5: Chapter 5 Naming!

Ever since learning that Kim Minjeong's family was well-off, that her parents weren't stingy about food, and that her monthly food budget was around a million won—but that Minjeong herself was extremely disciplined due to her weight—Jiang Zhiyu's relationship with her had grown closer at a visible pace.

This wasn't just Jiang Zhiyu's one-sided 'calculation.' Although his pupils had indeed trembled slightly upon hearing her food budget, and he had quickly calculated how many servings of spicy stir-fried pork from the company cafeteria a million won could buy—the answer was about six hundred and sixty-six, enough for half a year's worth of lunches—what truly warmed the relationship wasn't money. It was an indescribable, 'harmonious vibe' of sorts.

Minjeong was far too easy for him to lead astray.

If Jiang Zhiyu said, "Let's eat something good after practicing high notes today," Minjeong would say, "Okay." If Jiang Zhiyu said, "It's your treat," Minjeong would say, "Okay." If Jiang Zhiyu said, "I heard the pork belly at this BBQ place is great," Minjeong would say, "Then let's try it." Her "okays" came so fast that Jiang Zhiyu sometimes wondered if he was bullying an honest person. But every time he suggested freeloading a meal, a strange sense of relief would flash in Minjeong's eyes, as if saying—it's not that I want to eat, it's that Teacher is making me eat.

She was extremely strict with her own weight control. SM's trainee weight management system was no joke; they were weighed weekly, and exceeding the limit meant a lecture. Consistent failure meant facing the risk of suspended training or even dismissal. Minjeong's weight hovered right on the edge of the standard line, in that delicate zone where "one more bite and you're over, one less bite and you drop." When eating at the cafeteria, she would accurately check calories on her phone. She would eat the spicy stir-fried pork, but only the lean meat, carefully picking the fat to the side. She only ate half a bowl of rice, giving the other half to Jiang Zhiyu. She even rinsed her kimchi in water before eating, fearing the sugar content in the sauce was too high.

The first time Jiang Zhiyu saw her rinsing kimchi, he was silent for three seconds, then moved his untouched fried egg into her bowl.

"Eat," he said.

"But the calories—"

"Your basal metabolic rate isn't low; one fried egg won't make you overweight," Jiang Zhiyu's tone was beyond dispute. "Besides, you have dance practice this afternoon. If you don't have enough carbs, you'll get dizzy."

Minjeong looked at the golden fried egg in her bowl, hesitated for two seconds, then picked it up and took a bite. The moment the yolk flowed out, her eyes narrowed into slits, like a cat having its chin scratched. Jiang Zhiyu saw it but said nothing. From then on, every time they ate at the cafeteria, he would give her his fried egg, claiming, "I don't like eggs." Minjeong believed him because Jiang Zhiyu's expression was so sincere when he said it—so sincere that she never noticed he boiled two plain eggs from the convenience store in the dorm every morning for breakfast.

Of course, beyond the practical motive of a free meal, there was a deeper reason Jiang Zhiyu was willing to spend time on Minjeong—one he was somewhat reluctant to admit to himself.

She really looked like Kim Jeong-gi.

Kim Jeong-gi. The eight-year-old girl in third grade at Yangsan Central Elementary School, Ryu Jin-yoo's best friend, and vice-president of the singing club. She was confident, sunny, and cheerful, dreaming of joining ASB Entertainment, with Baek Ji-xin as her idol. During his days in Yangsan, Jiang Zhiyu had taken Ryu Jin-yoo and Kim Jeong-gi on picnics. On that small hillside Kim Jeong-gi called her "secret base," he'd watched her grill food, skip stones, and chase butterflies, listening to her sing ASB girl group songs in her immature but clear voice. That little girl had light in her eyes, a certainty about the future, a nearly naive conviction that "I will definitely become an idol."

When Kim Jeong-gi was eight, Minjeong was fifteen. Their features were naturally different, but at certain angles, with certain expressions, or in the way their eyes curved into crescents when they laughed, Jiang Zhiyu would experience a dazed illusion—as if time had played a prank on him, fast-forwarding that eight-year-old girl from Yangsan by seven years, stuffing her into the body of a fifteen-year-old trainee, and dropping her into the SM Entertainment building in Seoul.

He knew it was impossible. This world had nothing to do with the Tianxuan Continent; Kim Jeong-gi wasn't here. Minjeong was Minjeong; they were two completely different people. But every time Minjeong finished singing a high note in front of him and waited nervously for his evaluation, that "strikingly similar" feeling would surge up, making his tone soften unconsciously.

Perhaps he was just looking for someone to project his emotions onto. In this completely foreign world, he had no family, no friends, and no traces of his past. He needed someone to make him feel like he wasn't standing alone on a desolate planet. Minjeong just happened to appear, happened to knock on that door just as he was about to give up, happened to have eyes that curved when she smiled, and happened to look at him with that "I did my best" expression after singing.

She just happened to remind him of a little girl he hadn't had the chance to watch grow up in the world he could never return to.

And Minjeong herself was indeed a girl with high personal charm.

She wasn't the type to stun you at first glance, but after spending time together, you'd find she had something special—not talent, not skill, but a magnetic field that "made people want to be good to her." She was serious, so serious that she would practice every note until satisfied, even when her voice was a bit hoarse. She was humble, so humble she never boasted about even the slightest progress. She was considerate, so considerate that she would silently place a cup of warm water by Jiang Zhiyu's hand when he coughed, never asking "Do you have a cold?" because she knew he didn't want to be asked.

She would also clean the recording studio before every lesson—the first time Jiang Zhiyu noticed, he thought it was the building's cleaning lady, until one day he arrived early and pushed open the door to see Minjeong squatting on the floor, wiping away stains with a wet wipe bit by bit.

"What are you doing?" he asked, standing at the door.

Minjeong looked up, clutching a wet wipe that had turned gray, her face filled with the embarrassment of being caught. "Uh... I saw the floor was a bit dirty..."

"You're a trainee, not a janitor."

"I know, but..." Minjeong stood up, threw the wet wipe into the trash, and brushed the dust off her knees. "You're teaching me to sing for free; I have to do something in return. My upbringing doesn't allow me to take things from others for nothing."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her back, silent for a moment, then walked in, placed his bag on the table, and took the pack of wet wipes from her hand.

