[ Bank Account, Last Four Digits: 0000, Deposit: ¥0, Balance: ¥36 ]
Ye Huanqiu stared at the text message on his phone, speechless. He wasn't exactly broke after working for several years, but his hometown village was undergoing a massive renovation. Even when he was struggling himself, he regularly sent money back home to his parents to help cover the construction costs.
Though modest—¥30,000 here, ¥50,000 there—these remittances had left him with only ¥7,000 in savings, including his severance pay.
His cramped apartment required a one-month deposit and four months' rent upfront. The monthly rent was ¥5,300, excluding utilities, water, electricity, and cleaning fees, which brought the total to around ¥6,000.
Calling it "the suburbs" was self-deprecating; it couldn't be too far from the city center. Otherwise, how would Ye Huanqiu have managed to arrive at his old job by 5:00 AM every morning?
Meanwhile, food, clothing, social security, and taxes all demanded their due. This month, he had to pay four months' worth of social security in a lump sum.
The date on his phone still showed January. If he didn't find a new job within the next three months, it would significantly hinder his future residency application.
Ye Huanqiu himself wasn't particularly attached to settling down, but after careful consideration, he decided to fulfill the dream of the original owner of his body—a man who had devoted his entire short life to achieving that goal.
[ Should I go home? ]
[ No, not yet. ]
Clutching his belongings, Ye Huanqiu sorted through the last of his things. Most had been packed the night before; these were just odds and ends. He tucked his resume, credentials, and important documents into his briefcase and tossed the rest into the nearest trash bin.
He had spent the previous evening contemplating his next steps. With the aid of Starbeam, alien technology that provided unlimited creative inspiration, he no longer needed to worry about finding ideas.
The problem was his non-compete agreement. For the next year, he couldn't work at a similar company. While he could find a regular job, Ye Huanqiu instinctively recoiled at the thought.
Why be someone else's workhorse, letting them profit from his talents? With Starbeam, he could continuously acquire new works, replicate them, and publish them himself. Becoming the Song Emperor and Lyric Father of his era seemed within reach.
That left only one path: becoming an independent musician—a solo artist with no label, no contracts, just him alone.
The idea of being his own boss, setting his own hours, and calling the shots sounded incredibly appealing.
But the crucial question remained: why would anyone choose him?
Ye Huanqiu wasn't worried about his talent. But even the finest wine can languish unnoticed in a hidden alley. What if someone offered him a pittance for his masterpiece? Before he made a name for himself, even if he had access to Jay Chou's "Nocturne" from his past life, he'd be lucky to sell it for ten thousand yuan as an independent artist.
Cultural and Creative Companies existed precisely to negotiate terms with famous singers, leverage established industry connections, and manage distribution channels.
As a mere Bronze One-Star artist, even if Ye Huanqiu poured his heart into writing a song that achieved "Rising Fame" status, he'd still only be paid Bronze-tier rates—at most, three thousand yuan.
Ye Huanqiu didn't lack talent; he needed a discerning patron—someone who could elevate his reputation and status.
This was precisely why non-compete agreements didn't include clauses against independent creation: the industry consensus was that independent musicians rarely achieved significant success.
But as the saying goes, "Every mountain road leads somewhere." Ye Huanqiu forced himself to relax. Today marked his first day of freedom from corporate shackles, and that called for a proper celebration.
Ye Huanqiu decided to visit some of the Demon Capital's attractions he'd never had time for before, grabbing a quick KFC meal when he got hungry.
Later that evening, just as he was about to head home, he passed a bar labeled "Youth Bar." These types of establishments typically catered to patrons on a budget.
The decor didn't seem too expensive, and feeling restless, Ye Huanqiu impulsively wandered inside. He found a seat at the bar and ordered a drink to start.
Inside, there was a small stage for live performances, complete with musical instruments. Anyone who felt like it could hop up and belt out a song, and as long as it wasn't ear-splittingly awful, no one would boo them off.
After work, people came here to unwind with drinks and relieve the day's stress.
Ye Huanqiu had never been to a place like this before. Partly because he'd never had the time, and partly because he'd always harbored prejudices against bars, imagining them as dens of questionable characters and loose morals.
