25: Chapter 25 I don't want to go to Zhenjiang for the exam!

Kim Taeyeon won two rounds as she wished. The first round was the "Silent Game," where the first person to speak loses. Im Yoona felt she could win this time because her willpower had recently strengthened; she had learned to "keep a straight face while the director was scolding her" during filming. But she underestimated Kim Taeyeon. Kim Taeyeon didn't just "keep a straight face"; she had "no face at all." She sat there, holding her water cup, gazing calmly at the pork belly on the grill like a Buddha statue. Im Yoona held out for about two minutes, then said, "Unnie, the water in your cup spilled." Kim Taeyeon glanced down; the cup was fine, and no water had spilled. Im Yoona lost. She wasn't tricked by Kim Taeyeon; she was tricked by herself. She thought the water in the cup had spilled, but it hadn't. Kim Taeyeon set down the water cup, a tiny curve appearing at the corner of her mouth. "Yoona, you need to get your eyes checked." Im Yoona opened her mouth to retort, but she had already lost. The loser has no right to speak.

The second round was a "Staring Contest." This time, Jiang Zhiyu suggested it because he felt Kim Taeyeon liked this activity. Kim Taeyeon did indeed like it. She sat up straight, hands on her knees, back perfectly upright, eyes wide open. Jiang Zhiyu sat opposite her, also with his eyes wide. The two stared at each other for about ten seconds before Jiang Zhiyu blinked. It wasn't intentional; it was physiological. His eyes were too dry, so dry that tiny wrinkles appeared on the surface of his cornea, and his brain issued the "must blink" command. Kim Taeyeon won. She rubbed her eyes and then let out her signature "hing~." Nasal, rising, with a slightly trembling tail. She took two blank cards with the word "King" already written on them from her bag and wrote names on them with a black marker. The first one: "Jiang Zhiyu. Im Yoona. No milk tea for one week." The second one: "Im Yoona. Must drink a glass of milk every morning at seven o'clock, take a photo, and send it to my private chat to check in."

Im Yoona looked at the words on the second card and was silent for a moment. "Unnie, I drink milk anyway." "I know." "Then why do you want me to check in?" "Because I want to confirm you drank it." "I drink it every morning." "Then take a photo and show me." Im Yoona opened her mouth to say something, but Kim Taeyeon had already tucked the card into her bag, zipped it up, and patted it. Im Yoona turned to look at Jiang Zhiyu, who was drinking water with a calm expression as if nothing had happened. There was no frustration of "I lost" on his face, nor any schadenfreude of "you lost." He was just calm, so calm that it seemed winning or losing had nothing to do with him.

Im Yoona suddenly felt it was very unfair. She didn't like losing. From Girls Generation's debut until now, she had never lost. Not "rarely lost," but "never lost." When they first debuted, Girls Generation faced the Black Ocean, where fans turned off their lightsticks, leaving the entire venue in darkness. The other members were crying, but she didn't. It wasn't that she wasn't sad; it was that she didn't want to lose. She thought that if she cried on stage, those who wanted them to cry would win. She couldn't let those people win. Later, when Girls Generation went through a member's departure, the outside world said, "Girls Generation is finished." She didn't panic because she did the math in her head—Girls Generation's fan base was still there, the brand value was still there, and the members' individual abilities were still there. As long as those remained, Girls Generation wouldn't be finished. She was right. Girls Generation wasn't finished. She was always winning. A winner in life, successful in her career. Although the transition to acting hadn't been entirely smooth—she'd done several dramas, some with high ratings, some with low, some praised, some criticized—she was still a winner. Because she was still acting, still getting endorsements, and still appearing in the public eye. Many idols from her era had already disappeared, but she was still here. That was winning. Not "winning over others," but "not losing to herself."

Im Yoona hadn't never thought about losing once. She had. If one day she truly lost, lost to a very strong person and was thoroughly defeated, she probably wouldn't be too sad. But if she could win, why think about losing? She didn't want to lose. She hated losing. But today she lost. Not to Jiang Zhiyu—she never expected to win against that shibal jerk. He was a monster, an alien, an old fox in the skin of a sixteen-year-old boy. She couldn't outplay him; she knew that from the start. She lost to Kim Taeyeon. Kim Taeyeon was her Unnie, the Unnie she had known for over a decade who took the best care of her. Since their trainee days, Kim Taeyeon was the one who would hand her water when she was tired, give her tissues when she cried, and stand up for her when she was scolded by the Manager. For over ten years, Kim Taeyeon had never let her lose. It wasn't "letting" her; it was that "she herself rarely won." Kim Taeyeon wasn't a highly competitive person; she just didn't want to lose. Not wanting to lose and wanting to win seem similar, but they are actually different. People who want to win will take the initiative to attack, while people who don't want to lose will defend passively. Kim Taeyeon was the passive defense type. But today, she took the initiative. She won two rounds. Im Yoona looked at her rubbing her eyes after winning, saw the curve of her lips when she made that "hing~" sound, and a voice in her heart said—let her win. She's worked hard enough. Kim Taeyeon's hardship wasn't the "I'm so tired" kind, but the "I don't say it, but you know" kind. She didn't complain, didn't vent, and didn't post "I'm so tired" on SNS. She just stood in the recording studio for over a dozen hours, covered her forearms with muscle pain relief patches, and said "Thank you for your hard work" to the Manager when finishing work in the early morning. She never felt she was working hard because she felt it was just her job. But Im Yoona knew she was working hard. So she didn't want Kim Taeyeon to lose. Not "letting" her, but "not wanting her to lose." The difference between these two phrases is—the former is intentional, while the latter is instinctive. Im Yoona didn't lose on purpose; she just instinctively didn't want to win. So she lost.