"Don't wipe it next time," he said. "Come a bit earlier, and I'll teach you how to warm up your voice."

Minjeong was stunned for a moment, then smiled, her eyes curving into crescents. "Okay."

The change in address happened on a Friday evening.

That day, after Jiang Zhiyu finished the lesson, Minjeong treated him to BBQ. The place was in a small alley near the company; the storefront wasn't large, but business was good. The smoke from the charcoal mixed with the fatty aroma of grilled meat, drifting through the cold winter air. Minjeong ordered a pork belly set and added a serving of beef ribs. Jiang Zhiyu was in charge of grilling, and Minjeong was in charge of eating—of course, she still picked the fat to the side and only ate the lean parts, but Jiang Zhiyu noticed she ate more than usual today, likely because she was truly hungry after practicing dance all afternoon.

The charcoal fire reflected on their faces, warm yellow light dancing in their pupils. Minjeong took a small sip of barley tea, suddenly set down her cup, and looked at Jiang Zhiyu.

"Teacher."

"Hmm?"

"Can I... not call you Teacher?"

Jiang Zhiyu's hand flipping the pork belly on the grill paused, and he looked up at her. Minjeong's face was flushed red in the glow of the fire, whether from the heat or something else. Her gaze didn't flicker, but her lips were slightly pursed, as if waiting for a verdict.

"What do you want to call me?" Jiang Zhiyu asked.

"Oppa," Minjeong said, her voice not loud but very clear. "Is that okay?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her for two seconds, then lowered his head and continued flipping the meat. "As you wish."

Minjeong's eyes lit up, and the curve of her lips couldn't be suppressed. She picked up her barley tea and waved it toward Jiang Zhiyu as if making a toast. "Then I'll call you Oppa from now on! Zhiyu Oppa!"

"Just eat your meat." Jiang Zhiyu placed a piece of grilled pork belly into her bowl. His tone was flat, but the corners of his mouth curved slightly.

From then on, Minjeong never called him "Teacher" again. She called him "Oppa" during lessons, "Oppa" after class, and would shout "Oppa!" from afar when they met in the hallway. When lining up for food in the company cafeteria, she would turn back and wave to him, "Oppa! There's a seat here!" Jiang Zhiyu would walk over and sit down with an expressionless face every time, but Minjeong noticed he never refused any of her invitations.

Tuesday afternoon, it was time for class again.

Jiang Zhiyu came down from the ninth-floor dorm, walking through the basement hallway with a convenience store rice ball in hand—his lunch for today, as he'd lost track of time writing songs and the cafeteria had already closed. He unwrapped it as he walked and took a bite. The rice was a bit cold, and the seaweed was no longer crispy, but he ate it seriously, even picking up a fallen grain from the wrapper with his fingertip to put in his mouth.

Minjeong was waiting for him at the recording studio door. She wore a white long-sleeved T-shirt with a black down vest over it, dark gray sweatpants, and those white canvas shoes—the laces had been replaced and were no longer frayed, but the toes were starting to come unglued. Seeing Jiang Zhiyu coming from the end of the hallway, she immediately raised her hand and waved, "Oppa!"

Jiang Zhiyu gave a muffled response through a mouthful of rice ball.

Minjeong ran up to him, pulled a carton of banana milk from her pocket, and handed it to him. "For you! The cafeteria got a new shipment today; I grabbed one for you."

Jiang Zhiyu took the banana milk, inserted the straw, and took a sip. The sweet, cloying taste spread through his mouth, mixing with the lingering savory flavor of the rice ball. It wasn't exactly delicious, but it wasn't bad either. He glanced at Minjeong—her cheeks were flushed as if she'd just run in from outside, and the tip of her nose still carried a hint of winter chill.

"Why are you so happy today?" he asked.

"Am I?" Minjeong touched her face. "Not really... just normally happy."

"You don't bounce when you walk when you're just normally happy."

Minjeong looked down at her feet and realized she was indeed unconsciously tiptoeing. She smiled sheepishly. "Okay, I am a bit happy. My vocal teacher praised my high notes in class this morning, saying my breath control is much steadier than before."

"That's because of your own practice." Jiang Zhiyu crumpled the rice ball wrapper into a ball and accurately tossed it into the trash can at the end of the hallway. "At most, I just pointed you in a direction."

Minjeong followed behind him with a skip. "Then it's because the direction Oppa pointed in was good!"

The two of them walked to the recording studio door, chatting and laughing. Jiang Zhiyu was still chewing his last bite of rice ball as Minjeong reached out to push open the door—

Then they both stopped.

The lights in the recording studio were on.

Someone was sitting on the sofa.

A girl. She wore a black turtleneck sweater, dark blue jeans, and Martens boots with the laces tied tight. Her hair was dark brown, shoulder-length with the ends slightly curled inward, and her bangs were neatly trimmed, revealing a pair of narrow, slightly upturned eyes.

Phoenix eyes.

Those eyes were quietly watching the doorway, her gaze moving from Jiang Zhiyu's face to Minjeong's, then back to Jiang Zhiyu's. Her expression was calm, so calm that no emotion could be seen, but it wasn't a blank calmness; it was an "I am observing you" kind of calmness, carrying a certain restraint and scrutiny.

Her face was very small, so small it made one wonder if her head circumference was smaller than the average person's. But her features were prominent—the curve of her brow bone, the bridge of her nose, the outline of her lips; every part seemed meticulously sculpted, with perfect proportions that created a strange, almost "unreal" beauty on that small face. She was wearing clear braces, which were almost invisible unless one looked closely, but Jiang Zhiyu noticed the slight reflection as his gaze swept over her lips.

The recording studio was silent for about two seconds.

Then Minjeong was the first to cry out.

"Karina Unnie!"

Her voice held surprise, but mostly joy, like someone meeting an acquaintance in a strange place. She stepped quickly into the studio, went to the sofa, and reached out to take the girl's hand. "Why are you here? How did you know about this place?"

The girl called "Karina Unnie" stood up, gently shook Minjeong's hand, and the corners of her mouth curved slightly in greeting. Then her gaze crossed Minjeong's shoulder and landed on Jiang Zhiyu.

She let go of Minjeong's hand, took two steps toward Jiang Zhiyu, and stood still.

