Chapter Thirty-Two: Rankings Updated

“Next, I’d like to sing a song for you. I hope you’ll lend me your ears. Here’s ‘Li Bai’ for everyone.”

A thunderous round of applause erupted from the crowd. This signaled yet another new song, one that complemented the previous piece, ‘Bring in the Wine,’ revealing the performer’s thoughtful approach and earnest attitude. Naturally, such sincerity was met with generous applause.

A lively melody began to play. Unlike the earlier ‘Let’s Sway Together,’ this tune evoked an involuntary smile at the corners of one’s mouth.

“Most people want me to learn to see the world through their eyes,
So I diligently studied the worldly gaze, worldly till dawn.
I watched a foreign film, didn’t understand a single word,
By the end, I realized the joke was on me.
See how well-behaved, clever, obedient, and cunning I am,
Drank several big bowls of rice wine before leaving, just to imitate,
The painting I threw up on after stepping outside—who was the artist?
You call each other ‘dear’ every day,
Such an out-of-date style,
You’d do well to practice some calligraphy before venturing into the world,
Then perhaps you’d find someone willing to pay for your efforts.”

A faint self-deprecating tone lingered throughout, yet it captured the real state of most people’s lives. Those living in the mundane world can hardly ignore the judgments of others. It’s difficult to live by instinct and true desire, unrestrained and free from societal expectations. This is the helplessness of modern life.

“If I could live again, I’d choose to be Li Bai,
Few would speculate about my deeds centuries ago.
If I could live again, I’d choose to be Li Bai,
At least I could write poetry to stir the heart and tease the girls.
If I could live again, I’d choose to be Li Bai,
Creating with such brilliance, admired by so many.
If I could live again…”

The song’s brisk, powerful rhythm, its graceful and effortless melody, and Ronghao Li’s carefree vocals gave this pop song a tangible quality and tension, making people want to hum along. Everyone here lived in the great city of Yanjing, caught between the modern era and their ideals, with a wide chasm in between. Though they didn’t want to compromise, habit became second nature. This song struck a chord with nearly everyone—the desire for a life like Li Bai’s, even if unattainable, did nothing to diminish the longing. Such is the paradox of modern existence.

As the song ended, Lin Qihua and his bandmates bowed in gratitude and descended the stage amidst roaring cheers, leaving it to the “Rose” band, whose members wore wry smiles.

“Performing after you all, really…” Sister Yu shook her head in resignation. “The gap in skill is too big, and we don’t have new songs to rile up the crowd. All we can do is give it our best.”

“Good luck,” Lin Qihua replied with a smile, taking her words as polite banter. Yet, in her eyes, he saw a burning flame—the spark of newfound determination. It seemed she was ready to give it her all.

After their performance, the band was in high spirits. The successful show filled everyone with satisfaction, especially the newest member, who was seeing such an electrifying scene for the first time. She gained a deeper understanding of the band’s strengths. Knowing these changes came after Lin Qihua joined, she looked at him with clear admiration. If Nana was her role model—someone who rose from small to grand stages—then Lin Qihua had become her idol. Unconsciously, he’d gained a new little fan.

When all the performances ended, the bar hosted a small gathering to celebrate the coming of the New Year. Sister Mei generously handed out red envelopes to everyone, much to their delight.

The next day, New Year’s Day, Lin Qihua made himself a meal of dumplings at home to mark the holiday. He called his family, Qin Lulu, Han Dong, and others, exchanging festive greetings. Early that morning, Little Scatterbrain sent a video message with her own recorded well-wishes, which warmed his heart. Wang Ruyue also sent her best wishes later in the morning, expressing her heartfelt thoughts.

After replying to them all, Lin Qihua turned on his smart computer and opened the Artists’ Guild website. Following tradition, the association would release the latest national rankings and value assessments for all artists today. This was the most anticipated event for artists across the country. Though he had a sense of what to expect, today would reveal whether he’d met his goals—how his work over the past year was evaluated. If he’d advanced, his efforts hadn’t been in vain and he’d see improvement in every aspect. But if he’d been downgraded, it would inevitably affect his popularity and income this year.

