Chapter 9

The night in Taiwan was dazzling with colors.

Zhou Yi was quite satisfied with this, having experienced firsthand the openness of Taiwan at the dawn of the millennium just by stepping out to find something to eat.

If it weren’t for his upcoming debut, he might have actually played a king’s game tonight.

Standing at one meter eighty-three, he reached nearly one meter eighty-five in shoes. This height was undeniably tall in Taiwan, and paired with his sleek, muscular physique, calling him imposing was no exaggeration.

A young man with a good face and figure was irresistible to women.

After all, it wasn’t just men who were lustful—women were just as capable.

“Taiwan really is something…”

After sending off two giggling, flirtatious Taiwanese girls with ample chests who had come to chat with him at the dinner spot, Zhou Yi lifted his glass, bit the straw, and sipped his cola, unable to help but sigh.

In mainland China, he’d never enjoy such treatment—groups of girls approaching him like this. Even in bar streets, cultured young women tended to express their “affection” more subtly.

The times were what they were; mainland China in 2000 hadn’t opened up to this extent yet.

Just as Zhou Yi was still smiling and exchanging glances with the two girls who kept glancing back over their shoulders, the chair in front of him moved again—

“Miss, this seat’s taken—I’m waiting for—huh? Senior sister?”

Zhou Yi, still not turning around, assumed it was another Taiwanese girl coming to flirt, and his mouth blurted out the same line he’d repeated countless times that night.

But when he turned and looked closely, his sip of cola froze mid-motion, and surprise creased his brow.

Sitting directly across from him was Sun Yanzi, his senior sister at Warner, whom he’d met once before at the company.

She wore a white T-shirt printed with cartoon rabbits, paired with blue jeans and a short, tousled haircut—clean, fresh, and effortless.

“You’re popular, junior brother. Is this your first time in Taiwan?” Sun Yanzi, who had only come out for dinner, had watched the entire scene unfold and smiled in reply.

Having grown up in Singapore, she was no stranger to such situations and could easily tease him.

“No, this is truly my first time in Taiwan.”

Zhou Yi shrugged, confirming it was true, then asked: “What would you like to drink? My treat.”

“Just plain water. If you can, try drinking fewer carbonated beverages,” Sun Yanzi pointed at the glass in his hand, offering kind advice.

Though this was only their second meeting, Zhou Yi had left a good impression on her. As fellow artists, she was happy to give him a word of caution.

“Makes sense.”

Zhou Yi smiled and promptly snapped his fingers at a nearby waiter: “Two glasses of plain water, please.”

He added to Sun Yanzi: “Want something to eat?”

“Already ate. Before you came to this restaurant, I’d already finished dinner at that table,” the woman said, resting her right hand on the glass tabletop and pointing with her pale fingers to another table the staff hadn’t cleared yet.

Zhou Yi raised an eyebrow, noncommittal: “So you watched the whole thing?”

“What can I do? You were too popular,” Sun Yanzi said, accepting the water from the waiter and thanking him before leaning back in her chair to tease: “I couldn’t even get in line to say hello.”

“I have to say, I’ve never experienced this in mainland China.”

“Really? But you seem to be fitting right in.”

“Well, one of my few strengths is that I learn quickly and adapt easily to new environments.”

Since they were from the same company, Zhou Yi had no reason to pretend—he took the chance to chat with this future music queen, sipping his water cheerfully: “Are you here alone too?”

“Yes. I know many people in the company secretly dislike me, so I don’t bother trying to befriend them.”

When speaking of her situation, Sun Yanzi showed no trace of disappointment—only a carefree, “whatever” attitude: “Especially since the company invested heavily in my new album, some people are even more resentful.”

“You’re telling me this—aren’t you afraid I’ll betray you?” Zhou Yi’s eyes flickered with surprise.

“Aren’t we on the same team?” Sun Yanzi tapped her fingers lightly on the rim of the glass, her smile genuine: “Besides, after watching you just now, I think your personality is pretty good.”

“A woman’s intuition?”

“You can think of it that way.”

“Senior sister, you’ve got great taste.” Zhou Yi scooped up a spoonful of well-mixed braised pork rice, chewed it thoughtfully, then gave her a thumbs-up: “Your album will sell like crazy—top the Golden Melody Awards, win Best New Artist.”

Sun Yanzi burst out laughing at this: “If my album hits the company’s sales target, I’ll be thrilled. Selling like crazy? I dare not dream it. Winning a Golden Melody Award? That’s pure fantasy.”

At the dawn of the millennium, the Golden Melody Awards still held immense influence—they were essentially the highest honor in the Chinese-language music industry.

She dared not even imagine it.

“You’ve got to have dreams,” Zhou Yi said, shoveling rice into his mouth. “When we team up and sweep the Golden Melody Awards, Zhou Zong’s mouth will be smiling so wide it’ll twist sideways.”

To Sun Yanzi, this demeanor looked utterly confident—and it stirred her curiosity: “Do you already have ideas for your album? What direction are you looking for songs in?”

“I’ve got ideas—I’ll sing songs that stir young people’s emotions. As for collecting songs, forget it. I’ll write them all myself.”

Under Sun Yanzi’s wide-eyed stare, Zhou Yi wiped his mouth with a napkin: “Tomorrow I’ll go to the company and ask them to find someone to record. If everything fits, I should finish recording four or five songs before I return to school for finals.”

“You’re writing everything yourself? Will the company agree?”

This time, Sun Yanzi was genuinely stunned.

In the entire Chinese-language music industry, she could count on one hand the number of artists who had written every song on their debut album.

The closest example was Dai Peini, who released her first solo album in February this year—only one lyric was written by a friend; she composed and wrote every other song herself.

“The company agreed to let me record one or two first to check the quality—if they’re bad, I’ll collect songs. But I don’t think they’ll ever get the chance.”

Facing the future top queen of Chinese-language music, Zhou Yi leaned back with supreme confidence.

He’d already come up with “Happy Worship” and “Can’t Help Loving You”—if Zhou Jianhui didn’t release these, he didn’t deserve to sit in this position.

Did he even understand the value of retirement-grade songs?

“Wait—you said you’ll record tomorrow? You’ve already finished writing them?” Sun Yanzi finally caught on, shocked.

“Yeah. Want to hear them?” Zhou Yi smiled, raising an eyebrow triumphantly.

“Of course, if you don’t mind,” Sun Yanzi replied immediately.

She was alone in Taiwan anyway, her album was already recorded and waiting for release—she was bored out of her mind.

“I’ve written two duets…”

Zhou Yi hummed a few notes, tapping his index finger on the glass table as rhythm, then began singing for his sole audience, even teaching Sun Yanzi a few lines to sing the female part—

“I need your love every day, you know all my thoughts~~~”