2: Chapter 2 Naming?

In the early hours of Seoul, the flow of people by the Han River was unexpectedly large.

Jiang Zhiyu strolled leisurely along the riverside path, the night breeze lifting the hem of his suit jacket and scattering the last remnants of his memories of that stage.

Traces of the makeup he wore while hosting the concert—foundation, eyebrow shaping, and a bit of contouring—remained on his face. Under the stage lights, these elements had made him look mature and sharp; now, in the dim light of dawn, they gave his face a subtle quality somewhere between a youth and an adult.

Though his appearance seemed a bit younger than his actual age, his innate temperament—gentle yet detached, indifferent yet sharp—was something no makeup could conceal.

Coupled with his top-tier looks, even walking along the Han River in a wind-rumpled suit, he still drew many glances from night runners and strolling pedestrians.

Some slowed their pace, some looked back for another glance, and one girl wearing headphones almost crashed into a lamppost.

Jiang Zhiyu remained oblivious to it all.

His mind was racing, trying to build a cognitive framework for this world from scratch.

First, he needed to figure out exactly where he was.

He couldn't read the road signs on the bridge, he couldn't understand the billboards around him, and he couldn't even make out the waste sorting instructions printed on the roadside trash cans.

But he remembered that uniquely shaped semi-circular building on the bridge—he had seen similar pictures somewhere. Though the memory was blurred, it at least indicated that human civilization in this world hadn't deviated too far from the trajectory he knew.

Secondly, he needed to learn the language.

This was the absolute priority. A person who couldn't understand, speak, or read would struggle even with basic survival in this world.

Finally, and most urgently at the moment—he needed a place to stay.

He patted his suit pockets. In the left pocket was that high-capacity USB drive; in the right was an unfamiliar phone with a black screen that wouldn't turn on no matter what.

In the inner suit pocket, his passport rested against his heart, next to a small silk-wrapped pouch containing his few remaining Health-Preserving Pills.

Hanging around his neck was that white Life-Saving Pill, threaded on a red string and hidden beneath his shirt collar; he had worn it close to his body for years, and it already carried his body heat.

In his trouser pocket, he felt a crumpled banknote.

On his way down from the Han River Bridge, he passed a 24-hour convenience store, its bright lights appearing particularly piercing in the dimness of dawn.

He steeled himself and walked in.

Fortunately, he knew English.

In the Tianxuan Continent, the Western language was the common tongue for international trade and diplomacy, and it was nearly identical to the English of this world—pronunciation, grammar, and common expressions were at least eighty to ninety percent similar.

He gestured to the clerk in English, pointing at the rice balls and mineral water on the shelves. The clerk was a young man in his early twenties who, though startled by his English, successfully helped him check out.

Ten thousand for a bottle of water and a rice ball. He pulled the banknote from his pocket and handed it over, and the clerk gave him change.

Over seven thousand won, a mix of coins and small-denomination bills, clinked into his palm.

Holding the rice ball and mineral water, he stepped out of the convenience store. His gaze swept the street and finally locked onto a direction—a bench by the Han River.

He could sit there, rest his feet temporarily, and untangle the mess in his mind.

He found a relatively secluded bench, facing the river with his back to the walkway.

The river breeze in the early morning was gentler than on the bridge, carrying the scent of water and the faint smoky aroma from distant barbecue stalls.

He sat down and unwrapped the rice ball.

The rice, wrapped in seaweed, was stuffed with a bit of tuna and mayonnaise. The taste wasn't great, but at least it was warm.

He devoured the rice ball in a few bites, unscrewed the mineral water cap for a couple of gulps, then placed the bottle on the bench armrest and began searching his pockets.

He took out everything one by one and laid them on the bench beside him.

First was the USB drive.

Black casing, metallic texture, with a labeled capacity of 1TB.

This was one of the work tools he carried with him in the Tianxuan Continent. It contained all the creative works he had accumulated over the years—demos for hundreds of songs, complete sheet music, multitrack arrangement files, covering various styles for boy groups, girl groups, soloists, and even cross-genre collaborations.

There were also variety show scripts he had designed himself, from segment setups to teleprompter lines, detailed down to the smallest thing.

And there were those film and television scripts that had earned him the title of 'Gold Medal Screenwriter'—suspense, romance, history, fantasy, all sorts of genres.

In the Tianxuan Continent, he was not only the head of TG Entertainment but also a record holder of some 'outrageous' achievements.

From the first to the seventy-eighth spot on the music charts, every song that had once been on the chart simultaneously was his creation.