Im Yoona decided she wouldn't play with these two again next time. She would find new card partners. The other members of Girls Generation—except Sunny. Sunny's level of game madness was on par with Kim Taeyeon's; with two game maniacs together, she'd be caught in the middle and lose even worse. Hyoyeon wouldn't work either; Hyoyeon was too competitive, she'd get angry if she lost, chase you around when angry, cry if she couldn't catch you, and you'd soften up when she cried, letting her win, which meant you lost. That kind of loss was even more frustrating. Yuri was fine; Yuri didn't take games very seriously, winning or losing didn't matter. With Yuri on a team, you'd be happy if you won and not sad if you lost. Sooyoung was also fine; Sooyoung was quick-witted and had fast reactions, so the win rate would be much higher with her. Tiffany wouldn't work; Tiffany was too easily fooled, she'd believe whatever anyone said, so being on her team was like one person playing against two. Seohyun absolutely could not be included. Seohyun would use "principles" to constrain you during games—you can't do this, doing that is wrong, the rules don't say you can do this. You couldn't argue with her because she was right. But if you listened to her, you'd lose. Not to your opponent, but to the rules. That kind of loss was the most frustrating, even more so than losing to Sunny.

Im Yoona silently divided the Girls Generation members into three categories in her heart—those she could play with, those she couldn't, and those she absolutely could not play with. She kept this classification in her head and didn't write it on paper. Because if that paper were ever seen by someone, she would be in a lot of trouble. Not the "getting scolded" kind of trouble, but the "being asked a lot of questions" kind of trouble. She didn't want to answer those questions.

"Yoona."

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow morning at seven, remember to take the photo."

"Got it."

"Don't use old photos."

"I won't."

"Don't trick me with angles."

"I won't."

"Don't—"

"Unnie," Im Yoona interrupted her, "I swear." She held up three fingers next to her temple. Index, middle, and ring fingers—three, pointing straight at the ceiling. Her expression was very serious, so serious it was like she was signing a contract that couldn't be breached. But her eyes weren't serious; her eyes were saying, "I know I can't beat you, so I surrender." Kim Taeyeon looked at Im Yoona's three fingers held straight up and was silent for a moment. Then she nodded. That nodding motion was like a US visa officer approving your application—a slight tilt of the head, no curve at the lips, no warmth in the eyes, but you knew you'd passed. You could go to America. You were free. Free to—drink milk every morning at seven and send her a photo.

Im Yoona lowered her hand and took a sip of water. Her fingers were still trembling slightly, not from nervousness, but because she had almost laughed just now. She held it in. Because she knew that if she laughed, Kim Taeyeon would suspect she was being perfunctory. She couldn't let Kim Taeyeon suspect her. She had to make Kim Taeyeon believe she was serious. She actually was very serious. She really would drink milk at seven every morning, take a photo, and send it to Kim Taeyeon's private chat. Not because she was afraid of Kim Taeyeon, but because she knew why Kim Taeyeon wanted her to do this. It wasn't because "drinking milk is good for the body," but because "waking up early is good for the body." Kim Taeyeon didn't want her to drink milk; she wanted her to sleep early and wake up early. It wasn't "caring about her health," but "managing her life." This management wasn't "I'm your older sister so I have to manage you," but "I want you to live longer so I can see you for a few more years." Im Yoona knew. She had always known. So she wouldn't be perfunctory. She would take the photos seriously, send them seriously, and seriously let Kim Taeyeon see her every morning at seven.

Jiang Zhiyu sat opposite her, looking at Im Yoona's three fingers held straight up, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. He didn't speak, but his expression said—"Are you really going to do that? Are you really not going to use old photos? Are you really not going to trick people with angles? Are you really not—" Before his expression could finish, Im Yoona kicked him under the table.

