11: Chapter 11 Five words, oh five words.

On the day "Prince Rupert's Drop" was released, Jiang Zhiyu slept all day in his room at the gosiwon. It wasn't that he was intentionally avoiding anything; rather, he had stayed up until 4:00 AM the previous night for the final mastering adjustments. He had listened to the final version of the audio file sent by the mixing engineer three times from beginning to end, and after confirming there were no flaws, he sent the file to Kim Taeyeon's team. Then, he closed his computer, collapsed onto his bed, and slept for a full fourteen hours.

He woke up at 2:00 AM. He picked up his phone, and the moment the screen lit up, the notification bar was crammed full of various messages. KakaoTalk, texts, emails, and even that SNS account he almost never used—every place capable of receiving messages was flashing. He didn't open them immediately. Instead, he went to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, stood by the window to finish it, and then returned to bed. Leaning against his pillow, he went through them one by one.

The first to pop up were NingNing's messages. She had sent over a dozen, ranging from "Teacher!!! The song is out!!!" to "It debuted at number one!!!" to "First, first, first, first, first," to "Why aren't you saying anything, are you sleeping?" to "You're definitely sleeping," to "Never mind, just sleep, remember to check the charts when you wake up." When Jiang Zhiyu finished reading the last "first," the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. He didn't reply; instead, he opened a music app.

"Prince Rupert's Drop"—Debuted at Number One.

Not top ten, not top five, but number one. Kim Taeyeon's name and Jiang Zhiyu's name were hung side-by-side at the top of the chart: Lyrics by Jiang Zhiyu, Composition by Jiang Zhiyu, Arrangement by Jiang Zhiyu. The three instances of "Jiang Zhiyu" were neatly lined up together, like a family of three. He stared at that screen for a few seconds, then closed the app and opened the group chat "The Four of Us." NingNing was still sending messages, Kim Minjeong was already asleep, and Karina hadn't sent any messages but had been watching—her read receipt glowed under every single message. Jiang Zhiyu typed a few words: "Awake. Number one. It's good." Then he pressed the phone to his chest and closed his eyes.

He didn't feel excited, or even happy. Back in the Tianxuan Continent, he had experienced "debuting at number one" too many times. During the most extreme instance, from the first to the seventy-eighth spot on the top one hundred music charts were all songs he had written. Some new songs might surge up upon release, staying at tenth or twentieth for a few hours, but they would soon be pushed down by his songs, falling back outside the top seventy-eight. At that time, Wang Shuyun had teased him, saying, "Can't you leave a path for others to live?" He thought about it and answered seriously, "No." Wang Shuyun was so angry she threw a file at his head.

But that was the Tianxuan Continent. This was Earth, South Korea, the year 2018. No one here knew that he once dominated seventy-eight spots on a chart. No one knew he was a thirty-year-old former member of the Detective Division who had crossed over from another world and survived countless life-and-death trials. People here only knew him as a sixteen-year-old, good-looking, Chinese-American boy who could write songs.

That was enough.

He didn't need them to know more.

The next afternoon, Jiang Zhiyu arrived at the company. He had walked the path from the subway station to the SM Building hundreds of times; he could do it with his eyes closed. But today was different. Today, the way pedestrians looked at him was different—it wasn't the kind of glance that said "this guy is pretty handsome," but the kind of scrutiny that asked "is this person that... songwriter?" He wore a mask and had his hat pulled low, but he couldn't hide those eyes. His eyes were too recognizable, not because of their size, but because of a calmness that didn't match his age, like the deep waters of a pond—still on the surface, but with undercurrents swirling beneath.

When he walked into the company lobby, the young girl at the front desk stood up from her seat. It wasn't a polite standing, but an excited "Oh my god, he's here, what should I say?" kind of movement. She opened her mouth, but in the end, only managed to say, "Producer Jiang, congratulations," her voice so quiet she seemed to be talking to herself. Jiang Zhiyu bowed slightly, said "Thank you," and walked toward the elevator.

Just as the elevator doors were about to close, a hand reached through the gap. Jiang Zhiyu pressed the open button, the doors slid back, and Yeri stood outside, panting. She was holding up her phone, displaying a photo of him and Kim Taeyeon in the recording studio—he was sitting at the mixing console while she stood behind him. Neither was looking at the camera; it was a candid shot taken by a staff member.

"Producer Jiang!" Yeri rushed into the elevator and shoved the phone in front of his face. "Look! My post! It has eight hundred thousand likes!"

Jiang Zhiyu looked down at the photo without speaking. He remembered that day. It was the final day after the official recording ended. Kim Taeyeon said she wanted to take a photo as a souvenir, and the staff took a few casual shots. He hadn't cared because he thought it was just an ordinary work photo that wouldn't appear anywhere. But he had underestimated Yeri. Yeri had obtained this photo from a source he didn't even know about and posted it on her Instagram with only one line of text: "Our company's youngest producer, and the most amazing senior. The song is great, please support it."

The like count on that post was now eight hundred and thirty thousand and was still rising. The comment section had exploded—"Who is this producer???" "He's so handsome!!!" "Sixteen years old???" "He wrote Taeyeon's new song?" "He did the lyrics, composition, and arrangement???" "Crazy, crazy, crazy."

After reading the comments, Jiang Zhiyu handed the phone back to Yeri.

"Why didn't you tell me before posting it?"

"If I told you, you definitely wouldn't have agreed." Yeri tilted her head back defiantly. "Everything about you is great, except you're too low-key. So low-key it makes people wonder if you're intentionally hiding from something."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't respond. The elevator reached the fourth floor, the doors opened, and Yeri stepped out first, looking back at him. "By the way, Seulgi Unnie said she's treating us to dinner today."

"Why?"

"Because your song is a hit."

Yeri said the five words "your song is a hit" lightly, as if saying "the weather is nice today." But Jiang Zhiyu heard something else in her tone—not pride, not boasting, but a kind of certainty that said "I knew it would be like this." Yeri had believed he would be a hit from the very beginning. She didn't know his past or his glory in the Tianxuan Continent; she just instinctively believed that this taciturn, sixteen-year-old boy who could do magic tricks and drank full-sugar milk tea would definitely do something that would surprise everyone.

