Chapter Thirty-Four: Liao Yuemin

Liao Yuan naturally noticed Xi Yun’s frequent glances, but he paid her no mind, not even deigning to spare her a look. In his previous life, he had witnessed countless breathtaking beauties; though Xi Yun was certainly among the most outstanding, Liao Yuan felt not the slightest desire to speak with her face to face. Whatever her reasons for leaving him back then, in Liao Yuan’s eyes, nothing could make up for her fault.

A prodigious youth with a brilliant future, now reduced to a struggling streamer—Xi Yun’s presence was the primary cause behind it all.

Many employees from various departments, who had stealthily followed the scent of gossip, were left disappointed by this scene. After stating the terms for his agreement to the broadcast, Liao Yuan turned away with composure, returning to the studio to continue monitoring the recorded audio and reviewing listener feedback.

Jiang Heshun seemed not at all averse to Liao Yuan’s conditions. Exchanging knowledge for wealth was entirely reasonable; his only wish at the moment was to get “Ghost Blows Out the Light” back on air in the midnight slot of Channel Two as soon as possible. The sooner, the better—every day of delay was a tremendous loss.

He turned to Director Zheng. “What do you think?”

Director Zheng pondered for a moment, evidently tempted but still hesitant. “It’s already late. Let’s discuss this in the morning meeting.”

And so, the crowd ebbed away as swiftly as they had gathered.

After more than an hour of pre-recorded broadcasting, “Late Night Ghost Blows Out the Light” ended with a total of 1.57 million on-demand plays. Although this was a quarter less than yesterday’s peak of two million, Liao Yuan was still revered by the entire department. After all, with a reward of one thousand yuan for every one hundred thousand plays, today’s bonus alone amounted to fifteen thousand yuan—a sum envied even by department heads.

By the time work ended, it was already late at night.

Back home, Liao Yuan sorted through the events and thoughts of the past two days before opening his laptop, logging into “The Hub,” and beginning the process of registering a personal account.

When prompted to choose a nickname, he didn’t overthink it. Offhand, he entered “Brother Yuan,” only to be told it was already taken. He tried “Gone with Yuan” and “A House of My Own,” but each time, the system informed him the name was registered.

Liao Yuan fell into a contemplative silence. For some reason, he felt as if he were being toyed with.

He quickly switched to English nicknames, trying “Lemon,” “Poison,” “Alone,” and the like, but again—already registered.

Amused and exasperated, he randomly typed a string of gibberish—“Asdfghj.” “Congratulations, your registration is successful!”

Liao Yuan: “…”

Damn it… Can I take it back?

He hurriedly checked, only to discover that one phone number could register only a single account.

Liao Yuan found himself pondering once more.

But soon he pulled himself together and clicked into the personal center, ready to review account details and learn about the process of becoming an uploader.

But all he saw was a gray screen.

At that moment, a pop-up appeared: “Dear Gibberish Provisional Member, would you like to become a full member? Full members can submit works and post comments… Interested or not?”

Liao Yuan felt his intelligence was being insulted.

Taking a deep breath to quell his irritation, he clicked “Interested.”

“In that case, you must answer 100 questions in 60 minutes, and only if you score above 60 can you become a full member… Agree or Decline?”

Agree.

The next moment, a dense barrage of questions filled the screen—one hundred questions spanning knowledge from ancient times to the present, from China and around the world, making Liao Yuan furrow his brows.

Half an hour later, he completed the test with a perfect score and finally became a full member.

“This inhuman questionnaire design is actually so popular?” Liao Yuan mused, astonished to find his membership number ranked far beyond 170 million.

He clicked into the personal center again. At last, the user interface transformed from gray to color, resembling those of ordinary websites. But at the bottom were two options: “Creator Center” and “Live Center.” The former was the essential page for uploaders; the latter, the headquarters for streamers of games and outdoor content.

Liao Yuan entered the Creator Center, where the huge words “Submit Work” caught his eye. After clicking, he saw four options: video submission, column submission, audio submission, and album submission.

Each of these corresponded to a different type of uploader.

Liao Yuan’s target was “video submission”—the most popular category on J Station. Whether in average clicks, comment volume, or uploader income, it outshone the other three by far.

He watched for a while, familiarized himself with the basics, then closed the page and went to bed.

Everything was ready—except for a piano.

Early the next morning, Liao Yuan received a call from Zhang Chao, the manager of the Steinway piano store. Zhang Yichi was a renowned director in the country, his time extremely valuable. With Zhang Chao’s urging, Liao Yuan didn’t dare delay. After taking leave from Chen Mu’en and agreeing on a meeting place, he set off directly.

Inside a tea house, Zhang Yichi sipped his morning tea while leafing through a file. After a moment, he chuckled. “So you’re the son of Liao Yuemin—no wonder, no wonder.”

“Liao Yuemin?” Zhang Chao, seated opposite, looked puzzled. “That name rings a bell. How is he related to Liao Yuan?”

“Father and son.” Zhang Yichi put the file away and sighed. “Over twenty years ago, Liao Yuemin burst onto the scene, hailed as a musical prodigy. I’d just started my own career then and wasn’t qualified to speak to him face-to-face. At every major film festival, as long as Liao Yuemin was nominated for Best Film Score, the award was all but his.”

“He was a singer?” Zhang Chao asked in surprise.

Zhang Yichi shook his head. “No, he was a songwriter and composer. Not only did singers vie to perform his music, but he held considerable status in the global music world. Many of the film and variety show scores you know well might be his work. Back then, Liao Yuemin was the hottest property in the scene—so popular that a single song could fetch over a million, and you’d be lucky to get it even then.”

Zhang Chao exclaimed, “That explains it! Liao Yuan inherited his father’s mantle—no wonder he became a brilliant pianist at such a young age!”

Zhang Yichi nodded, but then remarked in puzzlement, “But the file says he’s currently a radio host at Donghai Broadcasting Station? If that’s true… I don’t quite get it.”

Zhang Chao was equally baffled. A young pianist with such a promising future—even working as a pianist for an opera house would be far better than being a radio host.

“Maybe he’s experiencing life?” Zhang Chao mused. “Geniuses always think in strange ways, after all.”