Chapter 327: Why Didn’t It Blow You Up for Good?

Chapter 327: Why Didn’t It Blow You Up for Good?

Wu Chen had known An Menglan would call him. He simply had not known
which day.

A few days earlier Song Xuan had received a call from her idol An
Menglan, and she had given An Menglan Wu Chen’s number with his
permission.

“Well, Mr. Morning Mist…” An Menglan began.

“My surname is Wu,” Wu Chen interrupted, correcting her.

“Hello, Mr. Wu.” She paused, then asked, “I’ve spoken with Miss Song
before. You know about that, right?”

“I know. She told me that day.”

“Then here’s the thing, Mr. Wu. I really admire your talent. I’ve
listened to both songs you wrote, and I truly, truly like them.” An
Menglan was unstinting with her praise.

“Thank you.” Wu Chen smiled.

His reaction stayed mild, no more than the ordinary courtesy of any
everyday conversation.

This was a first for An Menglan.

Ever since she had semi-retired and shifted the focus of her career
toward running her company and finding new talent, she had made a good
many calls like this one herself. Every unknown singer who received one
reacted almost identically.

They were excited.

Male or female, it made no difference.

There was hardly an unknown singer alive who did not want to become a
star, get signed, and make it big. And when a superstar and company
owner like An Menglan called in person, excitement was the natural
response.

Wu Chen, however, reacted to An Menglan no differently than he would
have to any ordinary person.

She found it strange, though not impossible to understand.

She had never looked into his background. She did not know what he did
or what sort of family he came from. If his family was very wealthy,
perhaps writing and releasing songs was only something he did for fun,
and perhaps he simply was not the star-struck type.

If that was his character, then his lack of excitement was perfectly
normal.

But for An Menglan it made things difficult.

It meant signing Wu Chen would be hard.

“Mr. Wu, may I ask something a little presumptuous? Did you study music,
or is it a personal hobby?”

“A hobby, I suppose. I studied computer science,” Wu Chen said.

“Are you still in school, Mr. Wu?”

“No.”

“Then have you considered building a career in the entertainment
industry? With your talent, I think you could become a new star very
quickly.”

Even An Menglan felt the question came out oddly as soon as she said it.

In the past, whenever she made this sort of call, the other person
usually raised the subject of signing without her needing to ask so
much.

“I don’t have any plans for that at the moment,” Wu Chen said, refusing
crisply.

The line went quiet.

For a moment An Menglan did not know what to say.

Another first.

She had actually been turned down.

“Mr. Wu, you truly are very talented. I have great confidence in your
musical gifts.” She praised him again before going on. “How about this,
Mr. Wu. Do you have time in the next few days? You’re in Donghai, aren’t
you?”

“Time… yes. And I am in Donghai.”

“I’ll be going to Donghai in the next couple of days. When I arrive, may
I invite you to meet?” She extended the invitation formally, then added
after a brief pause, “Miss Song will be there too. We could meet and
talk. What do you think?”

Wu Chen was silent a moment, apparently considering it.

“Mr. Wu, even if you have no intention of debuting as a performer, I
think there may be other ways for us to work together, don’t you?
Meeting and talking can only be a good thing. It won’t take much of your
time.”

She genuinely wanted to meet him.

Someone who could write two smash hits within a matter of days—and songs
that had climbed that high—was unlike anyone An Menglan had ever heard
of.

Other than “musical genius,” she could think of no phrase that fit him.

For a musical genius with that much talent, An Menglan felt the trip was
worth making in person, whether to discuss signing him or working with
him.

And once she met him, her first choice would certainly be to persuade
him to debut. If that truly failed, they could discuss cooperation
instead. Even signing him purely as a songwriter would be worthwhile.

“All right… I suppose,” Wu Chen agreed, as though reluctantly.

“Then it’s settled. We’ll talk by phone when the time comes.” A note of
happiness had entered her voice.

“All right.”

“I won’t keep you any longer, then. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The call ended.