Kang Seulgi chose a barbecue restaurant in an alley near the company. The storefront wasn't large, but business was good. When Jiang Zhiyu arrived, Yeri and Seulgi were already seated, with two plates of pork belly and a bottle of soju on the table. Seulgi was wearing a black hoodie with her hair down and no makeup. Her bare face was clean, looking like an ordinary college student. Seeing Jiang Zhiyu enter, she raised her hand slightly, a faint, understated smile on her lips.

"Producer Jiang, congratulations."

"Thank you, Seulgi Senior."

"Just call me Noona," Seulgi said. "You're already so close with Yeri, why be so formal with me?"

Jiang Zhiyu sat down next to Yeri. Yeri immediately pushed the menu in front of him, her eyes sparkling. "I picked the place, you order the food, and Seulgi Unnie pays. That's what we agreed on."

"When did we agree on that?" Seulgi asked.

"Just now," Yeri said confidently. "Before you arrived."

Seulgi glanced at Jiang Zhiyu, who was flipping through the menu expressionlessly. His gaze lingered on the "Hanwoo" section for a fraction of a second before moving on—he felt bad asking Seulgi to treat him to Hanwoo; it was too expensive. He ordered pork belly, pork neck, cold noodles, and soybean paste stew—all reasonably priced dishes. Yeri grumbled dissatisfiedly beside him, "Why didn't you order Hanwoo?" but Jiang Zhiyu ignored her.

When the charcoal was brought out, Seulgi took a call. After hanging up, her expression was a bit subtle. "Taeyeon Unnie said she's coming over in a bit."

"Isn't she in the middle of her schedule?" Yeri asked.

"She just finished and is nearby."

Jiang Zhiyu's hand flipping the meat paused for a moment. Since saying that thing he shouldn't have at the recording studio entrance last time, he and Kim Taeyeon hadn't met privately. Work communication was handled through assistants and emails; the interaction between them had changed from "When are you free?" to "Please confirm the attached file." It wasn't a cold war or estrangement, but a kind of adult, decent, unspoken sense of distance. He knew he had said the wrong thing, she knew he knew he had said the wrong thing, and neither apologized because an apology would be too formal—so formal it would feel like putting a period on a relationship that hadn't even begun.

Kim Taeyeon arrived twenty minutes later. She was wearing a cream-colored trench coat with her hair down. Most of her makeup had been removed, leaving only a thin layer of cushion foundation. When she entered, there weren't many people left in the restaurant. The waiter led her to the private room. She pushed the door open, her gaze landing first on Seulgi, then on Yeri, and finally on Jiang Zhiyu.

"Producer Jiang," she said.

"Taeyeon Senior," he said.

Seulgi and Yeri glanced at each other. Both felt that subtle sense of detachment in the air, as if separated by a layer of plastic wrap. Yeri cleared her throat and patted the chair next to her. "Unnie, sit here."

Kim Taeyeon sat down and took the water glass Seulgi handed her, taking a sip. She didn't look at Jiang Zhiyu, and Jiang Zhiyu didn't look at her. The air between them seemed frozen—not cold, but not warm either.

Seulgi placed a piece of grilled pork belly onto Taeyeon's plate. "Unnie, the song is doing very well. Congratulations."

"Thank you." Kim Taeyeon picked up the meat and ate it slowly. Her gaze rested on the table as she chewed, not looking at anyone.

Yeri couldn't stand this silence. She was the type of person who needed sound—not noise, but human sounds: talking, laughing, even sighing. Silence made her uneasy, making her feel like something was quietly breaking.

"Unnie," Yeri leaned toward Kim Taeyeon, "do you know what Producer Jiang once told me?"

Kim Taeyeon looked at her. "What?"

"He said Taeyeon Senior is the best singer he's ever seen."

Jiang Zhiyu's hand flipping the meat stopped for a moment. He had never said that. Yeri was making it up for him. But Kim Taeyeon didn't know Yeri was making it up—or rather, she knew Yeri was making it up, but she chose to believe it.

"Is that so?" Kim Taeyeon looked at Jiang Zhiyu.

Jiang Zhiyu was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I've said something similar."

"What was the similar thing?"

"I said, 'Taeyeon Senior sings really well'."

Yeri rolled her eyes beside him. "Producer Jiang, can't you be a little less literal?"

"No." Jiang Zhiyu placed the grilled pork belly onto everyone's plates. For Kim Taeyeon's portion, he gave her three pieces. It was more than Seulgi and Yeri's. Kim Taeyeon looked at the three pieces of pork belly on her plate and didn't speak. But when she picked up the first piece, there was a tiny curve at the corner of her mouth—not a smile, but a confirmation that said "I noticed."

Halfway through the meal, Jiang Zhiyu's phone vibrated. It wasn't KakaoTalk; it was an email. He didn't recognize the sender's name, but he understood the subject line at a glance: "Collaboration Invitation."

He opened the email and scanned it quickly. The sender was the head of the A&R department at a mid-sized entertainment company. They said they greatly admired his creative abilities after hearing "Prince Rupert's Drop" and hoped for a chance to meet and discuss the possibility of collaboration. The wording was very polite and professional, but Jiang Zhiyu read the true meaning between the lines: "We want to scout you."

He marked the email as unread, locked his screen, and placed the phone face down on the table.

"What's wrong?" Yeri asked.

"Nothing. Just spam."

The phone vibrated again. And again. And again. Within ten minutes, he received seven emails. Three entertainment companies, two music production companies, one independent label, and one person he didn't know who seemed to be from an agency. Each email was worded differently—some enthusiastic, some restrained, some direct, some indirect—but the core message was the same: "We want to work with you."

Yeri leaned over to peek at his phone screen, her eyes widening. "Producer Jiang, are you being—"

"Shh." Jiang Zhiyu turned the phone over, placing it screen-down on the table.

Kim Taeyeon looked at his phone on the table but didn't ask. She didn't need to. Having been in this industry for over a decade, she knew exactly what happened after a song became a massive hit. A creator's phone would be blown up, their inbox would be flooded, and various "collaboration invitations" would fly in like snowflakes. Some were sincere, some were testing the waters, and some were just jumping on the bandwagon. But regardless of the type, they all meant one thing—you were famous.

Seulgi saw it too. She put down her chopsticks and looked at Jiang Zhiyu. "Will you consider them?"

