Chapter 2 – Recalling the Past Days of the Harem

After taking a shower, Guan Lan lay sprawled on the large hotel bed, scrolling through Weibo.

Since the broadcast of “Next Stop: King of Songs,” he had gained a lot of fans.

The setup of judges on talent shows usually follows this pattern: one motherly type, usually a female judge, with a gentle demeanor and a warm smile, encouraging every contestant with sincere praise, pointing out only their strengths; one fatherly type, who speaks little, shows no expression, and offers professional, fair, and well-reasoned critiques; and one mad dog type, who picks fights with everyone and steals the spotlight.

Guan Lan’s persona was the one who criticized.

As a down-to-earth behind-the-scenes worker, he wasn’t quite in tune with what young people found endearing these days. This was the first time he realized that being critical on TV could actually earn him fans.

Someone had compiled a collection of Guan Lan’s critiques, complete with images and text:

“You’re singing a song I wrote, so I know its intended purpose very well. When I wrote it, I aimed for it to be a KTV hit. Do you know what a KTV hit is? It’s a song that ensures everyone can sing it, one that you can learn after hearing it once, with a simple melody and no technical difficulty. I think choosing this song for a singing competition is like playing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ in a piano competition. No matter how well you play it, I can’t give you points.”

“I generally don’t recommend contestants choose rap, not because rap is bad; on the contrary, it’s because many people underestimate the technical difficulty of rap, thinking it’s easier than singing, which leads to a misplaced confidence. When they get on stage, it’s both visually and aurally painful. Your rap just now gave me secondhand embarrassment.”

“Girl, you have a good voice, a wide range, and your high notes are stable, so I’ll give you a pass. But I still want to give you some advice: go back and practice your Mandarin, at least make sure your pronunciation is clear. Poor pronunciation is deadly; it distracts the audience. Just now, while listening to you sing, I kept wondering why the song was about ‘smuggling in the sea.’ It wasn’t until I realized it was actually ‘lost in the sea’ that half the song had already passed.”

Screenshots of Guan Lan’s cold, critical remarks were turned into memes. Many new fans searched for his works on Baidu and discovered that so many familiar songs were written by him, sparking the trend of “someone who could rely on their looks but chooses to rely on talent instead.” He had suddenly become a new internet sensation.

Then, the long-time entertainment forum users, who were well-versed in the industry’s gossip, couldn’t stand it. They couldn’t believe that someone as morally bankrupt as Guan Lan could become popular. Did people these days have no sense of right and wrong? They felt it was their duty to save the masses from ignorance and expose the misdeeds of this rule-breaking monster.

Guan Lan had always known he had a “bad reputation,” but this was the first time he had seen a post so meticulously detailing all his supposed crimes.

After reading it, he felt like he was truly amazing—someone who had slept with half the Chinese music industry. Every singer or artist who had worked with him or his company had apparently been “taken advantage of” by him.

For the more famous artists, the post was cautious, only mentioning that they were “close”; for the lesser-known singers, it was claimed that he had slept with every single one of them, immediately offering them financial support—a true tycoon.

The post even provided detailed evidence, including images, to argue that a boy band called NEXT, which debuted last year, had all four members as part of Guan Lan’s harem.

A newly debuted boy band might not be very famous or have many fans, but their fans were definitely very passionate.

Thus, the post became a battlefield, with people tearing into each other.

Guan Lan had no interest in watching people argue, so he turned off his computer.

To be honest, while his bad reputation was frustrating, it wasn’t exactly fatal.

He wasn’t like the artists. Artists relied on their audience for their livelihood; if their public image suffered and the audience turned against them, it would directly impact their careers. Guan Lan, on the other hand, was one step removed from the audience. His clients were the singers, or rather, the singers’ management companies. These people didn’t care if he had cheated on his partner multiple times or had a long line of mistresses. As long as his songs were still on the charts, there would always be people knocking on his door.

So, he only felt down for a little while.

A little while later, he called the leader of NEXT: “Got time? Let’s hang out!”

It was time to reconnect with his harem.

—

Guan Lan drove to the company to pick up the four boys.

He knew a bit about their company’s situation. Their idol packaging was entirely handled by a Korean team, following the Korean idol training model: intense training with little pay. This method was simple, brutal, but highly effective, producing boy and girl groups with solid skills—good singers, good dancers, and well-mannered.

NEXT’s debut album contract was signed with him. After the album was released, he thought the boys were quite good. Seeing how monotonous and exhausting their training was, and how they hadn’t experienced the glitz and glamour of the entertainment industry, he occasionally took them out for some fun.

