Chapter Twenty: The Heir of Wealth

Without a driver’s license, Li Mu drove the car all the way to the outskirts of Jinling City, and by the time he arrived, it was already 11:40 in the morning. Although he encountered a few traffic police along the way, not a single one tried to stop the A6 for inspection, which saved him a lot of trouble.

Before entering the city, Li Mu switched seats with Chen Wan once again. He didn’t know where Chen Wan wanted to go, and she herself wasn’t sure either, so she simply took the wheel.

Chen Wan first took out her phone and made a call, telling the person on the other end that she had arrived in Jinling but needed to eat before meeting. They agreed on a time: half past one in the afternoon at a certain place.

After she hung up, Li Mu asked curiously, “Wan, what exactly are you doing in Jinling? I’ve been asking you the whole way, and you won’t say.”

Chen Wan giggled, winking mysteriously. “That’s a secret!”

“Alright, then.” Finding it pointless to press further, Li Mu dropped the subject.

Familiar with the provincial capital, Chen Wan leisurely drove into the city, found a restaurant for lunch with Li Mu, and afterward took him to a nearby commercial district.

In his previous life, Li Mu had attended university in Jinling, so he knew this commercial area was rather unique.

It had once been a failed commercial street project, meant to become a pedestrian shopping street, but the plan had fallen through. Many of the vacant storefronts were later occupied by artists—painters, sculptors, photographers, musicians, and eventually even teams specializing in original video production. The place had a vibe somewhat akin to Beijing’s 798 Art District, though on a much smaller and less developed scale; at this stage, it was still just a fledgling gathering spot for Jinling’s local hipsters.

There were a few music bars along the street, several higher-end art cafés further in, some music studios, a few art galleries, and dance training studios.

It started as a hangout for university students and a few foreign students and teachers, and gradually became a haven for the city’s young creative types.

Li Mu had no idea what business Chen Wan had here. He helped her park the car, and she led him inside on foot.

They walked to the very back of the commercial street, where Chen Wan brought him to a place called “Jinling Noise Factory.”

“Noise Factory?” Li Mu stared at the graffiti-styled sign, puzzled. “Is this a place for making noise?”

“Exactly.” Chen Wan arched an eyebrow and smiled. “My cousin runs it—it’s a band rehearsal studio and recording room.”

Li Mu smirked. Could Chen Wan really be into this sort of thing? Had she come all this way just to watch a local underground band rehearse?

He knew what the local underground bands were like in 2001. Having attended university in Jinling that year, he’d witnessed it firsthand.

Most local bands at the time couldn’t even manage a decent rendition of “Truly Love You.” Their instruments were universally cheap, domestic brands; the lead guitarist might have a Japanese Zoom 505 effects pedal if he was lucky, but their amps were garbage and their tone was dreadful. Metal sounded like plastic, and if the bassist plucked a note too hard, the amp would fart like an elephant.

Still, since he was here, Li Mu didn’t think too much of it. He was just accompanying Chen Wan; she could do as she liked.

But as he stepped inside Jinling Noise Factory, Li Mu realized things were more interesting than he’d thought.

Though tucked away, the place turned out to be a top-tier rehearsal studio.

Back in college, Li Mu had dabbled in bands himself. Even after six months of part-time work, he could only afford a third-rate electric guitar, and spent his days drooling over imported instruments online. Yet now, everything he’d ever dreamed of was right here.

A four-man rock band was having a meeting with their instruments in the studio, apparently in the middle of rehearsal.

Li Mu immediately noticed one of the long-haired guitarists holding a sunburst Gibson—the same model Slash from Guns N’ Roses played. That would cost seventy or eighty thousand yuan.

The other guitarist and bassist also had impressive gear, all first-class global brands. The drummer was even more outrageous—not counting his top-of-the-line Tama drum kit, his collection of cymbals alone must have cost tens of thousands.

Li Mu was stunned—these guys were loaded.

The long-haired kid with the sunburst Gibson looked about twenty-four or five. When he saw Chen Wan, he whistled and grinned. “Wan, didn’t I tell you to come at one-thirty? It’s only one now.”

“Just came to watch you rehearse.” Chen Wan smiled. “Cousin, it’s been a while—your hair’s even longer.”

The young man laughed, then looked at Li Mu. “Is this the little brother you mentioned?”

“That’s right.” Chen Wan quickly pulled Li Mu over and introduced him to the others. “Guys, this is my little brother, Li Mu.”

Li Mu was baffled—why was he being dragged into this?