"Consider what?"

"Invitations from other companies."

Jiang Zhiyu picked up the last piece of meat from the grill, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly. Then he wiped his mouth with a tissue and took a sip of water from his glass. As he did this, the three people in the private room were all watching him. Seulgi's gaze was curious—she wanted to know what choice this sixteen-year-old producer would make. Yeri's gaze was nervous—she was afraid he would leave. Kim Taeyeon's gaze was calm—so calm that no emotion could be seen.

"I won't," Jiang Zhiyu said.

"Why?" Seulgi asked.

"Because SM was the first company to give me a chance. When I had nothing, SM gave me a contract, a recording studio, and the opportunity to write songs. Now that one song has become a hit, I can't just leave. I'm not that kind of person."

He spoke in a very calm tone, as if he were stating a fact that didn't need discussion. But the three people in the private room fell silent.

Yeri's eyes turned red. She sniffed, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and spoke with a slightly hoarse voice. "Producer Jiang, you... are really annoying."

"Why?"

"Because you always talk in that tone. You say something really touching, but you insist on saying it like you're saying 'the weather is nice today.' It makes me want to cry, but I'm too embarrassed to."

Seulgi didn't speak, but she poured Jiang Zhiyu a glass of water. It wasn't a polite or formal pour, but the kind of pour that said, 'I don't know what to say, but I understand you.'

Kim Taeyeon didn't speak either. But she picked up a piece of pork belly and placed it on Jiang Zhiyu's plate. She used her own chopsticks to pick up the meat, not the serving chopsticks. In Korea, using your own chopsticks to give someone food is something only close people do.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the piece of meat on his plate and was silent for a moment. Then he picked it up, put it in his mouth, and chewed it slowly.

"Thank you, Senior," he said.

Kim Taeyeon nodded.

After that meal, the discussions within SM regarding Jiang Zhiyu changed from "that foreign kid who writes songs" to "Producer Jiang Zhiyu." It wasn't just the title that changed, but the tone. Before, when colleagues mentioned him, there was a wait-and-see attitude of "he's still young," "let's see," and "no rush." Now it was different. Now, when they mentioned him, there was something extra in their tone—recognition. Not recognition of potential, but recognition of strength. He was no longer a newcomer with a "promising future," but a producer who had "already made it."

On the day the HR department called him for a talk, Jiang Zhiyu was in the recording studio modifying the arrangement of a new song. When Park Jiyeon pushed the door open and entered, he didn't look up, his fingers still playing chords on the MIDI keyboard. Park Jiyeon didn't interrupt him; she leaned against the mixing console with her arms crossed, quietly listening to him finish that segment.

Jiang Zhiyu finished the last bar, lifted his fingers from the keys, and then turned his head to look at her. "Team Leader Park, is something up?"

"The HR department wants you to head over. Bring your contract." Park Jiyeon's tone was flat, but her eyes were shining—the kind of light that said, "I have good news for you, but I don't want to seem too excited."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't ask why. He stood up, took out the somewhat wrinkled intern contract from his drawer, and followed Park Jiyeon out of the recording studio.

The HR office was on the sixth floor, at the end of the hallway. When Jiang Zhiyu pushed the door and entered, Manager Lee was already waiting inside. Wearing silver-rimmed glasses, in his forties, he spoke in a deliberate manner. He was exactly the same as when Jiang Zhiyu first came to sign the contract. But the things on the desk were different. The first time he came, there were two contracts on the desk—a trainee contract and a songwriter contract. Both were clearly different in thickness, one thick and one thin. He had signed the thin one. Today, there was only one contract on the desk. A thick one.

"Producer Jiang, please sit." Manager Lee pushed his glasses up and pushed the contract in front of him. "This is the new full-time employee contract the company has prepared for you. You can take a look first and ask any questions at any time."

Jiang Zhiyu opened the contract.

First page, position: Songwriter. Not "non-regular employee," not "pay-per-piece," but "Songwriter." Full-time employee. Second page, salary structure: base salary plus commission. He glanced at the base salary figure—it wasn't much higher than the fee he got for writing one song. But the commission percentage had changed, from the previous "one-time settlement" to "copyright royalties." This meant that for every song he wrote, as long as it was being played, downloaded, or performed, he would continue to receive income. Third page, benefits: social security, medical insurance, year-end bonuses, paid leave—everything was there. Just like other full-time employees at SM. No differential treatment, no deductions just because he was a foreigner.

Jiang Zhiyu flipped through page by page, reading very slowly. Not because the terms were complex, but because he was thinking about something.

He remembered the first day he came to SM. Park Junhee found him by the Han River. He was wearing that dark ink-colored custom suit, with only eight thousand one hundred won and a passport in his pocket. Kim Sujin asked him in the meeting room, "What works do you have?" and he said, "There are hundreds of songs on this USB drive." He remembered Kim Sujin's expression clearly—not suspicion, but "you're crazy." At that time, he couldn't even speak Korean, stumbling even over "hello." But now, he sat here with a full-time employee contract in front of him, with fair terms and reasonable benefits, without any traps. It had taken less than a year.

He flipped to the last page, picked up a pen, and signed his name.

Manager Lee took the contract, glanced at the signature, then stood up and reached out his hand. "Producer Jiang, congratulations. From today on, you are officially a member of SM Entertainment."

Jiang Zhiyu shook his hand. "Thank you."

Park Jiyeon stood at the door, and the moment she saw him finish signing the contract, her eyes reddened for a second. She quickly looked away, pretending to look at something in the hallway. But Jiang Zhiyu saw it. He didn't say anything, only whispering "Team Leader Park, thank you" as he passed by her.

Park Jiyeon sniffed, her voice a bit hoarse. "What's there to thank me for? Just write good songs from now on."

As Jiang Zhiyu walked out of the HR office, his phone vibrated. In the group chat "The Four of Us," NingNing sent a message. "Teacher!!! I heard you became a full-time employee!!!" Kim Minjeong followed up. "Oppa!!! Treat us!!!" Karina didn't send a message, but she changed the group chat name from "Jiang Zhiyu's Social Death Scene" back to "The Four of Us."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the name, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly. He typed a few words—"I can treat you, but no Hanwoo beef"—and then put away his phone.

