Chapter 53 Just a Casual Hobby

Zhao Zejun put on his headset, gave an "OK" gesture through the glass to the outside, and Zhen Hanqiang adjusted a few buttons on the control console before flashing a thumbs-up to indicate that they could begin.

The recording studio fell silent, and Zhao Zejun's voice rang out.

Unlike Miss Xia's musical style, this inspirational masterpiece originally released in 2004 by Christine Fan was delivered by Zhao Zejun in a clear and bright voice.

"If pride hadn't been coldly battered by the ocean of reality,
How would I know how much effort it takes to reach the distant horizons;
......
If dreams hadn't plummeted off the cliff at a moment of extreme peril,
How would I realize that those who persist possess invisible wings;
......
Only after realizing a true desire
Can one truly say they have reached paradise."

Though Zhen Hanqiang could be a pretentious idiot at times, he was entirely correct about one thing.

They were professionals.

The greatest difference between recording a song in a professional studio and listening to someone sing at a karaoke joint lies in this: the latter focuses on the performer—whether the singer is handsome or pretty, and whether the vocals sound pleasant—while the former, inside a recording studio, concentrates the professionals' attention entirely upon the song itself.

Whether the melody is beautiful, whether the lyrics can touch the heart, whether it aligns with the principles of musical aesthetics, and so on.

Upon hearing the very first line, "If pride hadn't been coldly battered by the ocean of reality, how would I know how much effort it takes to reach the distant horizons," a tremor ran through Zhou Yuanyuan's heart.

As an art school graduate with very little prior experience, serving as both screenwriter and director for the first time, her entire short film was filled with reflections of herself. To a certain extent, the female protagonist in this film was her.

Of course, how qualities like kindness, courage, and resilience actually manifest in concrete behavior is a matter of personal interpretation.

Yet that opening lyric filled her with a turbulent mix of emotions. Over the years, standing alone and unsupported in this cold, bustling metropolis, she had faced setbacks time and again, tasting bitter hardships, yet stubbornly and tenaciously persevering. To fulfill her ideals and ambitions, and to vent the lingering injustice in her heart, she had donned a hard, cold mask of pride, taking difficult and persistent steps toward the distant horizon.

For a fleeting second, she even harbored the illusion that Zhao Zejun's song, much like the one for Miss Xia before, had been custom-made for a single person.

Last time, it was for Xia Yubing; this time, it was for her.

Even knowing how impossible this was, Zhou Yuanyuan preferred to tell herself that this song was written for her and rightfully belonged to her.

When she heard the lines, "How would I realize that those who persist possess invisible wings... Where the heart most longs to go, how could one turn back midway... Only after realizing a true desire can one truly say they have reached paradise," a deep sense of grievance and sour heartache welled up inside her.

Over the years, there had been misunderstandings, loyal affections, missed connections, and regrets, but never once had anyone truly understood her. No matter how others perceived her or recklessly judged her actions, she alone knew in her heart that everything she did was simply in pursuit of her dreams.

By the end of the first section, Zhou Yuanyuan was certain she could never find a theme song more fitting than this.

To put it even more accurately, the song had not been born for her short film; rather, the reverse was true—her short film existed to set off this song.

Listening from the side, Zhen Hanqiang and his companions completely discarded the notion of "waiting for the fellow surnamed Zhao to finish singing so we can mercilessly ridicule him."

That thought was utterly laughable.

Even without a backing track, merely listening to the acapella version was enough for the lyrics and melody to prove the exceptional quality of the song.

That it suited Zhou Yuanyuan's short film was beyond dispute; anyone with a functioning brain would not dare to pick faults in this regard.

More importantly, the artistic conception of the song was magnificent.

It was a story in its own right—a tale of holding fast to one's dreams and persevering through rugged, relentless struggles.

Most precious of all, the song did not sound sorrowful in the slightest.

Comparisons only lead to frustration, and possessions pale when compared side-by-side.

Zhen Hanqiang had once written a song for Zhou Yuanyuan. Upon hearing it, she had said it was pleasant, but ultimately chose not to use it. Zhen Hanqiang had then taken the song to consult his mentor, a well-known music critic in the industry.

After listening, the mentor pointed out two major flaws: first, it was far too melancholy; second, it was an empty, affectation-filled lament.

