Chapter Six: Campus Observations

Jiangjin University, in October, was already deep into autumn. The air was filled with a sense of desolation, yet the students bustling across the campus were still lightly dressed. The girls especially formed a beautiful, vibrant scene that left Lin Qihua full of wistful admiration.

In fact, Lin Qihua had himself spent a year at this university. Walking through the campus now, he felt that though the place remained the same, the people had all changed. Those from his cohort must have graduated by now. Even if some hadn’t, he doubted he would recognize them, or they him. After all, he had left school early, and their acquaintance had been brief—there had been no time to forge lasting bonds. It was a pity.

Shaking off these tangled thoughts, Lin Qihua made his way to the university library. Influenced by his father, he had loved reading since childhood. He had visited this library ever since he was young. As a comprehensive university, Jiangjin boasted an extensive collection, and the library had once been his favorite place to while away the hours.

He headed to the science section, pulled out all the relevant books on the shelves, found a seat, and began to read with focused attention. The university’s collection was indeed vast, and research on the universe and time was a popular topic both at home and abroad. Though much of it was difficult to comprehend, Lin Qihua forced himself through the volumes, hoping to find something that might explain the strange phenomena he was experiencing—especially the nebula in his mind and how to guide new songs to appear.

The multitude of theories and explanations left his head spinning, but eventually, he began to see some patterns. According to the books, many anomalous occurrences did not have fixed causes, but instead arose from a chance event, resulting in unusual conditions. Both domestic and foreign texts described this, though most anomalies were useless, serving only as novelties to attract attention. Even with identical conditions, the same outcomes would not necessarily appear—chance played an overwhelming role.

As for how to master or guide such “abilities,” the books noted that despite scientific advances, research into the brain remained shallow, and much was still unexplained and unchangeable. Nonetheless, by recreating the conditions that led to the anomaly, some effects might be replicated. For instance, if someone developed an affinity for fire, frequent exposure might eventually lead to control over it. Hallucinations, the texts suggested, could be triggered by certain stimuli—“what you think about by day, you dream about at night.” If similar stimuli were repeated, the hallucinations might recur.

“How did my situation come about?” Lin Qihua pondered, closing his book. “First, I was hit on the back of the head. That must be the unique, unrepeatable cause. If I get hit again, I might just collapse. But nothing unusual has happened these past days—just a dull pain. What was I doing before the anomaly occurred last night? I was thinking, reflecting... I seem to recall Zhao Wanting, and fragments from my earlier life.”

“So, that girl and those memories are the triggers? Because I once liked her, had special feelings for her, that prompted the emergence of the song? It seems plausible.” Lin Qihua stroked his chin, lost in thought. “The song feels like a nostalgic tribute to youth and first love—perhaps that was the deepest emotion I shared with her. If those sweet memories stirred this ability, then perhaps, when I’m emotionally moved by certain people or events, similar songs could appear?”

Having finally sorted out his thoughts, he resolved to test this theory the next time an opportunity arose.

Returning the books to the shelves, he left the library. He looked up at the overcast sky and took a deep breath, stretching to ease the fatigue in his body. Only now that he was relaxed did he realize how exhausting it had been to concentrate so intensely on his reading.

“Excuse me, are you Lin Qihua?” A clear voice called from behind just as he was about to leave.

He turned to see a girl with glasses, holding a thick book, looking at him. She wore a white shirt under a purple sweater, her long legs outlined by skinny jeans. Her posture was upright, and her eyes, initially uncertain, gradually shone with recognition and delight. It was almost as if her eyes could speak.

“And you are?” The sight of her made Lin Qihua momentarily lose his composure.

“Don’t you remember me?” The girl smiled openly, set her book aside, pulled a rubber band from her pocket, and tied her long hair into a simple ponytail. With her glasses, her appearance changed dramatically.

