Chapter Five: That’s the Flavor!

Yunhai Media, Vocal Department.

In terms of both floor area and lavish décor, it far surpassed the Composition Department. The treatment between the two departments was worlds apart—one high as the heavens, the other as low as the earth.

Within the company, any singer ranked third tier or above enjoyed their own private office and lounge, as well as a dedicated team of agents and assistants serving them. Even rookie singers had their own training rooms.

In the corridor, a man in his thirties was sweeping the floor with a broom. Someone greeted him, “Hey, Mingxing, still sweeping? You should leave this job to the cleaning lady.”

Hao Mingxing smiled, his voice rough and gravelly. “I’ve got nothing else to do—it helps pass the time.”

“Alright, you keep sweeping. I’m off to record.”

“Take care,” Hao Mingxing replied.

Watching the other step into the recording booth, Hao Mingxing’s gaze grew distant for a moment. But soon he lowered his head and resumed his diligent sweeping.

Before others, Hao Mingxing was always cheerful and smiling. He couldn’t sing anymore. No one wrote songs for him. So he worked odd jobs around the company—serving tea, carrying files, sweeping floors, taking out trash, ordering food, and so on.

When he first learned his voice was ruined, it felt as though the sky had collapsed. But over time, life wore down all his resistance, leaving him unruffled.

After a while, as he was about to leave, the receptionist Xiaoqing walked over and called out, “Hao Mingxing, Director Liu from the Composition Department just phoned. Someone wrote a song especially for you. He wants you to come over and take a look.”

Hao Mingxing thought he had misheard. Pointing to himself, he asked in surprise, “Me?”

Xiaoqing nodded. “Yes.”

He was stunned. “Who wrote a song for me?”

He knew all too well that since his voice had failed, the company would no longer waste resources on him. Hearing someone had written a song just for him was beyond unexpected.

Xiaoqing shook her head. “I don’t know. Director Liu didn’t say.”

Thanks to Yuan Xiong’s instructions, Wang Mo’s entry into the Composition Department was handled discreetly; except for staff in the department, no one else knew about it. After all, this wasn’t something to be proud of, and it concerned Wang Mo’s dignity.

Hearing Xiaoqing’s words, Hao Mingxing was dazed for a moment, then nodded, “Alright, I understand.”

He stood silently for a while, placed the broom in a corner, straightened his clothes, and headed toward the Composition Department.

...

Over ten minutes later.

In the conference room of the Composition Department, Hao Mingxing stared at Wang Mo across the table, utterly bewildered.

Or perhaps, at this moment, his mind was reeling.

Wang Mo?

He had written a song for him?

It was even more absurd than his ruined voice.

He had been shocked for nothing. Happy for nothing.

Just now, he really thought someone in the Composition Department had written him a song.

Liu Zhengwen coughed, sounding slightly awkward. “Hao Mingxing, Wang Mo is now a composer. He’s written a song for you to sing. What do you think? Here’s the score, you can look it over before deciding.”

Hao Mingxing took the sheet music, but didn’t look at it. Instead, he said, “I have no objections.”

He felt he understood Wang Mo’s intentions.

Just as Liu Zhengwen thought: two broken men, seeking warmth together.

“Good!” Liu Zhengwen clapped his hands. “Wang Mo, since Hao Mingxing has agreed to sing your song, I’ll leave the rest to you two. Work it out between yourselves.”

He was busy and didn’t have time to waste on them.

After Liu Zhengwen left, Wang Mo finally examined Hao Mingxing closely.

Around thirty, yet his face was etched with hardship; lines on his brow seemed unable to smooth out; his calm eyes held countless stories; his muscular arms were strong and sinewy; his bronze skin contrasted sharply with Wang Mo’s fair complexion.

Hao Mingxing approached with a smile. “Wang Mo, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Cough, that’s all in the past.” Wang Mo shrugged, pointing at the sheet music. “Brother Xing, shall we try the vocals first?”

“Alright.”

Hao Mingxing agreed, humility never leaving his face, cooperating throughout.

But when he saw the song title on the sheet, a faint, unnoticed bitter smile curved his lips. “The song’s called ‘It Doesn’t Matter’? How fitting—it really doesn’t matter…”

Soon, they moved to the sound booth Wang Mo had reserved.

“Do you need to warm up?” Wang Mo asked.

He knew singers usually warmed up before singing, lest they damage their voices.