It didn't hurt. Her shoes were flat canvas shoes with very soft soles. But the spot she kicked was very precise—the tibialis anterior muscle, where the skin is thin and the bone is shallow; being kicked there makes it ache. Jiang Zhiyu's mouth twitched. It wasn't pain, but an ache. An ache so strong his smile moved from the corners of his mouth to the corners of his eyes. He picked up his water cup and took a sip, not looking at her. Im Yoona didn't know how stiff her current expression was, but she felt she must be very stiff. Like a defeated nation signing a treaty on the opponent's warship, in front of a group of generals in crisp uniforms, at a table covered with green felt. Signing her name. Then taking a photo. The flash went off; her smile was stiff, the curve of her lips held up by sheer willpower, and it would collapse if held for too long. The photographer said "one more," so she held it up again, and it collapsed again. The photographer said "last one," and she held it up, this time for a long time, long enough that it was still there even after the flash died. Because she was thinking—this photo will be printed in history textbooks and seen by generations of students. They will point at her face in class and say, "This person was the representative of the defeated nation." Her smile would be frozen there forever, stiff, forced, and propped up. She didn't want that. But she had lost. The loser has no right to choose the photo.

Kim Taeyeon looked at Im Yoona's stiff face and nodded. That nod meant—"You, passed. Welcome to the free United States." Im Yoona didn't know what "the free United States" meant, but she knew she had passed. She lowered her fingers from her temple, picked up the water cup, and drained the remaining water in one gulp. The water was cold, and the chill spread from her throat to her chest. She set down the cup and looked at Jiang Zhiyu. Jiang Zhiyu was eating the last piece of pork belly on the grill, his expression still as calm as if nothing had happened. But Im Yoona knew he had seen everything. He saw her kick him under the table, saw her stiff expression, and saw her swearing in front of Kim Taeyeon. He saw it all, but he said nothing. Because he was a smart man. A smart man knows when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut.

The charcoal fire gradually dimmed. The grease on the grill slowly solidified in the residual heat, turning into a thin, transparent film. Kim Taeyeon called the waiter to settle the bill, and then the three of them walked out of the barbecue restaurant. The night breeze blew, carrying the unique scent of early autumn, a mix of fallen leaves and the smoke of grilled meat. Kim Taeyeon wrapped Jiang Zhiyu's windbreaker tighter around herself, pulling up the collar to cover half of her face. Im Yoona stood beside her and reached out to help tidy her hair that had been ruffled by the wind.

Jiang Zhiyu stood two steps away, watching them. He didn't walk over because he knew they had things to say. Not things "he couldn't hear," but things "he didn't need to hear." Some things are only said between women.

Kim Taeyeon looked at Im Yoona, and Im Yoona looked at Kim Taeyeon. The two looked at each other for a moment and then smiled simultaneously. It wasn't a "hahaha" kind of laugh, but the kind of smile that said "we don't need words between us." The corners of their mouths turned up slightly, their eyes crinkled a bit, and their shoulders relaxed. After smiling, Kim Taeyeon said, "Let's go." Im Yoona said, "Mhm." The two walked toward the parking lot, and Jiang Zhiyu followed behind, maintaining a distance of two steps. His pace was neither fast nor slow, and the distance of each step was about the same, as if measured with a ruler. The streetlights stretched the shadows of the three very, very long, casting them onto the sidewalk like a silhouette painting frozen in time.

Im Yoona walked in front, suddenly stopped, and turned around to look at Jiang Zhiyu. "Zhiyu-ya."

"Yeah."

"Were you thinking just now that I would use old photos to fool Unnie?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her and was silent for a second. "Yes."

"How did you know?"

"Because that's what I would do."

Im Yoona was stunned for a moment. Then she smiled. It wasn't a "you're joking" kind of smile, but a "you really are that kind of person" kind of smile. She turned around and continued walking forward. Her pace was a bit lighter than before, as if she had set down some kind of burden.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

Jiang Zhiyu watched her back, the corners of his mouth slightly lifted.

He did not speak.

But he knew that at 7:00 AM tomorrow, Im Yoona would definitely send a photo of herself drinking milk to Kim Taeyeon on time.

It wasn't because she was afraid of Kim Taeyeon, but because she didn't want to disappoint Kim Taeyeon.

— —

the blue night of jeju island began with a post about a "chance encounter."

The post was made on China's Xiaohongshu; it wasn't from an official account, but from an ordinary-looking amateur account with a flower as its profile picture and only a few hundred followers.

The poster wrote a paragraph in Simplified Chinese— "Oh my god, I'm going crazy!

I actually saw IU on a night in Jeju Island?

She was playing guitar and singing by the beach all by herself, putting on a private concert just for me?!"

It was accompanied by nine photos.

The first was the beach on a night in Jeju Island, black volcanic rock, white waves, and in the distance, the deep blue sea and the even further deep blue sky.

The second was a girl with a guitar on her back standing on a reef, backlit, face unclear, but that silhouette—slender, narrow shoulders, hair blown by the wind—was IU.

The third was the girl sitting on the reef, holding the guitar, head lowered, tuning it.