He stood by the window in the hallway, looking at the gray sky outside. Seoul's sky was always like this, gray, as if covered by a veil. But today's gray was different from before. Before, the gray was oppressive, heavy, and suffocating. Today's gray was gentle, quiet, as if someone had draped a thin layer of silk over the city.

The first stage of his five-year plan—"Rising to Fame"—had officially begun. It was faster than expected. He originally thought it would take two or even three years. But the success of "Prince Rupert's Drop" had shortened the time. Not because the song itself was so great, but because the person singing it was Kim Taeyeon, the leader of Girls' Generation, and one of Korea's top female singers. Her name itself was the most powerful amplifier; as long as any "newcomer producer" could appear alongside her name, they would instantly be noticed by the entire industry.

But he wasn't intoxicated by being "noticed." He knew that the success of one song could be luck, two songs could be a coincidence, but three songs meant strength. He needed a second, third, and fourth song. He needed to make the name "Jiang Zhiyu" no longer "the producer of that Kim Taeyeon song," but "the Jiang Zhiyu who wrote that song." The order was very important. "The producer of that Kim Taeyeon song"—Kim Taeyeon was the protagonist, and he was an accessory. "The Jiang Zhiyu who wrote that song"—he was the protagonist, and Kim Taeyeon was the performer. A difference of a few words was worlds apart.

He stood by the window, looking outside, his fingers lightly tapping twice on the windowsill. Then he turned around and walked back to the recording studio. On the desk was that unfinished strawberry milk tea, full sugar, with pearls, coconut jelly, pudding, and red beans, already stone cold. He didn't throw it away but picked it up and took a sip. The cold milk tea was sickeningly sweet, but he didn't frown.

He sat back in front of the mixing console, opened his computer, and pulled up a new project file.

File name—Untitled_01.

He took a deep breath, his fingers falling onto the MIDI keyboard. When the first chord sounded, the sunlight from outside just happened to leak through the gaps in the clouds and fall on his shoulder, like a hand lightly patting him.

He didn't look up. He didn't know it was sunlight.

But he felt it.

—

Jiang Zhiyu stood in the hallway on the fourth floor of the SM Building for a long time.

He leaned against the windowsill, holding that stone-cold strawberry milk tea, his gaze falling on the door of the practice room at the end of the hallway. The door was closed, but music squeezed out from the crack. Strong rhythmic drum beats mixed with electronic synthesizer bass, making the door panel vibrate slightly. This was the track he had chosen for them, a work by an American producer with complex beats and a melody line hidden between the drums and bass, placing extremely high demands on the dancers' sense of rhythm and body control.

When he chose this song, NingNing glanced at the score and said, "Teacher, are you trying to work us to death?" Kim Minjeong didn't speak, but she silently folded the score and put it in her bag. After finishing the score, Karina looked up at him and said, "I might need two weeks for the sixteen beats in the chorus." Jiang Zhiyu said, "You have one week." Karina didn't say anything more, and at six o'clock the next morning, she appeared in the practice room.

Jiang Zhiyu placed the milk tea cup on the windowsill, walked to the practice room door, and gently pushed it open. The music rushed toward him like an invisible wall. The mirror in the practice room reflected three figures—NingNing on the far left, Kim Minjeong in the middle, and Karina on the far right. The three stood in a row, their movements as synchronized as puppets pulled by the same string. Their hair was soaked, sweat dripping from the ends and forming small puddles on the floor. Their T-shirts clung to their bodies, the color changing from light gray to dark gray, with the darkest patches at the neckline and underarms, as if they had been soaked in water.

Jiang Zhiyu leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching quietly. He didn't make a sound, didn't clap, didn't make any unnecessary movements. He just watched, like a craftsman inspecting a work he was polishing.

NingNing was the first to notice him. Her eyes met his in the mirror for a split second, and the corners of her mouth curled up slightly, but her movements didn't stop. Her body was still moving to the beat—shoulders, arms, waist, hips, knees—every joint making precise movements at precise points in time. Her dance feel was the least of his worries among the three. Not because she danced the best—Karina's dancing was stronger—but because her body had a natural, almost instinctive sense of rhythm. She didn't need to think or calculate; as soon as the music played, her body knew how to move.

Kim Minjeong was the second to notice him. Her movements faltered slightly—a pause of less than 0.1 seconds that only Jiang Zhiyu could see—and then she continued. Her dancing was the weakest among the three, not because she didn't work hard, but because her physical condition limited her explosive power. She had a small frame and low muscle mass, so when she did large-scale movements, she always gave off a feeling of "about to fall apart." But her strength was precision. The angle, range, and power of every movement were precisely calculated, like a calibrated instrument.

Karina was the last to notice him. Or rather, she didn't "notice" him at all because she had known he was there from the beginning. Her peripheral vision had caught his figure the moment the door was pushed open, but she didn't let anyone see it. Her gaze remained fixed on herself in the mirror, checking every detail of her movements—whether the shoulder angle was too low, whether the arm lines weren't straight enough, whether the shift in center of gravity was too slow.

The music stopped. The three stopped simultaneously, gasping for breath. NingNing bent over, hands on her knees, sweat dripping from her chin to the floor. Kim Minjeong lay directly on the floor, limbs spread out like a dried-up octopus. Karina stood in place, hands on her hips, breathing deeply, her chest heaving violently, but her back remained ramrod straight.

Jiang Zhiyu pushed off from the doorframe, walked into the practice room, and stood among them. His gaze moved from NingNing to Kim Minjeong, then to Karina, and finally fell on the puddles on the floor.

"Tonight," he said, "go to the Han River for a street performance. Singing."

The three were stunned at the same time. NingNing's bent posture froze like a statue. Kim Minjeong sat up abruptly from the floor, her hair as messy as a bird's nest, her eyes wide and round. Karina's hands dropped from her waist to her sides, her fingers curling slightly.

"Teacher, what did you say?" NingNing stood up and wiped the sweat from her face with her sleeve. "Street performance?"

"Yes."

"Now?"

"Tonight. At sunset."

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

Kim Minjeong climbed up from the floor, sat cross-legged on the ground, and looked up at Jiang Zhiyu. "Oppa, are you serious?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her face, flushed from the intense exercise, and her eyes, widened in surprise. He didn't answer "yes" or "no." He squatted down to be at eye level with her, then said something that left all three of them silent.

