Chapter Fifty-Two: Striking at the Heart

At Rainbow Records, the manager of the Public Relations Department knocked on Zuo Qiu’s office door, her face full of helplessness. “President Qiu, can we please take back Zhou Miao’s Weibo account? That kid is just too much trouble!”

Zuo Qiu looked puzzled. What had Zhou Miao done this time? She quickly opened Weibo and, after seeing what had happened, couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about him. We can’t just sit back and say nothing when people provoke us. I’ll talk to him later,” she said.

The PR manager sighed in resignation. She’d known it was pointless to complain—Zhou Miao was practically the crown prince at Rainbow, even Zuo Qiu had to handle him with care.

Amused, Zuo Qiu clicked on Zhou Miao’s post, clicking her tongue. This kid really knew how to hold a grudge. How was Hui Yuan supposed to maintain his prodigy persona after this?

Half an hour after the incident, Zhou Miao posted a photo on Weibo—a sheet of music covered in red circles, with the caption: Today, a fan contacted me and asked for some feedback on a song he wrote. I took a quick look—there are quite a few issues. He’s made almost every mistake beginners make.

First, there are too many melodic shapes without any pattern. Messy melodies make it hard for people to remember what you’ve sung.

Second, there’s no hook—no memorable point. A song without a memorable element is destined to fail. Think of the “ho-ho-ho-ho-ho” part in my “Huo Yuanjia”—you need to find and highlight the core message of your piece.

Third, the melody has no momentum. What’s momentum? It’s the driving force that makes listeners want to hear what comes next. With this song, I felt no anticipation for the next line—it’s like chewing on gristle.

Fourth, the combination of melody and lyrics is awkward, making the already scattered melody feel even less natural.

…

Goodness, he’d listed over a dozen problems in this sharp, teacherly tone, like correcting a student’s homework.

But the title of the song on that music sheet was “Striding Ahead”—a piece Hui Yuan had written and composed himself, featured as the second lead single on his latest album.

By now, Zhou Miao’s Weibo comment section had exploded. Everyone was stunned by this textbook-perfect retaliation.

“That’s what I call professionalism!”

“I always felt something was off with that song but couldn’t pinpoint it—Zhou Miao’s analysis hit every nail on the head!”

“Full marks for this response—absolutely brutal, Hui Yuan’s face must be swollen from all that slapping.”

“Here’s a joke: Hui Yuan can write songs.”

…

As netizens fiercely debated, Zhou Miao, as if just discovering the song was Hui Yuan’s, posted again.

“I’m truly sorry, really! I didn’t realize that song was by Teacher Hui Yuan—I thought it was written by a fan. My apologies to Teacher Hui Yuan. I’ve always enjoyed his music, even bought his album back in middle school. I hope we can collaborate someday.”

With this post, the situation hit its peak—Zhou Miao’s move was like slapping Hui Yuan’s face again and again, leaving onlookers both amused and amazed.

“Please, stop showing off! I’m starting to feel sorry for him!”

“Bought his album in middle school? Hui Yuan’s only been in the industry for two and a half years!”

“Wonder how big Hui Yuan’s psychological shadow is right now.”

“It’s official—he’s the entertainment industry’s top master of shady burns.”

…

Bang! The latest iPhone smashed against a 70-inch LCD TV, shattering both.

Hui Yuan’s eyes were bloodshot, his breathing ragged, fury practically radiating from him.

His agent clutched his head in exasperation. “Why did you have to provoke him?”

“Great, now he’s publicly humiliated you and everyone thinks he’s right—you got nothing out of this but ridicule! Why poke at him at all?”

The agent was about to burst with anger. The company had poured so many resources into making Hui Yuan a top idol. And now, with one careless Weibo post, he’d reduced himself to a clown—his image was ruined. Who would want him as a spokesperson now?

After being berated, Hui Yuan trembled with rage but didn’t dare talk back. His agent was a founding member with shares in the company—he could crush Hui Yuan like a chick.

All his resentment now focused on Zhou Miao. He’d just wanted to annoy him a little, but Zhou Miao had broken all the rules and fought back directly.

Public opinion was now largely on Zhou Miao’s side. Whether Hui Yuan responded or not, he was in a bind.

Seeing his state, the agent gave up lecturing him. “Alright, lay low for a while—wait until things blow over. It’s not a big deal, don’t dwell on it.”

“But stop provoking him. There’s still plenty of time—there’ll be chances to get back at him in the future, understand?”

“Understood.”

The incident had a major impact on Hui Yuan. Giant Stone Records decided to keep things quiet, minimizing the fallout, and reminded fans not to make a fuss—the more noise, the worse it would be.

Hui Yuan’s poor fans could only watch helplessly as he was mocked online, unable to do anything about it, grinding their teeth in frustration.

After this, Zhou Miao’s reputation soared—now everyone knew he was like a honey badger, petty, daring to strike anyone, and with a tongue as sharp as a knife.

Some fans even left messages on their idols’ Weibo, begging them not to mess with Zhou Miao—an absurdly comic situation.

That evening, Zuo Qiu took some time to visit Zhou Miao and cooked him dinner, taking the chance to talk some sense into him. His personality, after all, was a bit too unrestrained.

As Zhou Miao savored her cooking, he couldn’t help but sigh—when your boss cooks for you, that’s a rare privilege.

“I’m talking to you, did you hear me?” Zuo Qiu knocked on his plate, her authority as a boss all but lost.

“I heard you, don’t worry, I absolutely won’t post anything mocking him again,” Zhou Miao replied half-heartedly, though he left one thought unsaid—as long as Hui Yuan didn’t strike first.

Zuo Qiu sighed. “It’s only been a few days since your official debut and you’ve already made such a powerful enemy. Can’t you rein in that temper of yours a little?”

“As long as people don’t cross me, I won’t cross them. But if they do, I’ll make sure they lose their appetite!” Zhou Miao said, shaking his head with a grin.

“What’s the big deal about offending people? If it ever gets to the point where I can’t make it as a singer, I’ll just work behind the scenes. It’s much more relaxed and I can still make music.”

Zhou Miao knew his personality would make him many enemies—he was too sharp, too outspoken. But he didn’t care to change. In his previous life, illness had left him feeling colorless, like water without hue. In this life, he finally had color—finally had a personality. That, to him, was what it meant to truly live.