Superstars of Tomorrow

After the Galaxy Awards prize ceremony, Fang Zhao’s name recognition was boosted yet again. Both journalists who were part of and outside the establishment showered praise on him.

If any big star in the entertainment industry was made the topic of the day, these media types would typically feud to no end, yet this time, they all stuck to the same script.

Why was that?

The circumstances were different. One had to pick one’s battles. The pundits weren’t stupid enough to bicker over this one. Regardless of whether or not Fang Zhao had simply been lucky in providing the breakthrough to curing the Hull virus, the results were what they were. He had received an official commendation. He had picked up his prize. Even if they wanted to take issue with Fang Zhao, now was not the time. They could only hold back for now. There would be plenty of other opportunities down the road. Who knows, they might have something on Fang Zhao next time.

The director of the Hull virus documentary intended to capitalize on Fang Zhao’s popularity. Government-owned media outlets on every continent were already pushing the documentary, generating plenty of headlines, but the director’s fear was that few readers would actually go to see the documentary.

The name "Fang Zhao" guaranteed traffic, which meant more potential viewers.

To give the documentary broader exposure, the director shot a short film that used Fang Zhao’s new song as the score. Fang Zhao’s authorship of the song was highlighted.

Nanfeng was peeved when he found out.

Nanfeng voiced his concerns to Fang Zhao directly. "So it turns out that high-class shows like this will hitch a ride on someone’s popularity too. Isn’t it a bit underhanded?"

But as far as Fang Zhao was concerned, as long as they meant well, he wasn’t going to quibble with the director or the team over their calculated moves.

Fang Zhao was happy to see more people learn of the Hull virus and the stories of the strong family members who supported the patients.

The first trailer that the production team for the documentary released was about three minutes long.

A mournful piano solo conveyed sadness and a heavy heart.

A stifling mood permeated the darkness, as if the world were deep in slumber.

Hull-virus patients experienced an out-of-body experience of sorts. They couldn’t express themselves. They couldn’t experience the world, so they didn’t feel sadness and pain. Those who suffered the most were their immediate family.

As far as the immediate family members of Hull-virus patients were concerned, the world was a mean place, but they had no choice but to confront it head-on.

They were forced to abandon their own life plans, like the power couple of Ming Cang and wife, for example. They gave up their promotions and bright futures so they could track down a cure and diligently keep vigil, hoping that Lady Luck would pay them a visit.

But when would that day arrive?

Nobody knew.

Maybe their children would recover tomorrow—or never.

Human beings weren’t afraid of hardship. What they feared the most was the lack of courage and determination.

A man squatted in a corner smoking a cigarette and taking in the picture of his 5-year-old daughter, who wore a blank expression. He tugged his collar over his lips, which were frozen pale, got up, and shivered in the relentless winter breeze. He had to get back to his life.

After a long night of entertaining, a middle-aged man reeking of alcohol and vomit returned home to his stone-like, expressionless child. His shoulders collapsed and he stormed into the bathroom. He washed his face with cold water and stared into the mirror with his bloodshot eyes. How much longer can you keep your sh*t together?

A mother sat on the seat of a swing, watching squealing children scamper in the park. Her eyes turned tearful. She dusted off her dress, left, and leaned on a railing, her eyes filled with fear.

A gray-haired couple steered a wheelchair-bound young man out of the hospital and into the quiet streets as they slowly made their way home.

...

Not everyone was as well-off as Ming Cang and his wife. There were so, so many folks who had already been suffocated by the cruelties and hardships of life. For them, the world was a brutal place. Fate was a form of torture, a multitude of setbacks, painful and full of desperation. In one fleeting moment, they had contemplated giving up. They had wanted an end to it all.

"Life is an extended wait. Everyone is waiting for something important or meaningful. It could be a certain person, a single utterance, a belief, or an opportunity."

"We’re prepared to wait for our whole lives."

"Thankfully, Lady Luck shined on us this time. Our break has finally arrived!"

A letter arrived informing them that there had been a breakthrough in the battle against the Hull virus and that their loved ones qualified for an upcoming clinical trial.