“Are you—Glasses Girl, Ma Xiaoqian?” A distant memory surfaced in Lin Qihua’s mind, and he exclaimed in surprise.

“Ha! So you do remember me.” Ma Xiaoqian laughed, clearly pleased by his reaction.

“My, my, it’s been ages—you’ve changed so much.” Lin Qihua chuckled, stroking his chin. Ma Xiaoqian had been his classmate at university. Back when they all first arrived, everyone was still awkward and retained their high school looks. He remembered at their class’s self-introduction, she had worn dowdy clothes, sported a thick black ponytail, and huge black-rimmed glasses—everyone thought she was terribly plain. Who would have guessed that she’d now become such a striking city girl?

“Changed a lot? Even an ugly duckling wants to become a little prettier,” Ma Xiaoqian said with a soft smile. She recalled the radiant boy he had been in class and felt a pang for the passage of time. Yet he seemed calmer now, still exuding scholarly charm, but now more mature, more magnetic.

“Who said you were an ugly duckling? Say that again and I’ll get mad. You’re a swan, clearly!” Lin Qihua feigned indignation, making Ma Xiaoqian laugh again, her eyebrows arching like crescent moons.

After a bit of joking, the awkwardness between them faded, and they grew more at ease.

“So, Miss Ma, you stayed on campus?” he asked.

“I’m in grad school,” Ma Xiaoqian replied, letting her ponytail down so her hair cascaded over her shoulders. Picking up her book, she walked beside him out of the library. “It’s hard to find a job these days. Graduate and you’re unemployed. To avoid that, I decided to pursue a master’s and learn more—I hope it’ll help me find a good job later.”

Lin Qihua fell silent. This was the reality of their era. With technology so advanced, robots had replaced much of the workforce, and many people were out of work. That’s why the nation had developed fields like finance, culture, sports, and the service industry—especially entertainment. Beyond agencies, celebrities, and directors, countless others made a living in the vast web of interests surrounding them. Someone like Lin Qihua, after debuting, was registered with the Artist Guild as a third-tier artist—a remarkably high starting point. If he faded into obscurity for a year, his ranking might drop. Yes, in this era, an artist’s status was clear and official, their value strictly graded by dedicated departments using a nine-tier system. The lowest was ninth tier—extras and those scraping by in the industry. The highest, first tier, were the superstars at the top of the pyramid. Beyond even them were the kings and queens of entertainment, who were not ranked, having transcended the system. They dominated not just the domestic scene but also Hollywood, the Grammys, and the global stage. These were the ones who competed with the world’s top stars, earning unrivaled prestige; every king-level celebrity was headline news at a word, with legions of followers.

Artists like Lin Qihua, who emerged from formal company training camps, usually debuted as fourth-tier, or, if lucky, third-tier. From there, they climbed gradually through performances and growing popularity—a long and grueling process. Every year’s end, specialized companies would assess each artist’s annual performance, popularity, and social impact, submitting evaluations to the relevant authorities for regrading. Promotions and demotions were possible. Of course, not everyone climbed slowly. Since the nine-tier system was introduced, geniuses had occasionally rocketed from third-tier to first-tier, and some long-overlooked artists had become overnight sensations. Still, on the whole, it was a fair and just system, requiring not only popularity but also significant social influence and recognition. Fans had truly become an artist’s lifeblood.

With such a clear grading system, artist value was also transparently appraised. This reined in the previous chaos where celebrities’ supposed worth could soar into the hundreds of millions. There was a time when variety show wars inflated stars’ fees; some, with scant achievements, demanded astronomical sums, while truly talented performers languished with low pay—an inequity much criticized. The new system linked fees to ranking: your level determined your price, which fluctuated within a set range, with both floor and ceiling. For example, Lin Qihua, as a newly debuted third-tier star, was worth about half a million—the lowest for his tier. If he became highly popular, his fee could reach a maximum of one million, but no more. Tying value to rank had, undeniably, brought order to the entertainment industry.