Chapter 12 – A Strategic Nuclear Move

Zhuang Lin woke up early that day.

From the moment he opened his eyes, his mind was on edge.

He didn’t want to admit it, but it was because today was the last day of the one-month agreement with Guan Lan.

Since their last meeting, Guan Lan hadn’t contacted him at all. This made his vigilance grow day by day. He knew that Guan Lan’s inaction this week meant something—it meant that all the moves were being saved for the final day!

What kind of strategic nuclear move had Guan Lan been brewing for a whole month?

Zhuang Lin went for a tense morning run, ate a tense breakfast, entered the recording studio with tension, and had a tense lunch…

After lunch, there was still no sign of anything.

His phone was fully charged and had full signal, yet it was as quiet as if it were broken.

This was serious. Could it be that Guan Lan was saving all his big moves for dinner?

By dinner time, Zhuang Lin had to face reality: Guan Lan had forgotten about him.

For someone as busy as Guan Lan, who managed a thousand things daily and had a harem of three thousand, Zhuang Lin was just a small ripple in the vast ocean, forgotten the moment he turned away.

All his anxiety, frustration, speculation, and even that faint sense of anticipation throughout the day now seemed so ridiculous.

It was at this moment that Guan Lan’s call came through.

Guan Lan: “Have you had dinner yet?”

Zhuang Lin felt a surge of anger upon hearing this. Did I not eat just because I was waiting for you?

…Though he actually hadn’t eaten, waiting specifically for him.

Zhuang Lin: “I’ve eaten.”

Guan Lan: “Oh, you eat quite early.”

Zhuang Lin: “…”

Guan Lan: “Come downstairs now, look for my car. My assistant is waiting to pick you up.”

Zhuang Lin snorted inwardly: Have I lost the privilege of being personally picked up now?

Still, he went downstairs.

He got into the car, and Ren Xiaofei greeted him with the first question: “Have you had dinner yet?”

Zhuang Lin: “…I’ve eaten.”

Ren Xiaofei: “Oh, you eat quite early.”

…Zhuang Lin didn’t want to talk anymore.

Ren Xiaofei: “Guan Lan originally asked me to take you to grab some food on the way, but since you’ve already eaten, we’ll head straight there.”

Zhuang Lin thought, so not only have I lost the privilege of being personally picked up, but the dining standard has also been downgraded to a roadside fast-food joint.

What a clever move of playing hard to get. I see through you.

Guan Lan had been deliberately neglecting him all day, lowering his expectations, letting him reach the peak of disappointment, only to surprise him later. The huge psychological gap would hit him like a ton of bricks.

A very impressive tactic, but I’ve already figured it out.

From now on, whatever you do, I’ll see it coming.

Zhuang Lin: “Where are we going?”

Ren Xiaofei: “Our company. Guan Lan hasn’t left work yet.”

When Zhuang Lin entered Guan Lan’s office, he found that Guan Lan was indeed still working.

He hadn’t expected that someone who looked so polished and presentable could have such a messy desk.

Sheet music, documents, books, magazines, tangled headphone and power cords, an electric kettle, a water cup, and various inexplicable knick-knacks were all sprawled across the desk. Describing it as “a complete mess” was being generous.

Ren Xiaofei, clearly used to it, went over and cleaned up the leftover takeout boxes.

Guan Lan looked up from his screen: “You’re here. That was quick. Zhuang Lin, take a seat. Xiaofei, you can head home.”

Guan Lan: “Zhuang Lin, give me ten minutes. There’s hot water here if you want some.”

Thanks, but I’d rather not get near your desk.

Zhuang Lin: “Go ahead with your work. Don’t mind me.”

Guan Lan really didn’t mind him and went back to working on his computer.

Zhuang Lin sat on the office’s guest sofa, thinking, just keep ignoring me. I’ve already seen through your tactics.

He didn’t know how long he waited—maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour—but finally, the sound of the computer shutting down came from Guan Lan’s side.

Zhuang Lin instinctively straightened his back and tensed his shoulders: Here it comes! The main event of the night is about to begin!

Guan Lan stood up, rummaged through the pile of papers on his desk, and pulled out a plastic folder. Then, from the clutter, he fished out a pair of black-framed glasses and put them on.

This was the first time Zhuang Lin had seen him wear glasses. With them on, Guan Lan’s entire demeanor changed. The usual polished, elite aura faded, replaced by a more relaxed, artistic vibe.

Guan Lan: “Come on, my office is too messy and smells like food. Let’s find a meeting room.”

…So you do know it’s a mess.

Guan Lan placed the folder on the oval table in the meeting room, turned on the lights, closed the door, and slowly rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing a pair of pale forearms.

Usually, this kind of gesture was a prelude to a fight—but Zhuang Lin had gone jogging with Guan Lan before and knew his physical condition well. He was confident that Guan Lan couldn’t beat him up or seduce him, even if he hadn’t eaten dinner.

Guan Lan: “You’ve been calling me ‘teacher’ for so long, I can’t let you do it for nothing. Today, I’ll give you a lesson.”