"It's time for others to see your skills. Of course, your shortcomings as well."

Silence. The practice room was so quiet that one could hear the buzzing of the air conditioning vents. NingNing pursed her lips, Kim Minjeong's fingers traced circles on the floor unconsciously, and Karina's gaze rested on her own reflection in the mirror.

"Okay." Karina said. Her voice was not loud, but it was firm.

NingNing glanced at her, then nodded as well. "Okay. If we're going, we're going."

Kim Minjeong looked at Karina, then at NingNing, and finally at Jiang Zhiyu. Her lips moved a few times, as if she wanted to say something but didn't know how to start. Finally, she said, "Oppa, you'll come with us, right?"

"I will."

Kim Minjeong breathed a sigh of relief. She climbed up from the floor, brushed the dust off her pants, walked over to the mirror, and tied her messy hair back into a ponytail. "Then I need to go back and change my clothes. This one smells too bad."

NingNing lowered her head and sniffed the collar of her T-shirt, frowning. "I need to change too."

Karina didn't speak, but she had already started packing up the water bottles and towels on the floor.

Sunset. Han River. Jiang Zhiyu walked in front, carrying the old acoustic guitar he had borrowed from the company's equipment room on his back. The guitar case was black, its edges worn, and the zipper pull was missing, replaced by a red string. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a faint scar on his forearm. The hem of the shirt was tucked into his waistband, and the belt around his waist was one he had bought at Dongdaemun for 5,000 won—faux leather that had already started peeling after a few months of use.

NingNing followed behind him, wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and light blue jeans, with white canvas shoes on her feet. Her hair was tied into two buns, making her look like a candied hawthorn with ears. Kim Minjeong was beside her, wearing a pink hoodie and black sweatpants, carrying a cloth bag filled with water and snacks. Karina walked at the very back, wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and dark gray wide-leg pants, her hair loose, with no makeup on her face.

By the Han River in May, the sun was setting. The surface of the river was dyed golden red, as if someone had poured a bucket of molten gold into the water. On the distant bridge, traffic flowed endlessly, and headlights lit up in the twilight, like two ribbons of light slowly flowing over the river. On the riverside path, some people were strolling, some were jogging, some were walking their dogs, and some were sitting on benches reading books. A few children were playing by the fountain, their laughter as crisp as shattered glass.

Jiang Zhiyu found an open space and put down the guitar and speaker. He took the portable speaker out of the cloth bag, placed it on the ground, and connected the microphone and stand. His movements were skillful, so skillful that it was like doing something he had done hundreds of times. When he was on the Tianxuan Continent, he had done countless street performances—not performing himself, but taking the trainees from TG Entertainment. On the streets, in parks, and in malls of the Nanming Kingdom—anywhere there were people, he had taken them. It wasn't for money, but to get them used to the feeling of being watched. The mirror in the practice room and the passersby on the street were two completely different things. Mirrors don't judge you, but passersby do. Mirrors don't frown when you make a mistake, but passersby do. Mirrors don't cover their ears when you hit a high note, but passersby do. Only in a real, uncontrollable, and unpredictable environment can a person know their true worth.

He adjusted the microphone stand to the appropriate height and tapped the microphone, producing two "pop, pop" sounds from the speaker. Several passersby strolling nearby turned their heads to look, then continued on their way. Jiang Zhiyu took the old acoustic guitar out of the case, held it in his arms, placed his fingers on the strings, and tuned it. The guitar's tone wasn't great; the strings were a bit old, the high notes weren't bright enough, and the low notes weren't deep enough, but it was stable and didn't go out of tune. He set up three plastic stools next to the speaker and said to NingNing, Kim Minjeong, and Karina, "Sit."

The three of them sat down obediently. Sitting side by side, backs straight, hands on their knees, they looked like three trained penguins.

Jiang Zhiyu stood in front of them, facing the river, with his back to the passersby. His fingers plucked the strings lightly, and a G chord rang out, warm and bright, as if the color of the sunset had been translated into sound. He didn't sing; he just played an intro. The melody was simple and beautiful, as if someone were speaking through the guitar. Passersby slowed their pace, and some stopped, standing not far away, curiously watching this young man in a white shirt playing the guitar in the sunset.

Jiang Zhiyu finished the intro, looked up at the passersby who had stopped, and smiled. The smile was small but sincere, like an old friend greeting you.

"Hello everyone, my name is Jiang Zhiyu. The weather is great today, so I'd like to sing a few songs by the river." He said this in Korean, at a moderate pace, with clear articulation. His Korean had improved so much compared to half a year ago; although he still had a slight foreign accent, it had faded to the point of being almost imperceptible. "I'll start with a song I wrote myself. It doesn't have a name, just something I wrote casually, so just listen to it casually."

His fingers landed on the strings again. This time, he didn't play chords, but a fingerstyle melody. His fingerstyle technique wasn't top-tier, but it had the advantage of being clean—every note was clear and independent, not muddied together. The melodic line was simple and gentle, as if describing a quiet afternoon, where nothing big happened, just an afternoon spent staring blankly at the sunset.

Then he began to sing. His voice wasn't loud, but it traveled through the speaker and spread out over the river, like a stone thrown into water, with ripples spreading out in circles.

"노을이 지는 이 강가에서——" On this riverside where the sunset falls—

"아무 생각 없이 앉아 있어——" Sitting here without a single thought—

"바람이 불어와 내 볼을 스치면——" When the wind blows and brushes my cheek—

"오늘 하루도 괜찮았던 것 같아——" I think today was a decent day too—

He was singing in Korean. Not because his Korean was so good, but because this song he wanted to sing only felt right in Korean. Korean has many vowels and few consonants, requiring a wider mouth opening during pronunciation, which allows the sound to disperse more easily. When singing in the open space by the river, Korean had more penetrating power than Chinese.

Passersby stopped. It wasn't the kind of stopping because they were "blown away," but the kind where they thought, "This song sounds very comfortable." No one applauded, no one screamed; they just stood there quietly, listening to a young man in a white shirt playing guitar in the sunset, singing a nameless, casually written song.

