Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Theme Song of the New Film

After they were full and satisfied, Zhang Yichuan leaned back with a swagger and got down to business. “Brother, you already know why I’m here. My new film is finished, but it’s still missing a theme song. So, I’m here to ask you for one.”

Zhou Miao didn’t beat around the bush and asked directly, “You’re such a big-time director, why come to a newcomer like me for a theme song? If you need a song, producers lining up to write for you could stretch from here to the outskirts of Beijing.”

Zhang Yichuan admitted, “You’re right about that. Before coming to you, I’ve been to over a dozen producers. Some of their work sounded pretty good, but I kept feeling something was missing.”

“What was missing?” Zhou Miao asked.

“It lacked a sense of youth!” Zhang Yichuan pulled a script from his bag and handed it to Zhou Miao. “The film isn’t ready to be shown yet, but you can read the script. It’s an old story.”

Zhou Miao took the script and saw three big characters stamped on the cover: Huo Yuanjia.

He smiled, “I’ve heard you were making a Huo Yuanjia film. It’s definitely an old story—I watched several versions of it when I was a kid.”

At this, Zhang Yichuan snorted, “My version of Huo Yuanjia is nothing like the old ones. The previous films made him too perfect, almost saintly, which isn’t true to his actual character.”

“Martial artists love to fight, to compete, to test their strength. They’re quick to draw their swords if words fail! For someone like Huo Yuanjia, who made a name for himself so young, that’s even more true.”

“Number one in Tianjin! Imagine the pride and vigor. If I were Huo Yuanjia, I’d say to hell with it—if the gods are first, I’m second!” Zhang Yichuan puffed up, eyes blazing, as if he really were Huo Yuanjia.

“The old films made him too gentle and righteous, without any of that martial edge. Kung fu is meant for killing—no weakling could master it!”

“My version of Huo Yuanjia is the real Huo Yuanjia!” Zhang Yichuan declared with conviction.

Zhou Miao finally understood. So, it’s like Jet Li’s version… He couldn’t help but smirk, “You’re getting off track. What’s this got to do with the theme song?”

Zhang Yichuan grew a bit anxious. “That’s exactly the problem! The producers I’ve tried so far all think of the old Huo Yuanjia. Their songs have the right chivalrous spirit, but they lack the ferocity I’m after—the intensity of a true martial artist!”

“I listened to your song ‘Chinese Language’ before. There’s a hint of arrogance in it, but it’s not nearly enough. I want you to magnify that feeling a hundredfold, a thousandfold!”

Zhou Miao got the idea. “You want something bold, flashy, over-the-top—like ‘I’m the greatest, no one better than me.’”

Zhang Yichuan clapped both hands. “Exactly! That’s the feeling! It’s got to be wild! Really wild!”

Zhou Miao nodded, “Alright, I understand. Give me a week, and I guarantee you’ll be satisfied.”

“That’s a big promise. Let me be clear—I like you, but if the song doesn’t work, I won’t take it!” Zhou Miao’s confidence made Zhang Yichuan uneasy. After all, the kid was still underage—young and inexperienced. Zhang was only trying his luck with him.

Arms folded, Zhou Miao put on an arrogant face. “If even I can’t write this song, then no one in the Chinese music scene can.”

Zhang Yichuan burst out laughing. “Ha! That’s the spirit!”

They left the hotpot restaurant in high spirits. Zhang Yichuan hadn’t met such an interesting kid in a long time. The two of them chatted until closing time, long after midnight.

But as soon as Zhou Miao got home, his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. A flood of people were messaging him—was he about to star in a movie?

What the hell?

He checked online and discovered someone had snapped a photo of him and Zhang Yichuan at dinner. Now, news was everywhere: Zhou Miao to play the lead in Zhang Yichuan’s new film.

The company’s PR department asked if he wanted to respond, but Zhou Miao refused. Why bother clarifying rumors?

These days, netizens are spoiled—anything a celebrity does, they expect an explanation to satisfy their curiosity.

That’s exactly why Zhou Miao never opened a Weibo account: he’d rather let them guess.

Zhang Yichuan didn’t respond either; the matter of the song wasn’t settled yet. If Zhou Miao’s work didn’t fit and the netizens found out, how embarrassing would that be for him?

The next day, after class, Zhou Miao went straight to the production department to find Cumin. “Brother Cumin, help me find some traditional instrument teachers. I want to record a song.”

“Traditional instruments? What kind of song are you recording?” Cumin was curious—not many pop songs these days used folk instruments.

“Director Zhang Yichuan asked me for a song last night—the theme for his new film.” Zhou Miao handed over the sheet music.

“You wrote the song the night he asked? My god, that’s fast. Are you sure you don’t want to polish it more, since it’s for Director Zhang’s new film?” Cumin studied the score. “Huo Yuanjia”—same as the film’s title—but the more he read, the deeper his frown became. By the time he finished, he was completely defeated.

They say artists are competitive, and in all his years, Cumin had never truly admired another musician. He’d always thought himself second to none.

But now, facing Zhou Miao, he finally felt the gap. This was a song he could never write in his life.

Maybe this is what genius looks like… Cumin’s spirit was crushed. With a heavy heart, he went off to contact traditional instrument teachers for Zhou Miao.

Though Director Zhang still had final say, to avoid wasting time if the song didn’t pass review, it was best to make a demo first.

Still, Zhou Miao chose to record a full version right away. He didn’t change the original arrangement, which was grand, imposing, and already near perfect—any alteration would have been superfluous.

For the best audio experience, Zhou Miao didn’t use the popular and convenient synthesizers, but hired professional musicians to perform live in the studio. The recording took three days and cost a fair bit, but the result was more than worth it.

Another three days went into vocals, mixing, and mastering.

On the seventh day, Zhou Miao called Zhang Yichuan to come and review the work.

When Zhang arrived, Zuo Qiudu personally came out to greet him. After all, Zhang Yichuan was a renowned director—building this connection could pay off in the future.

Seven days wasn’t long, but not exactly short either. Some quick writers could finish a song in a day, though the quality was another matter.

Zhang Yichuan, not being an expert, didn’t worry about Zhou Miao slacking off. Their last conversation had been so lively that he was genuinely looking forward to the song.

After brief pleasantries, they got straight to business. Zhou Miao turned on the production department’s surround sound system, worth tens of thousands, clicked on the music file, and hit play.