Even though Zhuang Lin thought he was fully prepared, this statement caught him off guard.

Guan Lan: “What’s wrong? I know you’re a graduate of a world-renowned university, and your teachers are masters of their fields. You might think I’m not qualified to teach you.”

Zhuang Lin: “I don’t think that. I’m confident in myself, but I’m not foolishly arrogant.”

Guan Lan slowly opened the folder: “Confidence is good. I hope you can keep it up after tonight.”

Guan Lan: “This is a collection of your works that I had someone compile. Take a look and see if there are any mistakes.”

Zhuang Lin flipped through it and was surprised to find it incredibly thorough. It included not only the songs he had released online but also his class assignments and graduation compositions. Even his own company hadn’t compiled his work so meticulously.

Guan Lan reminisced with Zhuang Lin about the past: “I remember ten years ago, when I was just a carefree college student, my mentor found me and showed me a similar collection of my works. After looking through it, she told me, ‘You have talent, but everything you’ve written is childish. None of it is ready to be sold.'”

Guan Lan: “Now, I’m giving you the same message—I can see you have ideas, but ideas don’t put food on the table. None of your works here are up to standard.”

Zhuang Lin was completely unprepared for this evaluation.

Guan Lan had always been approachable and mild-mannered around him, never acting like a lofty senior. Even when Zhuang Lin occasionally spoke out of turn or offended him, Guan Lan would just laugh it off and never held it against him. Because of this, Zhuang Lin had forgotten that Guan Lan was famous for his sharp critiques as a talent show judge.

Guan Lan might have a good temper, but when it came to professional matters, he didn’t tolerate any nonsense.

Zhuang Lin had expected tonight to be like a rollercoaster, with one wave of emotions after another. Instead, it was more like a freefall—pouring cold water on top of cold water. Truly exciting.

Zhuang Lin: “Your opinion that they’re not good enough is just that—an opinion. No one can please everyone.”

Guan Lan: “I know you’re not convinced, and I’m not going to say something like ‘let the market judge you.’ I’d like to let you fall on your face a couple of times to see for yourself, but I can’t afford that risk. Right now, I’m signing you as a prestigious overseas graduate with a bright future ahead. But if your new songs, at this level, are released and your first album flops, followed by a second flop, then signing you later would make me look like a fool, a garbage collector. My boss wouldn’t approve, and I’d have to make a vow to him, saying, ‘If Zhuang Lin doesn’t make it big, I’ll resign in disgrace. I won’t take a salary until he succeeds.’ Only then could I sign you.”

Guan Lan: “It’s not impossible, but I’d rather not go through all that trouble.”

Zhuang Lin: “So, you called me here late at night just to humiliate me, to call me garbage, is that it?”

Guan Lan: “Don’t get so worked up—young people these days can’t handle any criticism. I haven’t even started scolding you yet. My style is considered the gentlest in the industry.”

Zhuang Lin wasn’t unfamiliar with being scolded or criticized. His teachers in school were all highly skilled but also had sharp tempers. He had even been cursed at and had his sheet music torn up by a teacher.

But Guan Lan’s rejection hit him especially hard.

Guan Lan said softly: “I just don’t want you to go through that kind of hardship. A singer’s life experiences are reflected in their voice. If you go through such trials and tribulations, your voice will change.”

Zhuang Lin: “So you’re so sure that my songs will flop, and I’ll have to go through that? What if my first album is a hit?”

Guan Lan smiled gently: “That’s impossible.”

Zhuang Lin: “…”

Guan Lan: “You became popular online because you’re good-looking and can sing well, not because your songs are well-written. If you don’t believe my judgment, consider this: the American music industry is mature, and American producers have sharp eyes. Has any record company approached you to produce and release your songs?”

Zhuang Lin thought, that’s enough. Why did I come here just to be humiliated by you?

Guan Lan spread Zhuang Lin’s portfolio on the table: “Now, let me explain in detail why your songs will definitely flop.”

Guan Lan: “You studied art in school. Now, I’m going to teach you about the market.”

Zhuang Lin: “So, we’re supposed to sacrifice art to cater to the market?”

Guan Lan: “Don’t act all high and mighty. Can you honestly tell me that you only care about art and don’t want fame or success?”

…A direct hit. Zhuang Lin shut up.

Guan Lan: “Of course, I’m not saying you should completely cater to the market. First, that’s just pandering. Second, no one can fully understand the public’s taste—if you could, you’d be a god. The question is, what percentage is art, and what percentage is market? As producers, we help you find that balance.”

Guan Lan: “In terms of artistic technique, everyone has their own path. Besides, you’re a trained professional, and I’m self-taught. I can’t teach you that, and even if I tried, you probably wouldn’t take it seriously. Plus, I don’t think you have any major issues in that area. The details can be refined over time.”

Guan Lan: “So the problem with your songs isn’t that they’re not good—it’s that they’re not moving.”

This statement completely disarmed Zhuang Lin.

He thought, fine. Whether you want to use unspoken rules or sleep with me, if you can really help me solve this problem, I’ll sell myself to you.