Those songs came from different agencies and different idol groups, with various singers, but the lyrics and composition column uniformly bore the same name: Jiang Zhiyu.

This record remained unbroken to this day, and no one had even come close.

Now, this USB drive had transmigrated with him.

Pinching the USB drive, his fingertips traced the fine scratches on the casing, his heart a mixture of unidentifiable emotions.

Next was the phone.

An unfamiliar brand, an unfamiliar operating system interface. When the screen lit up, it displayed the initial setup wizard—language selection, region settings, network connection.

He tried operating it a bit and found that there was nothing in the phone—no contacts, no call logs, no photos, no information that could help him locate himself.

He stuffed the phone back into his pocket, not intending to delve into its origins for the time being.

Then there was the passport.

Deep blue cover, gold-embossed national emblem. He had already looked at it once, but he flipped it open again.

The person in the photo looked sixteen or seventeen, his features carrying the unique sharpness and slight impatience of youth.

Chinese-American, born December 26, 2001.

Meaning, in this world's 'present'—2017—he was only fifteen years old, strictly speaking still a few months away from turning sixteen.

A minor.

He closed the passport and put it back in his inner pocket.

Next was the remaining seven thousand-plus won in change.

A few coins and two small-denomination bills, totaling roughly—he did a quick conversion—over forty RMB, or about seven US dollars.

In Seoul, this amount was probably only enough to buy two more rice balls.

He sighed and stuffed the change back into his trouser pocket.

Finally, and most precious, were two items.

One was the Health-Preserving Pills in the silk pouch.

Back in the Tianxuan Continent, he was the last disciple of the old physician of Medicine King Valley; alchemy was his ultimate trump card.

These Health-Preserving Pills were made from various rare medicinal herbs through complex processing procedures and special refinement techniques. They could regulate Qi and blood, strengthen the body, and prolong life.

Unfortunately, he hadn't carried many, and now only a few remained.

The other was the white Life-Saving Pill hanging around his neck.

This pill had an even greater origin.

Years ago, deep in the mountains and forests, he had spent nearly three months using special techniques and over a hundred kinds of rare medicinal herbs, refining day and night to obtain just this one.

The refinement process was extremely dangerous; the slightest error would render all efforts futile or even cause an explosion.

He had survived, and the pill was successfully refined.

The effect of this Life-Saving Pill was simple—it could save a life at the brink of death.

No matter how severe the injury, as long as there was a single breath left, taking this pill would preserve life and buy precious time for medical treatment.

In the Tianxuan Continent, he had only given this pill to those closest to him—Wang Shuyun had one, his Master had one, and he had given another to Baek Ji-xin.

And those pills had another magical property: when worn for a long time, they would resonate with the wearer's constitution, emitting a unique body fragrance.

The scent of the pills on Jiang Zhiyu's body changed with the seasons.

In spring, it was a fresh scent of green grass; in summer, it was the aroma of a plump, juicy peach—just like now, the sweet but not cloying fruit fragrance faintly emanating from beneath his shirt collar.

Autumn was the scent of dry larch, and winter was the warm aroma of longan and red dates.

It was currently the end of summer, and the peach fragrance lingering on him drifted intermittently in the cool morning air.

Jiang Zhiyu put his things back into his pockets one by one, then took a deep breath.

He sat cross-legged on the bench, his hands resting naturally on his knees, and closed his eyes.

Occasional night runners passed by, casting curious glances at this youth in a suit sitting cross-legged in meditation, but no one stepped forward to disturb him.

He began to circulate the internal cultivation technique passed down from Medicine King Valley—the Evergreen Origin Technique.

This technique wasn't the kind of martial arts from novels that allowed one to fly or burrow into the earth; rather, it was a method for regulating breath, nourishing Qi, clearing meridians, and calming the mind.

His Master had said: if the mind is in chaos, the body follows; if the body is in chaos, all things fall into chaos.

Therefore, the more critical the situation, the more one must first straighten out their own 'Qi'.

As his breathing gradually became long and even, a warm current rose from his Dantian, slowly flowing along his meridians to every part of his body.

His heartbeat slowed, and the stray thoughts in his brain seemed to be filtered, leaving only the clearest and most important ones.

First, he had to accept reality.

This was not the Tianxuan Continent, and he couldn't go back—at least for now, there were no ways or clues for returning.

That stage, those girls, and the relationship he should have tried to save after it ended were all separated by a white light into another space-time.

Secondly, he needed to survive.

He had no identity—that American passport could help prove the existence of 'Jiang Zhiyu,' but he needed more documents, more proof, more of a 'legal existence.'

