Chapter 59: The Street Vendor

Zhang Qiyang had no idea that Li Xuan’s mother was a fishmonger in a seaside village market.

The original host only knew that Li Xuan came from the Penghu Islands, a girl from a fishing village, whose real name was Li Xiuhua.

Fortunately, the original host had only exposed Li Xuan’s real name and not her background.

In fact, the original host didn’t just dislike street vendors; he disliked everyone.

He even disliked his own father, believing him to be a bloodsucking capitalist.

He disliked himself as well, resenting his own “unfortunate fate.”

Ever since his mother’s death, the original host found everything in the world revolting.

It wasn’t until Zhang Qiyang arrived that he realized it was he himself who continually disgusted himself, even in the way he chose to die.

Now with a changed mindset, Zhang Qiyang certainly didn’t despise street vendors anymore.

Back in his school days, to earn some pocket money, he had set up a stall on an overpass selling socks. He had been a street vendor himself.

So when Qin Xueyang tried to push him to the moral low ground, Zhang Qiyang took a sip of cola and smiled at her, saying, “Can you stop slandering me all the time? What do you mean I hate street vendors? I hate everyone, all right? Including my own father, whom I can’t stand. And you so-called glamorous artists—I despise you even more. I think you’re all just a bunch of hypocritical fakes. Don’t take offense, Li Xuan, I’m not singling you out. I used to be misanthropic and disillusioned, the whole world seemed revolting to me. I joined the entertainment industry just to nauseate all of you.”

Li Xuan and Chen Ke were speechless. They suddenly realized that this young master before them was rather twisted!

Yet they could somehow understand Zhang Qiyang’s feelings.

Though they didn’t know what kind of significance Zhang Qiyang’s mother had for him, they believed her death must have dealt a devastating blow to this young man.

“But things are different now. I’ve gotten over it, and I don’t hate anyone anymore. This change is reflected in my creative work—it’s led me to develop a new musical style I never tried before.”

Li Xuan asked with curiosity, “What new style?”

Qin Xueyang chimed in, “The kind of new style in ‘Fresh Crap’? Cursing people with explosive rhythms and melodies?”

Zhang Qiyang shot her a disdainful look. “I must have owed you a lot of money in my previous life.”

Chen Ke, who was also interested in Zhang Qiyang’s creative process, pressed further, “Don’t let this brat keep interrupting you, Young Master Yang. What’s this new style you’ve developed?”

Feigning profundity, Zhang Qiyang replied, “Now, I try to write works in the style of mass pop realism.”

Li Xuan knew what pop meant, but “mass pop realism” was new to her. She pondered, “Is it a kind of hyper-realistic, satirical, and rebellious style?”

“Realistic, but not satirical. I want to write songs that don’t mock, sneer at, or rebel against reality, but simply observe the world from the perspective of an ordinary person. Ideally, such a song will make us suddenly aware of things that are always present yet often overlooked.”

Qin Xueyang was confused. “Could you speak plain language?”

“Maybe it’s easier if I sing you a song in this style,” Zhang Qiyang said. He pointed to the guitar case by the sofa. “Mind if I borrow that guitar?”

Li Xuan replied expectantly, “Go ahead, use it.”

Zhang Qiyang went over and took out the guitar.

It was a high-end acoustic guitar. A light tap on the body produced a deep, resonant feedback that immediately revealed its quality.

“Ha, using such a good guitar to sing a mass pop realism song feels like a waste. For this kind of song, you should use a battered guitar from the streets, with dust in your hair, sunburnt simplicity and weariness on your face, and a gaze full of genuine joy and keen observation of life.”

The three women were all baffled by his remarks.

Qin Xueyang wiped the sauce from her mouth and urged, “Enough with the nonsense, just sing.”

“Since we’re talking about street vendors, I’ll sing a song about them. I wrote it recently, haven’t given it a name yet. Let’s just call it ‘Wandering the Streets with Vendors.’”

Qin Xueyang snorted, “What a mouthful.”

