4: Chapter 4 Naming.

The speed at which Jiang Zhiyu reached "godhood" within the SM Entertainment building was not much slower than the speed at which he learned Korean.

Early the next morning after moving into the ninth-floor dormitory, Chief Kim took him to a language school in Gangnam District. The school was on the fifth floor of an office building, with narrow corridors and small classrooms; the whiteboard displayed this week's teaching plan written in Korean and English. Jiang Zhiyu took a placement test at the front desk—he turned in a nearly blank sheet for the written portion because he couldn't even read the questions, but his listening test scores caused the teacher in charge to double-check three times. A student with zero foundation, after hearing it only once, could accurately repeat complete sentences. Although he didn't understand the meaning of every word, his imitation of the pronunciation was as precise as a native speaker who had been shadowing for ten years.

"Has he studied Korean before?" the testing teacher asked Chief Kim in English.

Chief Kim glanced at Jiang Zhiyu, who was waiting on a bench in the corridor. The youth wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his forearms and the top two buttons undone, revealing a thin silk thread around his neck. He was looking down at his phone, his profile appearing exceptionally clear and handsome under the dim yellow lights of the hallway, his eyelashes casting a small fan-shaped shadow under his eyes.

"Yesterday, he couldn't speak a single word of Korean," Chief Kim said.

The testing teacher didn't believe it.

But Jiang Zhiyu truly didn't know it. He was simply using another talent besides his perfect pitch—the ability to mimic language. In the Tianxuan Continent, he was proficient in the Middle Continent Mandarin, Southern Ming, and various dialects of the Western Kingdoms. He didn't rely on rote memorization, but rather an almost instinctive ability for phonetic capture and pattern recognition. He could hear the articulation point of a syllable, whether the vocal cords vibrated, the strength of aspiration, and the position of the tongue, then precisely replicate it with his own vocal organs. This ability had been grounded during his medical studies in Medicine King Valley—identifying herbs required identifying flavors, which required an extremely sensitive tongue and nose. In turn, a sensitive tongue and nose made his vocal organs much more flexible than those of ordinary people.

The language school suggested he start from the Level 1 class, attending classes every morning and self-studying in the afternoon.

Jiang Zhiyu shook his head.

"Give me the textbooks," he said in English. His speaking speed wasn't fast, but every word was clear. "I'll learn by myself. I'll come ask if there's anything I don't understand."

The testing teacher was a bit hesitant, but Chief Kim added from the side, "He also has to write songs at the company, so he doesn't have time to come to class every day." Only then did the teacher reluctantly agree, packing the Level 1 to 3 textbooks and accompanying audio into a USB drive.

Jiang Zhiyu took the USB drive and began his self-study in the ninth-floor dormitory that very afternoon.

His learning method was not linear. Ordinary language learners start with the alphabet, then words, then grammar, then sentences, and finally dialogue. Jiang Zhiyu did everything simultaneously—he listened to the textbook audio and repeated along, flipped through the grammar book for comparative understanding, and watched variety shows with Korean subtitles. When he encountered an unfamiliar word, he would pause to look it up in a dictionary and record it in his phone's memos. He couldn't write in Korean yet, but he used Roman letters to mark the pronunciation and general meaning.

By the first night, he had learned the forty letters of the Korean alphabet and could read all the syllables, even though he didn't know the meaning of most words.

By the second day, his vocabulary exceeded three hundred words, mainly daily expressions and music industry terminology. He began to understand the cafeteria ladies asking him "What do you want to eat?" and would answer in non-standard but communicative Korean, "Anything is fine, just give me more meat."

On the third day, he got lost in the subway station—he wanted to go to a nearby musical instrument store to buy a MIDI keyboard but took the train in the opposite direction. A kind high school student asked him in English if he needed help, and he replied in Korean, "It's okay, I know how to get back," which gave the student a start.

A week later, Jiang Zhiyu was already able to conduct basic daily conversations in Korean.

His pronunciation still carried an accent, his grammar was occasionally wrong, and he often mixed up particles, but there was a peculiar charm to the way he spoke—unhurried, with a steady tone, as if he were seriously expressing himself in a foreign language he had practiced for a long time. People talking to him didn't find it taxing; instead, they were touched by his "I am listening to you very seriously" attitude and unconsciously slowed down their speech, using simpler vocabulary to communicate with him.