He had no money—over seven thousand won wasn't even enough for one night's accommodation in Seoul.

He had no place to stay—a bench could suffice for a night, but he couldn't sleep by the Han River forever.

He had no social network—he didn't know anyone and had no one to turn to for help.

But conversely, he also had no ties.

No one knew him, no one was looking for him, and no one had any expectations of him.

He was a blank sheet of paper upon which he could paint anew.

At this thought, the corners of Jiang Zhiyu's mouth curled slightly in a self-deprecating arc.

He opened his eyes and looked toward the lights on the opposite bank of the Han River.

Behind the windows of those skyscrapers shone scattered lights; beneath each lamp was someone he didn't know in this world.

But he didn't need to know everyone.

He only needed to find an entry point.

A job where he could use his skills.

In the Tianxuan Continent, he had been a gold medal salesman, an artist manager, a songwriter, a variety show writer, and a film and television planner.

He was good at dealing with people, good at capturing needs, and good at turning an idea from zero to one, and then into a hundred.

The things he excelled at might not be entirely useless in this world.

As for learning the language—he already had a foundation.

English would allow him basic communication, so he at least wouldn't starve.

He would start learning Korean from scratch, but he had a photographic memory and keen hearing; given time and the right environment, he would master it quickly.

Jiang Zhiyu stood up from the bench and stretched his legs, which were slightly numb from sitting cross-legged.

He buttoned his suit jacket, tucked the red string of the white pill back into his shirt, and straightened the silver Hyacinth Brooch.

Then he looked up at the silhouettes of the skyscrapers under the gray sky and whispered something only he could hear.

"Well then... let's start from the beginning."

The early morning breeze blew from the river, carrying moisture and chill, as well as an indescribable scent belonging to the autumn of 2017 in Seoul.

He slid his hands into his trouser pockets, feeling the cold touch of those few coins, then set off along the riverside path toward the denser lights.

Jiang Zhiyu sat on the bench by the Han River for the entire night.

He didn't sleep. It wasn't because of the cold—though early morning Seoul was indeed cold enough to make one's bones ache, and his thin suit jacket couldn't block the late autumn river wind. He didn't sleep because he was thinking. Thinking about how to survive, how to make money, and how to find a foothold in this completely alien world. He thought of many paths, only to block each one off himself.

The first thing he thought of was his old profession.

Sales. He was a gold medal salesman in the Tianxuan Continent, an external consultant for multiple companies, the kind who could sell ice to an Eskimo with just his words. At Tianzhou Group, every deal he handled started at the ten-million level, and the people across the negotiation table were the shrewdest of the shrewd; he had never lost. But now, in this world's Korea, his silver tongue was as good as gone.

He didn't know Korean.

It wasn't that he spoke it poorly; he didn't know it at all. Not a single word. He couldn't distinguish between 'hello' and 'thank you,' nor could he understand the numbers 1 to 10. A foreigner who didn't know Korean trying to do sales in Korea? Pure fantasy. He didn't even need to try to know the result—no company would hire a salesman who couldn't manage basic communication, no matter how good his sales skills or how brilliant his resume. Besides, he had no resume at all. Everything he had in the Tianxuan Continent didn't exist in this world.

He thought of other jobs.

Washing dishes in a restaurant kitchen? No language needed, but it required identity. He had no Korean ID card, no Alien Registration Card, and he wasn't even sure if that American passport was valid in Korea. Legitimate restaurants wouldn't dare hire him, and illegitimate ones... he wasn't sure if he wanted to take that risk. It wasn't about the hardship, but about avoiding unnecessary trouble. He knew nothing of this world's rules, and any legal gray area could push him into a more dangerous situation.

A laborer at a construction site? Same issues. He wasn't afraid of physical labor; his body, tempered by the techniques of Medicine King Valley, was much stronger than an average person's. But a youth in a custom suit with makeup on his face running to a construction site to move bricks would be too conspicuous. The last thing he needed in this world was to be 'conspicuous.'

Convenience store clerk? Needs language. Cafe server? Needs language. Handing out flyers? Needs language. Even a cleaning lady needed to understand the command 'clean this room.'

Language, language, language.

Every path was firmly blocked by those four words: 'Doesn't know Korean.' Jiang Zhiyu leaned against the back of the bench, looking up at the gray sky, a self-deprecating arc pulling at the corner of his mouth. He had learned eight languages in the Tianxuan Continent, becoming fluent in speaking, reading, and writing each, yet in this world, he had become illiterate overnight. God probably felt his first half of life had been too smooth and wanted to give him some excitement.