Wu Chen held the phone a moment after hanging up, thinking, his habitual
smile on his face.

Throughout the call An Menglan’s voice had stayed gentle and magnetic.
She carried none of the airs of a major company boss or a superstar.

That had a great deal to do with her family background and her
upbringing.

Strictly speaking, An Menglan was a fourth-generation rich heir. Her
upbringing went without saying, and the halo of superstardom had never
gone to her head, because next to her family background her star status
could almost be counted an extra embellishment.

She had entered the music industry in the first place simply to fulfill
her dream of making music.

That dream could now be considered fulfilled.

But her love of music had never changed. The passion in her was as
strong as ever.

So she valued any young person with genuine musical talent.

Wu Chen knew An Menglan extremely well.

Though she was from Xiangjiang, she normally lived in Modu.

And Donghai was only about two hours from Modu by high-speed rail.

Across the thousand-year loop Wu Chen had dealt with An Menglan many,
many times. It was fair to say he knew her inside and out.

After hanging up, he sat on the sofa and thought for a while about the
many things that had happened between them.

“Boss,” Tang Xinbao called.

When Wu Chen looked over, he asked, “Something going on?”

“No.” Wu Chen smiled, then asked, “When your second uncle called
earlier, did he say when he’d be coming over?”

“He did. Said probably around noon,” Tang Xinbao replied.

The two began talking again.

At the same time.

In a private ward on the third floor of Donghai University First
Affiliated Hospital.

Ding Ruilong, in a hospital gown, leaned against the headboard with his
right hand wrapped in gauze.

To the right of the bed, against the wall, Sun Yongzhang and Tang
Jingbin sat in armchairs with a small tea table between them. The three
were talking.

Sun Yongzhang had come to the hospital the previous night, then stayed
at a hotel nearby and returned early that morning to visit.

Tang Jingbin had only just arrived.

Tang Jingbin was not especially close to Ding Ruilong, but he had been
present while Ding drank at dinner the previous evening, and Ding had
gotten into trouble after returning to the hotel.

And given Ding Ruilong’s standing, he was worth visiting.

“…This won’t leave you disabled, will it? What did the doctor say?” Tang
Jingbin asked, looking first at Ding Ruilong, then at Sun Yongzhang.

“Too early to say,” Sun Yongzhang answered. “The doctor said it depends
on how he heals. They saved all his fingers. If the recovery goes
especially well it might not affect their movement. After all, it was
the kind of injury that affected muscles and bones, so scarring was
unavoidable… ah.”

He sighed.

Tang Jingbin understood.

There was probably an eighty percent chance Ding would be left with some
disability. Perhaps nothing severe, but his fingers would likely have
limited movement in the future. Whether he could even make a fist was
uncertain.

And it was his right hand, his dominant hand. That would inevitably
affect his life to some degree.

“As long as it wasn’t anything worse,” Tang Jingbin said, looking at
Ding Ruilong. “A man having a few scars on his hand is no great matter.”

He was trying to comfort him.

Ding Ruilong looked terrible leaning against the headboard, his mood
deeply sunk.

At Tang Jingbin’s words he glanced over, and out of deference to Tang
Jingbin’s standing he forced a faint smile.

“Second Master Tang is right. It’s really nothing serious. I still have
the hand…” It sounded almost as though he were reassuring himself.

Ring, ring…

A phone rang suddenly.

Ding Ruilong’s.

He turned his head, reached over with his left hand, picked it up, and
looked.

His brow furrowed slightly.

Li Ruotai.

Ding Ruilong assumed he was calling to mock him.

After a few seconds he answered anyway.

“Hello?” His voice was cold.

“Fuck your mother, Ding Ruilong! You fucking set me up! Why didn’t that
thing blow you up for good? Fuck your mother! Just you wait. We’re not
finished!”

Li Ruotai unloaded a torrent of abuse the instant the call connected.

Ding Ruilong was stunned by it.

Then his temper detonated.