A song called "The You of the Past" has prompted the entire internet to beg me not to leav

Yanjing, Huairou Film and Television Base.

Zhang Ji's private editing room had such a low, suffocating atmosphere that it felt like a powder keg ready to explode at any moment.

Fifty-five-year-old Zhang Ji had a face full of fat and a large beard that twitched up and down.

He is widely recognized as a "tyrant on set" in the domestic film industry, holding two Golden Rooster Awards and one Golden Horse Award, and has an obsessive-compulsive obsession with film aesthetics.

At this moment, on the screen is a montage of his hardcore martial arts epic, "Reign of Assassins," which he filmed with the money he spent three small budgets.

The chilling glint of blades, the endless yellow sand—the desolation and chill of the martial world seemed to overflow from the screen.

"Snapped!"

Zhang Ji slammed his hand hard on the pause button.

"That's all bullshit! A bunch of useless trash!"

He ripped off the listening headphones and slammed them violently onto the control panel, the device emitting a piercing scream.

The assistant director, producer, and music director standing behind him were so startled that they all took a step back.

"What I'm filming is the world of martial arts! It's about swords and shadows! It's about swift justice and revenge!"

Zhang Ji pointed at the music director and launched a full-scale attack.

"Listen to the 'musical masters' you've brought here! What kind of hellish nonsense are they writing?!"

"Soft and sticky! Either wallowing in self-pity or whining without any real cause!"

"Using a song made with this synthesizer to accompany my epic 'Lone Smoke Over the Desert'? Are you trying to shut down my film crew?!"

The music director was sweating profusely, looking miserable and repeatedly complaining.

"Director Zhang, you've really gone through five groups of people! You've tried all the top-tier songwriters in the country. This market is all about traffic now, and the traditional martial arts song style... nobody can come up with anything new."

"If you can't write it, go back and start writing again!" Zhang Ji was so angry that he raged around the house like a lion.

"Less than twenty days until the release date! The theme song is awful, how can this movie premiere?"

"What I want are songs that send chills down your spine the moment you hear them, songs that ignite the very spirit of Chinese martial arts! Go find them for me! I'll spend whatever it takes to find them!"

Just when no one in the room dared to breathe, the heavy soundproof door was pushed open.

An elderly man with a full head of white hair and a sprightly demeanor strolled in, his hands behind his back.

"Old Zhang, I can hear you spouting this passionate nonsense from two floors away. With such a fiery temper, be careful your blood pressure doesn't spike."

Upon seeing who it was, Zhang Ji's fierce expression instantly vanished.

He quickly stubbed out his cigar and respectfully went to greet them.

"Mr. Li, what brings you here?"

The visitor was none other than Li Mingchang, the president of the Chinese Music Association and a true national-level master.

In front of this big shot, even Zhang Ji, the top troublemaker in the film industry, had to obediently tuck his tail between his legs and call him "teacher."

"I was passing through Huairou and heard that your masterpiece was having trouble coming to fruition, so I came to join in the fun."

Li Mingchang pulled up a chair and sat down, then tapped on the table.

"What's wrong? Is the theme song still stuck?"

Zhang Ji quickly poured a cup of hot tea and handed it over, then poured out all the bitterness he had been holding back.

"Mr. Li, you're an expert. The music scene these days has been sifted through by capital and popularity. It's all assembly-line pop songs, with absolutely no cultural depth."

"If my 300 million yuan worth of equipment is paired with a shoddy song written by a tailor, I'd rather throw it in the warehouse to gather dust!"

"You stubborn mule, your temper is still as foul and unyielding as ever," Li Mingchang said slowly, taking a sip of tea.

"Alright, I'm here today to show you the right path."

Zhang Ji's eyes lit up instantly: "You have a suitable candidate? A top player from the national team has emerged?"

"You think the national team members are too rigid, and you think the pop stars lack substance," Li Mingchang said with a smile, waving his hand.

"The person I'm recommending to you is an absolute oddball. But his songs will definitely cure your picky martial arts obsession."

"Who?" Zhang Ji asked urgently.

Li Mingchang uttered two words: "Lin Yan".

The editing room fell into a deathly silence.

The producer and music director stared at each other, their heads buzzing.

Zhang Ji was stunned for a full five seconds, then his brows furrowed into a tight knot once again.

"Mr. Li, you're not making fun of me, are you?" Zhang Ji's voice rose eight octaves, his face clearly showing his refusal.

"Lin Yan? That trainee from Xingyao Entertainment's talent show?"

"Is he some 22-year-old who's recently been making a killing online by writing a few pop songs?"

He waved his hand dismissively, shaking his head like a rattle-drum: "No way, absolutely not! I know his song 'Blue and White Porcelain' is a huge hit, but that's about a picturesque scene of a Jiangnan water town with a small bridge, flowing water, and an umbrella!"

"This is hardcore martial arts, it's about desolate deserts and bloodshed!"

"What does a brat who hasn't even grown his first beard know about the ways of the world? Is he going to carry the soul of this movie?!"

Prejudice is deeply ingrained in Zhang Ji's bones. Martial arts fiction requires hardship; how can one write with that sense of vicissitude without experiencing the harsh realities of society and the sedimentation of time?

Li Mingchang wasn't annoyed. He took out a crumpled piece of paper and casually slapped it on the control panel.

"The message has been delivered, and the person has been declined. Whether you use them or not is up to you."

Li Mingchang stood up, put his hands behind his back, and slowly walked out.

"But I must warn you, this kid is a stubborn mule, with a very strange temper."

"Even if you beg him now, he might not take the order. If I didn't owe him a favor, I wouldn't bother with this mess you've made."

As he reached the door, Old Li stopped and turned back to utter a half-smile.

"Old Zhang, times have changed. Don't let your seniority blind you. If you miss out on him, your play will just be an empty shell without a soul."

The soundproof door slammed shut.

Zhang Ji stared at the note on the table with Lin Yan's studio's phone number written on it, his face turning pale and then red.

The producer swallowed hard and cautiously leaned closer, probing, "Director Zhang, how about... we give it a try, even if it's a last resort?"

Zhang Ji slammed his hand on the note, gritting his teeth and roaring:

"Fight! Fight now! I want to see just how good this kid that Old Li has been praising is!"

"If he dares to send me some effeminate, cheesy pop song, I don't care who's behind him, I'll just go up to the internet and curse him out!"