The sky turned from deep black to deep blue, from deep blue to gray-white, and from gray-white to the pale light of dawn.

The crowds along the Han River gradually began to grow. Morning runners, dog walkers, and people rushing to work flowed along the walkway. No one noticed a youth in a lavish suit sitting on a bench. Jiang Zhiyu fished the last rice ball out of his pocket—it was one he had bought extra last night, unable to bring himself to eat it, saving it for breakfast. He tore open the packaging and took small bites, chewing each one for a long time, as if using this method to stall for time. It wasn't that he was hungry; it was that he didn't know where his next meal would come from, so he had to eat this one slowly to make it last longer.

After swallowing the last bite of the rice ball, he folded the wrapper into a small square and stuffed it back into his pocket—littering was not allowed, a habit he had cultivated on the Tianxuan Continent. Then he stood up, stretched his stiff limbs, stood firmly by the bench, and began his morning exercises. These weren't flashy moves, just slow pushes, turns, and shifts in weight. The range of motion was small, making it look like some kind of strange stretching. This was the dynamic portion of Medicine King Valley's 'Evergreen Origin Technique,' which, when practiced alongside the static portion, could clear the meridians and regulate the Qi and blood. He practiced every morning without fail; even after spending a night on a bench by the Han River, this habit could not be broken.

A few young morning runners passed by him, slowing their pace and looking back at him several times. A middle-aged man in a neon yellow tracksuit even stopped, pulled out his phone to snap a photo of him, and muttered something under his breath. Jiang Zhiyu pretended not to see and continued his hand movements. He knew he looked strange right now—a youth in a dark gray suit with residual makeup on his face, slowly performing Tai Chi by the Han River. But if it was strange, then let it be; he didn't care.

By the time he finished his routine, the sun had just risen from the eastern bank of the Han River.

The orange-red light spread across the river's surface, dyeing the grayish-green water with a gentle, warm hue. Jiang Zhiyu squinted at the rising sun, suddenly remembering a morning on the Tianxuan Continent when he and Baek Ji-xin watched the sunrise by the Luoshui River. She had fallen asleep leaning on his shoulder, and he hadn't had the heart to wake her. He sat there for over an hour until the sun had completely risen. Only then did she wake up dazed, and upon realizing she had missed the sunrise, she huffily punched him several times. Back then, he felt that life should be like that—slow-paced, full of hope, with her by his side.

He pushed those images out of his head. He couldn't think about them. Thinking was useless. She was in another world now, in another dimension, on the Tianxuan Continent he could never return to. Thinking about these things served no purpose other than making himself feel worse.

Jiang Zhiyu took a deep breath, clearing the last trace of stray thoughts from his mind. He prepared to walk along the river to see if he could find any opportunities.

Then, he heard a flurry of footsteps behind him.

“Excuse me! Wait a moment!”

He couldn't understand the words, but the voice was clearly directed at him. Jiang Zhiyu turned around and saw a middle-aged man in a dark blue jacket carrying a black backpack jogging toward him, a very familiar expression on his face.

It was an expression he had seen countless times on the Tianxuan Continent.

A talent scout.

In the Nanming Kingdom of the Tianxuan Continent, he had once been approached by a scout from ASB Entertainment. In a pork bone soup restaurant, a scout named Fang had chased him to hand over a business card, saying it was 'too much of a waste for this face not to debut.' He found it funny then, and he found it funny now. Fate, the screenwriter, probably really had no new scripts to write, recycling the same few plot points over and over.

“Hello,” Jiang Zhiyu spoke in English, his tone flat.

The scout ran up to him, panting slightly. He looked Jiang Zhiyu up and down, the light in his eyes growing brighter and brighter. Jiang Zhiyu was familiar with that light too—it was the greed of discovering an unpolished gem, the excitement of seeing a cash cow, and the focus of a hunter locking onto prey. He babbled a long string of words in Korean, speaking quickly with rich expressions and exaggerated gestures. Jiang Zhiyu didn't understand a single word, but he could roughly guess the content: Are you a foreigner? How old are you? Do you have an agency? Do you want to be a star?

“I don't speak Korean,” Jiang Zhiyu said in English. “English?”

The scout blanked for a moment, then quickly switched to stumbling English. “Oh, sorry. You... model? Singer? Actor? You have very good face. Very good. Like... like an angel.”