“The melody is very realistic, brace yourselves,” Zhang Qiyang warned. Without any further ado, he strummed a chord and began to sing.

He sang “Wandering the Streets with Vendors,” a song by the folk musician Bear Homework from another world:

“…We don’t sing about the ideals of life, just count cash by the dusty roadside, stuff those dusty bills into our pockets, and ride our e-bikes breezing down the street…”

“…Up at three in the morning, hurrying to the wholesale market, lighting a cigarette in the cold mist…”

“…The scenery, the passers-by, the traffic by the roadside—every day it’s the same, life seems to stand still…”

The more Qin Xueyang and Chen Ke listened, the stranger the song seemed. What kind of lyrics were these? So ordinary! It couldn’t even be compared to “Spring Breeze Ten Miles.” Chen Ke, who had always suspected Zhang Qiyang had a creative team behind him, was now sure this song was his own work.

As Zhang Qiyang continued, the song became even more realistic:

“…The oil pan smokes in the morning, buyers chat quietly with me, today’s tomatoes are so fresh, today’s cherries are so sweet…”

“…The newspaper always talks about stocks, wars, and insurance, but all I really want is to see yesterday’s riddle answer…”

“…That nagging old woman never showed up again, but a young girl opened a new tofu shop across the street…”

“…You chase your complicated success and fame, while we trade our simple years and lives…”

Though the song had a point at the end, on the whole, both Qin Xueyang and Chen Ke found it flat and odd.

No wonder they had such a reaction. This song needed a chorus—a crowd singing together to capture its full feeling and power; ideally, all the market vendors joining in, which would be truly moving. Zhang Qiyang, with just his voice and a guitar, struggled to bring out the essence of mass pop realism.

Yet Li Xuan was deeply touched.

She had grown up in a fishing village, spending half her childhood in the market, her closest acquaintances being the vendors there.

Many scenes Zhang Qiyang sang about weren’t exactly her childhood market, but the authentic, simple atmosphere resonated with her deeply.

Hearing such a hyper-realistic song, Li Xuan was suddenly nostalgic for her carefree childhood, thinking of those shrewd or rough but always friendly vendors of her youth.

The last line of Zhang Qiyang’s song sparked a new thought in her.

She had come to the big city to chase complicated success and fame, while those vendors continued to trade their simple lives and time.

Zhang Qiyang didn’t ask in his song whose life was happier—just as in the opening line, he did not sing about life’s ideals.

But Li Xuan found herself pondering that very question.

While Chen Ke and Qin Xueyang were still bewildered, Li Xuan fully grasped the subtlety of Zhang Qiyang’s mass pop realism style.

Her bright eyes turned toward Zhang Qiyang, filled with gentleness, admiration, and an unusual curiosity.

This feeling wasn’t romantic, but rather a keen intrigue—how could a privileged young master, born to wealth and unfamiliar with the hardships of daily life, write such an unvarnished, realistic song?

He truly was a marvel.

After this song, Li Xuan’s impression of Zhang Qiyang changed dramatically.

That night, lying in bed, she tossed and turned—not thinking about how Zhang Qiyang had saved her, but about the song of the street vendors he sang.

That song moved her more than any love ballad ever could. The tune and his haunting voice lingered in her mind, almost driving her mad with sleeplessness. It was only in the deep hours of the night that she finally drifted off, and the next morning she woke up noticeably less refreshed than usual.

During the final rehearsal on Saturday afternoon, Li Xuan’s voice even cracked—a first for her. It was an ill omen.

Luckily, this week’s episode was a special Cantonese session dedicated to Hong Kong’s King of Song, Chau Tak-lin, with an all-Cantonese audience. For other singers, winning the weekly title would be nearly impossible, and Li Xuan herself had no particular hopes for the crown.

Apart from Zhang Qiyang, it seemed no one else was even aiming for this week’s championship.

Everyone saw through the production team’s arrangements: a Cantonese special, Cantonese judges, no audience text voting—any fool could predict that Chau Tak-lin would be the undisputed winner.

Only Zhang Qiyang continued to strive with wild ambition.