Chapter 88: Recording Studio One Is Now Open

At half past nine in the morning, Shen Jianxin descended the stairs wearing slippers.

Someone had already fetched breakfast from the cafeteria and set it out on the dining table on the first floor—a tacit understanding that had formed within the Wildfire Alliance over the past few days.

“Only you here, Sister Miao?” Shen Jianxin asked.

“Sister Miao” was a playful nickname, which Shen Jianxin had adopted from the younger members.

Yun Miao nodded. “Brother Xi went to the creative studio at seven-thirty. The other two followed him.”

“What about Zhi Chu?”

Yun Miao pointed upstairs.

“Still asleep?”

She shook her head with a sigh. “He’s a bit of an odd one. Around one forty last night, I heard noises outside, snuck out for a look, and he was still tidying up his room. At two thirty, I came out to get a drink—guess what I heard? He was composing. Youth is wonderful. I can never come up with anything late at night.”

Shen Jianxin paused, then took a seat at the table and ladled some porridge for himself.

“The young man’s impressive. If you see him, remind him to take care of his health.”

Yun Miao nodded. She had no projects at the moment, but that didn’t mean she was idle. Everyone without a project kept an eye on the unchosen tasks, aiming for the later stage recordings.

Rumor had it someone had already started tackling the hardest task at the top of the assignment list.

This was another unspoken rule—being first wasn’t necessarily advantageous. The producers hoped everyone would prepare thoroughly, making the show more exciting. However, those who come later, the veterans, would have everything ready, leaving no room for newcomers; only the first few episodes were for them.

...

The creative studio differed from the recording room.

It was absolutely quiet, but filled with instruments and equipment. Four studios in total, one per alliance.

Sig arrived early at the Wildfire Alliance’s studio. This was the recording area, with many cameras. The dormitory counted as a recording area too, but only the public spaces on the first floor.

The producers knew some musicians disliked cameras when they needed quiet, so no cameras were installed in the dorms.

That afternoon, Shen Jianxin finally headed to the creative studio.

The small building housing the studios stood next to the performance hall. The second floor held the studios, the third the recording rooms—four of those, as well.

This was likely the greatest expense of the show.

Shen Jianxin knocked, then pushed open the door marked Wildfire Alliance.

“Mr. Shen!” Sig greeted him.

Shen Jianxin waved his hand and asked, “How’s it going? Where are you now?”

“The beat’s done, but the lyrics are tricky,” Sig replied, handing a tablet and some papers to Shen Jianxin.

Shen Jianxin reviewed them carefully; the progress was solid.

Sig claimed he could handle this project, which meant he’d put in the work beforehand.

“I want Sister Miao to sing the hook. I’ve played that game these past days. Besides leveling up, fighting, and the so-called national wars, the social aspect is impressive—many people reportedly met and married through it. Sister Miao’s an expert in the delicate vocal style, perfect for expressing the tender part of this song. I think it’ll add a lot...” Sig continued.

Shen Jianxin nodded, “Good idea. Have you talked to her?”

“I’ll ask her tonight.”

“All right. Let’s talk lyrics. Just my opinion, for your reference. You guys do hip-hop, so the rhyme scheme is impressive, but there’s more—flavor matters too. Strong rhymes make the song flow, showing up at the start and end of each line, but the content can feel thin. Flavor comes from the details in every lyric. I think you should divide this song into three parts: Section A focuses on flavor, work on the lyrics; hook establishes the theme, contrasting or echoing Section A; your chorus shows off technique, playing with rhythm and rhyme, whatever feels right, building atmosphere...”

Shen Jianxin didn’t interfere directly, but helped Sig clarify his ideas.

He’d met many talented musicians, but most excelled only in one area; few could craft an entire, well-rounded work.

“That’s about what I had in mind, but I wasn’t as detailed with the lyrics. Could you help?”

“Write first. I’ll review it later and we’ll talk it over.”

As soon as Shen Jianxin finished speaking, the studio’s little loudspeaker blared.

Everyone hated this feature—whenever something major happened in the creative building, a broadcast would sound.

For instance, when someone submitted a finished piece, the loudspeaker would announce it, prompting the staff in charge of stage presentations to find you and discuss your work and rehearsal plans.

“Announcement! Recording Room One is open!”

“Announcement! Recording Room One is open!”

“Announcement! Recording Room One is open!”

...

Three consecutive announcements echoed throughout the building.

Several rooms voiced their protests.

Who was it! First day, and already so competitive!

“Damn! That’s crazy!” Sig exclaimed, eyes wide.

Shen Jianxin frowned, muttering, “Could it be Pu Jingshi?”

“Maybe. Probably just wants to get the process started early—later everyone will be scrambling for the recording rooms and rehearsals. Still, impressive, producing on day one!”

Shen Jianxin handed Sig a pair of over-ear headphones. “Don’t worry about it. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can relax. Seven days will fly by. I’ll go check things out.”

...

In Recording Room One, Tang Zhichu stood frozen, feeling somewhat mortified.

“Sir, must you really do this?”

The band’s Mr. Qin smiled apologetically. “No choice. It’s the show’s rules—to create a sense of urgency. Come, let me see your arrangement demo and lyrics.”

Tang Zhichu had no choice but to hand over his USB drive and lyric manuscript.

Indeed, he’d wanted to get through the process early, quietly recording and then applying for stage presentation and rehearsal, avoiding the rush later.

But once the band teacher pressed that red button, it was announced.

Thankfully, no names were revealed.

The band teacher plugged the USB into the computer and put on his monitor headphones. As the prelude played, he paused, then glanced at Tang Zhichu in surprise.

Moments later, he mimed playing the piano, then the violin.

After listening once, he picked up the lyrics and listened again.

After two listens, the teacher stood, walked over to Tang Zhichu, and grasped his hands. “Outstanding!”

He was an accomplished figure in the industry, not only assisting with production but also part of the program’s artistic supervision team.

Their mission was to make every piece in the show brilliant, presenting them to the audience.

If any part of this commercial music show wasn’t about commerce, it was them.

“Truly outstanding—you came well prepared, young man!” Even his form of address shifted.

Tang Zhichu smiled self-deprecatingly. “Sir, you flatter me. Just a bit of random writing.”

“Random? Nonsense! Come, let’s refine your arrangement. Your demo is already very mature; we’ll tweak the details. I’ll call a few more people over—they’re skilled in the instruments you used...”