Jiang Zhiyu almost couldn't hold back a laugh. Angel. On the Tianxuan Continent, he had been praised as 'handsome,' 'dashing,' or 'gentle as jade,' but no one had ever said he looked like an angel. It was probably because people in this world hadn't seen him knock down over twenty boxers with his bare hands, nor had they seen him use the 'Tranquil Spirit Finger' in an interrogation room to make someone wish they were dead. If he really were an angel, he would definitely be a fallen one.

“I'm not a model. Not a singer. Not an actor,” Jiang Zhiyu said.

Visible disappointment appeared on the scout's face, but hope quickly flared up again. “Then... what do you do? You want to try? Our company is very good. SM Entertainment. You know? SM? The biggest!”

SM Entertainment.

Jiang Zhiyu repeated the name in his mind. He had seen magazine covers on the shelves when he bought rice balls at the convenience store, featuring the faces of young idols with headlines like 'SM's New Girl Group Makes Shocking Debut' in English. He didn't know exactly what SM did, but judging by the scout's tone and expression, it should be a fairly large-scale entertainment agency. On the Tianxuan Continent, his benchmarks were large Nanming entertainment companies like ASB, TKS, and CECY; he knew this industry all too well.

He hesitated for three seconds.

In those three seconds, he thought about many things. He wondered if God was playing a joke on him—first throwing him into a completely foreign world without money, identity, or language skills, and then, at his most desperate moment, sending a scout to place a path before him. Was this kindness or mockery? Was it a way to find life in a dead end, or was it leading him from one quagmire into another?

But he quickly stopped these pointless speculations.

He remembered another saying of his master: “A path isn't thought out; it's walked. Thinking a thousand times is not as good as taking one step.”

An entertainment agency. This was his old trade. He had worked at TG Entertainment on the Tianxuan Continent for five years, knowing every link from trainee selection to debut planning, album production, and concert operations like the back of his hand. He understood music, the market, fan psychology, and business negotiations. He didn't know Korean, but music was a universal language; he had no identity, but talent needed no proof of identity.

If this was the opportunity God gave him, then he would accept it without ceremony.

“I want to see your company first,” Jiang Zhiyu said, his tone still flat, as if speaking of a trivial matter. “Before I decide.”

The scout's eyes lit up like two light bulbs. He nodded repeatedly, made a 'please' gesture, and led Jiang Zhiyu toward a black sedan parked by the roadside.

The SM Entertainment building was in Gangnam District. Looking out the car window, Jiang Zhiyu saw a bustling commercial area. Skyscrapers stood tall, their glass curtain walls reflecting the bright autumn sunlight. The pedestrians on the street were smartly dressed, a world away from the scene at the Han River at dawn. The sedan turned into a quiet street and stopped in front of a grayish-white building. A silver sign reading 'SM Entertainment' hung on the building in a simple, modern font. Two security guards in black uniforms stood at the entrance.

Jiang Zhiyu followed the scout into the building.

The lobby was spacious and bright with marble floors. Giant posters of artists hung on the walls—groups of young men and women in lavish stage outfits, flashing exquisite smiles at the camera. A young girl with a ponytail sat at the reception desk. When she saw the scout bring in a strange foreign youth, her gaze lingered on Jiang Zhiyu's face for at least two seconds.

It wasn't just her.

Almost every employee passing through the lobby who saw Jiang Zhiyu took a second look. A young man carrying a folder through the hallway stopped in his tracks, staring at him for several seconds before being pulled away by a colleague. Two female employees huddled together, whispering in Korean while their eyes kept darting toward Jiang Zhiyu. Jiang Zhiyu pretended not to notice, his gaze calmly scanning the lobby's layout, traffic flow design, and security system—this was a professional habit; upon entering any building, the first thing he did was figure out where the exits were, which areas the surveillance covered, and where the security weaknesses lay.

The scout took him into the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

The elevator doors opened to a hallway with gray carpeting, lined with offices marked with numbers. The scout knocked on a door at the end of the hallway, and a voice from inside said, “Come in.” Pushing the door open revealed a standard conference room—long table, leather chairs, whiteboard, projector. Several bottles of mineral water and a stack of blank A4 paper sat on the table. At the other end of the conference table sat a woman in her forties with short hair and black-rimmed glasses, wearing a navy blue blazer and exuding a capable aura. The moment she saw Jiang Zhiyu walk in, the eyes behind her lenses visibly brightened, but she quickly suppressed it with professional coldness.