Every day at noon, Chief Kim would send him a Korean text message containing the day's weather and a brief greeting. Jiang Zhiyu would reply within a minute—not by copy-pasting, but by writing it himself, even if he made mistakes. He got particles wrong, used the wrong tenses, and once even wrote "감사합니다" (Thank you) as "감사함미다." Chief Kim almost laughed out loud when he saw it but didn't correct him. The next day, the word was written correctly in Jiang Zhiyu's text.

The language school teacher gave him a test every week. His results went from barely passing in the first week, to above average in the second, and near perfect in the third. The teacher asked how he studied, and he said, "Listen, watch, remember, use." The teacher then asked how long he studied each day, and he said, "I study whenever I'm awake."

This was not an exaggeration.

He listened to Korean radio in the intervals between songwriting, watched variety shows with Korean subtitles while eating, flipped through vocabulary cards on his phone while walking, and used textbook audio as background noise before sleep. He integrated Korean into every waking moment, like a drowning person grabbing onto the only floating plank—not because he was afraid of drowning, but because he didn't want to waste a single second. Every second of time in this world was worth more than he had imagined.

Three weeks later, he no longer needed English as an intermediary.

Park Jiyeon first noticed this during a project meeting. She habitually communicated with Jiang Zhiyu in English, but after a few sentences, Jiang Zhiyu answered her in Korean. Park Jiyeon was stunned for a moment, then calmly switched to Korean. For the rest of the meeting, the two communicated entirely in Korean. Jiang Zhiyu's speaking speed was a bit slower than before, and he would occasionally pause for half a second to search his mind for the right word, but his expressed meaning was clear and accurate. He even used some industry terms that Park Jiyeon hadn't expected him to know.

"When did you learn?" Park Jiyeon asked him after the meeting.

"I've been learning all along," Jiang Zhiyu said.

Park Jiyeon glanced at him and didn't ask further.

What she didn't know was that by the third week, Jiang Zhiyu had already started browsing Korean music production forums. He didn't read them to learn the language, but because he truly needed to understand this world's music industry—which producers were top-tier, which songwriters had fixed styles, what the A&R directions of various companies were, and which platform charts were worth referencing. He searched in Korean, read in Korean, and took notes in his head in Korean. He looked up words he didn't know and continued reading after. He might spend twenty minutes reading a single forum post, but the gains were far more than just a few new vocabulary words—he gained an understanding of a corner of the industry that, just a few days ago, had been a complete blind spot.

By the fourth week, "legends" about him began to circulate within the SM Entertainment building.

The first version came from the cafeteria ladies. One lady told her colleague that the foreign kid on the ninth floor couldn't speak a word of Korean when he first arrived and could only point at the menu saying "this one," but now he could haggle with her in Korean for an extra piece of fried fish. The colleague didn't believe it, saying foreigners don't learn Korean that fast. The lady slapped the table, saying she saw it with her own eyes and to go see for themselves if they didn't believe it.

The second version came from an A&R department assistant. The assistant said Jiang Zhiyu submitted a demo last week with Korean lyrics. After Team Leader Park finished reading them, she was silent for thirty seconds before saying, "Is this kid really a foreigner?" The assistant added even more detail, saying the lyrics used allusions to ancient poetry that even Koreans might not know. After this version spread, someone in the internal company group chat asked how long Jiang Zhiyu had actually been learning Korean. Someone replied, "Less than a month," and the chat instantly exploded.

The third version came from the trainees. What the trainees focused on was not Jiang Zhiyu's Korean level, but the person himself. Someone had seen him outside the practice rooms on the first basement floor—he wasn't there to practice dancing, but had stopped for a few seconds upon hearing someone practicing singing. He then knocked on the door and said in Korean to the trainee inside, "The third note of the chorus was half a step sharp; didn't you hear it yourself?" That trainee was a top student in the vocal class and had never been corrected like that by a peer, so his expression wasn't great at the time. But after returning to the practice room and checking with a piano, he found that the note was indeed sharp—not out of tune, but a subtle deviation that almost only someone with perfect pitch could capture. From then on, that trainee would bow and call Jiang Zhiyu "Sunbae" whenever they met.

The fourth version was the most outrageous, coming from a post on the internal anonymous forum. The poster claimed to be an employee of a certain department and said they saw Jiang Zhiyu in an A&R department meeting room, discussing arrangements in Korean with three senior producers. He spoke with such logic and expertise that he convinced one of the producers to change their arrangement plan on the spot. The post also claimed he wasn't just a songwriter but could also arrange, mix, and master—a "complete monster." Some replies believed it, some didn't; someone asked "How old is he really?" and someone else answered "Sixteen," then the thread derailed into whether it was possible for a "sixteen-year-old foreigner to discuss arrangements with Korean producers in Korean."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't know about any of this.