The fourth was a side profile, with the light from a street lamp shining from the side, illuminating her features clearly—eyes not big but expressive, nose bridge not high but with smooth lines, lips thin, looking like a fine line when pressed together.

It was IU.

From the fifth photo onwards, they were all video screenshots; the images were blurry, but one could see her singing, mouth open, eyes closed, eyelashes long, casting a small fan-shaped shadow under her eyes.

The last photo was of her standing up and bowing, hair hanging down to cover half her face, but the curve of the mouth was IU's.

Forty minutes after the post was published, comments broke three thousand.

It wasn't "IU went to Jeju Island," but "She's singing for passersby on the beach?

Is this real or fake?"

"Who is the poster?"

"The photos weren't stolen shots; the angles are too good, it's like they knew she was there."

"So is this a project?

A promotion?"

"What project?

A new album?"

"Is IU making a comeback???"

"It's not an SM press release, it was posted by an amateur on Xiaohongshu.

What kind of operation is this?"

The discussion in the comment section shifted from "Is it real" to "Is this a promotion for a new album," from "promotion for a new album" to "When is IU making a comeback," and from "When is she making a comeback" to "I really want to go to Jeju Island."

The topic was spreading, not being pushed, but running on its own.

Like a pebble thrown into a lake, ripples spreading out in circles; no one knew who threw the first pebble, but everyone was watching the ripples.

Jiang Zhiyu sat in a small office on the fifth floor of Loen Entertainment, scrolling through the post with a calm expression.

Every word of the post was written by him, every photo was selected by him from the filming footage, and that "amateur account" was registered by an intern in the Loen Entertainment marketing department using her own phone number.

After she posted, she deleted the app and restored the phone to factory settings.

It wasn't because she had done anything shameful, but because Jiang Zhiyu said, "Don't let anyone know this account has any connection to the company."

The intern asked "Why," and Jiang Zhiyu said, "Because a 'chance encounter' is only a 'chance encounter' because no one arranged it."

If everyone knew it was arranged, a "chance encounter" would become an "advertisement."

The difference between an advertisement and a chance encounter is—the former is you knowing someone is selling something, the latter is you feeling like you've found a treasure.

The chance encounter was real.

IU did go to Jeju Island, did appear on the beach at night, did carry a guitar, and did play and sing for Chinese tourists visiting Jeju Island.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't arrange a "chance encounter"; he arranged the possibility of a "meeting."

He had staff wait at the beach intersection and ask any Chinese people they saw— "At 8:00 PM, there's a performance at the beach, it's free, would you like to come and see it?"

Most people refused.

Time, location, stranger—put those three words together, and it looks like the standard configuration of a kidnapping organization.

A stranger stops you on the side of the road and says, "8:00 PM, at the beach, there's a performance."

Would you go?

No.

Would you call the police?

Maybe.

The staff member was rejected over thirty times, until they were numb to it.

But they kept asking, because Jiang Zhiyu said, "Ask one hundred people; as long as one person comes, it's enough."

They asked the seventy-something-th person, and finally, someone came.

Not one person, but a group.

The person asked was a woman in her twenties, wearing a windbreaker, carrying a backpack, and holding a selfie stick in her hand.

After listening to the staff member, she paused for a moment, then said, "Wait a second."

She turned around and shouted to the people behind her— "Sisters, they're saying there's a performance at the beach tonight!"

Behind her stood seven or eight girls, all wearing windbreakers, all carrying backpacks, all holding selfie sticks.

They were from Chengdu, just graduated from university, and chose Jeju Island for their graduation trip.

Eight of them were stopped while waiting for a car on the side of the road.

They discussed it and decided—let's go see.

It wasn't "belief," but "curiosity."

Anyway, they had nothing to do at night, the beach wasn't far, and since there were eight of them together, even if it were a kidnapping organization, there would be at most ten or so people; with eight of them, they could still run.

They went.

When they arrived at the beach, they found it wasn't just the eight of them.

Several buses were parked on the side of the road, and a dense crowd of people stood next to them.

Red hats, white T-shirts, uniform vests, with the characters "Sunset Red Tour Group" printed on the back.

More than fifty people, with an average age of over sixty-five, the oldest looking to be eighty, leaning on walking sticks, but standing very straight.

They were also "stopped."

When the staff member asked on the side of the road, they were waiting for the bus.

The tour guide had gone to get tickets, and they had nothing to do standing on the side of the road.

Upon hearing "8:00 PM performance at the beach," the captain said, "Let's go see," the vice-captain said, "What if we miss the bus," and the captain said, "If we miss it, we miss it; at worst, we'll leave tomorrow."

The vice-captain said, "You're the boss."

The captain said, "I'm always the boss."

They came.

More than fifty people, plus the eight girls from Chengdu, plus other scattered tourists who were asked and held the "might as well since we're here" mentality, totaled about seventy or eighty people.