The scout introduced the situation to the woman in Korean, speaking rapidly. Jiang Zhiyu couldn't understand the specifics, but from scattered English words like “English,” “foreigner,” and “face,” he could roughly guess he was being discussed. The short-haired woman listened and nodded, signaling the scout to leave. The scout retreated out the door, leaving only Jiang Zhiyu and the short-haired woman in the conference room.

“Sit down, please,” the short-haired woman said in English. Her pronunciation wasn't perfect, but it was clear enough.

Jiang Zhiyu sat opposite her, his back straight and hands resting naturally on his knees. He didn't fidget with his fingers or adjust his posture nervously like a typical interviewee. Instead, he sat there quietly and calmly, meeting her gaze with a peaceful look. This wasn't something he was deliberately putting on, but the result of years of training and cultivation—he could maintain this poised composure in any situation and before anyone.

“My name is Kim Yoon-jung, HR manager,” the woman introduced herself. “You are American?”

Jiang Zhiyu pulled the American passport from his inner pocket, placed it on the table, and pushed it over.

Kim Yoon-jung picked up the passport and flipped through it, her brow furrowing slightly. Jiang Zhiyu noticed the change in her expression—it wasn't because there was a problem with the passport, but because of the birth date inside. December 26, 2001. It was now September 2017. In other words, the youth before her, who seemed impossibly composed, hadn't even had his sixteenth birthday yet.

“You are fifteen?” Kim Yoon-jung's tone carried obvious surprise.

“Sixteen in December,” Jiang Zhiyu said.

Kim Yoon-jung returned the passport to him and fell silent for a few seconds, as if re-evaluating the person in front of her. A fifteen-year-old Chinese-American youth appearing alone by the Han River in Seoul, picked up by a scout, wearing an expensive custom suit with stage makeup still on his face. Yet, his entire aura didn't resemble a rebellious runaway, but rather an adult who had seen great storms.

“Do you want to be a trainee?” Kim Yoon-jung asked directly. “Singing? Dancing? Your face is very good. We can make you a star.”

Jiang Zhiyu shook his head.

This headshake caught Kim Yoon-jung by surprise. SM Entertainment's trainee selection was famously strict; countless boys and girls fought tooth and nail to get in every day, yet the youth before her refused without a second thought.

“No,” Jiang Zhiyu said, his tone calm. “I'm not here to be a trainee. I want to apply for a different position.”

“What position?”

Jiang Zhiyu took a deep breath.

How should he say the next part so this HR manager would believe he wasn't boasting? His achievements on the Tianxuan Continent had no proof in this world. If he said he had written hundreds of songs, she couldn't see them. If he said he had dominated music charts, she wouldn't know. If he said he was the greatest enemy of the 'Anti-TG Alliance' of all Nanming agencies, she wouldn't even know what TG was. He had no works to show—except for that USB drive, but the content on it hadn't been heard by anyone in this world yet and had no credibility.

But he had no other choice.

“I'm a songwriter,” Jiang Zhiyu said, enunciating every word. “A composer. A lyricist. I've been writing music for years. Hundreds of songs. I know how to produce, how to arrange, how to make a hit.”

Kim Yoon-jung's expression shifted from surprise to skepticism, and then to a complex look somewhere between amusement and curiosity. She had seen many self-proclaimed geniuses; every month, a few trainees would claim they could write songs, only for their work to be below kindergarten level. But this youth's expression was too serious, so serious it didn't seem like he was boasting.

“You have portfolio?” Kim Yoon-jung asked. “Demo? Sheet music?”

Jiang Zhiyu fished the USB drive from his pocket and placed it on the table.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

"Everything is in here. Hundreds of songs. But you can't listen to them right now. You have no way to verify if I'm telling the truth." Jiang Zhiyu said, staring straight into Kim Yunjung's eyes, "So I'll do something else. I'll write a song. Right now. On the spot. Using your piano, if you have one. Or just a pen and paper. You tell me the theme, I'll write it. In ten minutes."

Kim Yunjung leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, and stared at him for at least five seconds.

The conference room was quiet enough to hear the humming of the central air conditioning.

Then she stood up, walked to a door in the corner of the conference room, and pulled it open, revealing a small studio inside—an electronic piano sat against the wall, next to a set of simple recording equipment, with soundproofing foam pasted on the walls. This was a "Creative Corner" equipped on every floor by SM Entertainment for the company's songwriters to use at any time.

"Come." Kim Yunjung said.

Jiang Zhiyu stood up and walked into the studio. He sat down in front of the electronic piano, lightly pressed a few keys, and listened to the tone. It was different from the instruments in the Tianxuan Continent, but the intonation was accurate, which was enough.