Even if he did, he probably wouldn't care.

The only things he cared about were: whether his Korean could get faster, whether the songs he wrote could be better, whether he could gain a firm foothold in this world as soon as possible, and—whether it was possible for him to find a way back.

He thought about this last matter every day, but every day he told himself to put it aside for now.

Because he could do nothing right now. He didn't know the method to return, the conditions for returning, or even the direction. The only thing he could do was survive in this world first, live a little better, and then slowly look for answers. If they could even be found.

One afternoon in the fifth week, Park Jiyeon called him to her office.

"There's a project," she said, pushing a planning document in front of him. "A girl group comeback; the title track hasn't been decided yet. We've received dozens of demos before, but none were quite satisfactory. Do you have anything suitable?"

Jiang Zhiyu picked up the planning document and flipped through it. He hadn't heard of the girl group's name, and he didn't recognize the members' photos. The concept keywords written on the document were "growth" and "farewell," sounding like some narrative about the end of youth. He closed the document, placed it on the table, and didn't answer immediately.

"I do," he said, "but it needs to be modified."

"Which one?"

Jiang Zhiyu pulled his phone out of his pocket—that unfamiliar black phone was now packed with music software and learning apps—scrolled to a demo file of a song, and handed it to Park Jiyeon.

Park Jiyeon put on her headphones and pressed play.

The intro was piano, a few simple chords, sounding like someone repeatedly pressing and releasing keys in an empty room. Then came the vocals, a guide vocal recorded by Jiang Zhiyu himself. His voice in the demo hadn't undergone any pitch correction; it was dry, direct, and carried a vulnerability she had never heard in the tone of this sixteen-year-old youth.

The lyrics weren't Korean. Park Jiyeon listened for a while and realized it was that unfamiliar language he had written in the meeting room on the first day—soft and blurred syllables, like sleep-talk.

But the chorus part was in Korean.

Only four lines.

She understood them.

After listening, Park Jiyeon took off the headphones and was quiet for a few seconds.

"Who wrote the Korean lyrics for the chorus?" she asked.

"I did," Jiang Zhiyu said.

"When did you write them?"

"Last night."

Park Jiyeon looked at him. The youth before her sat in the chair with an upright but not stiff posture, hands crossed over his knees. His expression was as calm as if that heartbreaking demo just now hadn't been written by him, as if he had just turned in an ordinary assignment and was waiting for the teacher to grade it.

"You know that if this song is released," Park Jiyeon said slowly, "people will cry."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't answer.

He looked out the window. The Seoul sky on an afternoon in November took on a grayish-blue tone, neither high nor distant, like a piece of faded backdrop hanging over the city. He thought of the sky in the other world, and of a farewell he hadn't been able to voice.

"Then let them cry," he said.

On the day the poster was put up, Jiang Zhiyu specifically stood in front of the notice board for a while, observing the reactions of the people passing by to this piece of paper.

An A4 sheet, black text on a white background, without any fancy design. The title written in Korean was "Song Training—Free," with the time, location, and a brief explanation noted in small print below—"For trainees, every Tuesday and Thursday, 5:00 PM to 7:00 PM, Recording Studio XX. Any questions related to singing are welcome." The signature was his English name and Korean name, followed by the words "Songwriter" in parentheses.

Passersby would take a glance; some would linger for two or three seconds, while others would move on after a quick sweep. Occasionally, someone would stop to read it carefully and then walk away thoughtfully. Jiang Zhiyu stood by the notice board for about ten minutes and saw seven or eight people stop to look at the poster, but not a single one took out their phone to snap a photo of the time and location, nor did anyone show the enthusiasm of "I must go" on the spot. He thought about it and felt this was normal. A foreigner who had been at the company for less than two months, speaking Korean with an accent, having no notable works, no fame, and no endorsements from any connections—suddenly posting a poster saying he would teach trainees to sing for free; if it were him, he wouldn't go either.

It wasn't because they didn't believe in the other person's professional ability, but because they didn't dare to risk their time. A trainee's time is more expensive than money. Every day, besides eating and sleeping, is spent practicing. The two hours they can squeeze out, whom they spend it on and what they learn, is an investment that requires careful calculation.

Jiang Zhiyu understood this. Therefore, he was mentally prepared for the possibility that no one would come to the first few classes.