"Inspirational music is not about despair; it is about remaining perpetually filled with hope for the future amidst adversity. To put it bluntly, it has to inspire people. When people listen to this song of yours, they only feel drained of life and want to die." The mentor's critique remained etched clearly in Zhen Hanqiang's memory.

Later, he revised it into a cheerful musical style, but when the mentor heard it, he simply laughed again.

The second draft was no longer despairing, but it was too flighty. It completely failed to capture the hardships of struggle, sounding much more like a frantic dance track meant to be blasted in a discotheque.

His mentor had concluded by saying, "This isn't entirely a matter of capability; you're simply too young, having lived too smoothly from childhood to now. Lacking sufficient life experience, it's only natural that you can't write anything moving."

Yet Zhao Zejun's "Initial Dream" featured a lively style without being frivolous. It captured the trials one must experience in life while retaining a profound hope for the future, and its slightly brisk tempo imparted a driving sense of momentum that urged one forward.

For young people, listening to it struck a deeply resonant chord.

Zhen Hanqiang was now starting to believe that this peer singing inside the recording studio genuinely was "President Zhao." Ordinary college students, lacking life experience, simply could not write something like this.

Once Zhao Zejun finished singing a full pass, he removed his headset and walked out of the studio. The moment he stepped through the door, he was greeted by the sight of Zhou Yuanyuan and the three young men gazing at him with undisguised excitement.

"How..."

Before he could finish, Zhen Hanqiang eagerly asked, "Zhao... classmate Zhao, is there a backing track? Play it for us to listen."

"Do the lyrics and melody pass muster?" Zhao Zejun asked Zhou Yuanyuan.

Zhou Yuanyuan pursed her lips into a smile and looked at Zhao Zejun. "I really found the right person."

"Sorry about earlier, I take back what I just said. This song is phenomenal!" Zhen Hanqiang added.

"Actually, I didn't entirely originate it," Zhao Zejun said with a light smile. "It's an adaptation. The original piece is a Japanese song called 'Riding on the Back of a Silver Dragon'. There won't be any copyright infringement issues, right?"

In theory, yes; in practice, absolutely not.

Unless this song swept across the entire nation, there was virtually no chance the original Japanese creators would ever find out.

Even if they did, they might not sue; even if they sued, they might not win; and even if they won, the subsequent legal enforcement would be terribly cumbersome.

In short, copyright infringement of this sort was rampant everywhere in the country. Given the prevailing macro-policy of "borrowingism," it could be said that the entire nation was engaging in "imperial decree-sanctioned infringement."

The recording studio had internet access. With a quick search on the web via the control console, they located the original vocals and instrumental accompaniment. Zhao Zejun then sang through the song a second time, harmonizing with the backing track.

Listening to it the second time lacked the sheer shock of the first, but Zhou Yuanyuan, with her arms crossed, stood before the control console, listening while casting a half-smiling, meaningful glance at Zhen Hanqiang.

The corners of Zhen Hanqiang's mouth twitched slightly, but he remained silent.

The difficulty of adaptation was actually greater than that of original composition. Working within an existing framework to exert one's creativity required adhering to the original structure while injecting entirely new elements of one's own.

Furthermore, this was a custom musical score tailored specifically for Zhou Yuanyuan's short film. It was restricted not only by the original musical framework but also by the narrative constraints of the short film, doubling the constraints and driving the difficulty well past one plus one.

Zhen Hanqiang, who had always considered himself a talented prodigy, knew he lacked such capability; scanning the entire art academy, there were barely a handful of students capable of pulling this off. Perhaps certain professional instructors could manage it, but even then, it would likely only pass muster formally—whether it could genuinely move people remained highly doubtful.

"Is this guy also a music major?" Sun Bai whispered to Zhou Yuanyuan.

Without shifting her gaze from Zhao Zejun, who was singing inside through the glass window, Zhou Yuanyuan replied faintly, "Didn't I mention it? He's President Zhao. He runs his own company; music is just a hobby for him."

"Ah?!"

Sun Bai and the others exchanged blank stares, a stifled sense of frustration churning within their chests. If a mere hobbyist could reach such heights, how were they, the "professionals," supposed to survive?