Chapter Sixty-Three: Two-Pronged Approach

The two of them chatted away the afternoon. In between, Su Yingxue called Li Mu to confirm dinner plans for the evening.

Li Mu naturally agreed without hesitation—the dinner had been postponed long enough. He hadn’t expected that in the meantime, he’d return to his hometown, then head to Wen City and Jinling.

Zhao Kang knew Li Mu was secretly meeting Su Yingxue for dinner tonight, so he simply decided to go home for dinner himself, playing the role of a well-behaved child.

Before leaving, Zhao Kang mysteriously tugged at Li Mu’s sleeve and whispered, “For three years in high school, Su Yingxue always seemed cold and aloof, but in front of you, she’s just like any other girl. I think she has feelings for you. You two are heading to the same university now—your prospects are bright!”

Li Mu was speechless. Seeing Zhao Kang’s confident expression, he sighed inwardly. After all, he was in his thirties, having weathered numerous hardships in life. Since his rebirth, his mind had been occupied with how to make money, how to change his own fate, that of his parents, and those close to him. As for romance, he hadn’t given it much thought. Su Yingxue had been a distant dream from his youth, and now, his feelings for her were more a deep-rooted sentiment than anything else.

Whether he had a chance to pursue a romance with his youthful dream, Li Mu felt that question no longer mattered.

Zhao Kang left, and while Li Mu was still waiting for Su Yingxue’s call, Chen Wan rang instead.

“Hey, troublemaker! Have you forgotten about your big sister?”

Chen Wan sounded somewhat annoyed—Li Mu could easily picture her pouting on the other end, and the thought was utterly charming.

If Chen Wan knew that this eighteen-year-old young man considered her the most adorable woman he’d ever met, who knows how she’d feel.

“How could I dare?” Li Mu replied quickly, still lost in his imaginings.

“Then why haven’t you replied to my messages on QQ for days? You fiddle with computers all day—don’t tell me you haven’t logged on!”

Chen Wan’s tone carried a hint of playful reproach.

Li Mu explained, “Sis, I saw your message late that night and figured you wouldn’t be online. I was busy with something else and forgot to reply later. That’s my fault—I promise to improve.”

His earnest attitude immediately melted Chen Wan’s annoyance. “That’s more like it. I forgive you.”

Li Mu felt a little guilty. His sister had gone to Shanghai for an internship, and he hadn’t checked in on how she was doing, at work or in life.

So he asked, “Sis, how’s life in Shanghai?”

“You actually care about me?” Chen Wan’s tone was more surprised than teasing. “I’ve been here for years, so life’s fine, but work is a first. Interning isn’t easy—I’m running around with the producers all day.”

Li Mu was curious. “You’re working with producers? What kind of show?”

“Local news. My position is intern producer’s assistant.”

“Is it tough?”

“It’s pretty exhausting,” Chen Wan sighed. “Always rushing around, and the schedule’s unpredictable. Whenever there’s breaking news, I have to go out at a moment’s notice.”

Li Mu remarked, “If it gets too much, you can quit. Your goal is to be a host, and you don’t plan to join Shanghai TV. This month as a producer’s assistant won’t add much to your resume.”

“You’re always sharp, seeing things clearly,” Chen Wan giggled. “But though it’s not very useful and a bit tiring, I’m still interested. Besides, my dad’s friend meant well. If I can’t handle a little hardship, people will laugh.”

“As long as you find it worthwhile. But don’t overdo it—health matters most.”

“Alright, your concern is duly noted!” Chen Wan laughed, then got to the real reason for her call: “Tomorrow night, my brother and his friends are competing in the semi-finals. I’m going back to Jinling to cheer them on—do you want to come?”

“I can’t make it,” Li Mu replied, somewhat helplessly. “I’ve got so much on my plate—just tomorrow’s tasks are overwhelming.”

He added, “Aren’t you busy? How can you get away?”

Chen Wan explained, “I talked to the producer today and got half a day off tomorrow. I’ll take the afternoon train to Jinling, watch their performance, then take the night train back…”

“That’s a lot of effort!”