The website was a bit sluggish—almost unheard of in the age of smart technology—but it happened, proving just how many people were online browsing. He clicked the prominent banner on the homepage, and a new page opened: the latest artist rankings. Every artist registered with the Guild could find their name and rating—even someone like Ahui, who only performed at bars, had his own rights and evaluation, though it was unlikely to be a high one.

The first page, naturally, listed the top superstars—the kings and queens of the industry. Once crowned, they transcended the ranking system. Having reached the summit, they were not subject to further rating or demotion. Their evaluations summarized their work over the past year: number of concerts, film projects, achievements, overseas performance, and international popularity. There was no ranking among the kings and queens; their names were listed in order of when they were crowned. However, the annual summary laid out their popularity and accomplishments clearly, serving as a key reference for the Hall of Fame—a prestigious institution in the entertainment world, honoring those with monumental achievements and contributions to Chinese entertainment. To be inducted was the highest honor, ensuring their names would be remembered for generations. It was no wonder that artists yearned for this recognition.

The second page featured a much larger number of tier-one stars, with some gaining and others losing their status—a normal occurrence. This year, two unfortunate souls had been demoted: one brought it on himself with a massive scandal, so his downgrade was well deserved. This reflected a distinct Chinese characteristic—an artist’s character is directly linked to their popularity and body of work, with stricter standards than abroad. In contrast, in the world’s other entertainment capital, America, an artist’s scandals are little more than entertainment news. As long as no sensitive issues are involved, fans are often entertained by such stories, and they rarely affect popularity—in fact, sometimes they boost it. As long as you sing or act well, nothing else matters. American stars have it much easier compared to their counterparts here. The other demoted artist simply failed to produce quality work in recent years, so a drop in rank was expected.

Three names were added to the tier-one list, all familiar faces. Their hard work the previous year had paid off, finally elevating them to the top tier. Qin Lulu was among them; she had three TV series and two films last year, all of which were widely acclaimed. Her acting was unanimously recognized, her popularity soared, and most notably, the dramatic turn of events surrounding her contract dispute in the latter half of the year put her firmly in the public eye—she even became a chart-topping queen for a time. Her one-line assessment read: “Qin Lulu, a hardworking and resilient artist, made remarkable progress this year. She was nominated for both Best Actress and Best Film Actress. Though she did not win, she is highly regarded by all sectors. Most importantly, she instigated a major transformation in the entertainment industry, one that may lead to sweeping changes. For this alone, she deserves her place in the upper echelons of tier one and is a strong future contender for the Hall of Fame. However, her biggest challenge in the coming year will be: after leaving ‘Huayi,’ can she maintain these results? We shall see.”

Reading this, Lin Qihua couldn’t help but feel happy for Qin Lulu—making it to tier one was the highest affirmation she could receive.

On the third and fourth pages, he found no trace of his own name. Lin Qihua understood this meant he’d been downgraded—something he’d mentally prepared for, but it still stung to see it happen. Surprisingly, Liu Feng hadn’t moved up to tier two, landing instead at the top of tier three. His evaluation noted his potential and promising future but said more proof was needed—rapid change over a few months wasn’t enough for a qualitative leap. Lin Qihua imagined Liu Feng would be spitting blood over this; so self-assured, now harshly brought back to reality.

On the fifth tier, Lin Qihua found his own name near the top. The official assessment read: “Once a rising star with limitless potential, he was on the ascent but fell unexpectedly—not for lack of ability, but due to luck or unforeseen events. Whether he can climb back up remains to be seen next year. Expectations remain, as he has both talent and looks; perhaps all he needs is a bit of luck. Currently singing in a bar—is this a fall from grace or a period of quiet growth? We shall see.”

Lin Qihua could only smile wryly. The evaluation was fair, not harsh, but it still stabbed straight into his heart.

Elsewhere were the names of Han Dong, Ahui, Nana, and others—ranked beyond tiers six and seven. Having not appeared on stage for a long time, holding even such a position was already quite good.

Little Scatterbrain and a few others weren’t listed—they hadn’t debuted or performed publicly yet, so it was normal not to see their names. If they debuted next year, they’d likely start around the third or fourth tier, the standard entry point for company trainees, which was already a step ahead of other newcomers by default.