Chapter 4: A Deep Bow

When writing his novels, Zhang Qiyang had crafted this scene more than once: the protagonist, having crossed into another world, stands before thousands of spectators and sings a song from another reality, moving everyone to tears and winning their awe. When the performance ends, thunderous applause erupts, and the protagonist offers the faintest of bows, accepting the acclaim with nonchalance—effortlessly exuding an air of supreme cool. What a marvelous plot device!

But now, standing on the stage of another world for real, facing so many live spectators, Zhang Qiyang realized just how difficult it was to sing under such circumstances. Putting on such a display was not as easy as it sounded.

He didn’t even need to think about the millions watching him on television; the five hundred audience members before him, shouting and clapping, were enough to press an unprecedented weight upon his shoulders.

Suddenly, his mind went completely blank.

The chords of the guitar that had been echoing in his head just moments ago vanished without a trace.

He had no idea what to do.

Frozen in the center of the stage, he became entirely at a loss.

Only when the applause and cheers began to subside did Zhang Qiyang’s overwhelmed thoughts settle just a little.

Then, unexpectedly, he bowed to the live audience and the production crew just as the other singers had done before their performances.

The bow was so abrupt that it left the crowd and the show’s staff bewildered.

Was this really the same “Cannon King” who carried himself as if he were above everyone else?

He actually bowed! Had they seen that right?

Good heavens! He actually bowed!

In a quiet corner, Qin Xueyang, a plump girl surreptitiously sipping bubble tea, nearly choked on a pearl when she saw Zhang Qiyang's awkward bow.

Coughing into her hand, her bright eyes were filled with astonishment.

She couldn't make sense of what that good-for-nothing young master was thinking. Why would he bow? Did the sun rise in the west this morning?

Beside her sat another voluptuous woman—Chen Ke, the star agent from Oriental Entertainment who was forever cleaning up Zhang Qiyang’s messes. Seeing him bow so awkwardly the moment he took the stage, her heart leapt into her throat.

Chen Ke, ever perceptive, sensed that Zhang Qiyang was a different man tonight, far from his usual devil-may-care self.

What was he so nervous about?

Could it be... he was about to stir up trouble again?

Terrified, Chen Ke pressed her palms together and prayed in silence, “Buddha, Mazu, God, all the deities above, please don’t let this boy get me into trouble again.”

The viewers at home, watching Zhang Qiyang’s polite bow, were stunned. It felt so out of place.

The forum of “My Song” was instantly flooded with posts:

“Did Cannon King take the wrong medicine tonight? Why is he acting so out of character?”

“Aaah! Cannon King, what are you doing!”

“Cannon King, lift your proud head! How can you bow?”

“He’s lost his mind!”

“My eyes are deceiving me! Cannon King actually bowed!”

“Is this the calm before the storm? Is he about to go off again?”

“Tell me this isn’t real, that big fool actually bowed!”

“The way he bowed looked like he was paying respects at a funeral. Is he turning ‘My Song’ into a memorial? That’s just too much!”

“This is insane. Even that big fool can be polite?”

Backstage in the singers’ lounge, the six performers who had already finished took their seats.

As Zhang Qiyang walked to the center of the stage to begin his performance, some of them managed forced smiles, some feigned applause, others watched coldly from the sidelines.

Lin Haoran, fresh from his own performance and still buzzing with excitement, called out, “Wow!” and clapped for Zhang Qiyang.

But deep down, like the other five singers, Lin Haoran had no desire to compete alongside a reckless motormouth like Zhang Qiyang, who was as dangerous to cross as he was unpredictable.

None of the six seated singers had any prior grudges with Zhang Qiyang, but they were all worried that after tonight’s competition, his loudmouth would go wild on social media.

They just wanted to make it through the night and get Zhang Qiyang eliminated as soon as possible, before he could spoil the show for everyone.

As the season’s most formidable contender for the “My Song” crown, the 27-year-old new queen of song, Li Xuan, had no wish to compete with Zhang Qiyang either.

Though she hadn’t sung with full force that night, she was certain she could easily outclass him without even trying.

Besides, the other five singers, who had nothing to do with Zhang Qiyang, had all given it their all. Beating him should be a breeze.

In Li Xuan’s eyes, Zhang Qiyang’s appearance on “My Song” was just a formality—he’d never last.

Nor did she want him to; she’d rather not have him around to make more trouble for her.

Li Xuan was signed to Oriental Records and managed by an agency, both under the umbrella of the top-three Asian entertainment conglomerate, Oriental Entertainment Group.

That group, spanning every corner of Asian entertainment, was itself a subsidiary of the richest family’s Oriental Group—a key pillar of a vast commercial empire.

Li Xuan had been built up by Oriental Entertainment. Whatever order they gave, she had no choice but to obey. She was still establishing herself in the industry and lacked the clout to defy her backers.

Zhang Qiyang’s appearance on “My Song” was orchestrated by Oriental Entertainment, and Li Xuan had been told to cooperate fully.

She did as she was told.

But in her heart, Li Xuan truly resented Zhang Qiyang.

She found listening to his singing an ordeal.

She wished she could block her ears rather than endure the torment of his voice.

Many viewers at home, seeing Zhang Qiyang take the stage, felt the urge to do the same.

They simply couldn’t bear his infamous screeching, that deathly gothic howl.

If they weren’t hoping to see him launch into one of his notorious tirades, they’d have switched the channel long ago.

“Go, Cannon King!” someone in the audience suddenly shouted, breaking the silence that had just settled.

The crowd burst into laughter.

Zhang Qiyang looked in the direction of the voice but couldn’t spot who had called out.

Still, he was grateful for the encouragement from this little “cannon fodder”—the shout loosened the tension coiled within him.

He closed his eyes and took a few moments to compose himself.

Order gradually returned to the hall.

All the crew and musicians were in place, waiting for Zhang Qiyang to begin.

“You can start now.” Director Luo Tao’s voice came through the earpiece. Seeing Zhang Qiyang hesitate, Luo Tao had no choice but to prompt him.

Even then, Zhang Qiyang’s heart was still pounding, his body trembling uncontrollably, his lips pressed tight as if glued shut, barely able to open his mouth.

“Mmm…” Forcing out a breath, he closed his eyes and strummed the guitar in his arms.

At the sound of those familiar guitar notes, Zhang Qiyang finally relaxed a little, his body loosening.

He played a melody that delighted the audience and utterly baffled the band.

It rippled out like waves across a tranquil lake—this guitar solo was serene and beautiful, utterly unlike the arrogant, explosive image he was known for.

Many in the audience wondered if they were hearing things. Was this really the Cannon King playing?

Surprisingly lovely!

But in the orchestra pit, Music Director Chen Dahai was completely flummoxed.

Frowning, he stared at Zhang Qiyang in the center of the stage, full of displeasure and confusion.

The musicians who had rehearsed with Zhang Qiyang exchanged bewildered glances.

They had no idea what he was playing; this wasn’t the piece they’d practiced.

What on earth was he up to?