Superstars of Tomorrow

No matter how the online controversy unfolded or what kind of stories the entertainment journalists who couldn’t stay idle made up, Fang Zhao had no time to pay heed. As shooting progressed and the number of scenes involving Wu Yan increased, Fang Zhao’s screen time decreased, which gave him more time to compose.

The cast and crew also noticed that Fang Zhao was spending less time on set. With the passage of time, people missed the good ol’ days. In the absence of the voracious eater Fang Zhao, everyone began to eat more slowly, at the pace of taking medication. Everyone’s rice intake declined.

So whenever he could, the director kept Fang Zhao on set to eat with the rest of the cast.

Today, Fang Zhao had been asked by Director Bai of the Yanzhou chapter to stay for takeout.

Fang Zhao had raced through two boxed meals and started his third by the time most of the others were halfway through their first.

When Fang Zhao finished his third box, a smiling Director Bai handed him another. "We’ve got plenty. Another one?"

The canteen always sent over extra boxed meals. The untouched ones were returned.

Director Bai was actually kidding. Lo and behold, Fang Zhao gauged the fourth box and nodded. "Thanks!"

Director Bai and the other actors glared at Fang Zhao as he accepted the fourth boxed meal and attacked it with a vengeance.

Fang Zhao raced through the fourth box. Director Bai scanned the pile of fresh boxed meals, grabbed another, and handed it to Fang Zhao. "Another?"

Fang Zhao hesitated. "Thanks, but I’m good."

The rest of the cast: "..." Uh, why did you hesitate?

Director Bai returned the box, his eyes oozing curiosity. "Uhm, how come your appetite has increased even though you have significantly fewer scenes?"

Another actor said, "It’s good to be young. I bet he expended the energy from his first boxed meal before he finished the second. You get hungry easily at his age."

The other folks secretly disagreed. Fang Zhao had casually downed four boxes and looked like he could wolf down a fifth. This was a bit scary. There were other young actors in the cast. They could eat at most two or three boxes. The stunt doubles, for example.

A thought popped into Director Bai’s head and he asked Fang Zhao earnestly, "Are you under a lot of pressure?"

Fang Zhao paused before nodding. "A little bit."

The acting part was OK, but composing was a bit stressful. Being able to submit his piece directly to Mo Lang was both a great opportunity and a test at the same time. If he followed normal protocol, he would be subject to at least two rounds of prescreening, but going straight to Venerable Mo, given his personality, meant either being accepted or rejected in one go. There was no room for condolences.

Fang Zhao would be lying if he said he didn’t feel any pressure, although he wasn’t as mindful of the final outcome as others. Fang Zhao had already decided that if his new piece was turned down by Mo Lang, he would announce it to the world by playing it at his next concert. Now his focus was on doing the best job he could on the piece.

But others interpreted Fang Zhao’s response as a tacit admission that he was under a huge amount of pressure.

Director Bai was worried, but excessive pressure was common on set. Only the odd one out didn’t feel any pressure. He tapped Fang Zhao on the shoulder and sighed. "It hasn’t been easy for you."

It wasn’t easy at all for a young actor to carry such a substantial role. The good thing was that Fang Zhao had done a good job. The online reviews were overwhelmingly positive. With shooting on season nine due to start soon, Fang Zhao was bound to be feeling the pressure. It was the same for all the cast members. They felt increasingly restless as their death scenes approached.

Director Bai also knew that Fang Zhao frequented the concert hall. He didn’t think much of it. He figured that Fang Zhao attended the shows as relaxation. The directors were busy shooting every day. They didn’t have time to concern themselves with other matters, so naturally they didn’t know that Fang Zhao spent most of his time away from the set, composing.

That evening.

Fang Zhao was holed up in his dorm room, completing the final revisions to his new piece. The only sound in the room was the rustle of pencil on paper.

After penning the final note, he was thoroughly exhausted.

Extremely.

Exhausted.

More tired than he had been after days of nonstop shooting.

Fang Zhao gazed blankly at the paper notebook in his hands for some time, then smiled. "This is it."

The piece was bound to be questioned if it was released. This was not the kind of work that a composer in his 20s typically wrote, but Fang Zhao had geared himself up for the possible criticism at the outset.

He turned off the air conditioning in his room, walked toward his window, and opened it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the cold, dry, dust-infested air.

The dusty air penetrated his naval cavity and entered his lungs.

The crappy weather conditions on set, regardless of time of day, bothered most people, but at this moment, Fang Zhao felt completely at peace.

As if the wind had cured his exhaustion.

He felt relaxed, free of yet another incredible burden.

