Annan’s guess was correct. At Diyang Entertainment, Zhou Cheng and the members of Team 9 all crowded into a meeting room, staring at the rapidly increasing data displayed on the projector—the figures were growing alarmingly fast.
But the data was not his own.
The members of Team 9 barely had time to observe Zhou Cheng’s expression, as some pessimistically remarked, "These numbers are terrifying."
Someone nodded in agreement, adding, "The rate at which M.YU’s data grows towards the end is as if she’s cheating. Aren’t Lao Ji and Han Yunfei with our company? Even though we operate in different areas, why are they helping an outsider over one of our own?"
Zhou Cheng, seasoned through many years, didn’t find it hard to comprehend the intricate dynamics at play. Lao Ji and Han Yunfei, despite any appreciation for M.YU and gratitude towards her, were unlikely to overtly pick sides —in the industry, the most common practice was to keep one’s own counsel.
With troubles of his own, who had the leisure to meddle in the affairs of others?
But the fact that these two voiced their support for M.YU meant only one thing—someone higher up had arranged for this!
The upper echelons of Diyang Entertainment? Or the headquarters of the conglomerate?
Zhou Cheng didn’t dare to delve deeper; just the thought sent a cold sweat breaking out along his forehead.
Voices of heated discussion buzzed in his ears, yet at that moment, all he wanted was to find M.YU and ask her who was backing her.
"Do you think the RSA Asia-Pacific Record Statistics Association could manipulate the data?" Suddenly, a sound engineer from Team 3 threw out a question.
That offhanded remark immediately drew everyone’s attention.
The crowd began to argue vehemently in disapproval.
"How could that be possible? The RSA Asia-Pacific Record Statistics Association, as one of the most authoritative statistics companies, has been in operation for many years without a single incident of unfair conduct. Moreover, it’s jointly established by several major companies—they wouldn’t tarnish their own reputation."
"If the RSA Asia-Pacific Record Statistics Association were to falsify data, then all singers’ record sales would be fraudulent."
"I bought M.YU’s song and listened to it, did any of you?" The recording director from Team 9, who had the best relationship with Zhou Cheng, asked, scanning the eyes of everyone present.
They all shook their heads, indicating they hadn’t listened.
The recording director from Team 9 pressed his forehead, "Are you all planning to go down together, hand in hand, where the first to betray is a dog?"
The rest were silent: "..."
The recording director from Team 9 continued, "As musicians, being fair and just in treating matters is the attitude one should have, right? How can you grow ?"
He was genuinely disappointed. Ignoring Zhou Cheng’s increasingly gloomy gaze, he brought over his laptop after a few minutes, opened the music player, and played the song.
M.YU’s new song was not expensive, just five yuan a piece.
After four hours of real-time online sales, it broke two million—rumor had it that M.YU had sung "Bloodstain" herself.
When Yuran’s crisp yet soft voice flowed from the speakers, the entire conference room fell silent.
Compared to Zhou Cheng’s "Farewell You, Farewell Past," the grand and imposing start of the song’s overlaying chords opened up a powerful scene in one’s mind, naturally forming an imposing visual image.
Then came her unique and clear voice, the contrasting force between the two accentuating the lingering notes, drawing you involuntarily into the song to understand the story within.
This is what’s called empathy.
Even with Yi Yaoyao, a renowned singer, performing "Farewell You, Farewell Past," it couldn’t bridge the vast difference between the arrangement and the lyrics.