There were six security personnel.

They stood on the side of the road, watching a dense crowd of people get off buses, get out of taxis, and walk over from who knows where, surging toward the small path to the beach.

The six looked at each other.

They had worked at Loen Entertainment for so many years and had seen fans picking up at airports, camping out, and chasing cars, but they had never seen this kind of formation—seventy or eighty people, not fans, not reporters, not any "objects needing management" within their cognitive range.

They were tourists.

Ordinary tourists, out for fun, looking for excitement.

There were young people, middle-aged people, old men and women.

The old men and women were the most conspicuous because their hats were red.

The red hats were particularly striking in the night by the beach, like a moving patch of red mushrooms.

One of the security personnel whispered, "Are all these people here to listen to IU sing?"

No one answered him.

Because no one knew the answer.

They only knew that Jiang Zhiyu told them, "Wait here at 8:00 PM and ensure the safety of the scene."

They didn't ask "Why," because Jiang Zhiyu was the person in charge of IU's album promotion, and they did whatever he said.

But now, looking at those seventy or eighty people, they had a common question in their hearts—are these people really here to listen to IU sing?

Not "are they really here to listen to IU sing," but "are they really 'here' to listen to IU sing"?

Did they want to come themselves, or were they arranged to come?

They didn't know.

They only knew that the old woman leaning on a walking stick walked very steadily, each step firmly planted, her cane tapping on the reef with a "du-du" sound, like someone knocking on a wooden fish.

IU sat on the reef, holding the guitar, looking at the group of people in front of her.

The light from the street lamp shone from the side, illuminating her face clearly.

She saw the red hats, white T-shirts, uniform vests.

She saw the windbreakers, selfie sticks, the light from phone screens.

She saw old people, middle-aged people, young people, men, women, Chinese, Koreans, people from who knows where.

She saw them looking at her.

Not the look of "fans," but the look of "audience."

Not the look of "I like you," but the look of "I'm here to watch a performance."

The difference between these two types of looks lies in—the former will scream, the latter will applaud.

The former will make you feel important, the latter will make you feel like you are just a part of it.

Not the "protagonist," but the "performer."

The difference between a performer and a protagonist is—the protagonist doesn't need to prove themselves, the performer does.

IU took a deep breath, her fingers landing on the strings.

The first chord rang out, G major, warm and bright, like the moon on the sea surface on a night in Jeju Island.

She sang.

The first song was "the blue night of jeju island," the one Jiang Zhiyu wrote.

She didn't look at the lyrics when she sang, because the lyrics were already carved into her brain.

"제주도의 푸른 밤, 너와 함께 걸을 때" — the blue night of jeju island, walking with you.

When she sang to this point, she saw the old woman with the walking stick nodding, not keeping time, but a nod of "hmm, this song is not bad."

She didn't know if the old woman understood Korean, but she knew that music didn't need translation.

The melody itself was speaking.

She sang the second, third, fourth songs, singing all the songs on the album once.

No hosting, no segments, no "Hello everyone, I am IU."

Just singing.

One after another, like a worker on an assembly line, placing every note precisely where it should be.

But she wasn't a worker, she was a singer.

Not "singing in a recording studio," but "singing on the beach."

The sound in the recording studio was clean; the sound on the beach was alive.

The sound of waves, the wind, the occasional ship horn in the distance, all the sounds mixed together, indistinguishable from one another, but combined, they were the night in Jeju Island.

When she sang the last song, her voice was a bit hoarse.

Not because she couldn't sing, but because of the sea breeze.

The sea breeze was salty, salty enough to dry her lips, salty enough to tighten her throat.

She licked her lips with her tongue and kept singing.

Because she knew those red hats were listening, those windbreakers were listening, those selfie sticks were filming.

She wasn't singing for "IU's fans," she was singing for "the people here tonight."

The difference between the two is—the former will remember her forever, the latter will remember tonight.

She finished singing.

IU stood up and bowed.

She waited for applause.

She knew there would be applause, because it was polite.

After listening to a performance, the audience should applaud.

After a performer finishes a song, they should bow.

This was a conventional rule, no discussion needed.

But the applause didn't ring out.

It wasn't "didn't ring out," it was "didn't have time to ring out."

Because at the moment she bowed, a sound rang out first.

Not applause, but singing.

Clear, high-pitched, like a knife cutting through the tranquility of the night in Jeju Island.

Not Korean, but Chinese.

Not a pop song, but an old song IU had never heard before.

The melody was very simple, like an old song written many years ago, sung countless times by people, sung until every note was polished until it shone.

The voice came from the old woman with the walking stick.

She stood at the very front of the crowd, her cane tapping on the reef, her back straight, her chin slightly raised.

Her mouth was open, and the voice poured out from her throat, not "singing," but "shouting."

Not "shouting," but "releasing."