In reality, apart from the occasional shady establishment, most bars were perfectly normal. These "youth bars," also known as "chill bars" or "clean bars," avoided the lurid, pulse-quickening displays of typical nightlife venues. They offered instead a simple atmosphere for drinking, chatting, and listening to music.
Ye Huanqiu removed his thick-rimmed glasses, revealing a handsome face beneath his disheveled hair. Even just sitting quietly and sipping his drink, he drew the attention of others at the bar.
One man, dressed in business attire and looking slightly weathered despite being in his early twenties, exuded the gravitas of someone in their thirties or forties. If not for his youthful face, one might have mistaken him for an older man who had wandered into a young person's bar.
As the saying goes, "Clothes make the man, and a saddle makes the horse." But the truth was that Ye Huanqiu's transformation stemmed from his newfound good looks. Had he remained the pathetic loser he once was, no one would have given him a second glance.
After several drinks, Ye Huanqiu began to feel the alcohol's effects. He turned and leaned against the bar, staring at the chubby man belting out a song on the stage. For a moment, the singer's figure seemed to blur into Wang Tong, that damned fat pig.
Years of oppression couldn't be forgotten overnight, especially since Ye Huanqiu hadn't yet witnessed Wang Tong's downfall. This was only the beginning.
It wasn't just Wang Tong. Everyone at Nuocheng Company, that sweatshop of a Cultural and Creative Company, deserved to be utterly crushed before Ye Huanqiu could truly find peace.
"You look like you've got something weighing on your mind, young man," the bartender said. "Why don't you go up and sing a song? Letting it out might make you feel better."
A short-haired tomboy with a nose ring and a somewhat avant-garde look greeted him warmly.
"I've never sung before..." Ye Huanqiu knew his limitations. His singing skills wouldn't even qualify as beginner-level at Starbeam. He'd be counting his blessings if he could even carry a tune.
He had already uploaded the two songs he'd acquired the previous night to Guochuangwang, a well-known platform among musicians. Most original compositions were uploaded there for certification, protecting them from plagiarism. The site recorded upload timestamps that couldn't be altered, backed by the full authority of the state.
China on Earth Star placed immense value on original works, with anti-plagiarism penalties as severe as those for financial crimes.
Nuocheng Company had never given Ye Huanqiu the opportunity to release songs under his own name. For seven years, all his creations at the company had been credited to others. After recreating the two songs, he waited until after resigning before submitting them that afternoon.
Guochuangwang also featured an AI comparison tool. Any song detected as an exact match or with a melody similarity exceeding ten percent would be immediately rejected.
The platform's plagiarism detection system was far stricter than Earth's CNKI, with a maximum similarity threshold of only ten percent.
Only after successfully passing the review did Ye Huanqiu finally relax. Now, his sole focus was on how to make a name for himself.
Unfortunately, before he could even come up with a plan, the alcohol had already taken hold.
"Don't worry," the bartender urged. "Singing will make you feel better. Our karaoke system has a huge library—just pick whatever you like."
At the bartender's encouragement, Ye Huanqiu stumbled onto the stage in a drunken daze. He didn't even glance at the song selection tablet; instead, he spotted a wooden guitar nearby. He casually picked it up and slung it over his shoulder with the strap.
"Let's give this young man a round of applause, shall we?" the bartender announced. "We're all hardworking city dwellers... and providing a place for you to unwind and leave your worries behind is our bar's greatest mission."
The tomboyish bartender was actually the owner of the bar. Though small, the place had a surprisingly warm and inviting atmosphere.
Ye Huanqiu gazed out at the sea of unfamiliar faces below. Even an unknown nobody like him had an audience tonight.
"I'm going to sing an original song," he announced, "my middle finger to this messed-up world."
Fueled by alcohol, Ye Huanqiu spoke whatever came to mind.
As the cheers subsided, he lightly strummed his guitar. A few notes were out of tune. Without even glancing down, he casually adjusted the tuning pegs. The sound of his second strum, amplified through the microphone and speakers, was noticeably different.
To the trained ear, it was obvious. To the casual observer, it was simply a spectacle.
Anyone who had ever played guitar knew that this man was a seasoned veteran—someone with complete mastery of the instrument to correct the tuning so effortlessly.