Chapter Thirteen: Gibberish

In the quiet bedroom, Liao Yuan awoke from a deep sleep. He stared at the ceiling, blinking several times to make sure his heart was still beating, then sat up and gently rubbed the corners of his eyes.

Two consecutive sessions of meditation had sapped too many brain cells; even now, his head still throbbed with a faint pressure. If he could, he would gladly sleep forever.

Sunlight filtered in through the half-drawn curtains, mottling the room. Liao Yuan glanced at the time—it was already noon.

A faint hunger gnawed at his stomach. He got up, pulled the curtains wide, and performed the ninth set of radio calisthenics in the sunlight.

After a quick wash, he rummaged through the fridge for ingredients he’d bought yesterday and cooked himself a simple breakfast.

Though the crisis at work was resolved, a lingering sense of urgency remained in his heart.

As he chewed on his egg fried rice, he picked up his phone and browsed the Internet for side jobs that could earn him a little extra money.

He took stock of his skills as well.

After all, he had spent more than ten years in the entertainment industry—writing songs and composing music were his strong suits. Perhaps he could provide creative scripts for film and television companies, or even serialize a novel online?

The thought of writing a novel made his head throb dully, and he immediately dismissed the idea.

He resolved that, apart from “Ghost Blows Out the Light,” he would never write another novel. The toll it took on his mind was simply too great.

Given his current lack of funds, songwriting seemed to be his only viable option.

But with the lessons of his previous life still fresh, and knowing how the entertainment world scrutinized everything under a magnifying glass, he was reluctant to reenter that circle.

Life was too beautiful to court disaster.

So, what kind of work could make use of his talents without drawing too much attention?

After much deliberation, he realized that a behind-the-scenes job like a radio host might suit him best.

But he was clearly unwilling to be tied down to the same work environment for too long…

He was conflicted.

Sitting at the dining table, he chewed his rice slowly, pondering the course his life should take.

It was then that he noticed an app on his phone called “Jili Gulu.”

“An otherworldly version of Bilibili?”

Liao Yuan was surprised, and information about “Jili Gulu” surfaced in his mind.

He instinctively tapped open the app.

Browsing through its various sections, a spark of inspiration flickered in his mind.

…

Jili Gulu was Asia’s leading youth culture community. Founded in 2010 and listed on the US stock market in 2015, it had been established for eleven years and was affectionately known to fans as “J-Station.”

According to the “Mobile Internet 2020 Data Report,” Jili Gulu ranked first among the top ten apps favored by Asian users aged 28 and under.

Like Bilibili, J-Station boasted numerous content divisions: animation, film and television, music, dance, gaming, technology, lifestyle, meme videos, entertainment, and fashion, each with remarkable traffic.

But J-Station’s scale far surpassed the Bilibili of his previous life in every respect.

As an entertainment company dedicated to building Asia’s top cultural community, J-Station’s reach spanned the globe, with 430 million monthly active users and a monthly retention rate of 87% among official members. It was Asia’s largest cultural exchange community, gathering young people from every Asian country, and even attracting some from Europe and America.

With such a massive user base, J-Station had become a haven for original creators.

Anyone who uploaded videos or audio—known as “UP Masters”—could receive likes and tips from viewers.

Certain videos and audio required payment in virtual currency or a membership to access, creating a chain of profit.

Of course, income for each UP Master varied greatly, directly related to the quality and frequency of their posts.

Additionally, J-Station ran an online live streaming platform, where viewers could purchase live privileges, send virtual gifts, and so on. All gifts were converted into income for the UP Master based on their purchase price.

Lastly, J-Station regularly hosted contests for specific types of content within each community division. UP Masters from around the world could submit entries, and the prizes were exceptionally generous—ranging from real-world items and virtual goods to cash. Among these were rewards that caught global attention, such as a villa in Vancouver, a customized Mercedes sports car, and five million in cash.

These were the three most common ways UP Masters could profit.

There were also various J-Station events and traditional advertising placements.

After browsing the major divisions, Liao Yuan found that the meme, entertainment, gaming, and film sections had the highest traffic, mostly populated by young people around twenty years old.

High traffic meant active UP Masters and the most submissions.

Other sections—such as technology and lifestyle—were comparatively subdued, with mostly older audiences and fewer new submissions.

Considering his skill set, Liao Yuan’s attention settled on the music division.

Under music, there were sub-sections: Original Music, Covers, Instrumental Performances, Synthesized Audio, and Three-Dimensional.

He found himself quite intrigued.

That afternoon, he browsed through every sub-section of the music division, familiarizing himself with popular UP Masters, trending audio, and videos.

With each new page, the excitement in his eyes grew.

Finally, he returned to the Original Music section.

Yes, this is it!

The Original Music section boasted the most active UP Masters and audiences, filled with a wealth of original songs and instrumental pieces. Top music UP Masters could easily earn over one hundred thousand yuan a month just from tips and live performances.

Furthermore, if their works became hits, they might be bought by cultural or entertainment companies for use in film and television or to be released by their contracted artists.

Although many UP Masters’ original works had reached a high standard, in Liao Yuan’s eyes, compared to true world-class pieces, these were still somewhat lacking.

There might be a few works that caught his discerning eye, but with his own sea of masterpieces, who could possibly rival him?

Becoming the king of the music division’s UP Masters would be a walk in the park.

He couldn’t help but laugh at himself—his inexplicable confidence was something he just couldn’t shake.

Now that he had made up his mind, and being a man of action, Liao Yuan immediately began composing.

He was determined to focus solely on composition.

He had noticed that many instrumental UP Masters, when recording, showed only their hands playing.

Even so, fans flocked to support them, never caring whether the person behind the music was a burly man or a recluse.

Liao Yuan appreciated this approach—no face, no voice required.

It was a section tailor-made for him, perfectly in line with his wishes.