After enjoying the dusty breeze briefly, Fang Zhao returned to his desk and pulled out a fresh music sheet and a pen from the drawer. He copied his new piece onto the fresh sheet.

The music sheet, the pen, and the envelope for submissions were all custom-made for the music team of "Founding Era." They were water- and fireproof.

The team accepted only handwritten submissions. They didn’t take electronic files.

After Fang Zhao was done, he placed the music sheet in the envelope and sealed it with a paper strip that came with the package.

The seal was electronically coded. Once it was affixed, only the members of the music team who judged submissions could break it. The strip logged the identity of the person who broke the seal and when it was broken.

Fang Zhao didn’t have any scenes scheduled for the next day.

He went for a jog in the morning, showered, changed, and jumped on a bus bound for the concert hall, carrying a backpack containing his submission.

Some of the musicians on the bus were surprised to see Fang Zhao. They had never seen him this early. Typically, at this time of the day, he was on a bus destined for his set.

Some of them asked Fang Zhao about Mo Lang. Word that Fang Zhao had been stopped by Mo Lang and asked to submit directly to him had spread quickly within the music team. Many members of the team didn’t make much of it. Even though few were extended this privilege, there were still some 20-odd musicians who had received the invitation. Fang Zhao was not alone, so most folks treated the news as gossip, figuring that Mo Lang probably admired Fang Zhao’s talent or had known him for some time.

No one dared press Mo Lang for details. As for Fang Zhao, he didn’t volunteer much despite repeated questioning. Seeing Fang Zhao heading for the concert hall first thing in the morning rekindled curiosity about the incident.

A few folks who couldn’t contain their curiosity started following Fang Zhao in what they thought to be a stealthy manner after the bus arrived at the concert hall. They posted live updates:

"Judging from his route, Fang Zhao is off to see Venerable Mo!"

"He is! He’s headed in that direction!"

"He’s removed an envelope from his backpack, the kind of envelope used for submissions, the kind that’s sealed. He’s really here to submit his piece!"

Word spread quickly within the music center that Fang Zhao was turning in his submission to Mo Lang.

"Folks who can leave an impression on Venerable Mo, who can submit directly to him, should be quite talented. I really want to see his score."

"I’ve listened to Fang Zhao’s pieces. They’re quite infectious. The few songs set against the Period of Destruction have a strong narrative."

"Now I remember. That’s Fang Zhao, the genius who sold the rights to all the songs in his concert program for great prices before the concert had even ended. If I recall correctly, he’s in his early 20s. A very young fella. For quite some time, I used him as an example to encourage several students who lacked ambition."

"How come newcomers are so competent these days? As a veteran musician, I’m feeling the heat."

Fang Zhao was oblivious to the online chatter, but he did know that he was being followed. He knew his stalkers didn’t mean any harm—they were just curious if he was headed to Venerable Mo’s quarters. He felt no need to hide his destination, so he pretended he wasn’t aware of the tail.

Elderly musicians with tremendous stature like Mo Lang lived and took meals at the music center. It was where they lived and worked. When Fang Zhao arrived at Mo Lang’s quarters, he didn’t see the man himself but was received by one of Venerable Mo’s assistants instead.

Artists treated like national treasures like Mo Lang were equipped with a full staff—bodyguards, assistants, doctors, and so on. While other high-profile artists working on "Founding Era" could bring one assistant at most, Mo Long was entitled to four. These were the perks someone of his status enjoyed.

The assistant who received Fang Zhao was in charge of submissions for the "Founding Era" soundtrack.

The assistant took the envelope from Fang Zhao and inspected the seal. He said with a smile, "Why don’t you head back first. I’ll hand your submission personally to Venerable Mo."

He pointed to a surveillance camera. "Don’t worry. We’re under surveillance. I won’t leak your piece of claim it as my own."

"Thank you. Then I won’t impose any further." Fang Zhao headed for the door.

But he didn’t leave the concert hall. Instead, he headed to a recording studio where veteran musicians were working.

The world’s top five orchestras were on site. Many of the symphonic scores featured in the TV series were performed by them.

One couldn’t immediately hire one of the orchestras to record a new piece after it was finished. It was impossible.

There were only so many orchestras. If one wasn’t of a certain level or hadn’t garnered sufficient recognition, they weren’t even qualified to ask. Even if they put in a request, it would go nowhere. The major orchestras were quite arrogant.

Unspoken rules of selection had formed in the concert hall as well. There was competition everywhere. Talent was the only currency.

If a piece didn’t pass the first round of prescreening, the composer had better realize his limitations and get lost. The five orchestras wouldn’t bother touching his work.