“No need.” Hao Mingxing shook his head, but explained, “Actually, I warm up every morning, but it doesn’t make a difference anymore.”

Wang Mo was surprised. “You’re still training every day?”

Hao Mingxing smiled wryly. “Habit. Do I seem foolish to you?”

Foolish?

Wang Mo shook his head. “If your heart is there, your dream is there.”

If your heart is there, your dream is there?

Hao Mingxing was dazed for a moment.

Wang Mo raised the USB stick in his hand. “I have the arrangement ready. Shall I play it?”

Hao Mingxing came back to himself and shook his head. “Let me get familiar with the lyrics and melody first. I’ll sing them a few times a cappella to find the right feeling. Then we can add the accompaniment.”

“Alright,” Wang Mo nodded.

He then sat aside and watched, his heart anxious and excited. Though he was fairly sure Hao Mingxing’s voice suited “It Doesn’t Matter,” until he actually heard him sing, Wang Mo had no certainty.

Speaking and singing were entirely different. How pleasant one’s speech sounded had nothing to do with singing ability.

Minutes ticked by.

There was no denying Hao Mingxing’s solid fundamentals.

After only half an hour, he looked up. “I’m ready.”

“Good,” Wang Mo gestured for him to try singing.

Gulp.

Cough.

Hao Mingxing took a small sip of water, cleared his throat, and began to sing a cappella: “It doesn’t matter, who will fall in love with whom…”

Bang!

The next second, Wang Mo slapped the table so hard it nearly made him cry out in pain.

Startled, Hao Mingxing asked, “Wang Mo, what’s wrong?”

“N-nothing. Keep singing,” Wang Mo replied, ignoring his reddened hand, his heart pounding ferociously, eyes blazing as he watched Hao Mingxing.

This was it!

Though Hao Mingxing had sung only a line, Wang Mo’s mood soared—this was exactly the feeling he wanted!

He even detected traces of the original singer’s style in Hao Mingxing’s delivery.

With the recording studio’s equipment and some necessary post-production tuning, Wang Mo was certain the final result would not disappoint him.

After several runs, Hao Mingxing had gradually found his groove, his performance improving with each try.

Wang Mo’s smile grew brighter and brighter.

“That’s enough.”

About an hour later, Wang Mo stopped Hao Mingxing, who was still singing over and over.

Hao Mingxing hurried over to Wang Mo, rubbing his hands together, face tense and awkward. “Uh… Wang Mo, did my singing frighten you?”

He knew his singing was unpleasant—so unpleasant he wanted to slap himself.

Though today, singing “It Doesn’t Matter,” he felt it was strangely different from before—smooth, without the dryness and strain he used to have. But he thought it was just his imagination.

“Not at all.”

Wang Mo looked at the anxious caution on Hao Mingxing’s face, knowing whatever he said now wouldn’t be believed.

So he simply said, “Brother Xing, go home and practice some more. Tomorrow we’ll record officially.”

Record?

Hao Mingxing shook his head. “Did the company approve?”

Wang Mo frowned. “Why wouldn’t they?”

Hao Mingxing answered awkwardly, “It’s a waste of resources.”

Recording a song didn’t come cheap.

Wang Mo laughed. “Don’t worry. If I say we can record, we can record!”

“…”

Hao Mingxing took a deep breath. “Wang Mo, if you don’t see me as useless, then I’ll give it my all. Tomorrow, I’ll do my best at the recording.”

Why suddenly call me Brother Mo?

You’re ten years older than me!

Wang Mo protested, “Brother Xing, just call me by my name. Calling me ‘Brother’ makes me sound old.”

“Alright, Brother Mo.”

“Call me Wang Mo.”

“Understood, Brother Mo.”

“…”

When they left the sound booth, they found the corridor outside abuzz with excitement.

The moment Wang Mo and Hao Mingxing appeared, all chatter ceased. The corridor was filled with staff from both the Composition and Vocal Departments, their gazes toward the pair full of curiosity and intrigue.

News of Wang Mo testing a song with Hao Mingxing had sent a shockwave through both departments.

A washed-up idol.

A singer with a ruined voice.

The two “cripples” testing a song—what a spectacle!

“Heh!” Wang Mo ignored it all, calmly walking through the crowd.

Behind him, Hao Mingxing picked up his broom again, the floor he’d just swept was dirty once more.

A few people called out:

“Old Hao, sweep over here.”

“There’s trash here, too.”

Hao Mingxing bent over and answered, “Alright, I’m coming.”