Chapter Thirty: Trump Card

Dinner was served atop the mountain, beside a reservoir.

Some people were so deeply engrossed in fishing that they refused to leave even as dusk settled; others carried lanterns, ready for a night battle with the fish.

Tang Zhichu and Zhou Yun originally sat outside the restaurant, where the scenery was splendid—the fishermen visible nearby, and in the distance, neon lights flickered across the mountain city.

But after less than three minutes, they moved indoors; the mosquitoes were simply unbearable.

Tang Zhichu noticed several people eager to approach, likely hoping to strike up a conversation, but they hesitated with her male companion present. Someone even offered her a cigarette, which she politely declined.

“Your singing must be very pleasant,” Zhou Yun suddenly remarked.

She was still fixated on Tang Zhichu’s DY followers—over ninety thousand. There had to be something that drew them in; if it was singing, then Tang Zhichu must be remarkable.

Tang Zhichu shook her head. “I can’t really sing, just a little.”

“Then sing something?”

“I truly can’t.”

“Stingy.”

The dishes arrived: three ways with fish—fish head tofu soup, spicy boiled fish slices, and fried fish fillets, accompanied by stir-fried wild greens.

They chatted, exchanging fragments of personal history. On the surface, it was ordinary conversation; underneath, it felt like mutual probing.

Zhou Yun had been in e-commerce since college, starting with apparel. Once she’d saved a bit, she opened a gym.

Tang Zhichu said she inherited the family business right after graduation, which was just that shop.

To Zhou Yun, this sounded rather insincere.

Tang Zhichu smiled, then suddenly asked, “Can you dance?”

Zhou Yun leaned back in her chair, already full, and shook her head. “Not really.”

“You have at least five dance videos on your DY account.”

Zhou Yun stood up, resting her elbows on the table, cupping her face as she looked at Tang Zhichu. “Why are you asking?”

“Why don’t you try dancing more?”

A smile appeared on Zhou Yun’s lips. Was Tang Zhichu implying that she looked good dancing? She sensed Tang Zhichu was talking about DY.

“I know what you’re getting at. X is actually my third DY account. The first was pure singing, thirteen thousand followers, then it plateaued. I tried covering old songs, tried new ones, but couldn’t break through. Not only that, the copyright holder for one of the covers came after me, and the account got banned.”

“Later, I made a dance account—not just me, but the girls from my gym. That one reached twenty thousand followers, but I lost motivation. Choreographing is tough—three days for a routine, exhausting, and the results were mediocre. The comments were all about who looked best. Then came the account you see now.”

“This one? I put in the least effort. I post casually, no clear direction, but it’s been my best—over twenty thousand followers, decent likes and comments.”

Tang Zhichu nodded, realizing Zhou Yun was aiming for influencer status.

She had thought Zhou Yun wanted to break into entertainment, putting in so much effort.

Tang Zhichu didn’t underestimate her twenty thousand followers; DY’s user base here was vastly different from the previous world, since there hadn’t been the mask incident to boost it.

Twenty thousand followers here was roughly as valuable as a hundred thousand in the world before.

Why did she have ninety thousand? Other factors: DY’s traffic support, and its foundation in music shorts.

“You know how to choreograph?” Tang Zhichu asked.

Zhou Yun nodded slightly. “Simple routines, yes. See? I’m being sincere—I answer whatever you ask.”

Tang Zhichu ignored the sarcasm. “If I give you a simple BGM, could you create a dance for it?”

Zhou Yun frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Think of it as a small commission. If you don’t have time, maybe someone from your gym could try.”

“Will you pay?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, send it over.”

Tang Zhichu took out her phone, opened the app version of a music composition software, and found the file she wanted. She exported it and sent it to Zhou Yun.

Zhou Yun played the file, listening with one ear. It was a twenty-second clip, bass and drums, strong rhythm.

She considered it, then said, “It’s fine—not hard.”

“Good. Take it and work on it.”

“So you’re skilled at composition and music production?” Zhou Yun pressed, still unconvinced. Based on Tang Zhichu’s ability to tune by ear, if her singing was mediocre, maybe she was a master of composition?

Zhou Yun knew a bit about composition; she’d never heard of Tang Zhichu as a producer, unless he was an obscure one.

Tang Zhichu stood, stretched, and sidestepped the question.

“How are we getting back? Surely not walking down the mountain?”

Zhou Yun tilted her head, teasing, then rose to pay the bill.

Tang Zhichu didn’t fight her for it; today’s date was Zhou Yun’s arrangement—she should pay.

Even now, Tang Zhichu’s legs were still sore.

Why claim she couldn’t sing?

Tang Zhichu simply felt it was like playing cards: the hand you hold, when to play which card, there’s a knack to it.

She believed Zhou Yun understood—she’d revealed nothing about her singing ability at first, holding that card until the right moment.

If not for today’s date, Tang Zhichu would never have known Zhou Yun could dance.

On the descent, they took a sightseeing bus, weaving through the mountain woods.

Insects chirped, frogs called, and the trees slipping past in the night all seemed to take on the same form.

A gust of wind swept through the forest, whistling.

Tang Zhichu shivered unexpectedly, feeling cold.

“Here.”

Zhou Yun hugged her small bag, pulled out a jacket—the same color as Tang Zhichu’s sportswear.

Tang Zhichu took it. “You waited until I was chilled—was it on purpose?”

Zhou Yun kept her bag close, gazed outside, and didn’t answer.

She came here often; of course she knew how cold the mountain nights could get in this season.

That’s why she brought the jacket. Not giving it at first was to make him climb properly—she even carried the bag herself. Later, she simply forgot.

The mountain road was winding, but smooth.

Zhou Yun felt a twinge of regret—not riding a bike, after all this trouble coming up.

When she was focused on running the gym, she’d come often; now, rarely.

Just as Tang Zhichu suspected, dancing was indeed Zhou Yun’s last card. Everyone knew that in the later stages of the dating show, there’d be a group activity.

Dancing was meant to be Zhou Yun’s ace for that event; Chen Siyang could dance too—not necessarily to outshine her, but at least to compete.

Zhou Yun didn’t believe Tang Zhichu could dance as well, let alone surpass her.

Yet, because of Tang Zhichu, Zhou Yun adjusted her strategy.

Was today’s date a retaliation against Tang Zhichu?

That was only the first layer.

From the moment Tang Zhichu arrived, another duel between her and Chen Siyang had begun.

Competing with a celebrity for a boyfriend!