On the first Tuesday at five in the afternoon, he sat in the recording studio for two hours. No one came.

He brought his own laptop—an older model MacBook that Chief Kim had helped him borrow from the company's equipment department. The specs weren't high, but it was enough to run arrangement software. He wrote the chorus of a new song in the recording studio and then did a simple arrangement using the software's built-in virtual instruments. Two hours passed quickly; he turned off the computer, locked the recording studio door, and returned to the ninth-floor dormitory. Dinner consisted of two triangular kimbap bought from the convenience store, totaling two thousand won, paired with hot water from the dormitory's water dispenser—barely counting as a meal.

On the second Thursday at five in the afternoon, he appeared in the recording studio on time. The same emptiness, the same silence. He sat for two hours and wrote the lyrics for another song—this time in Korean. Although the writing wasn't smooth and some combinations felt awkward even to him, he needed the practice. Writing lyrics in Korean was a completely different matter from speaking Korean. Speaking can be rehearsed in one's head, and words can be swapped on the fly; the other person won't care what rhetoric you use. But lyrics are different; every word must be precise, every syllable must fit the melody perfectly, and any hint of stiffness will be magnified in the listener's ears.

He wrote two verses, crossed them out, and rewrote them. Crossed them out again, and wrote again. The final version he saved had only four lines, and he was certain that at least two spots needed a native speaker's help for polishing.

He closed the computer and glanced at the time on his phone. 7:03 PM. Three minutes past the agreed time; he had waited those extra three minutes just in case someone arrived at the last second. The recording studio door remained quietly closed, and no footsteps approached in the hallway.

Jiang Zhiyu took a deep breath, packed the computer into his backpack, stood up, turned off the light, and locked the door.

As he walked down the hallway toward the elevator, he calculated his expenses for the month. SM pays salaries on the first of every month, and he had already received it once—more accurately, he had received an "Advance." According to the contract, for every accepted demo submitted, the company would pay a fixed Advance to be deducted from future royalties. He had submitted two demos last month, both of which were taken by Park Jiyeon, but one was still being revised and the other was kept as an alternative, uncertain if it would eventually be used. The Advances for the two demos combined, after deducting the dormitory rent advanced by the company and the language school tuition advanced by Chief Kim, left him with barely enough money for food and the subway. If he lived frugally, there would be a little left at the end of the month, but not much.

The Health-Preserving Pills were all gone.

He had placed the last emerald-green pill under his tongue three mornings ago, feeling that familiar coolness spread from the base of his tongue to his throat before finally sinking into his dantian. The medicinal power released slowly within his body, clearing the meridians that had become increasingly sluggish due to his lack of adaptation to this world. But this time, the medicinal power dissipated much faster than before. He guessed it was because the air in this world lacked the dense Heaven and Earth Spiritual Qi of the Tianxuan Continent; the efficacy of the Health-Preserving Pills could not be naturally replenished or maintained here, consuming nearly twice as fast as on the Tianxuan Continent.

Five Health-Preserving Pills, exhausted in less than two months.

Jiang Zhiyu washed the small jade bottle clean and placed it in his desk drawer. The bottle remained, but the medicine was gone. The medicinal ingredients he used to refine this bottle of medicine on the Tianxuan Continent—Century-old Polygonum Multiflorum, Snow Mountain Lingzhi, Deep Ravine Dendrobium—probably weren't impossible to find in this world, but he simply couldn't afford them. A wild Lingzhi of slightly better quality was priced at hundreds of thousands of won in Seoul's pharmacies; he couldn't even afford the spare change.

He needed money.

Not a lot of money, but enough for food, the subway, an occasional Korean grammar book, or a trip to an instrument shop. His income as a songwriter at SM was unlikely to increase significantly in the short term—his works needed time to build a reputation, he had to wait for the company to release songs, and he had to wait for market feedback. This was a long process measured in months or even years. Meanwhile, his stomach got hungry every day.

Jiang Zhiyu thought of a way.

It wasn't that he lacked other skills. During those five years at TG Entertainment, he had personally trained the four members of Zephyrus, from basic vocal exercises to stage presence, from detail processing in the recording booth to facial expression management in front of the camera; he had taught it all. Kim Soo-yeon once said his vocal coaching was more effective than the professional teachers hired by the company, because those teachers would only say "this is wrong" or "that isn't good," whereas Jiang Zhiyu would say, "Your tongue root is too tight, try relaxing your lower jaw," "Your breathing position for this line is wrong, take a breath half a beat before the word 'Wind'," or "You're straining your throat for the high notes in the chorus; try sending the sound forward, imagine you're shouting to someone, but not shouting their name, rather shouting 'I'm here'."