Her posture was very upright, her back straight, hands hanging naturally at her sides. She gave a slight nod and a standard, neither humble nor arrogant bow.

"Hello." Her voice wasn't loud but was very clear, every syllable precisely articulated. "My name is Karina, and I am seventeen years old."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't speak.

He placed the empty banana milk carton on the low cabinet by the door, then leaned against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, sizing her up seriously.

His gaze started from her brows, followed the bridge of her nose down, passed her lips, chin, and neck, before finally landing on her shoulder. Then, he pulled back and stopped at her eyes. The entire process lasted about five seconds, neither fast nor slow—it didn't feel like an inspection, but more like a form of 'confirmation'.

Karina felt that gaze.

She didn't avoid it, nor did she meet it head-on; she just stood there quietly, like a tree that had stood in the wind for a long time—neither swaying nor stiff.

Minjeong's gaze jumped back and forth between the two of them like she was watching a ping-pong match, looking left then right. She saw an expression on Jiang Zhiyu's face that she had never seen before—it wasn't the patience he showed when teaching her to sing, nor the slyness when he successfully scored a free meal, nor the slight aloofness when he sat in the recording studio waiting for her. It was a deeper, more serious focus, the kind only seen when looking at something precious.

She suddenly spoke up.

"Um..." Minjeong's voice sounded somewhat abrupt in the quiet recording studio. "Oppa, Karina Unnie is one of the best in our batch of trainees. Her singing, dancing, and stage presence are all exceptionally good. She even took first place in the company's internal evaluations before."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't respond to Minjeong's words. His gaze remained on Karina, but the 'scrutiny' in his eyes had vanished, replaced by something softer—not gentleness, as gentleness was too light; it was something akin to 'recognition,' heavy and carrying a certain weight.

"Karina," he spoke, his voice not loud, but every word felt as if it had been weighed in his heart.

Karina tilted her chin slightly and looked at him.

"You will become a very excellent idol."

The recording studio fell silent.

Minjeong was stunned. It wasn't that she hadn't seen Jiang Zhiyu praise people—he had praised her mid-to-low range for being good, praised her pronunciation for improving quickly, and praised her vocal warm-ups today for being better than last week's. But he had never used this kind of tone—a tone so certain, so unquestionable, as if he were stating a fact already written into the future, just waiting for the time to arrive.

Karina's face turned red.

It wasn't a faint, barely-there blush, but a red that spread from the base of her neck to the tips of her ears, a red whose heat could almost be felt. Her phoenix eyes widened for a split second before quickly regaining their calm, but the color of her ear tips betrayed her. Her lips moved as if she wanted to say something, but the first sound didn't come out.

She took a deep breath.

"Thank you." Her voice was still restrained, but lower than before, as if she were suppressing some emotion. "But I haven't proven myself yet."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her.

He saw the flash of emotion in her eyes from being acknowledged. He saw her eyelashes trembling slightly as she tried to maintain her composure. He saw her hand at her side, her fingertips curled slightly.

He smiled.

It wasn't a polite, social smile, but a smile from the heart, carrying a sense of 'I see it.' The curve of his lips wasn't large, but there was a light in his eyes, like someone standing on a high place watching the sun rise over the distant horizon.

"You will," he said.

—

Going from two people to three, Jiang Zhiyu's recording studio suddenly became lively.

Minjeong came every Tuesday and Thursday. Karina originally didn't have a fixed time, but ever since that day when Jiang Zhiyu's "You will become a very excellent idol" made her ears turn red, she seemed to be pinned to that recording studio. She would come with Minjeong on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and on other days, she would knock on the door alone after her training ended. When she pushed the door open, she usually had a bottle of water in her hand and would sit quietly on the sofa, waiting for Jiang Zhiyu to finish his current task before saying, "Oppa, can you listen to my high notes today?"

She also followed Minjeong's lead and called him "Oppa." Jiang Zhiyu didn't correct her, and Karina didn't explain. A sort of unspoken understanding formed between the two—the title wasn't important; what mattered was that for those few hours every week, someone would listen to her sing seriously and tell her what was good, what wasn't, and what could be better.

Karina and Minjeong were two completely different types of students. Minjeong was the "I'll do whatever you say" type. If Jiang Zhiyu told her to practice abdominal breathing, she would go back and practice for a week, and by the time she returned, her breath control would have significantly stabilized. If Jiang Zhiyu told her to pay attention to the emotional expression in the chorus, she would copy those lyrics into her notebook and fill the margins with notes like "be a bit sadder here," "restrain yourself here," or "don't cry here." she worked so hard that Jiang Zhiyu sometimes felt bad for her.

Karina was different. She wouldn't be as quick to say "okay" as Minjeong, but there was something in her eyes that caught Jiang Zhiyu's attention more than Minjeong's compliance—ambition. Not the flamboyant kind written on one's face, but a quiet, underwater undercurrent that never stopped flowing. She didn't come to class to be praised; she didn't even care if Jiang Zhiyu praised her. She came because she knew where her shortcomings were, she knew Jiang Zhiyu could help her fix them, and she didn't want anyone—including herself—to have a reason to say she wasn't good enough.

When Jiang Zhiyu taught her, he would unconsciously be stricter than he was with Minjeong. It wasn't favoritism; it was because he could feel that Karina could take it. This girl's inner strength was more powerful than most adults he had met; she wouldn't get discouraged by a single criticism or doubt herself because she couldn't hit a high note. She would just nod, then go back and practice until she could sing it.

Sometimes Minjeong would watch from the side as Karina was repeatedly corrected by Jiang Zhiyu on the same note, and she couldn't help but shrink her neck as if those criticisms were landing on her instead. But Karina never shrank; she just stood there, listening, and then said, "Okay, I'll try again." Then she really would try again—if once wasn't enough, then twice; if twice wasn't enough, then four times.

No teacher would dislike such a student.

And the arrival of the third person was much faster than Jiang Zhiyu had anticipated.