"Write whatever you want." Kim Yunjung leaned against the doorframe, her tone carrying a hint of "I'd like to see what you can write," "Show me."

Jiang Zhiyu closed his eyes.

His fingers hovered above the keys, not falling.

He was thinking about what kind of song to write.

Who to write it for?

Write it for the Tianxuan Continent he could never return to, for those people he would never see again. Write it for the four girls of Zephyrus; they were probably still waiting on the stage of the Huofeng Stadium for the host to come up and warm up the crowd, but that host would never return. Write it for Wang Shuyun; she was probably still in the TG Entertainment office, staring blankly at his "Transfer Request" letter. Write it for his master, that white-haired old man, probably still drying herbs in the courtyard of Medicine King Valley, unaware that his youngest closing disciple was no longer in this world.

Write it for Baek Ji-xin.

The last image he had of her in his mind wasn't the moonlight on the banquet terrace, but something earlier—that night in the summer of 2029, on a bench by the Han River, when she got up and left without looking back. Her silhouette stretched longer and longer under the streetlights, finally disappearing at the end of the riverside path. He hadn't chased after her. He never chased. He was the type of person who stood still and waited—waited for the other person to look back, waited for them to speak first, waited for them to give him a reason. But Baek Ji-xin didn't look back, and he had no reason.

A song of farewell. A song of never seeing each other again. A song of "Thank you for being here, but we are going to drift apart."

His fingers fell.

The first note rang out in the quiet room, cold and clean, like the first drop of rain in late autumn hitting a windowpane. Then the second, the third. The melody flowed out slowly, unhurried, with just the right amount of silence between each note, like someone pacing alone in an empty room, wanting to speak but stopping, stopping but wanting to speak.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't use complex chords. No flashy modulations, no showy grace notes. He just let the melody go on its own, following the texture of the emotion, moving forward step by step. The verse was like a whisper, with the end of each musical phrase sinking slightly, as if words were swallowed halfway. In the chorus, the melody suddenly opened up, like someone finally gathering the courage to say something they had hidden in their heart for a long time—

"Thank you for the days you stayed, thank you for the nights you waited."

He sang it in English. His voice was soft, with a restrained, slightly husky texture. His way of singing was very special—it wasn't the kind of high-pitched showboating, but rather like speaking, just with more melody and emotion. This singing style was called "whisper-style singing" by fans in the Tianxuan Continent, saying that when he sang, it was like he was whispering gently in your ear, giving people goosebumps.

"Thank you for the smile you gave, even when your heart was breaking."

Kim Yunjung, who had been leaning against the doorframe, straightened up unconsciously.

Her expression changed from "I'd like to see" to "Wait, this...", and then from "Wait, this..." to "Who exactly is he?".

Jiang Zhiyu didn't notice her reaction. His eyes were closed, his fingers wandered over the keys, his lips opened and closed, singing those words that surged from the bottom of his heart. He wasn't performing; he was dissecting himself. Every note was a piece of a broken heart, and every lyric was a confession that couldn't be spoken.

"You walked away in summer rain, I stayed behind to hold the pain. Thank you for everything, and goodbye."

He sang the last line of the chorus very softly, so softly that it was almost drowned out by the piano. But the tail of the word "goodbye" trembled slightly, like someone smiling while crying.

He didn't stop. An improvised interlude flowed from his fingers, no longer a simple chord progression, but adding more changes and layers. His left hand laid out a deep and stable line in the bass range, like a road extending into the darkness; his right hand jumped, circled, and hovered in the treble range, like a bird that didn't know where to land. This was one of the benefits of the cultivation of the Medicine King Valley techniques—his finger flexibility and independent control ability far exceeded ordinary people, allowing him to handle multiple completely different musical lines simultaneously.

In the second half of the interlude, he suddenly added a classical-style variation, breaking the theme melody into scattered motifs, moving back and forth between different keys, as if looking around in different times and spaces, searching for someone who could no longer be found.

Then, the second verse.

His voice was lower than the first, as if suppressing something.

"I know I wasn't good with words, I kept too many things inside. The secrets that I couldn't tell, became the walls between us."

He sang these two lines very slowly, with a breath between each word. He was singing about his own guilt—those secrets he couldn't tell Baek Ji-xin, the tasks of the Detective Division, those disappearances in the middle of the night, those silences of "I can't say." Wall after wall was built higher and higher between them until neither could see the other.

"You asked me once what I was hiding, I looked away and changed the subject. I'm sorry I couldn't answer, I'm sorry I made you doubt."

His voice finally had a crack in it.