Releasing everything accumulated over decades all at once, releasing it very high, so high that the sound of the waves was drowned out.

IU was stunned.

She stood on the reef, still holding the guitar, her mouth still maintaining the curve from before the bow.

She looked at the old woman, looking at her gray hair, deep wrinkles, and her chin slightly trembling from the effort.

She couldn't understand the lyrics, but she understood the melody.

The melody was saying— "When I was young, I also sang.

I sang in many places.

On the ridges of fields, in factories, in the center of the stage.

Now I am singing on the beach in Jeju Island.

Because everything is good tonight, so I want to sing."

The old woman finished the first line, and the second line followed immediately.

It wasn't her singing, it was a chorus.

A thick, deep middle-aged male voice rose from under the red hats, like a ship surfacing from under the sea.

Then came the female voices, in the high register, clear and full, like laying a thin veil over the old woman's voice.

Then more voices, bass, alto, soprano, all the vocal parts were complete.

Not the unity of a "choir," but the unity of "everyone knows how to sing this song."

No one conducted, no one started the key, no one said "Ready—sing."

It was just one person starting, and the others following in, as natural as walking.

You take a step, I take a step, and as you walk, you find yourselves on the same path.

IU understood.

This was not an ordinary old woman, this was not an ordinary tour group.

This was a tour group of retired teachers from some music conservatory.

She didn't know which music conservatory, but she knew that people who could sing such harmonies were not just people who "knew how to sing," but people who "understood music."

They didn't need scores, didn't need a conductor, didn't need rehearsal.

Their ears were the scores, their bodies were the conductor, and decades of tacit understanding were the rehearsal.

The song they sang, IU didn't understand the lyrics, but she heard what was beneath the lyrics.

Not "we are singing a song," but "we want to sing."

Not "we want to sing," but "we want you to know that we also understand music."

Music is the simplest expression of emotion, needing no translation, no explanation, no intermediate links.

You sing, I listen.

I sing, you listen.

If you understand, you understand.

If you don't understand, you just haven't reached that point.

IU understood.

What she heard was not the lyrics, but the meaning— "Everything is good tonight, so we want to sing."

"Someone else sang, so I sang too; it's an unconscious, subconscious act."

"Little girl, let us show you the power of the Chinese people."

"Thank you for your performance, so we also sing one to thank you."

The old lady finished singing. Her cane tapped against the reef with a "thud," like a full stop. Then came the applause. It wasn't scattered, sparse applause; it was uniform, powerful, the kind of applause you'd only hear in a concert hall. It wasn't because it sounded good, but because "it was finished." When it's finished, you should applaud; that's the rule. IU looked at those red hats, white T-shirts, and matching vests; she looked at those faces flushed from exertion, lips trembling slightly from excitement, and eye sockets deeply sunken from the years, and suddenly felt her eyes grow hot. It wasn't that she wanted to cry; it was being moved. Moved by the fact that "music needs no translation," moved by "I sang a song, and you sang a song too," moved by "on the blue night of jeju island, a group of strangers sat together because of music."

Jiang Zhiyu did not go to Jeju Island. He sat in his small office on the fifth floor of Loen Entertainment, looking at the screenshots and videos from Chinese social media platforms on his phone screen. In the video, the old lady's voice was as clear and sharp as a knife, slicing through the night of Jeju Island. He had listened to many Chinese songs while in the Tianxuan Continent, but he had never heard one like this—it wasn't "singing," it was "living." She had sung her entire life into it. The songs she had sung on field ridges, in factories, and at the center of stages, the songs she had sung when she was young, middle-aged, and old, were all crammed into this one song, crammed so full that the sound became distorted. It wasn't the distortion of "sounding bad," but the distortion of "sounding too good." So good that IU stood on the reef, holding her guitar, forgetting to bow. So good that the sound of the waves retreated a step, as if making way for that voice.

Jiang Zhiyu finished watching the video, placed his phone face down on the table, leaned back in his chair, and looked at the ceiling. The fluorescent light was still the same; the one with the broken ballast flickered every few seconds. He stared at the light and thought—this unexpected gain was bigger than he had anticipated. Not just "big," but "too big." He had originally only wanted a post about a "chance encounter," but instead, a "confrontation" had occurred. It wasn't IU singing and them listening; it was IU finishing, and then them singing. Back and forth, like a war without smoke. It wasn't a "war," but an "exchange." You sing in your language, I sing in mine. I don't understand your lyrics, but you understand my melody. I understand your emotions, and you understood my heart. This is music. It needs no translation, no explanation, no intermediate steps. You sing, I listen. I sing, you listen. If you understand it, it's fate.

