and-tile house where he lived with his grandparents would be turned into “Zhou Yi’s Former Residence.”

“The company’s suggestion: start your mainland signing tour in Beijing, then work your way back to your hometown as the finale. Make it grand—let you return home in glory.”

Understanding how deeply rooted clan power and honor were in Jiangxi, Qian Jiang smiled warmly with a tempting proposal.

Since ancient times, no one could resist the thrill of showing off before their own hometown folks.

Otherwise, how did “returning home in glory” become a saying?

“Also, the company will fight to secure you the number-one male singer status in the mainland. Sun Nan’s vocal skills are solid, his hits are strong—but his looks are nothing like yours, and you have the elite university halo.”

“Statistics show some parents, upon learning you got into Peking University through the Gaokao—even if they don’t understand your music—think you’re a scholar and are less resistant to their kids admiring you.”

“...”

That’s... acceptable.

Zhou Yi opened his mouth, hesitated, and couldn’t think of what to say.

Elite university worship still existed even in 2023.

For those who excelled academically, Chinese people naturally admired them—a cultural trait passed down for millennia.

Otherwise, why did so many future stars try to cultivate a scholar persona?

“I have no objection to taking Sun Nan’s number-one spot, but I need to remind you: focus promotion solely on my music. Don’t build me up as some flawless golden idol.”

As a well-rounded good kid in moral, intellectual, physical, aesthetic, and labor development, Zhou Yi didn’t want to be boxed in later.

He wouldn’t become a criminal, but he also wouldn’t be a celibate saint—hiding everything away was too exhausting.

Then, suddenly, on August 4, sensitive Sun Nan sensed something was off.

After Warner Maitian congratulated their artist Zhou Yi on topping the Baodao music scene, mainland music producers led by Zhang Yadong began loudly praising the avant-garde and groundbreaking nature of his music.

Warner Maitian’s Song Ke chimed in, and even the rarely seen Pu Shu, in a media interview, named Zhou Yi as his admired mainland singer.

Trouble. These guys mean business.

Sun Nan, who had only held the mainland number-one throne for two years, suddenly felt a wave of crisis.

This kid doesn’t play by the rules—how dare he, with just one album, try to overthrow the throne?!