Jiang Zhiyu sang three songs. The first was the nameless song he had just sung, the second was a cover of an old English song, and the third was an arrangement of a Korean folk song. There were no pauses between the three songs, no transitions, and no polite phrases like "thank you everyone." He simply finished the first song and started the second, finished the second and started the third. The three songs were like three paintings hung in the same gallery; each was independent, but together, they formed a complete, self-consistent world.

After the three songs were finished, the number of people who had stopped had grown from the initial five or six to nearly twenty. There were young parents pushing strollers, middle-aged men walking their dogs, high school students in uniforms, and people who had stopped in the middle of their run while wearing headphones. They stood there, and no one left, as if they were waiting for something.

Jiang Zhiyu rested the guitar on his knees and said into the microphone, "The main characters today are not me."

He turned to the side and pointed the microphone toward the three people sitting on the plastic stools. NingNing, Kim Minjeong, and Karina all straightened their backs at the same time, six eyes fixed on him.

"These three are trainees from SM Entertainment," Jiang Zhiyu said. "They are very good at singing and dancing. Better than me." He paused, then added, "Of course, I'm not being modest."

A few passersby laughed. Kim Minjeong didn't laugh; her fingers were clenched into fists on her knees, her knuckles white. NingNing's lips were trembling slightly, but her eyes were bright, bright as if there was fire burning inside. Karina's expression was the calmest, so calm that no emotion could be seen, but if someone looked closely at her hands—she was pinching the pad of her index finger with her thumbnail, over and over again.

Jiang Zhiyu put the guitar aside, stood up, and walked over to them. He didn't say "good luck," didn't say "don't be nervous," and didn't offer any words of comfort. He simply pushed the microphone stand a little closer to them, then stepped aside, took out his phone, and turned on the recording function.

NingNing took a deep breath, stood up, and walked to the microphone. She was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and light blue jeans, with her hair tied in two buns, looking like a middle school student. When she stood in front of the microphone, her legs were shaking. Not a visible shaking, but the kind of subtle trembling that only someone standing next to her could feel, like strings vibrating in a gentle breeze.

She began to sing. She sang a song by Ariana Grande, in English, with many high notes and complex vocal runs. Her timbre was completely different from Ariana Grande's—Ariana Grande's voice was metallic, bright, as if polished, while NingNing's voice was thicker, warmer, like freshly baked bread. But she handled the song very well; she didn't try to imitate the original singer, but reinterpreted each musical phrase in her own way. She hit the high notes steadily, without cracking, without unstable breath, and without any flaws. After she finished singing, the passersby applauded. The applause wasn't loud, but it was sincere. NingNing's legs stopped shaking.

Kim Minjeong was next. When she stood up, she almost tripped over the leg of the plastic stool. Jiang Zhiyu reached out to steady her, and her face turned red instantly, red to the tips of her ears. She walked to the microphone, took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them.

She sang a song by IU. A lyrical ballad with a simple melody, complex lyrics, and extremely high emotional density. Her voice wasn't as clear and transparent as IU's, but softer, stickier, with a "milky" quality. But it was precisely this "milky" quality that gave the song a different flavor—not the sadness of a mature woman "longing for the past," but the sadness of a young girl feeling "I don't know why I'm sad, but I'm just sad."

When she reached the chorus, her voice trembled slightly. It wasn't a technical issue; it was the emotion welling up. She didn't suppress it, but let that tremble remain there naturally. Jiang Zhiyu watched from behind the phone camera, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned.

After she finished singing, the applause was louder than it had been for NingNing. Not because she sang better, but because her voice was more recognizable. Kim Minjeong bowed with a red face, trotted back to the plastic stool, sat down, and buried her face in her hands, not daring to look at anyone.

Karina was the last one. When she stood up, she didn't trip over the stool like Kim Minjeong, nor did her legs shake like NingNing's. She stood up, walked to the microphone, her movements as fluid as if she were walking a runway. She stood still in front of the microphone, her gaze sweeping over the passersby who had stopped, and then landed on Jiang Zhiyu, pausing for a moment.

She didn't sing. The first thing she said was, "The next song is one I wrote myself."

Jiang Zhiyu raised an eyebrow behind the phone camera. He didn't know Karina could write songs. She had never told him. It hadn't been mentioned in the group chat, hadn't been mentioned during training, not even during the barbecue dinner. She had hidden it well, so well that even he hadn't noticed.

Karina cleared her throat, and without any accompaniment, she began to sing. Her voice wasn't loud, but in the open space by the river, in the quiet twilight, every syllable was clearly audible. She had written a slow-tempo R&B song; the melodic line wasn't complex, but the chord progression was very interesting—it used a few uncommon substitute chords, giving the whole song a feeling of "hanging in mid-air." The lyrics were about waiting. Not waiting for someone, but waiting for herself. Waiting to become better, waiting to be worthy of that imagined future.

When she sang the last line, her voice sounded a bit choked. Not hoarse, but with a choked quality, as if she were about to cry if she said anything more. But she didn't cry. She held the last note steadily, then bowed slightly.

The applause rang out. It was louder than it had been for NingNing and Kim Minjeong. Not because she was the best of the three, but because she was the most surprising. No one expected a trainee to be able to write songs, and even fewer expected the quality of the song she wrote to be so high.

Karina walked back to the plastic stool and sat down, her expression still that cool, emotionless calm. But the tips of her ears were red.

Jiang Zhiyu put away his phone and walked up to them.

He looked at the three of them—NingNing's forehead was still sweating, Kim Minjeong's face was still flushed, and the tips of Karina's ears hadn't lost their color yet.

He was silent for a moment, then said something that left all three of them stunned.

"Do you know what I was thinking about while I was recording the video just now?"

"What were you thinking?" NingNing asked.

"I was wondering how much this video will be worth in a year."

The three of them were silent for a moment.

Then Kim Minjeong laughed out loud, bending over with laughter.

NingNing followed suit, laughing until tears came to her eyes.

Karina didn't laugh, but there was a tiny arc at the corner of her mouth, so small that only Jiang Zhiyu noticed it.

Jiang Zhiyu packed up his guitar and speaker, folded the microphone stand and put it into a cloth bag, and stacked the plastic stools, tucking them under his arm.

While he did this, the three of them stood by, wanting to help but not knowing what to do, so they just stood there.