His phone vibrated. Group Leader Kim from the Loen Entertainment publicity department sent a message, his tone more excited than Jiang Zhiyu had ever seen. "Producer Jiang, have you seen it? The hot search in China! Number one! It wasn't bought; it's a real hot search! That post about the Sunset Red Tour Group chorus, the retweets have already broken one million!" Jiang Zhiyu looked at the text, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. He replied— "I saw it. Don't worry about it. Let it run on its own." Group Leader Kim asked "Why," and Jiang Zhiyu said, "Because things that run on their own run further than things that are pushed." Group Leader Kim didn't ask again. He didn't know the difference between "running on its own" and "being pushed," but he knew Jiang Zhiyu was right. Because the data was speaking. Every time the retweet count for that post refreshed, it jumped by hundreds. In the comments section, people were asking, "Which music conservatory are these teachers from?" Some were saying, "The grandparents are amazing," and others were saying, "This is real music." No one was discussing IU. No, some were discussing her. But the point of discussion wasn't "IU's new song sounds so good," it was "IU was singing for passersby at the beach, and then she got PK'd by a group of Chinese old ladies." The focus of the topic shifted from "IU's new album" to "the Chinese old ladies' chorus." This should have been a "publicity disaster"—you were supposed to be promoting IU, but everyone ended up discussing the old ladies; wasn't that overshadowing the host? But Jiang Zhiyu didn't see it that way. Because those people discussing the old ladies, while discussing them, all mentioned "Jeju Island," "beach," "night," "guitar," and "singing." They didn't know the person singing was IU, but they would look it up. Once they looked it up, they would know. Once they knew, they would listen. Once they listened, they would like it. Once they liked it, they would buy the album. This was what Jiang Zhiyu wanted. Not "one step to the finish," but "step by step." First, let them see "the blue night of jeju island," then let them get to know "IU," and then let them listen to the "blue night" album. Every step was built on the foundation of the previous one, like climbing stairs, one step at a time; they wouldn't fall, and they wouldn't get tired.

The executives of Loen Entertainment sat in the conference room with the latest reports spread out before them. Not sales reports, but hot search reports. The hot searches in China: number one was "Sunset Red Tour Group chorus," number two was "the blue night of jeju island," and number three was "IU beach performance." Three hot searches, two related to IU. They weren't bought; they ran on their own. Things that run on their own run further than things that are pushed. This was what Jiang Zhiyu had said. They believed it now. After a moment of silence, the gray-haired man sitting in the middle—Park Jung Hyuk—spoke up. He didn't say, "This kid is really amazing," he didn't say, "We didn't choose the wrong person," what he said was— "Where does he live?" Group Leader Kim from the publicity department was stunned for a moment. "A goshiwon." "A goshiwon? What kind of place is that?" "It's that kind of... very small, very cheap place without a private bathroom—" "I know what a goshiwon is. What I'm asking is—why does he live in a goshiwon?" "Because he has no money."

The conference room went quiet again. Park Jung Hyuk picked up the coffee in front of him and took a sip. It was cold and bitter, but he didn't frown. He put down the cup and said something that made everyone freeze again. "Doesn't IU have an apartment? The one by the Han River." "President, that apartment is IU's private—" "Rent it to him. The company will pay the rent." Park Jung Hyuk's tone was very calm, so calm that it was like he was saying, "The weather is nice today." But everyone could tell that it wasn't the calmness of "just saying it casually," but the calmness of "I have already decided."

Group Leader Kim opened his mouth. "President, why should we—" "Because he lives in a goshiwon. Because he is the person in charge of promoting IU's album. Because he did the work of an entire department by himself. Because he never asked us for a single penny." Park Jung Hyuk paused, his gaze sweeping across every face on both sides of the long table, "Because he is worth this price."

No one spoke again. Park Jung Hyuk was right. Jiang Zhiyu was worth this price. It wasn't "he deserves to be treated well," it was "he is worth investing in." Giving him an apartment wasn't a "benefit," it was an "investment." Investing in his talent, investing in his future, investing in his possibilities at Loen Entertainment. It wasn't about "keeping him," it was about "making him willing to stay." Staying, not for the apartment, but because there were people here who understood him. Understood his value, understood his dedication, understood that even if he didn't say "I'm tired," someone would still hand him a cup of warm water.

Jiang Zhiyu found out about this news the next morning. When Group Leader Kim called him, he was eating breakfast in the Loen Entertainment cafeteria. His tray was piled high like a small mountain; the rice was heaped, the vegetables were overflowing, and the soup was filled to the rim of the bowl. The cafeteria lady had given him an extra poached egg today; the yolk was soft-boiled, and it would run out as soon as he poked it with his chopsticks. He was poking the yolk when his phone rang. Group Leader Kim's voice came through the receiver, carrying a hesitation that sounded like, "I have good news to tell you, but I don't know if you'll think it's good news." "Producer Jiang, the company has arranged a new place for you to live. By the Han River, a luxury apartment, high floor, you can see the river view. The company will pay the rent." Jiang Zhiyu's chopsticks stopped in mid-air, and the soft-boiled yolk flowed out from the gaps in the chopsticks, dripping onto the rice, dyeing the white rice golden yellow. "Why?" he asked. Group Leader Kim was silent for a moment, and then said something Jiang Zhiyu hadn't expected. "The President said that living in a goshiwon is inconvenient for you." Jiang Zhiyu didn't speak. He looked at the punctured poached egg on his tray; the yolk was still flowing, slowly, like a little golden river winding across the white rice. "Thank the President for me." "Tell him yourself." "Okay."