In the car, he brought up the post he had just read as a joke: “I saw online that some people are saying you four are all part of my harem.”

The four boys exchanged glances, unsure of what Guan Lan meant by this, and remained silent.

Guan Lan, oblivious, continued cheerfully: “I thought, since you’re my harem, I can’t let you off without any benefits. If I can’t get you a BMW, at least I can take you to a villa.”

The boys were even more confused about what he was up to.

The leader, Ning Xun, being bolder, asked: “Teacher, what are we going to do?”

Guan Lan: “You’ll know when we get there.”

When they arrived, there were two outdoor grills and a large oven set up in the yard. A chef in a white apron and chef’s hat was cutting meat on a long table. Next to the grills were three large crates of carbonated drinks.

While most tycoons would throw poolside cocktail parties, Guan Lan, being more down-to-earth, hosted a lawn BBQ party with his little harem, filled with the aroma of grilled food.

Ning Xun: “Um… the company doesn’t allow us to eat this kind of stuff…”

Don’t even try to resist; their eyes were glued to the beef.

Guan Lan: “You’re not female idols who have to starve for three days after eating meat. You need to maintain your exercise levels; your basal metabolism is high. How can one BBQ ruin your abs? Just do a few more push-ups next week, and you’ll be fine.”

Guan Lan: “Come on, I won’t tell your manager. You’ve been eating so blandly that your faces are turning green. Have a proper meal of meat, like it’s New Year’s.”

What twenty-year-old boy doesn’t love meat?

Half-meter-long skewers loaded with large chunks of meat, alternating between fat and lean, interspersed with green and red bell peppers and mushrooms, sizzling on the grill, the aroma of barbecue sauce filling the air.

The boys were moved to tears as they ate.

Ai Wei, the second oldest, held a skewer in one hand and a can of cola in the other, murmuring: “I think this is the happiest day of my life.”

Xu Xinjie, the third oldest, patted his head: “You idiot, don’t drink cola; it takes up too much space in your stomach, and you won’t be able to eat as much meat!”

Ai Wei, aggrieved: “I haven’t had cola in three years…”

Tan Qiu, the youngest, silently moved the skewers on the grill closer to himself.

Guan Lan, worried they might get too full from the meat, had specially prepared fruits and vegetables. But he found that this concern was unnecessary. Instead, it was he who couldn’t handle much and started munching on cucumbers.

Watching these young, handsome boys eat, drink, and play on the sunny lawn was like living in paradise.

Just as he was lost in this beautiful scene, his phone rang.

He took it out and saw three glaring characters: Zhou Junzhuo.

Guan Lan: “The main wife is checking in.”

NEXT: “…”

Was this a joke? It must be a joke, right?

Ning Xun: “Aren’t you going to answer?”

Guan Lan neither answered nor rejected the call. He set his phone to silent and tossed it aside.

Guan Lan: “You guys still lack life experience. When you’re with your little lovers and the main wife checks in, you can’t answer the call right away. That would give it away. You have to pretend you didn’t see it, prepare mentally, figure out how to handle it, and then call back.”

NEXT: “…”

If Ren Xiaofei were here, he would have knelt down and clung to Guan Lan’s leg, begging him: “Don’t joke like this so seriously! People won’t think you’re joking! Don’t you think your reputation is already scandalous enough, boss!”

The phone vibrated for a while longer before finally going silent.

Guan Lan looked at these energetic young men and began reminiscing nostalgically: “Zhou Junzhuo and I go way back… Do you know when we first met?”

Ai Wei: “I know, you were college classmates, right?”

Guan Lan: “Even earlier. We were in the same middle school. Back then, we even had a band; he was the lead singer, and I was the guitarist. The band broke up in our third year of high school, and that summer after the college entrance exam, we started working on songs together—I wrote, and he sang. He uploaded a video of himself singing online, and it became a small hit. Back then, it wasn’t like now where internet celebrities are everywhere. He was good-looking and could sing, so he just blew up.”

Guan Lan: “In college, Zhou Junzhuo won first place in our school’s singing competition—you know, the campus top ten singers—and then he got noticed by Tianlong. They wanted to mold him into a teenage prodigy, a singer-songwriter; but he told them that the songs he sang weren’t written by him.”

Guan Lan: “Then Sister Xuewen found me—you know Lin Xuewen, right?”

They all nodded. Although Lin Xuewen had been out of the spotlight for a while, no one in the music industry hadn’t heard of her.