It was a Tuesday in December when Seoul saw its first snow of the winter. The snow wasn't heavy—fine and scattered, as if someone had torn a small hole in the sky and was sprinkling ice crystals like grains of salt. When Jiang Zhiyu came down from the dormitory, he stood by the corridor window for a while, looking at the grayish-white sky and the fine snow, thinking of winter in the Middle Continent. Winter in Baiyu City was very cold—cold enough that exhaled breath would frost on a scarf, cold enough that walking on the road would make the snow crunch underfoot. He had been here for over two months now, and sometimes when he woke up in the morning, he would momentarily feel as if he were still on the Tianxuan Continent, still in that seaside dormitory, still able to smell the salty scent of the sea breeze, and still able to hear Wang Shuyun calling from downstairs in her cold voice, "Jiang Zhiyu, where's breakfast?"

Then he would open his eyes to see the gray high-rises outside the ninth-floor window, hear a completely unfamiliar language, and feel the American passport under his pillow.

He pushed those thoughts down and pushed the door open into the corridor.

In the recording studio, Minjeong and Karina had already arrived. Minjeong was wiping the whiteboard—she said she wouldn't wipe the floor anymore, but she still wiped the whiteboard clean every time she came, leaving not even a fingerprint on the white surface. Karina was sitting on the sofa, looking at something on her phone with earphones in. Hearing the door, she looked up, nodded as a greeting, and then lowered her head to continue looking.

"Oppa!" Minjeong turned around from the whiteboard, still clutching the eraser. "It's snowing today!"

"I saw." Jiang Zhiyu walked in, placed his backpack on the table, and pulled out a stack of sheet music. "We're practicing this today."

Minjeong leaned over to look. "Whose song is it?"

"I wrote it."

"Wow—a new song?"

"Not exactly new; I wrote it last month but hadn't found the right person to trial it." Jiang Zhiyu divided the sheet music into three parts, giving one to Minjeong, one to Karina, and keeping one for himself. "Both of you try it. There's a lot of room for improvisation in the chorus; I want to hear how you handle it."

Karina took off her earphones, took the sheet music, and her gaze quickly scanned the notes and lyrics. Her brow furrowed slightly, then relaxed, as if she were mentally singing it through.

"This song is difficult," she said.

"If it weren't difficult, why would I look for you?" Jiang Zhiyu said without looking up.

The corner of Karina's mouth curved slightly; she didn't argue.

While the three were assigning vocal parts, there was a knock at the door.

It wasn't Minjeong's soft, tentative knock, but three even, rhythmic knocks with a certain certainty that said, "I know what I'm doing." Thump, thump, thump. The interval between each knock was exactly the same, as if measured with a metronome.

The three in the recording studio looked toward the door simultaneously.

Jiang Zhiyu walked over and pulled the door open.

A girl was standing outside.

She was a bit shorter than Minjeong and Karina, but she looked like a bead that had been wound tight, exuding an air of seriousness that said, "I'm not here to play." She was wearing a dark blue down jacket zipped to the very top, with the collar turned up, almost covering half her face. Under the down jacket were black hoodies and sweatpants, and on her feet was a pair of old-looking sneakers, the surfaces a bit dirty as if she had just run through the snow.

She pulled down her collar, revealing a round face with baby fat.

Her features were different from Minjeong's and Karina's. It wasn't the typical Korean girl group look, but a more northern, tougher beauty—the distance between her eyes was slightly wider, her nose was high-bridged, and the outline of her lips was clear and powerful. Her whole face looked as if it had been carved by the winter wind, possessing a sense of strength that didn't belong in a greenhouse.

She bowed slightly and said in Korean, "Hello, my name is NingNing. I saw the poster at the notice board and wanted to come learn."

Her Korean had a noticeable accent. It wasn't the kind of accent where someone had studied for years and still couldn't speak fluently, but a deep-seated accent where the native language's inertia was too strong for the second language to suppress, no matter how hard she tried. In those few syllables, Jiang Zhiyu heard a familiar tonal contour—not Korean, not English, but Chinese.

"Are you Chinese?" he asked in Chinese.

NingNing's eyes widened instantly.

That expression wasn't one of surprise, but an instinctive, undisguisable shock upon hearing one's mother tongue in a foreign land, in a completely strange environment surrounded by sounds one couldn't understand. Her pupils dilated, her lips parted slightly, and her chin dropped just a tiny bit. She looked like a machine that had been paused, frozen in that "Did I hear that right?" moment.

"You... you can speak Chinese?" Her voice was a bit tight. The Korean accent vanished the moment she switched to Chinese, replaced by a smooth, rounded Mandarin with the characteristic ending tones of the Northeast Dialect.

"I can." Jiang Zhiyu leaned against the doorframe, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. "Come in."

NingNing was stunned for a moment, then quickly walked into the recording studio. Her gaze swept around the room—Minjeong was standing by the whiteboard, clutching the eraser, looking at her with a curious and slightly wary gaze; Karina was sitting on the sofa, sheet music still in hand, calmly and unobtrusively sizing her up.

"I'm NingNing, a main vocal." She introduced herself. Halfway through the Chinese, she realized Minjeong and Karina might not understand and switched to Korean, "Main vocal candidate." She added those three words without boasting, but with a calm sense of "this is a fact."

Minjeong glanced at Jiang Zhiyu, and he nodded. Minjeong then smiled and waved at NingNing, "Hello! I'm Minjeong! The one sitting over there is Karina Unnie!"

NingNing bowed politely, then her gaze returned to Jiang Zhiyu. She had many questions—who are you, where did you learn Chinese, why is your Chinese so good that no accent can be heard, and why are you, a Chinese-American, so familiar with Chinese regional accents—but she didn't ask. It wasn't because she was shy, but because she had been in this industry for a while and had learned what to ask and what not to ask.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't explain either.

He gave NingNing a copy of the sheet music as well and had her sit next to Minjeong. The three of them, each taking a vocal part, began to trial the song. As soon as NingNing's voice came out, Jiang Zhiyu's eyebrows twitched slightly.

Her timbre was different from Minjeong's and Karina's. Minjeong's voice was warm and full, like a cello; Karina's was clear and sharp, like a violin; while NingNing's voice had more power and penetration, like a brass instrument—thick in the low range and bright in the high range, with almost no obvious breaks across her entire range.

Main vocal candidate—that wasn't just talk.

But Jiang Zhiyu noticed some details. Although her high notes were bright enough, the support point for her breath wasn't deep enough, sometimes giving a sense of disconnection where the 'voice is up high, but the body is down low.' Her pitch was very good, but her handling of certain runs carried obvious traces of Chinese folk singing techniques, which felt out of place in a K-pop context. Her Korean pronunciation also affected her vocal placement to some extent—she produced certain vowels too far forward, causing the resonance point to be insufficiently concentrated.