These details were a fusion of three things: his understanding of human anatomy from studying medicine at Medicine King Valley, his observations of idol training while doing artist management at TG Entertainment, and his own perception of the essence of sound as a possessor of absolute pitch. Together, they formed a unique teaching method that focused on practical application rather than abstract concepts.

He could teach trainees at SM. Not to make money—he didn't have a teaching qualification or a legal work permit, so taking money would be risky. But he could teach for "free" and then let the students voluntarily treat him to a meal. A meal doesn't cost much, but if two or three students treated him every week, he could save more than half of his monthly food expenses.

Jiang Zhiyu spent an evening redesigning a poster.

This time, the title was changed to "Trainee Vocal Coaching — Free," and the content was more specific: "Vocal methods, pitch training, emotional expression, recording booth techniques. Any trainee confused about singing is welcome to come. Every Tuesday and Thursday, 5:00 PM to 7:00 PM, Recording Studio XX." The signature remained the same.

He printed the poster and posted it on the notice board early the next morning in a more prominent position than last time—right next to the cafeteria announcements, where the most people passed during mealtimes.

Then, he began the long wait.

On the first Tuesday, no one came.

On the second Thursday, no one came.

On the third Tuesday, still no one came.

Jiang Zhiyu began to doubt his judgment. Maybe the poster design was too plain and didn't catch the eye? Maybe the word "Free" actually made people suspicious—there's no such thing as a free lunch? No, free training? Maybe his foreign name made the trainees think there would be a language barrier? Maybe he should have established a reputation within the company first, rather than directly posting a poster to announce it to everyone?

On the third Thursday, he sat in the recording studio with his computer open. On the arrangement software interface was a song he had half-written. He stared at the colorful MIDI blocks on the screen, but his mind was on other things—how many more meals the money in his pocket could afford, when next month's Advance would arrive, whether his physical condition would decline after the Health-Preserving Pills were gone, and, most importantly—when he would find a way back.

6:45 PM.

Fifteen minutes until the agreed end time.

Jiang Zhiyu saved the project file, closed the computer, and began packing his things. He coiled the data cables and tucked them into his backpack, placed the laptop in the sleeve, tightened his water bottle, and pushed the recording studio chair back to its original position. His movements were slow, as if he were stalling. He knew clearly in his heart what he was waiting for—waiting for a person who wouldn't come, waiting for a turning point that wouldn't appear.

He zipped up his backpack, stood up, walked to the door, and placed his hand on the doorknob.

There was a knock on the door from the outside.

It wasn't a hurried, excited knock. It was a very light, tentative tap, almost as if afraid of being heard—thump, thump-thump. The sound of knuckles hitting the wooden door was exceptionally clear in the quiet hallway.

Jiang Zhiyu's hand paused on the doorknob for a moment.

He pulled the door open.

A girl was standing outside the door.

She was wearing a white short-sleeved T-shirt with a gray zip-up hoodie over it. The hoodie's hood wasn't on, hanging behind her. Below were black leggings and a pair of white sneakers with the laces tied very tight, as if she had just run over from a practice room. Her hair was black, shoulder-length, neither dyed nor permed, just hanging naturally. Her bangs were a bit long, almost covering her eyes. Her cheeks were very red—not the red of makeup, but the red after running, or from nervousness, or perhaps both, spreading from her cheekbones all the way to the base of her ears.

Her features were very delicate. Her eyes weren't large, but they were well-shaped, with a soft double eyelid curve and the outer corners slightly upturned, carrying a natural, unforced vibrancy. Her lips were thin, forming a fine line when pressed together. Her nose—the bridge wasn't low, but the tip was a bit flat, the only part of her face that wasn't "standard," but it was precisely this lack of standard that gave her delicate face a touch of reality and recognizability.

Jiang Zhiyu's gaze lingered on her face for less than a second before quickly sweeping over her overall appearance—she was about 1.6 meters tall, her build was lean but not frail, the lines of her shoulders showed traces of dance training, and her stance was slightly pigeon-toed, a sign of nervousness.

The girl gave a deep bow, bending so far it was almost ninety degrees. When she straightened up, her cheeks were even redder than before. She didn't quite dare to look at Jiang Zhiyu, her gaze shifting between his chin and shoulders before finally settling on the doorframe of the recording studio behind him.