Not a cry, but something more restrained than crying—like someone standing on the edge of a cliff, the strong wind blowing up from below, he was trembling, but he wouldn't fall, because there were people behind him who needed him. Only now, there was no one behind him. Those who needed him were all in another world.

Kim Yunjung didn't know when she had walked into the studio and sat down on a chair not far from him. Behind her glasses, something was flickering. Not tears—she was an HR manager, having worked at SM Entertainment for more than ten years, and she had seen all kinds of geniuses; she wouldn't be moved to tears by an improvised song. But her eyes were indeed slightly red, because there was something in this song that she had never seen in such a young creator.

That thing was called "loss."

It wasn't the loss of a breakup, not the loss of an argument with a friend. It was a deeper, more thorough, irrevocable loss. It was the loss of someone standing in the middle of ruins, holding a handful of ashes, discovering that even the ashes were slipping through their fingers.

The chorus rang out again, but this time, Jiang Zhiyu made a change.

He didn't repeat the previous melody, but raised the chorus by a key, reinterpreting it in a higher register. The emotion was escalating, and those suppressed things finally found an outlet, like a river that had been blocked for too long finally bursting the dam. His voice was still not loud, but every note carried an undeniable penetrating power, like a thin needle, piercing the listener's heart one by one.

"Thank you for the love you gave, even when I couldn't take it. Thank you for the dreams we shared, even when they couldn't make it."

When he sang the last line, his fingers stopped on the keys.

It wasn't a deliberate ending, but the emotion had just finished its course, naturally placing a period at that point. The last note echoed in the air for several seconds before being slowly swallowed by the soundproofing foam.

The studio was extremely quiet.

Jiang Zhiyu opened his eyes and looked at his fingers resting on the keys. He was silent for a long time, then slowly withdrew his hands and placed them on his knees.

He turned his head to look at Kim Yunjung.

Kim Yunjung sat in the chair, hands clasped on her knees, looking at him with a gaze he couldn't understand. It wasn't scrutiny, not an evaluation, not the commercial sizing-up of "how much value can you create for the company." It was a more personal, softer gaze, the kind an adult would show when looking at a child.

"What's the title?" Kim Yunjung asked, her voice much softer than usual.

"Thanks." Jiang Zhiyu said, "Just... Thanks."

Kim Yunjung nodded without speaking.

She stood up, walked to the studio door, paused, and tilted her head to look at Jiang Zhiyu.

"I'll take you to the production team." She said, "They need to hear this."

Jiang Zhiyu stood up, straightened his suit hem, and adjusted the silver lily-of-the-valley brooch. He walked out of the studio, and as he passed by Kim Yunjung, he said softly, "Thank you."

Kim Yunjung glanced at him, the corners of her mouth curling up slightly.

"You're different." She said, "I don't know what you are, but you're definitely not a normal fifteen-year-old."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't answer.

He followed Kim Yunjung out of the conference room and walked along the corridor toward the elevator. The corridor walls were hung with more artist posters, those young faces shining under the lights, as if silently telling him—the world is big, this industry is big, and he is now just a teenager who doesn't even know how to speak Korean, is homeless, and has only seven thousand won left in his pocket.

But he had a song.

A song dug out from the bottom of his heart, carrying all the memories of another world.

And sometimes, one song is enough.

(Messages from the super cute Minjeong)

(11:30) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Oppa! I got an A+ in the morning dance assessment! The teacher said my expressiveness has "soul"... Actually, it's because I was thinking about what Oppa said, "Winter will shine on stage," that I worked so hard! (✧ ω ✧)]

(11:33) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Oppa promised to hold hands for three minutes! I'm starting to practice how to walk lightly and steadily now, I definitely won't step on Oppa's shoes! (Serious face)]

(11:36) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Just passed by the conference room and saw Zhiyu Oppa talking to Lee Soo-man... Oppa's profile looks so serious, but I actually feel my heartbeat so fast. Am I hopeless? ⁄(⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄]

(11:39) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Had lunch with Karina Unnie, she suddenly said "Our Minjeong has stars in her eyes lately." I pretended to look down and drink soup, but actually, there are love Bubbles popping in the soup!]

(11:42) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Have to record in the afternoon, Oppa said my high notes improved a lot last time, I will work harder today! You have to prick up your ears to hear my improvement, okay~ (Sends a picture of a puppy wearing headphones and nodding seriously)]

(11:45) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Ah... suddenly really want to see Oppa right now. Time is passing so slowly today, is the clock broken? ㅠ ㅠ]