These were problems Jiang Zhiyu could help her correct.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

However, he didn't say it in the first lesson.

He just let the three of them take turns singing, while he doodled on the whiteboard, occasionally interrupting to correct one or two of the most obvious problems.

Most of the time, he was listening.

After NingNing finished singing, Jiang Zhiyu put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and looked at her.

"Your foundation is very good," he said, using Chinese.

NingNing's eyes brightened again. "Thank you."

"But the vocal method you learned before is a bit different from the vocal placement required by K-pop."

Jiang Zhiyu gestured between his throat and chest. "Your voice is here—the throat.

K-pop main vocalists need to push the sound forward to here—the mask.

Otherwise, when you sing Korean songs, the transition of vowels won't be smooth enough."

NingNing listened intently and nodded. "I know.

I learned one method back home, and after coming to Korea, the teachers said it needed to be changed, but I haven't been able to find that placement."

"Take your time," Jiang Zhiyu said. "It's not your fault; it's just that there hasn't been enough time for the transition.

Your muscle memory is still in the previous mode and needs time to be rebuilt."

NingNing looked at him, and there was something more in her gaze.

It wasn't gratitude, but a confirmation that "this person really understands."

She had been training at SM Entertainment for several months, seen many teachers, and heard much guidance, but very few people could point out her core problems as concisely and accurately as he did.

Most people would say, "Your pronunciation is wrong," "Your placement is too far back," or "You need to practice more," but no one told her why it was wrong, to what extent it was too far back, or how to practice to fix it.

After finishing, Jiang Zhiyu turned around and drew a simple diagram of vocal placement on the whiteboard, marking the four areas: "throat," "mask," "chest cavity," and "head cavity," then used arrows to indicate the conversion path from Chinese folk singing style to K-pop singing style.

His handwriting on the board was ugly and crooked, but the logic of the diagram was very clear; anyone who had studied vocal music could understand it.

Kim Minjeong leaned over to look and whispered to Karina, "Unnie, do you understand?"

Karina nodded, but her gaze wasn't on the whiteboard; it rested on Jiang Zhiyu's back.

In her phoenix eyes, there was a faint, almost imperceptible emotion—not jealousy, but a curiosity of "how much more does this person have hidden?"

After that lesson, NingNing became the fourth person in the recording studio.

No, that's not right.

She was the third person.

Kim Minjeong was the first, Karina was the second, and NingNing was the third.

But the way these three came was different—Kim Minjeong and Karina came on a fixed weekly schedule, while NingNing came whenever she was free, sometimes three or four times a week, each time bringing new questions, as if she had saved up a belly full of doubts waiting for Jiang Zhiyu to answer.

And the relationship between Jiang Zhiyu and NingNing was completely different from the mentor-student relationship with Kim Minjeong and Karina that required time to gradually understand.

Because they spoke the same language.

Not the kind of language where "both can speak it," but the same language in the sense of a "mother tongue."

What Jiang Zhiyu spoke in the Tianxuan Continent was the Middle Continent Mandarin, which was almost identical to Standard Mandarin in pronunciation, vocabulary, and grammar, with only very minor differences in word usage and intonation.

When he first heard Chinese in this world, the feeling wasn't "I have learned this language," but "this language is my language."

Every tone, every syllable, every modal particle seemed to have grown out of his body; there was no need to translate, no need to convert, no need to mentally go through "how do I say this in Korean?"

When NingNing chatted with him in Chinese for the first time, Jiang Zhiyu discovered that his speaking speed had become faster.

It wasn't intentional; it was a natural bodily reaction.

When speaking Korean, he needed to organize sentences in his brain, confirm grammar, and recall vocabulary, so his speaking speed naturally slowed down.

But when speaking Chinese, those processes were all skipped; there was no barrier between thought and language.

Whatever he wanted to say, his mouth just said it automatically, and he couldn't even react in time.

This feeling was too strange.

He had spoken Middle Continent Mandarin his whole life on the Tianxuan Continent and had never felt that "speaking" was something that needed to be consciously realized.

But in this world, when he expressed himself in Chinese without any obstacles for the first time, he realized that for the past two months, he had been living in a language that was not his mother tongue.

That feeling was like walking in a pair of shoes that didn't quite fit; although he could still walk, every step reminded him—this is not your shoe.

And Chinese was his shoe.

NingNing soon discovered one strange thing about Jiang Zhiyu—his curiosity about China far exceeded the level any American-born Chinese should have.

He wasn't the kind of Chinese-American who said, "My parents came from China, so I have some feelings for China."

He was the kind—how to put it—like someone who had returned from space, eagerly wanting to know what changes had happened on the ground after he left.

"What is China like now...?" Jiang Zhiyu asked her once, his tone very casual, but the question was huge, so huge that NingNing didn't know how to answer.

"What do you mean, what is it like?" She bit on her straw, looking at Jiang Zhiyu sitting opposite her.

That day was Wednesday; there were no classes scheduled in the recording studio.

NingNing came to practice singing alone, and after she finished, she was dragged by Jiang Zhiyu to the company cafeteria for dinner.

There weren't many people in the cafeteria.

They sat in a corner, next to a floor-to-ceiling window.

The snow outside had stopped, but it got dark very early; by just past six o'clock, it was already pitch black.

"Just... I mean," Jiang Zhiyu poked at the rice in his bowl with his chopsticks, as if organizing his thoughts, "economic development, urban construction, the living standards of the common people, the country's policy direction... anything is fine, just tell me whatever."

NingNing blinked.

She was seventeen, from Harbin, had practiced vocal music since she was a child, was scouted by SM Entertainment at fifteen, and came to Seoul to be a trainee at sixteen.

Most of her understanding of China came from her life memories before coming to Korea—the winter in Harbin, the bread stones on Central Street, the ice lanterns on the Songhua River, the flag-raising ceremony at school, and the sweet and sour pork her mother made.

She didn't know if these were the things Jiang Zhiyu wanted to hear.

But Jiang Zhiyu asked very seriously, so seriously that it didn't seem like casual chatting.

"You are American-born Chinese, right?" NingNing put down her chopsticks and looked into his eyes.