If someone was rejected in the second round of screening, it was a good learning experience. The composer at least would have some solid footing. They had passed the first round of screening, after all. Composers that fell into this category had a better chance of securing slots at better recording studios and rehearsal rooms than folks who stumbled at the first block.

If someone’s piece was shortlisted by the screeners, then they could walk with a swagger. They didn’t even have to bother applying for studio space. They would automatically be allocated the necessary resources.

Like other aspiring composers, Fang Zhao sat down in the section cordoned off for outside observers.

Sophisticated digital sound systems did a good job of simulating a live experience, but it wasn’t the real thing, after all. Only the human ear was all-knowing.

While the live experience simulated by top-of-the-line digital stereo systems could fool the layman, music professionals, with their keen sensitivity to sound, could still tell the difference. That was also why many folks still enjoyed attending live shows in the technologically advanced New Era. Some of these folks were posers. Others genuinely enjoyed the feeling of a live performance.

Attending a live recording session, Fang Zhao could pick up the redundant sounds that sound engineers would clean up. He could detect the diminishing reverberations of each instrument that eluded the untrained ear.

While Fang Zhao was observing the recording session, Mo Lang finally emerged from his study. He didn’t like to be bothered when he was composing. No matter who showed up, they would be blocked by his assistants.

Once Mo Lang stepped out of his study, his four assistants got busy, serving him tea and massaging him. They were a well-coordinated unit.

"Venerable Mo, this is the envelope that Fang Zhao delivered this morning," the assistant who had received Fang Zhao said.

"Who?" Mo Lang asked.

"Fang Zhao," the assistant repeated.

Mo Lang had a blank look on his face. Who is Fang Zhao?

Mo Lang’s assistants were used to seeing him like this. He was prone to forget what he said and who he had met the day before when he got busy. The assistants reminded him, "You know, Fang Zhao, from Yanzhou, the really young fella. He’s best known for the four-movement series ’100-Year Period of Destruction.’ You told him he could submit his piece directly to you."

The assistants didn’t have to say much. There was no need to mention what role Fang Zhao played in the TV series. Venerable Mo didn’t care and wouldn’t remember. All they had to do was mention Fang Zhao’s best work.

Lo and behold, mentioning the "Period of Destruction" series did the trick.

"Oh, him. Yes, I told him to submit directly to me. Has he dropped off his piece already?"

The reason Mo Lang remembered Fang Zhao was because he had gone out of his way to listen to exemplary pieces about the Period of Destruction to prepare for his momentous task on hand.

Only a few pieces had made a deep impression on Mo Lang. One of them was Fang Zhao’s series. Mo Lang had even done some research on Fang Zhao, looking up his personal information and other works. He thought they were all quite outstanding. The only thing was that Mo Lang only listened to pieces set against the Period of Destruction these days. Fang Zhao’s series was the most stimulating.

Mo Lang had gone through the submissions he had already received as the senior adjudicator and hadn’t found anything from Fang Zhao. By coincidence, he had run into Fang Zhao in the concert hall the next day. Mo Lang had thought he looked familiar, so Venerable Mo had stopped him for questioning.

Now that Fang Zhao’s submission had finally arrived, Mo Lang set aside his cup of tea, took the envelope, broke the seal, and removed the document inside.

A star musician of his level could get a sense of the melody from reading the score alone. He didn’t need any assistance.

Just a few lines in, Mo Lang started frowning and fidgeting the fingers of his right hand on his right thigh, like a conductor conducting an orchestra, except his strokes were much more abbreviated.

Noticing Mo Lang’s deep frown, the four assistants started wondering if their boss didn’t approve of Fang Zhao’s submission. But when they studied Mo Lang’s expression some more, they realized he wasn’t upset. If he were, he would have tossed the score to the ground already. Drawing from their vast experience serving at Mo Lang’s side, they could tell that he was quite engrossed.

But did he like the piece or not?

The four assistants started tip-toeing lest they interrupt Venerable Mo’s concentration.

Mo Lang sat there, leafing through the entire score a page at a time.

Then he went through it again.

And again.

...

After five reads, Mo Lang’s frown hadn’t relaxed. It had gotten worse.

Breaking his concentration briefly, Mo Lang studied the name on the score and asked, "Did Fang Zhao drop this off in person? Was there anyone with him?"

"No, it was just him," the assistant who had received Fang Zhao said.

Mo Lang took a deep breath and said, sounding like he was either posing a question or asking himself, "He really composed this himself?"

Mo Lang jogged his memory. He only had a vague recollection of Fang Zhao’s face, but this much he was certain—Fang Zhao was a young man.

He’s able to compose something like this at his age?