"Let's go," Jiang Zhiyu said.

"Where to?" Kim Minjeong asked.

"To a street food stall."

Kim Minjeong blinked.

NingNing's eyes lit up.

Karina looked at Jiang Zhiyu with a questioning look that seemed to say, "Are you sure?"

"My treat today." Jiang Zhiyu pulled a credit card from his pocket and waved it in the twilight.

He had just gotten the card a few days ago; with SM Entertainment's endorsement, he finally had a credit history, and the bank was finally willing to issue him a card.

The limit wasn't high, but it was enough for a meal at a street food stall.

He held the card between his index and middle fingers, raising it under the setting sun.

Golden light fell on the surface of the card, reflecting a small, dazzling spot of light.

"The signing bonus came through. It's not much, but it's enough to treat you all to a meal."

NingNing looked at the card in his hand, and her eyes turned red.

It wasn't because she was touched, but because she remembered six months ago.

Six months ago, Jiang Zhiyu was still a foreigner who couldn't even afford to eat, living in a goshiwon with only a few tens of thousands of won in his pocket.

He wore cheap clothes bought at Dongdaemun, drank full-sugar milk tea, and ate rice balls from convenience stores.

When Kim Minjeong treated him to barbecue, he ate five servings of pork belly by himself, scraping the bottom of the bowl clean.

Now, he was standing by the Han River, holding a credit card, saying, "My treat today."

NingNing sniffed, suppressing that sour feeling.

"Teacher, I want to eat fish cakes."

"Okay."

"And I want to eat tteokbokki."

"Okay."

"And I also want to eat—"

"NingNing," Jiang Zhiyu interrupted her, "can you consider my credit limit when you order?"

NingNing stuck out her tongue and stopped talking.

The four of them walked along the riverbank.

The setting sun had completely sunk below the horizon, leaving only a streak of orange-red afterglow in the sky, as if someone had painted a stroke on the canvas of the sky with a brush.

The streetlights along the riverbank turned on, one by one, connecting into a ribbon of light that extended into the distance along the riverbank.

The street food stall was in an open space by the river, its orange-red tent particularly conspicuous in the night.

Warm light shone from inside the tent, and the white steam from the steamer escaped through the gaps in the tent, drifting away in the night breeze.

The owner was a woman in her fifties, wearing an apron stained with oil, busy boiling fish cakes.

Seeing the four of them approach, she looked up and greeted them with a smile.

Jiang Zhiyu chose a table at the edge, placed his guitar and speaker to the side, and leaned the plastic stools against the table leg.

He sat down, glanced at the menu, and then handed it to NingNing.

"You order."

NingNing took the menu, looked at it for two seconds, and then closed it.

"Auntie, ten skewers of fish cakes, two servings of tteokbokki, two servings of gimbap, five fried shrimp, and three bowls of seafood ramen—wait, four bowls."

She glanced at Jiang Zhiyu.

"Teacher, how many bowls are you eating?"

"Two bowls."

"Then five bowls."

The auntie smiled and took note.

While NingNing was ordering, Kim Minjeong and Karina didn't speak.

Kim Minjeong was looking down at her phone; on the screen was the video of her singing by the river earlier—Jiang Zhiyu had sent it to her.

She watched the video from beginning to end, then placed her phone face down on the table, laid her head on the table, and buried her face in her arms.

"Minjeong-ah," NingNing poked her arm, "are you crying?"

"No."

"Your voice is hoarse."

"That's from singing."

NingNing didn't expose her.

She turned to look at Jiang Zhiyu, who was wiping the table with a tissue.

It wasn't because he was a germaphobe, but because there was a small oil stain on the table right in the center of his line of sight, and it bothered him.

"Teacher," NingNing said, "what did you think of our singing today?"

"It was pretty good." Jiang Zhiyu threw the tissue into the trash can.

"Better than in the practice room."

"Why?"

"Because in the practice room, you sing in front of a mirror, and if you sing badly, you can do it again.

On the street, you sing in front of people, and if you sing badly, it's over; you can't do it again."

He pulled the chopsticks out of the holder and distributed them to the three of them.

"This kind of pressure of 'no second chances' will make you more focused.

When you are focused, you will perform beyond your usual level."

NingNing nodded.

Kim Minjeong lifted her head from her arms; her eyes were red, but there were no tear stains.

Karina took the chopsticks Jiang Zhiyu handed her, holding them in her hand without putting them down.

"Ji-min." Jiang Zhiyu called her name, not "Karina," not "Ji-min-ah," just "Ji-min."

Two characters, no honorifics, no suffixes, as if he were calling someone he had known for a long time.

Karina looked at him.

"That song," he said, "you wrote it."

"Yeah."

"When did you write it?"

"At night. When I couldn't sleep."

"How long did it take to write?"

"A month."

"Show it to me when you write more in the future."

Karina was silent for a moment.

"Okay."

The fish cakes were served.

Ten skewers, neatly arranged on a large plate, sprinkled with green onions and sesame seeds, steaming hot.

The aroma of the fish cakes mixed with the fresh scent of green onions, drifting in the night breeze.

NingNing was the first to reach out, taking two skewers, one for herself and one for Jiang Zhiyu.

Jiang Zhiyu took the fish cake and took a bite.

The fish cake was chewy, the broth was fresh and sweet, with a hint of soy sauce and the fragrance of green onions—it was a taste he liked.

Kim Minjeong took a skewer and ate it slowly.

She ate very slowly, chewing for a long time with every bite, as if she were using her tongue to record the taste.

Karina didn't take one.

She sat there, looking at the fish cakes on the table, wondering what she was thinking.

"Ji-min, eat." Jiang Zhiyu placed a skewer of fish cakes on the plate in front of her.

Karina looked down at the fish cake skewer, was silent for a moment, then picked it up and took a bite.

As she chewed, there was a tiny arc at the corner of her mouth.

The tteokbokki was served, bright red, with a rich sauce, soft and chewy rice cakes, and small pieces of fish cake mixed in.

NingNing picked up a piece of rice cake, blew on it, put it in her mouth, and then squinted her eyes.

"Delicious. Better than the one next to the company."

"That one is too sweet," Kim Minjeong said.