“I don’t want to miss their crucial match, especially since they’re singing your song!” Chen Wan grew excited. “You know, I keep your ‘Zebra, Zebra’ and ‘When You’re Old’ in my MP3, listening whenever I can. My colleagues love them and asked for copies, but I told them both songs are unpublished, so I couldn’t share them.”

Li Mu laughed, “If they really want them, you could give them copies. They’re just demo recordings for fun, so long as you don’t reveal the original singer.”

“No way!” Chen Wan replied firmly. “You’re working on a music website, right? If these great songs got leaked and were posted elsewhere, that would be a huge loss!”

Li Mu’s eyes lit up. “I hadn’t thought of that—Sis, you’re brilliant!”

He truly hadn’t considered it.

He’d always wanted to use the Simple Plan competition to help them rise with a few good songs—not so much to promote them himself, since he lacked the clout, but to generate buzz and let the public propel them forward.

Once Simple Plan became popular, Li Mu’s plan was to record all their competition songs in a studio, use online promoters to hype “Easy Listening,” and release each song exclusively on the platform, with downloads available.

This way, Easy Listening could ride Simple Plan’s fame and gain users.

But the two songs he’d recorded himself were also excellent. If released online, they’d surely attract an audience. So, could he make “himself” famous too?

Li Mu didn’t want personal stardom; instead, he envisioned creating a virtual artist on Easy Listening—a false identity to release quality music. With a mysterious persona and some good songs, plus promotion, he could attract attention.

And this secret would be easy to keep—even Kong Lingyu, who developed Easy Listening, wouldn’t know. Aside from himself, only the four members of Simple Plan and Chen Wan would know.

Li Mu decided almost instantly: do it!

In his previous life, he liked browsing Douban, forums, and Zhihu, always using the nickname “Muzi”—splitting his surname “Li” into “Mu Zi.” But “Mu Zi” was common, so he chose the character “Mu” from his name, hence “Muzi.”

Once Easy Listening launched, he could use “Muzi” to release classic songs not yet known, just like Simple Plan—dropping a new song every so often, serializing releases to boost user engagement. And since Easy Listening was free, even if other sites followed, they’d always lag behind.

The more Li Mu thought about it, the more feasible his two-pronged plan seemed.

“Hey, troublemaker, why are you ignoring me!” The sudden playful scolding snapped Li Mu out of his thoughts.

“What’s up, Sis? I was just thinking.”

“I asked if you’re really not coming tomorrow?”

“I really can’t,” Li Mu sighed. “I have to take my parents to the station tomorrow evening—it’ll be past six by then. How could I make it?”

“Alright…” Chen Wan’s voice was full of disappointment.

Li Mu said, “Cheer them on for me. Especially tell Kexuan: my songs are fine, his looks and voice are fine, and the band’s playing is fine. If they can’t win the semi-finals, I won’t write for them anymore.”

“Okay, got it.” Chen Wan was still a bit down, and after a couple of hesitant responses, she said, “I’ll let you go—I’ve got work to do.”

“Alright, get busy.” Before hanging up, Li Mu reminded her, “Take care of yourself.”

“Mm… bye.”

After ending the call, Li Mu felt inexplicably melancholic. Truthfully, he didn’t really want to watch Simple Plan perform; even if they sang those two songs well, he felt they fell short of the originals. As for encouragement, once was enough.

But not wanting to watch the show was one thing; Li Mu actually wanted to see Chen Wan.

Opportunities to meet would become scarcer. Once he went to Yanjing, they’d be even farther apart.

Though Li Mu always claimed indifferently that it was only a two-hour flight from Yanjing to Shanghai, he knew well: once separated by distance, even a short flight wouldn’t make it easy to meet up. Busy lives and obligations would keep them apart, even within the same city, even a trip across town could be a barrier.

He’d seen friendships grow distant with time, especially once work and life in a strange city began—survival became hard, and even a short distance could feel insurmountable.

At this thought, Li Mu felt a wave of sorrow.

He brooded for barely half a minute before his phone buzzed with a message: “I’m heading out. Where are you? I’ll take a taxi to pick you up.”

It was Su Yingxue.

Li Mu tapped out a reply: “Green Island Ice House.”