The call ended. Jiang Zhiyu put his phone on the table, picked up the punctured poached egg, and stuffed it into his mouth. A little yolk spilled from the corner of his mouth; he wiped it off with his finger, put it into his mouth, and licked it clean. He was thinking about one thing—the Han River, luxury apartment, high floor, river view. He didn't need a river view; he only needed a bed, a desk, and a lamp. But the company had arranged a river view for him. Not because "he needed it," but because "they wanted to give it." They wanted to give it because they thought he was worth it. Not "worth an apartment," but "worth being treated well." He thought back to the six months he lived in the goshiwon. That room of less than five square meters, a single bed against the wall, a desk next to the window, a simple wardrobe standing by the door. The smell of instant noodles wafted through the hallway, and next door lived a college student who had been repeating his postgraduate entrance exams for three years; the sound of him reciting books every night came through the thin walls. He didn't think it was bitter, because that was the process. The process doesn't need to be rewarded; the result does. But his results hadn't come out yet. The album hadn't been released, the publicity hadn't been rolled out, and the data hadn't come out. He hadn't proven himself yet. But Loen had already given him a reward. Not because "he had achieved it," but because "they believed he could achieve it." The difference between the two is—the former is "you are worthy," the latter is "we believe you are worthy." The former is affirmation; the latter is trust. Loen chose trust.

Jiang Zhiyu ate the food on his tray clean, even dipping the rice to finish up the yolk that had flowed out of the punctured poached egg. He stood up, carried the empty tray to the return area, and placed the tray on the rack. The cafeteria lady looked at him and said, "You didn't eat much today." He said, "I'm not hungry in the morning." The auntie said, "Young people need to eat more to grow." He said, "Okay." He walked back to the small office on the fifth floor, pushed open the door, and saw that the sky outside the window was still gray. But today's gray was different from the gray before. The previous 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. It wasn't that the sky had changed; it was his mood that had changed. Not because of an apartment, but because of "being believed in." The feeling of being believed in was something he hadn't felt in a long time. The last time he was believed in was in the Tianxuan Continent, when Wang Shuyun said, "I believe you can make TG a success." He did it. This time, he would definitely do it too. Not because Loen gave him an apartment, but because they chose to believe in him when he hadn't proven himself yet. This kind of trust was worth him repaying with a perfect report card.

He sat down, opened his computer, and started writing today's publicity plan. the blue night of jeju island was still fermenting, the Sunset Red Tour Group's chorus was still hanging on the hot search, and IU's "chance encounter" was still being discussed. He had to strike while the iron was hot and get the name "blue night" into more people's ears. Not "pushing," but "leading." Leading them to walk over on their own. Those who walk over on their own are more willing to stay than those who are pushed. This was the principle he believed in.

Simply a living mochi?

(22:18) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Oppa! I just finished showering and discovered my fingers are still sticky... It's like my hand cream has signed a permanent contract with my skin! Now, tapping the phone screen makes a "da-da-da" honey sound effect~ (Sends a distressed selfie of fingers leaving faint oily prints on the screen)]

(22:21) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [I tried to heat up a sugar pancake in the microwave for dinner, and it exploded into abstract art! Ningning said, "Unnie, even your kitchenware is helping you confess," but I just wanted to eat something sweet... (Shows a plate of "sugar pancake remains" with honey tear stains shining through the charred black)]

(22:24) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [I accidentally hummed "Next Level" while wiping the leaves of "Xiaodong," and its tenderest leaf actually shook to the rhythm! Is it a dancer at heart? Ah, it inherited its father's stage talent~ (Leans close to the succulent with a shocked expression)]

(22:27) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Curled up on the sofa watching variety shows, I subconsciously pinched my sweater cuff when I saw a couple holding hands... and discovered I had pinched the cuff into the shape of puppy ears! This is definitely the cute virus caught from Oppa! (Shows two little tufts on the cuff)]

(22:30) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [There are very few stars tonight, only one particularly bright one hanging at the corner of the window. I made a wish to it: "Please turn my stickiness, exploded sugar pancake, and puppy cuffs today into magic that makes Oppa smile."]

(22:33) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Oppa, today was another day of clumsily yet earnestly moving closer to you. If the universe had a sweetness meter, the sugar levels around me would already be off the charts~ Good night, my anti-glycation warrior. (Sends a blurry photo of a heart shape made with sticky fingers)]