Three years ago, the release of the four movements of the "100-Year Period of Destruction" series had provided the missing link in the race to cure the Hull virus.

At that time a sea of changes had occurred in many corners of the world. But the world was a vast place, and the breakthrough had been kept under wraps and news reports censored. People had stopped paying attention and the news had soon been forgotten.

But unbeknownst to the world, the ripple that Fang Zhao had caused had been changing the lives of many families, of whole communities.

So much had changed over the span of three years.

The man who used to cower in a corner nursing a cigarette now raced to the mountaintop in anticipation of the imminent daybreak. He admired the sunrise and basked in the sunlight enveloping the landscape, gearing himself up for a hopeful day.

The gray-haired old man removed his hands from his worn pockets and broke into a brisk walk, beaming. Tomorrow will be a better day.

It was their dogged determination, strength, and sense of responsibility that got them through the dark days.

The seemingly simple melody that played in the background had a glowing effect, splashing vibrant colors onto what had been a dull canvas, creating a rich, layered, and sharp image.

After countless sleepless nights, the family members of the Hull-virus patients could finally see the light of day and kick back a bit.

For those Hull-virus patients who had been fortunate enough to stick around for a cure, regardless of their age, they were experiencing their senses and expressing their emotions for the first time. It was like being a newborn. They were clueless about life, not having enjoyed bliss or endured suffering yet.

Their experiences from now on would enable their growth and make them strong and patient. Perhaps they might choose a less-traveled, more painful path at some point, but this much was sure: their lives would be rich and colorful.

The cheerful melody soared high, a glimmer of light in the dark seas breaking through the surface of the water and rising alongside the sun.

Fang Zhao hoped the Hull-virus patients who had received a second lease on life were filled with gratitude, remembered their purpose in life, and never strayed from the righteous path.

Fish swarmed through the waters while eagles scaled the skies. Fang Zhao hoped the recovered patients would face their uncertain futures bravely.

There were also researchers and medical personnel to thank. There was too much to say. Fang Zhao had packed his message in a song.

Musicians of a certain aptitude could quickly decode the theme of a piece even if they couldn’t figure out the composer’s exact message. That was why Old Jo had been able to instantly tell that Fang Zhao’s score had been written specifically for the documentary.

But the message was most likely lost on the masses, who weren’t interested in analyzing the piece. The name Fang Zhao alone was enough to pique their curiosity.

That was why the director of the documentary had listed Fang Zhao among the credits at the end of the trailer. This move had done the trick.

Meanwhile, Fang Zhao’s next door neighbor Will applied for a leave of absence from his classes. He was going to hole up for a week to paint. He intended to skip the next week of classes.

His instructors were happy to accommodate him.

To have enough inspiration and ideas to paint behind closed doors was a good thing. It proved that the artist had made progress during his studies at HuangArt.

The instructors at HuangArt were all giants in the industry. At their level, besides their own accomplishments, bragging rights also hung on the quality of their students.

If their students produced outstanding pieces during their programs, it reflected well on them too.

One of Will’s instructors, a highly respected senior professor at HuangArt, called immediately after receiving Will’s application for leave.

"Will, you’re going into hiding?"

"Yes, so I can achieve my short-term goal."

The old professor paused briefly. Who was Will painting again? I think he mentioned it in his study plan. But the professor interrupted his train of thought, instead asking, "Is this going to be a tough assignment? If you’re stuck, you mustn’t keep things to yourself, Will. We can talk it over and figure out a solution."

"I’ve gotten over my hump," Will responded.

"Good, good."

After hanging up, the old professor rummaged through Will’s lesson plan. He was getting old and becoming absent minded. The old man struggled to keep track of anything other than his own work.

Still, when he noticed Will’s short-term goal was a portrait of Fang Zhao, he cringed.

He was sick of the name. The old geezers in the music department had been flaunting it to him constantly.

"There are so many talented students at HuangArt who span disciplines. Why Fang Zhao?"

Because he was a celebrity? Because he had high market value?

No, Will wasn’t that shallow.

"Ah, probably because he lives close by."