“Hello!” Her voice carried a hint of a tremble, but the volume wasn't low, as if she were emboldening herself. “My name is Kim Minjeong! I saw your poster and wanted to come and learn...”

She spoke very quickly, so fast that the pronunciation of a few syllables was a bit blurred. Jiang Zhiyu understood. After more than a month of intensive training, his Korean listening was already capable of handling most daily conversations. Although he still occasionally encountered unfamiliar words, he heard every word Kim Minjeong said clearly.

He looked at her. The girl stood in place, hands hanging at her sides, her fingers unconsciously clutching the hem of her hoodie so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her nervousness was visible to the naked eye—her breathing was a bit hurried, the rise and fall of her chest much faster than normal, her pupils slightly dilated, and her mouth working hard to maintain a "I am smiling" curve, but that curve was so stiff it looked as if it had been glued on.

The first one. She must have prepared for a long time in her heart and encouraged herself many times before she dared to knock on this door fifteen minutes before the end. Maybe she had paced the hallway for a long time, maybe she arrived early but didn't dare come in, maybe she had even come once and gone back. Jiang Zhiyu didn't know, but he could feel that this girl standing before him right now needed not just vocal coaching, but also a sentence like "You're here, good."

“Come in and let's talk,” Jiang Zhiyu said in Korean, stepping aside to clear the doorway. He spoke slower than usual, trying to keep his tone as gentle as possible.

Kim Minjeong nodded and almost tripped over herself as she crossed the threshold. She hurriedly grabbed the doorframe, her face turning even redder. She whispered a small “죄송합니다” — sorry — then lowered her head and walked quickly into the recording studio, standing in the center of the room as if she didn't know where to sit.

Jiang Zhiyu pointed to a chair against the wall. “Sit there.”

Kim Minjeong obediently went over and sat down, placing both hands on her knees, her back ramrod straight like a student waiting to be spoken to in the principal's office.

Jiang Zhiyu put his backpack back on the desk and sat down again. He turned his chair to face Kim Minjeong. He didn't rush to speak, instead quietly observing her for a few seconds. This observation wasn't a scrutiny but a habit—he had interviewed countless trainees at TG Entertainment, and with every interview, he would complete a preliminary judgment of a person within the first thirty seconds: their level of nervousness, confidence, the information revealed by their body language, and most importantly—how much this person wanted the opportunity.

[part:gemini-2.5-flash]

Kim Minjeong was nervous, but it wasn't the kind of nervousness that said, "I don't belong here," but rather, "I really care about this opportunity, and I'm afraid of messing it up." Jiang Zhiyu could tell the difference between these two types of nervousness at a glance. The former was self-negation, the latter was self-demand. Kim Minjeong belonged to the latter.

"You're the first trainee to arrive," Jiang Zhiyu said.

Kim Minjeong nodded, her lips moving as if to say something, but only a breathy sound escaped, not forming a complete syllable.

"Do you know you're the first?" Jiang Zhiyu asked again.

Kim Minjeong nodded again, and this time she finally spoke, "I... I saw the poster before, but I never dared to come. Today... today I told myself I had to come. Otherwise, I'd regret it."

Jiang Zhiyu nodded slightly. He made a mental note of this information—Kim Minjeong hadn't just seen the poster today; she had probably hesitated for days, even weeks. She needed to overcome not only the nervousness of meeting strangers but also the self-doubt of, "I'm the first, am I wasting my time?" Yet, she still came. With only fifteen minutes left before closing, she still knocked on the door.

"Alright," Jiang Zhiyu said, leaning slightly forward, hands clasped on his knees, "Where do you think your weaknesses are?"

Kim Minjeong blinked, then blinked again. She probably didn't expect the first question to be so direct. She thought he would start with pleasantries, asking her name, age, and how long she'd been a trainee—all things Jiang Zhiyu wanted to know, but not now. Right now, he wanted to know how clear her self-awareness was. A trainee who didn't know their shortcomings was difficult to teach. A trainee who knew their shortcomings but couldn't articulate them could be saved. A trainee who knew their shortcomings and could accurately express them didn't need teaching, only guidance.

Kim Minjeong was silent for a few seconds, her lips slightly parting and closing, as if carefully considering her words in her mind. Her hands moved from her knees, gripping the hem of her hoodie, and she began to twist the fabric again.

"High notes..." she finally began, her voice a little softer than before, "When I sing high notes, my voice tightens. It's not that I can't reach them, it's... it's that they don't sound good after I reach them. My teacher says my high notes sound like shouting, not singing."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't interrupt her.