Before he could figure it out, the long-haired young man extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Zhang Kexuan, Chen Wan’s cousin. I heard you write songs, and even wrote a really good one?”

Li Mu’s eyes widened in surprise, and he shot Chen Wan a look of disbelief.

Chen Wan, flustered, hurriedly explained, “It’s like this, Li Mu—last time you sang ‘Zebra Zebra,’ I thought it was amazing. I really hoped you could record it, so I contacted my cousin. The front is the rehearsal room; the back is the recording studio. I didn’t tell you earlier—I hope you’re not mad at me?”

Zhang Kexuan nodded as well. “You’re Li Mu, right? Let me tell you, I spent a fortune on this equipment. Maybe it’s not quite up to the big American studios, but among private studios in China, it’s top-notch. I’ll help you record a demo—if you’re interested, you could send it to a record company.”

“No, thanks,” Li Mu waved him off. “I’m just an amateur music lover, not looking to put out a record.”

“Hey!” Zhang Kexuan didn’t mind. “It’s no big deal—even if you don’t want to release anything, recording a demo as a keepsake isn’t a bad idea.”

“Exactly!” Chen Wan pleaded. “I just think your ‘Zebra Zebra’ is so good—you should record it as a memento. You could even give me a copy for my MP3, so I can listen to it sometimes, right?”

Li Mu sighed. MP3 players were expensive in those days, not much cheaper than phones. Still, he had to admit, this wealthy, beautiful sister was quite something—stirring up so much just to record a song.

And Zhang Kexuan, with his three bandmates—the rehearsal room’s soundproofing, lighting, high-end amplifiers, mixing consoles, all this equipment plus their instruments—it must have cost a million or so!

If the recording studio in the back was built to the same standards, it was even more outrageous—a single vocal mic could cost over a hundred thousand, and a pair of monitor speakers just as much, not to mention the rest of the gear. Good grief, spending millions just to play rock music—were they mad?

In this era, with that kind of money, you could make a fortune doing anything in China… Was this how all rich kids lived—so extravagant?

On second thought, it was probably a good thing that the rich were into rock; better to spend millions playing music than buying a sports car and causing trouble for ordinary people.

Li Mu could only go along with it. Since he was here, and Chen Wan really wanted to hear “Zebra Zebra,” he might as well record it. It wouldn’t cost him anything, and later in college, when others boasted about their awards, he could say he’d recorded a demo after high school—he had a single too.

Seeing Li Mu’s attitude soften, Zhang Kexuan said, “Take a seat, you two—we’re going to rehearse a couple more times. We’ve signed up for the Ice Power National Band Competition, and the preliminaries are just days away. We’re practicing hard.”

Li Mu nodded and sat down with Chen Wan. Zhang Kexuan chatted with his bandmates, then said, “Alright, let’s run through the set.”

Li Mu wondered to himself—he had no memory of a figure like Zhang Kexuan from his previous life. With gear this good, even if their skills weren’t great, the band should have been famous in Jinling. Why hadn’t he heard of them?

While he was thinking, the band started playing.

“You are my angel, my angel, bringing me luck and endless joy…”

Wasn’t that the famous track by DaDa Band? Li Mu nearly spat blood. DaDa had released their album this January—yet with all this high-end equipment, these guys were still doing covers? Didn’t they know original music was the soul of a band?

Still, for all their lack of originality, their playing was solid. The lead singer was Zhang Kexuan himself, with a decent voice, though Li Mu felt it didn’t suit this pop-punk style.

He and Chen Wan listened as they rehearsed three songs—one by DaDa Band, “The Earth” by Beyond, and “Don’t Entangle Me” by Black Panther.

Afterward, Zhang Kexuan was exhausted, especially after the last song—he’d dropped the key but still couldn’t hit the high notes.

“Li Mu, since you write your own songs, you must know your stuff. Give us some feedback?” Zhang Kexuan looked at him expectantly.

Anyone who could play guitar and write songs in those days had learned a bit, though in Zhang Kexuan’s experience, most amateurs wrote dreadful material.

Li Mu hesitated, then said seriously, “Pop punk, pop rock, hard rock—the styles are all over the place. And all you do is imitate; you copy the originals exactly, without any personal interpretation.”

“Most importantly, your voice doesn’t suit any of these three styles, yet you haven’t tried using your own style. You’ve spent all this money on the band—have you not even figured out what suits you?”

“Damn!” Zhang Kexuan and his bandmates were stunned—this kid was brutally honest…