"Why are you so concerned about China?"

Jiang Zhiyu was silent for a second.

"Because I am of Chinese descent," he said, his tone calm, but his gaze didn't look at her, falling into the night outside the window.

"I have a natural affinity for China.

Since I was little, my family spoke Chinese; during the New Year, we would make dumplings, put up spring couplets, and watch the Spring Festival Gala.

Although I haven't lived in China, I have always wanted to know what that land is like now."

This paragraph was made up on the spot.

His family was not American-born Chinese.

He had lived in the Middle Continent of the Tianxuan Continent for twenty-four years.

His "affinity" for China was not natural, but concrete, warm, and rooted in every inch of his memory.

But he couldn't say that, so he used the identity of "American-born Chinese" to wrap those real feelings into a shell that looked reasonable.

NingNing believed it.

It wasn't because she was easy to deceive, but because when Jiang Zhiyu said that, there was something in his tone that made her unable to bear doubting him.

It was something similar to "homesickness," very faint, but very real, like the slightly tight feeling that wells up in one's throat when someone thinks of their hometown in the dead of night.

"Alright then." NingNing picked up her chopsticks again and thought for a moment.

"China is... pretty good now.

Economic development is fast, urban construction is also very good.

Harbin has built many new roads in the past few years, and the subway has opened.

The living standard of the common people is much better than before, at least that's how it is where my family is."

Jiang Zhiyu listened, nodded, picked up a piece of spicy stir-fried pork, put it in his mouth, and chewed very slowly, as if savoring something.

"What about the country's development direction?" he asked again.

NingNing glanced at him. "Why are you asking this?"

"Curiosity."

"You're an American-born Chinese, what are you curious about regarding China's development direction?"

"American-born Chinese are also of Chinese descent," Jiang Zhiyu said.

"Isn't it normal for people of Chinese descent to care about China?"

NingNing was rendered speechless by his rhetoric, so she had to think again.

"The development direction... is just getting better and better.

I can't really say specifically; I'm not into politics.

But I feel that, at least before I left China, everything was pretty good.

Everyone was working hard to live, and life was getting better day by day."

She spoke very simply, without using any flowery words, but that simple, heartfelt affirmation was more convincing than any grand narrative.

Jiang Zhiyu listened, the corners of his mouth curving slightly, as if he had heard an answer he wanted to hear.

From then on, the communication between the two was basically conducted in Chinese.

The first time Kim Minjeong heard Jiang Zhiyu and NingNing chatting in Chinese, she was completely stunned.

She stood at the door of the recording studio, holding two bottles of banana milk, listening to the completely unfamiliar syllables and tones coming from inside, feeling as if she had walked into a world she had never seen before.

Those sounds were completely different from Korean.

Korean syllables were open, scattered, like the sound of beads falling on a plate, while Chinese syllables were closed, restrained, carrying a strange, singing-like cadence.

She couldn't understand what they were saying, but she could tell that when Jiang Zhiyu spoke Chinese and when he spoke Korean, he was two completely different people.

When speaking Korean, Jiang Zhiyu's voice was flat, steady, and carried a polite restraint.

He would add just the right honorifics at the end of sentences, pause where he should pause, raise his intonation where he should, everything was up to standard, everything was impeccable.

But that standard made Kim Minjeong feel like he was a person wearing a mask—good-looking, but not real.

And when he spoke Chinese, the mask fell off.

His speaking speed would get faster, so fast that sometimes NingNing had to ask him to repeat it.

His tone would become rich; he would laugh, sigh, or suddenly lower his voice to say something, and then the two of them would laugh out loud together.

His gestures would become more frequent; when speaking, he would draw circles on the table with his fingers, gesture in the air, or poke at the sheet music NingNing handed him.

His whole person seemed to have been activated by something, transforming from the gentle, restrained, and always keeping a perfect sense of distance "Team Leader Jiang," into a vivid, lively person who would slap the table, roll his eyes, and say, "You sang this part way too horribly."

Kim Minjeong stood at the door, watching Jiang Zhiyu and NingNing sitting face to face, with several sheets of music spread out between them, both of them with their heads down, discussing something in that language she couldn't understand.

Jiang Zhiyu said something, NingNing shook her head and said a few words, then Jiang Zhiyu suddenly laughed, reached out and gently patted NingNing on the head, said something in Chinese, and NingNing also laughed; as she laughed, she slumped onto the table, her shoulders shaking.

Kim Minjeong didn't know why she was standing there motionless.

She was clutching two bottles of banana milk in her hands, the bottles becoming a bit warm from her body temperature.

Her gaze landed on the hand Jiang Zhiyu used to pat NingNing's head, paused for two seconds, then shifted away, landing on NingNing's back as she slumped on the table, and paused for another two seconds.

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open to enter.

"Oppa! Banana milk!" Her voice was a bit louder than usual, as if she wanted to use volume to pull those two out of a world that only they could understand.

Jiang Zhiyu looked up at her, took the banana milk, and said, "Thank you."

NingNing also straightened up from the table, took the other bottle, and said, "Thank you, Minjeong Unnie."

Kim Minjeong sat down beside her, watching Jiang Zhiyu insert the straw and take a sip, then continue discussing the previous problem with NingNing in Chinese as if nothing had happened.

She couldn't understand, but she noticed that when NingNing was speaking, Jiang Zhiyu's gaze remained fixed on NingNing's face, the level of focus exactly the same as when he was teaching her to sing.

Kim Minjeong lowered her head, unscrewed her own bottle of banana milk, and took a small sip.

Sweet.

Too sweet.

This situation lasted for about two weeks.

The number of times Jiang Zhiyu and NingNing communicated in Chinese in the recording studio increased, and the time grew longer.

Sometimes when Kim Minjeong arrived, they were still speaking in Chinese; seeing her enter, they would switch to Korean to greet her, but as they chatted, they would switch back.

Kim Minjeong sat on the side, holding the sheet music, listening to the language of which she couldn't catch a single syllable, feeling as if a small part of her heart was blocked by something; it didn't hurt, but it was stifling.

She was not jealous of NingNing.

NingNing was her friend.

She liked NingNing, liked her seriousness, her effort, and that confidence of "I am the main vocalist."

She didn't want to create any unpleasantness between NingNing and Jiang Zhiyu.