"Also," Kim Minjeong continued, her speaking speed gradually increasing as if she had found an outlet for her thoughts, "breath. When I sing fast songs, I don't have enough breath. In the latter half of the chorus, my breath leaks, and my voice becomes weak. My teacher told me to practice diaphragmatic breathing more, and I did, but still..."

She paused, looking down at her fingers.

"I don't think I haven't tried hard," her voice was even softer, "but I don't know if I'm putting in effort in the right direction."

The recording studio was quiet for a few seconds. The soundproof walls blocked all sounds from the hallway, and this small room was like a capsule forgotten by time, containing only two people and the long-held confusion that one of them had just expressed.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her.

He recalled another girl. Thirteen years old, small and thin, carrying a black guitar case, rejected time and again in the ASB Entertainment lobby, the fire in her eyes extinguishing and rekindling. She knocked on his door late at night, saying, "Please give me another chance." She had too many weaknesses—unstable pitch, shallow breath, zero stage experience, negative self-confidence. But she knew what she wanted. She knew what she didn't know. She was willing to learn.

Later, she was known as Lee Ji-eun. Later, she stood on the stage of Huofeng Stadium. Later, she sang "Dawn" in front of a hundred thousand people, tears like shattered stars under the lights.

Jiang Zhiyu collected his thoughts.

"Sing a line for me," he said.

Kim Minjeong looked up, the nervousness in her eyes hadn't vanished, but something else had appeared—a serious focus that only comes from being taken seriously. She took a deep breath and stood up.

She chose Taeyeon's "Fine." The first line she sang, her voice was still a bit tight, and the pitch was slightly low, but she adjusted it on the second syllable. Her vocal color was very unique—not a saccharine sweet girlish voice, nor a powerful, oppressive, husky one, but a clear, metallic quality, like the crisp yet resilient sound of a violin playing in the high register. This vocal color was described on the Tianxuan Continent as "a voice naturally born for this profession"—not cultivated through practice, but a gift from the heavens.

But a gift from the heavens was just a good voice; how to use that voice was another matter.

In the chorus, Kim Minjeong's voice indeed tightened. She hit the high notes, and the pitch wasn't a major issue, but the quality of her voice changed—from clear metal to sharp glass, harsh and thin, as if she was forcefully squeezing something out. After she finished singing, she knew it wasn't ideal. She stopped, biting her lower lip, not daring to look at Jiang Zhiyu.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't comment immediately. He thought for a moment, then said something that made Kim Minjeong freeze.

"Your tongue root is too tight."

Kim Minjeong blinked.

"When you sing high notes," Jiang Zhiyu pointed to his own throat, "you subconsciously use your tongue root to push the sound. When the tongue root tightens, the larynx rises, the vocal tract narrows, and the sound gets squeezed. It's not that you don't have enough breath; you're blocking the breath in your throat."

He picked up a white paper from the table, tore off a small piece, and crumpled it into a tiny paper ball.

"Assume this is the sound," he placed the paper ball on the table, "Your goal is to throw it to that wall opposite."

He pointed to the wall opposite the recording studio.

"The way you're doing it now is," he pressed his palm on the paper ball, pushing it forward forcefully; the paper ball rolled a short distance but quickly stopped, "You're using strength, but the strength is applied in the wrong place. Sound isn't pushed out with the throat; it's supported by the breath."

He picked up the paper ball, put it to his mouth, and blew gently. The paper ball rolled far across the table, all the way to the edge, and fell to the floor.

"Breath is the wind, sound is the paper ball. If the wind is right, the paper ball will fly on its own."

Kim Minjeong looked at the paper ball on the floor, silent for a few seconds, then looked up, the light in her eyes different from before. It was the kind of light that said, "I think I understand something"—not a sudden realization, but like a match lit in the dark, illuminating only a small area, but at least providing direction.

"Can... can I try again?" she asked.

Jiang Zhiyu leaned back in his chair, nodding slightly.

Kim Minjeong took a deep breath, much deeper than before—Jiang Zhiyu noticed her shoulders didn't rise, and her abdomen showed obvious expansion; the starting point of this breath was correct. She opened her mouth again, singing the same chorus from the same song.

When the first high note came out, Jiang Zhiyu's eyebrows moved almost imperceptibly.

Still tight. But the location of the tightness had changed. Before, it was in her throat; now, it was in her jaw. She remembered "don't use the tongue root," but she transferred the tension to her chin. This is a common problem for beginners—you tell them not to use A, and they instinctively use B instead of truly relaxing. It requires time, repeated practice, and correction; it's not something that can be solved with a single sentence.

