128: Chapter 127, Round Two, Bilingual

The piano chords looped once.

The kick drum struck.

Su Chen spoke.

No flashy fast-Rap, no dense plosives.

His voice transmitted through the microphone, deep and steady, carrying a grainy texture that came after experiencing the vicissitudes of life.

"You should have heard this song. This is a letter."

"Written to you from five years ago, which is also me from five years ago."

"Back then, you left that basement, carrying your backpack and walking into the rain."

"They said rules are rules, but you insisted on tearing up that piece of paper."

Su Chen's speaking pace was very slow.

Every single word precisely locked onto the 85 BPM kick drum.

His breath transitions were silent, and the trailing ends of his long notes were handled cleanly and crisply.

In the Shanghai flat.

Huang Zitao's left leg, which had been shaking along with the lingering echoes, stopped.

He bit the plastic stick in his mouth, his body involuntarily leaning backward.

"You ate ten-yuan bento boxes and slept in a leaky rental room."

"You hid your pride in the dirt, complaining to no one."

"Time is a long river, washing away those hypocritical masks."

"Now we reunite at this intersection, no longer needing to care about anyone's expression."

Su Chen looked straight at the camera.

He did not make any gestures, his hands still crossed and placed on the desk.

He was simply recounting a memory.

A memory that belonged to him, and also to that young man across from him.

The piano pitch in the accompaniment rose, entering the chorus section.

Su Chen's vocal line rose accordingly, but still maintained restraint.

"No need to guess what tomorrow will be like."

"Pack up all those doubts and throw them into the trash can."

"Brother, you have grown up and have your own home turf."

"But standing here, I can still block the wind and waves for you."

The last kick drum of the accompaniment struck.

Su Chen closed his mouth.

The vinyl record player's noise floor lasted for two seconds before stopping abruptly.

Yanjing apartment.

Yan Yu covered her mouth with both hands, her eye sockets turning red.

"Family members."

Yan Yu took a deep breath and spoke into the microphone, "This is the highest-level Flow. Taozi is a heavy machine gun, sweeping the whole audience. God Su is a scalpel, every strike drawing blood."

She brought up the audio waveform chart from just now.

"Look at this waveform. Under such a slow accompaniment, if every accent and every breath are inaccurate, it will create a huge sense of discordance. Old School tests storytelling ability the most. God Su didn't use any complex double or triple rhymes; he relied entirely on language sense and phrasing, forcefully singing a slow song with an epic feel."

In the live broadcast rooms of the three major platforms, the bullet comments fell into a standstill lasting five seconds.

Afterwards, a torrent of text flooded the screen.

[I listened until I cried. These lyrics are literally writing about these five years for the five of them!]

[Not a single curse word, not a single provocation, but every single word is responding to Taozi.]

['Brother, you have grown up'—the moment this phrase came out, my defenses were instantly broken.]

[What is a Demon King? A Demon King is when you pop your ultimate skill, and he catches you with just a basic attack.]

[Taozi is technical style, God Su is narrative style, who actually won this?]

[There's no way to compare this! Both of them are way too strong!]

[This combination of "Epic" and "No Need to Guess" is absolute perfection!]

[I declare, this is the peak showdown of the Chinese Entertainment Industry Rap circle!]

[Stop arguing, look at the voting channel quickly!]

In the lower right corner of the Tencent Video live broadcast interface, a red and blue two-color voting bar chart popped up.

The system's built-in real-time voting function activated.

Countdown of thirty seconds.

The red on the left represents Huang Zitao.

The blue on the right represents Su Chen.

In the data center, Operations Director Li Hong stared at those two wildly jumping bars.

"Server load is maxed out!"

The technician shouted.

The red bar and blue bar rose alternately.

Five million votes.

Ten million votes.

Twenty million votes.

The thirty-second countdown ended.

The red bar stopped at forty-nine point five percent.

The blue bar stopped at fifty point five percent.

A nearly perfect fifty-fifty split.

On the left side of the screen.

Huang Zitao looked at the voting results on the screen.

He spat out the deformed plastic stick in his mouth, picked up the mineral water bottle on the table, unscrewed the cap, and tilted his head back to gulp down half a bottle of water.

Water stains trickled down his chin into the Cuban chain around his neck.

He grabbed a towel beside him to wipe his face, then looked back at the camera.

"Bro."

Huang Zitao's voice returned to calm, "You are still as steady as ever. When it comes to telling stories, I can't beat you."

Su Chen sat opposite, picked up the warm water and took a sip:

"Your breath control has been practiced well. Your vital capacity is twice as big as five years ago. That beat is very hard to master, but you did a great job."

Receiving this affirmation, the corners of Huang Zitao's mouth pulled into a smile.

But this smile quickly converged, replaced by an even stronger desire to win.

"The first round counts as a tie."

Huang Zitao threw the towel on the table and put his hands back on the keyboard,

"But Chinese freestyle is just an appetizer. Back then at the company, you were also the one who taught language classes."

Huang Zitao clicked the mouse.

The arrangement software interface switched instantly.

A Drill accompaniment with a BPM as high as 130 rushed out of the speakers.

Gliding basses and rapid continuous snare drums intertwined, carrying a strong London street style.

"Second round, bilingual."

Huang Zitao stared at Su Chen in the screen, his eyes filled with provocation.

"I'll start with English. Do you dare to answer in Korean?"