But she was not indifferent either.

What she cared about was that when Jiang Zhiyu spoke Chinese, she felt like someone standing outside a glass window.

She could see them laughing, but she didn't know what they were laughing at.

She could see them discussing something seriously, but didn't know what they were discussing.

She could communicate with Jiang Zhiyu in Korean, but that communication was transparent, without temperature, like a thin layer of ice, with the truly flowing water beneath it.

She didn't want to stand outside the glass window.

That day was Thursday, 4:30 PM.

Kim Minjeong arrived half an hour earlier than the scheduled time.

She pushed open the door of the recording studio and found that Jiang Zhiyu was already there, sitting alone at the table, with a pen in his hand, writing something on the sheet music.

Hearing the door sound, he looked up, then lowered his head to continue writing.

"Oppa, hasn't Ningning come yet?" Kim Minjeong walked over and sat down beside him.

"She has an extra vocal lesson today, she won't be here until five-thirty," Jiang Zhiyu said without lifting his head. "You start warming up first, I'll finish editing this arrangement."

Kim Minjeong didn't go to warm up.

She sat in the chair, hands on her knees, watching Jiang Zhiyu's profile. His pen moved quickly across the paper, writing and stopping; occasionally, he would frown and cross out a note to rewrite it, and sometimes he would lean back against the chair, closing his eyes to think for a moment before lowering his head to continue writing. His eyelashes cast a small shadow under his eyes, his lips were slightly pursed, and his entire face looked exceptionally quiet in the dim, warm light of the recording studio.

Kim Minjeong watched him for a while, then reached out and gently tugged on his sleeve.

Jiang Zhiyu stopped his pen and turned to look at her. "What's wrong?"

Kim Minjeong pursed her lips, as if organizing her words, or perhaps gathering courage.

"Oppa."

"Hmm."

"When you chat with Ningning in the future..." She paused for a moment. "Can you use Korean?"

The recording studio was quiet for a moment.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her without speaking. His expression didn't change, but the light in his eyes shifted slightly, as if he were reading the emotions on her face that she hadn't even clearly articulated herself.

Kim Minjeong felt a bit flustered under his gaze and quickly added, "It's not that I'm saying you can't speak Chinese... it's just... I want to know what you're talking about too. Every time you laugh so happily, I don't understand, and sitting beside you makes me feel like a fool..."

Her voice grew quieter as she spoke, the last few words almost mumbled in her mouth.

Jiang Zhiyu still didn't speak.

He looked at Kim Minjeong's slightly puffed-out cheeks, her slightly pouting lips, and those eyes that were trying hard to pretend "I'm just saying it casually" but clearly had "I care a lot" written in their depths, and suddenly found it both amusing and heart-softening.

This girl. She wouldn't say directly, "I feel left out," because she felt she didn't have the right to feel left out. She wouldn't say, "Speak some Chinese with me too," because she knew Jiang Zhiyu and NingNing spoke Chinese for convenience, not to intentionally exclude her. She just sat silently beside them when they were laughing the most, twisting the cap of her banana milk open and closed, closed and open.

She just, at the moment he finally turned to look at her, gently pulled his sleeve and said, "Can you use Korean?"

Jiang Zhiyu put down his pen, turned around, and faced her.

He raised his hand.

His fingers were slender and strong, with thin calluses on the pads—not from practicing the piano, but from holding a medicine mortar and a pen. His fingers combed through Kim Minjeong's black hair, landed on the top of her head, and then gently, slowly rubbed it.

Kim Minjeong's body stiffened for a moment.

Then his fingers began to move. Not a random, messy rub, but with direction and purpose, as if executing some program she didn't know. His fingertips started from the top of her head, slowly moving backward along the curve of her skull, slightly increasing the pressure as he passed the Baihui acupoint, performing a tiny, clockwise massage. There was a small depression in that spot, and his fingertip fit perfectly—not too deep, not too shallow—the pressure seeming precisely calculated, exactly at the golden ratio between "letting someone feel it" and "making someone feel comfortable."

Kim Minjeong's breathing slowed down unconsciously.

His fingers continued to move backward, passing the Du Meridian on the crown, pausing for a moment on the Bladder Meridian on both sides, performing that same tiny, rotating massage. The pressure didn't come from his fingers themselves, but from his wrist, his arm, from his stable, calm body as he sat there, like the root system of a great tree transmitting strength to every leaf.

Kim Minjeong's eyes went unfocused.

She didn't know why she had this reaction. It wasn't that she hadn't been touched on the head before; her mother had done it when she was a child, and friends had patted her jokingly, but never—never had she felt this feeling. It was like a warm, invisible mass seeping out from Jiang Zhiyu's fingertips, passing through her hair and scalp, spreading down along her skull, past her cervical spine, past her shoulders, all the way down her spine, and finally settling into every corner of her body. In that instant, her muscles collectively gave up resistance, like disarmed soldiers laying down their weapons, sagging into softness.

Her shoulders sank, her neck was no longer stiff, and even the tension in her jaw disappeared; her mouth opened slightly of its own accord, and her breathing became deep and long. Her eyelids became heavy, so heavy she didn't want to open them, so she closed them, her eyelids fluttering a few times before becoming still.

She heard a sound.

It didn't come from outside, but from within her own body. A low, continuous sound from deep in her throat, like the sound only a cat would make when it's being scratched just right.

Purr.

Kim Minjeong thought on the edge of fading consciousness: Why did I make a cat sound?

But that thought only existed for a fraction of a second before being washed away by the next wave of comfort surging from the top of her head. Jiang Zhiyu's fingers changed position again, this time to the area above her temples; his thumbs pressed on the Shuai Gu acupoint above the tips of her ears, while his other four fingers spread naturally, resting on the top of her head, pressing rhythmically with a steady, tidal rhythm. Each press was like dropping a small, warm pebble into her brain, stirring up ripples that spread outward; wherever those ripples passed, all the tension, all the anxiety, all the nameless, heavy things pressing on her chest were dissolved bit by bit.

She didn't know when she had tilted her head, nor when she had leaned the weight of her body against Jiang Zhiyu's arm. She only knew that the sound continued, purr, purr, like a small animal sleeping beside a winter fireplace, dreaming of sunshine and grass, of snacks that never ran out and songs that never ended.