"This place's sauce is well-balanced, a good mix of spicy and sweet."

"You know how to critique this?" NingNing looked at her.

"You know it when you eat enough."

The two of them bickered while eating, from the sweet-and-spicy ratio of the tteokbokki to the chewiness of the fish cakes, from the chewiness of the fish cakes to whether the rice in the gimbap was too soft.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't participate; he just ate quietly, occasionally pouring water into their cups.

Karina also ate quietly, but she occasionally looked up at the two bickering, with a gentle indulgence in her eyes, like an older sister watching her younger sisters mess around.

The seafood ramen arrived.

Five bowls.

The noodles were thick and chewy, the broth was rich and sweet, with shrimp, squid, and clams spread on top, dotted with the green of green onions and the red of chili peppers.

Jiang Zhiyu picked up the bowl, took a sip of the soup, closed his eyes, and swallowed it slowly.

The taste of this bowl of seafood ramen was very similar to the one he had eaten by the sea in the Nanming Kingdom on the Tianxuan Continent.

That day was his and Wang Shuyun's third day in the Nanming Kingdom, and the two of them had eaten it at a small shop by the sea.

The proprietress of the noodle shop was a local from Nanming, and she spoke with a heavy accent that he couldn't quite understand, but Wang Shuyun could.

She chatted with the proprietress while eating noodles, and they ended up talking about the seafood in Nanming.

The proprietress said that the sea in Nanming was good—the water was clear, there were many fish, and the shrimp were plump.

Wang Shuyun said they should come often.

Later, they never went to that shop again.

It wasn't that they didn't want to go, but they were too busy.

Too busy to even have time to eat a bowl of noodles.

Jiang Zhiyu opened his eyes, finished the noodles in the bowl, and then picked up the bowl to drink the soup until it was completely gone.

Kim Minjeong watched him drink the soup, and the corner of her mouth twitched.

She didn't speak, but she pushed her bowl of noodles toward Jiang Zhiyu.

"Oppa, I can't finish it."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the bowl of noodles, and then at her.

Kim Minjeong's gaze didn't waver; she just looked at him calmly, with a small, gentle arc at the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you." Jiang Zhiyu took the bowl of noodles and ate it slowly.

The light of the street food stall swayed slightly in the night breeze, the orange-red light falling on the faces of the four, illuminating their silhouettes softly.

In the distance, the Han River flowed in the night, the river water black, reflecting the lights on both banks, like a river studded with stars.

Occasionally, a cruise ship passed by on the river, the lights on the ship tracing colorful light trails in the darkness, then disappearing into the night.

NingNing was full and leaned back against the chair, looking up at the top of the tent with her face tilted up.

The fabric of the tent flapped gently in the wind, making a slight rustling sound, as if many people were clapping in the distance.

"Teacher," she said, "will we come here again?"

"Yes." Jiang Zhiyu finished the last bowl of noodles and wiped his mouth with a tissue.

"Next time, it's your treat."

NingNing laughed.

"Teacher, you have a credit card now, and you're still so stingy."

"Credit card debt has to be paid back."

"Then pay it back when you earn money."

"Even if I earn money, I still have to pay it back."

"Then when will you stop being stingy?"

Jiang Zhiyu thought for a moment and said seriously, "When I finish paying off the credit card."

NingNing looked at him speechlessly, Kim Minjeong laughed out loud on the side, and Karina drank her soup with her head down, but her shoulders were shaking slightly.

The river breeze blew over, carrying the dampness of the water and the chill of the night.

Jiang Zhiyu took off his jacket and draped it over Kim Minjeong.

Kim Minjeong was stunned for a moment and looked up at him; his expression was very calm, so calm that it was as if he were doing something that didn't require any thought.

"Aren't you cold?" Kim Minjeong asked.

"No, I'm not." Jiang Zhiyu said.

He was telling the truth.

He had been practicing the Qingqing Guiyuan Gong for twenty-three years, and his ability to regulate body temperature was far beyond that of an ordinary person.

For him, the early spring night breeze was no different from the cool air of an air conditioner.

Kim Minjeong wrapped the jacket tighter around herself, lowered her head, and buried her face in the collar.

The jacket had Jiang Zhiyu's scent—not perfume, not laundry detergent, but a scent she couldn't quite describe, like a mixture of medicinal herbs and sunlight.

NingNing watched Kim Minjeong bury her face in Jiang Zhiyu's jacket, and the corners of her mouth slowly curled up.

She didn't speak, just glanced at Karina.

Karina was also looking at Kim Minjeong.

The two of them locked eyes for a moment, then simultaneously looked away.

No one spoke.

The light of the street food stall swayed slightly in the night breeze, the orange-red light falling on the four of them, stretching their shadows long and thin, casting them onto the Han River walkway, like a painting frozen in time.

— — Catching the pouncing Minjeong

(09:40) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [ Oppa, good morning! I was woken up by the sunshine today. I dreamed that Oppa used your palm to catch the sweat I flung off while dancing and spinning, saying, "Our Minjeong, even your sweat is star-shaped" ~ (Dazedly fumbling for the phone to send a message) ]

(09:43) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [ I made honey cheese rolled omelet for breakfast and intentionally cut it into star shapes! Although I burnt a few, I've already taken a picture of the prettiest one and saved it in the "To show Oppa" album ~ (Sends a picture of a slightly clumsy star-shaped rolled omelet on a plate) ]

(09:46) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [ While watering the flowers on the balcony this morning, I discovered that the succulent Oppa gave me has sprouted new buds, tender green like little ears... I gently touched it and said, "Are you also trying hard to get closer to the sun? Me too." ]

(09:49) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [ Today we are rehearsing for the family concert special stage, and I chose a song with snowflake projections. The dance teacher asked, "Why is your expression so soft?" I said, "Because I remembered the first snow." Actually, on the day of the first snow, Oppa touched my head for the first time. ]

(09:52) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [ I secretly put the hand cream Oppa recommended in my stage costume pocket, so when I apply it while waiting for the stage, even if I can't hold Oppa's hand, I can pretend my fingertips have the same warmth. ]

(09:55) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [ Leaving for the practice room! Today I will also be like an asteroid, earnestly orbiting toward Oppa's trajectory ~ (Sends a picture of a lively back view jumping down the stairs) ]