But she listened. She tried. In her very first lesson, she dared to try a new method in front of her teacher, unafraid of failing or being embarrassed. This kind of courage was more valuable than any talent.

After Kim Minjeong finished singing, she gasped for breath, looking at Jiang Zhiyu with some trepidation.

"Your jaw is still tight," Jiang Zhiyu said, his tone less like criticism and more like stating a fact, "but the direction is right. Did you hear it? Compared to the previous attempt, the transparency of the sound was a little better."

Kim Minjeong paused, then nodded vigorously. She heard it. She hadn't expected herself to hear it, but she really did—the sound in the second attempt, although her jaw was tight, her throat was open, and the sound was no longer squeezed together like the first time, but had a sense of space she had never heard in her own voice before.

"Next time you come," Jiang Zhiyu said, "bring a song you want to sing, preferably a slow one. We'll start by practicing vocal placement, no need to rush into high notes."

Kim Minjeong nodded vigorously again, then suddenly remembered something, and her cheeks flushed. She lowered her head, pulled out her phone from her hoodie pocket, and with trembling fingers, opened the memo app, typed a few words, and then turned the screen towards Jiang Zhiyu.

The screen read: "Teacher, have you eaten?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the words, momentarily not reacting.

Kim Minjeong took back her phone, typed a few more lines, and turned it back to him. This time it read: "I see you stay very late every Tuesday and Thursday, and the convenience store next to the recording studio doesn't have much good food at night. If you don't mind, I'll treat you to dinner. There's a delicious spicy tteokbokki place near the company."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the words on the screen, silent for two seconds.

His stomach, at that moment, let out a faint rumble, audible only to him. He hadn't had dinner yet, and had planned to go back to the dorm and make a bowl of instant ramen. That bag of ramen was a promotional pack he'd bought at the convenience store last week, five packs bundled together, and he'd already eaten three.

"Okay," he said, his voice as calm as if agreeing to the most ordinary thing, "Thank you."

A smile bloomed on Kim Minjeong's face. It wasn't a standard smile practiced countless times in front of a mirror, but a genuine smile with a touch of awkwardness, a bit of shyness, and a lot of happiness. Her eyes narrowed into two crescent moons, and her slightly flattened nose wrinkled with the smile, her entire face seeming to be illuminated from within.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at that smile, and a corner of his heart was gently touched.

He stood up, put on his backpack, and picked up the water cup from the table.

"Let's go."

Kim Minjeong walked ahead, opened the recording studio door, and stepped aside for Jiang Zhiyu to exit first. As Jiang Zhiyu stepped out, the sensor light in the hallway lit up, casting white light on his shoulder and sharply defining his profile. Kim Minjeong followed half a step behind him, watching his tall figure, her heart beating faster than when she was singing.

She didn't know why she was so nervous. Perhaps it was because this teacher was too young, so young that he was completely different from the "teacher" she had imagined. Perhaps it was because he was too quiet, so quiet that she had to listen carefully to every word, unwilling to miss a single one. Perhaps it was the unhurried way he had just taught her to sing, like dissecting a precision instrument, that made her feel her voice had been treated with such seriousness for the first time.

She didn't know. She only knew that on this Tuesday evening, she had made a very, very right decision.

——

——

(Super super super cute Minjeong cutie)

(22:18) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Oppa! I just showered, and now I smell so good~ I used the peach-scented body wash you recommended last time, Oppa! It really smells so nice, like the scent of being praised by Oppa (/ω＼)]

(22:21) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Hiding under the covers, secretly looking at the chat history where Oppa praised me today... I've read the sentence "How can our Minjeong's hair even dance" thirty-two times! Is that too greedy?]

(22:24) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Oppa promised to hold my sleeve! Then, then can I secretly hook my pinky? Just for a second!... Ah, what am I saying! (Burying my face in the pillow and rolling around)]

(22:27) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Today the recording teacher said my voice has a sweet taste... Is it because I've been too happy every day recently? Will singing like this be too unprofessional? But Oppa said he likes it...]

(22:30) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [I've saved Oppa's voice messages in a special folder, with a higher encryption level than company files! Agent Winter's ultimate mission is to protect these treasures ٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶]

(22:33) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Time to sleep... Will Oppa visit me in my dreams tonight too? Good night, the best Oppa in the whole world~ (Sends an animation of a Maltese curled up, holding a phone and sleeping)]