Jiang Zhiyu's hand paused for a moment.

He looked at Kim Minjeong's head resting on his arm, watched her half-closed, almost completely shut eyes, watched her slightly parted lips and that incredible sound coming from deep in her throat, and the corners of his mouth slowly, uncontrollably curled up.

He wasn't laughing at her.

He just thought—this little pig is really easy to coax.

He had originally intended to rub for a moment and then stop, but the feeling was too good. Kim Minjeong's hair was much softer than he had imagined; it wasn't the kind of smoothness cultivated by careful maintenance with hair oil and masks, but a natural, unadorned softness, like the down of a small animal. When his fingers slid in, he could feel the texture of every strand of hair slipping through his fingers—a texture that reminded him of a cat he had raised at Medicine King Valley when he was a child—that cat had the same fur quality, fine and soft, feeling like touching a cloud.

Furthermore, when his fingers touched the acupoints on Kim Minjeong's head, it was a completely automatic triggered response. The inheritance of Medicine King Valley wasn't just internal energy cultivation methods and alchemy; it also included a complete, systematic study of meridians and massage techniques. Since he was a child, his master had made him memorize acupoints by pressing on his head; the location and function of every meridian and every acupoint on the head had long been carved into his fingers, becoming muscle memory. When his hand touched someone's head, he didn't need to think with his brain; his fingers knew where to press, how deep to press, and how long to press.

So when he first rubbed Kim Minjeong's hair, his fingers seemed to have been unsealed, automatically beginning that standard "stress relief and fatigue alleviation" head massage routine. He hadn't thought about it that much at all, and only realized what he had done after he had finished.

But the problem now was—Kim Minjeong was leaning on his arm, making a cat-like sound, and had no intention of getting up.

Jiang Zhiyu looked down at the top of her head, was silent for two seconds, and then gently tugged at his arm.

Kim Minjeong let out a dissatisfied, mumbled hum, her head following his arm for a short distance before leaning back, even heavier.

Jiang Zhiyu was silent for another two seconds.

"Kim Minjeong." He called her.

No response.

"Kim Minjeong, wake up."

"...Mm."

"Do you still want to have your lesson or not?"

Kim Minjeong's eyelashes fluttered, as if slowly floating up from the bottom of very deep water. Her eyelids struggled a few times and finally opened a slit, revealing the pair of wet, sleepy eyes underneath. She looked at Jiang Zhiyu for about two seconds, then, as if suddenly realizing something, she sprang away from Jiang Zhiyu's arm and sat up straight.

Her face turned bright red in an instant, burning from the base of her neck all the way to the tips of her ears, and even her forehead was glowing with a faint pink.

"I, I just now..." She stammered, fingers clutching the sleeves of her hoodie, gripping so hard her knuckles turned white. "Did I just make a really weird sound..."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her.

"No," he said.

Kim Minjeong breathed a sigh of relief.

"It was just like a cat purring," Jiang Zhiyu added.

Kim Minjeong's sigh got stuck halfway.

She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but ultimately said nothing. She just buried her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling slightly, the color of her ear tips turning from pink to deep red, like two ripe cherries.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the top of her head, was silent for a moment, then reached out and rubbed it again.

This time it was a light, short rub, without any massage technique.

Just a rub.

Kim Minjeong's ears peeked out from the gaps between her fingers; in the dim, warm light of the recording studio, they were red as if they were dripping blood.

The door to the recording studio was pushed open at this moment.

NingNing stood at the door, holding a cup of coffee, her scarf not yet removed, her face carrying the chill of having just come in from outside. She glanced at Jiang Zhiyu, glanced at Kim Minjeong who had her face buried in her palms, and glanced at Jiang Zhiyu's hand still hovering over Kim Minjeong's head, not yet withdrawn.

"Am I interrupting?" she asked in Chinese.

"Yes," Jiang Zhiyu replied in Chinese, while withdrawing his hand.

Kim Minjeong revealed one eye from between her fingers, looking at NingNing, then at Jiang Zhiyu, her voice muffled as it came from behind her palms: "Are you talking bad about me in Chinese?"

"No," Jiang Zhiyu said. "I was telling her that your high notes have improved a lot today."

Kim Minjeong took her hands off her face and looked at him with an expression that said, "Do you really think I'd believe that?"

Jiang Zhiyu flipped open the sheet music without changing his expression. "Come on, let's start the lesson. Kim Minjeong, you go first."

Kim Minjeong took a deep breath, stood up from the chair, and walked to the open space in the middle of the recording studio. Her ear tips were still red, but the red on her face had faded for the most part, leaving only a faint pink on her cheeks, as if flushed by the heating. After she stood still, she turned back to look at Jiang Zhiyu.

Jiang Zhiyu was looking down at the sheet music, his pen writing something on the paper.

The corners of his mouth still held a small, not-quite-faded arc.

— —

(I love Minjeong's clingy messages the most...)

(22:11) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Oppa! I've taken a shower and snuggled into my blankets, smelling nice~ Today Oppa praised me for being "sweeter than a bungeoppang," and I've been secretly happy all night! (Buries face in pillow and wiggles around)]

(22:14) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Oppa promised to let me hold his sleeve next time... I'm starting to practice the gesture now! I have to hold it lightly, just a little bit, can't use too much force... Is this right? (Sends a photo of fingers carefully pinching the air)]

(22:17) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Today in the waiting room, I heard staff discussing "TG Entertainment's President Jiang is so young and amazing," I almost jumped up and said "That's my Oppa!"... Glad I held it in! Am I very sensible? Hurry up and praise me! (Eyes sparkling)]

(22:20) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Oppa said my perfume smells like the first snow... Actually, I chose it on purpose, because Oppa's name has "Winter" in it~ (Whispers) This secret is just for Oppa alone. ♡]

(22:23) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Ah! Almost forgot to report! Today I saw Seulgi Unnie and Irene Unnie talking quietly in the hallway, their expressions were a bit serious... But I was too far away to hear the content clearly. Agent Winter continuing observation! ✧ ( ≖ ◡ ≖ ✿ )]

(22:26) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [So sleepy... but I don't want to sleep. Oppa, will you tell me a bedtime story? Even just one sentence is fine! (Sends a GIF of a puppy rubbing its eyes but struggling to stay awake)]