Guan Lan: “I was just a sophomore then, spending my days eating, sleeping, attending classes, and playing video games. I had never thought about the future. Her appearance was like opening a door to a whole new world for me. She talked with me for an afternoon, looked at some songs I had casually written, and then asked if I’d be willing to intern with her.”

Guan Lan: “And then the hellish days began—it was truly exhausting. I skipped as many classes as I could, but I couldn’t skip exams, and I couldn’t cheat my way through everything, so I had to study a bit. I was going to school and working during the day, and doing homework at night. Before, I thought I could write songs, but I was just winging it; I didn’t know any of the technical stuff, so I had to catch up. Otherwise, during company meetings, I wouldn’t understand what people were saying.”

The four boys listened intently, and for a moment, the only sound in the yard was the sizzling of meat on the grill.

Guan Lan: “This went on until my senior year. At that time, Sister Xuewen had two projects: Yao Jie’s debut album and Zhou Junzhuo’s second album. Sister Xuewen’s secretary told me that Sister Xuewen planned to go on vacation with her husband, so one of the projects would be dropped, and the other would be handed over to me. She felt that after two years of mentoring me, I could handle a project on my own, so she asked me which one I wanted.”

Guan Lan: “Of course, I wanted Zhou Junzhuo’s. I had been writing songs for him since middle school; I knew his style well. It wasn’t a sure bet, but I was confident. This was my first project, so I wanted to play it safe. Besides, I was about to graduate; I hadn’t attended many classes in three years, so I needed to focus on my thesis. If I didn’t, the school might not let me graduate.”

Guan Lan sighed: “But I was too young and naive. She had already made up her mind; she wasn’t really asking for my opinion—”

Ai Wei: “She gave you Yao Jie’s?”

Guan Lan chuckled: “She gave me both projects and went on vacation.”

Guan Lan: “Sigh, those days were so painful, I don’t even want to remember them. In the end, Zhou Junzhuo wrote my graduation thesis for me. He wasn’t even in the same major as me; it must have been tough for him.”

Xu Xinjie: “So you produced both those albums! That’s amazing. I still remember the album ‘Four-line Poem’; I downloaded the whole thing to my MP3 and listened to it on repeat all night.”

Guan Lan smiled faintly. These two albums were his debut works, and he couldn’t help but feel proud: “Under immense pressure, I had no way out. My own major was already neglected; I couldn’t find any other job.”

Guan Lan: “But my hardships weren’t over yet. After I graduated and officially joined Tianlong, Sister Xuewen returned from her vacation and found out she was pregnant with her second child.”

Guan Lan: “Initially, Sister Xuewen and her husband had agreed to have only one child, no more—she was a career woman. But as she got older, her mindset changed. When she actually got pregnant, she felt that having a second child in her forties was rare and didn’t want to give it up. She told me, ‘I wanted to let you gain more experience for a few more years, but now I have no choice but to put you in charge.'”

Guan Lan: “You haven’t been in the workplace, so you don’t know what career women fear the most. They fear that after working hard for the company, going home to have a child, and then returning, their position will be gone. She was an older mother, so she needed to rest before and after giving birth, which meant taking at least a year off. What could I do? Sister Xuewen had mentored me; she had both discovered and nurtured me. At the very least, I had to hold the fort for her during that year.”

The boys were captivated, their eyes fixed on him.

Guan Lan: “I thought that after her year-long leave, things would get better. But after she gave birth, her health deteriorated, and she needed surgery and recovery. Once her health improved, her child fell ill. After the child recovered, her elder son entered his rebellious phase, threatening to drop out of school, throwing the whole family into chaos… I waited year after year, month after month, hoping my mentor would return to shield me, to lessen my burden. But she never came back. In this industry, relationships are crucial; even within the same company, there are factions and mentor-disciple relationships. Without my mentor, the pressure was immense. If I didn’t achieve something, I’d be treated like a nobody.”

Guan Lan: “Fortunately, back then… back then, I was at the peak of my creativity. People said that every song I wrote became a hit, every album I produced was a success. That wasn’t just flattery. Later, even Wu Shuo approached me for a collaboration. Wu Shuo, the God of Songs! When I was in elementary school, saving up my pocket money to buy his cassette tapes, I never imagined that one day I’d be writing songs for him…”

He was lost in his memories when two honks interrupted him.

A black Mercedes at the gate was flashing its lights at him frantically.

Ning Xun: “Did you invite someone else?”

Guan Lan sighed: “No. I didn’t answer the call, so the main wife came looking for me.”