Superstar Ch.93

Chapter 93: The Rift of Divinity

Shenghong had been very invested in the group’s first full-length album and debut release.

The balance of interests in this situation had been quite delicate.

First and foremost, Shenghong naturally prioritized promoting its own artists. However, since the group had yet to debut, the primary goal had been to increase their visibility. Because of this, Xie Xizhao’s treatment could not be subpar.

His popularity had been far ahead of the others, and his ceiling had almost determined the ceiling of the entire group.

Beyond that, there had also been pressure from the other companies involved.

All in all, no matter what happened in the future, Xie Xizhao had known that as long as Shenghong wanted the group to succeed, there would be no unexpected issues with the debut album’s production.

And that had indeed been the case.

At the song selection meeting, the pre-selected title tracks had all come from well-known producers. Both the melodies and the themes of the songs had clearly demonstrated the power of money.

As they listened to the demos one by one, Miao Haicheng finally spoke up. “Now that we’re behind closed doors, everyone can speak freely.”

Ai Qingyuan, who had always been quick to speak, was the first to comment. “I think they’re all pretty good.”

“I think so too,” Zou Yi agreed.

As the group’s vocal, he had cared more about the melodic feel than the choreography. These demo songs had all been catchy upon first listen. Regardless of their eventual performance, they had definitely deserved to be called “good songs.”

With two people giving their approval, Miao Haicheng’s expression had also relaxed a bit.

He then turned to Fu Wenze. “What about you, Xiao Fu?”

“You’re responsible for the rap parts,” he continued. “How do these songs feel in terms of rap?”

Fu Wenze had been honest. “They’re pretty standard.”

“Pretty standard” had meant that there had been nothing wrong with them, but also nothing particularly outstanding.

The rap section was quite specialized, so it was indeed best left to the professionals. Before Miao Haicheng could respond, the team leader beside him spoke first. “These are just demos. If they’re not suitable, the company’s producers can modify them. If you have your own ideas, you can change them yourselves. The copyright issues have already been settled, so there’s no problem.”

Fu Wenze nodded. “Alright, I have no issues then.”

No issues—but a decision still had to be made. Miao Haicheng first sought Yun Pan’s opinion, and as expected, received another noncommittal response that everything was fine. Then, he turned his gaze to Xie Xizhao.

“Xizhao, what do you think?” Miao Haicheng asked.

At the same time, several of the key planners on the team also lifted their heads, their eyes fixed on the young man who had remained silent the whole time.

—

The situation had been slightly delicate.

The deeper implication of this was that, although everyone within Shenghong had been well aware of Xie Xizhao’s special contract situation—and had known he was just a “temporary resident”—for some reason, people still couldn’t treat him lightly. Maybe it was because the Super Rookie program team had been humiliated too badly, or maybe Xie Xizhao himself simply had an inexplicable aura about him.

Whatever the reason, when it came to Xie Xizhao, people just felt a little… uneasy.

As the general director had once privately told Miao Haicheng, “I think I finally understand why that idiot Young Master Qi let a newcomer walk all over him.”

It wasn’t that he exuded a tyrannical presence that forced people to kneel before him. It was more that people couldn’t help but take his thoughts into account. Before making decisions, they would instinctively ask themselves, ‘How would Xie Xizhao see this?’ And, if they dared to go a step further, ‘What if he doesn’t approve?’

…Which was terrifying.

Almost as if he had cast a spell on them.

Of everyone in the room, only Miao Haicheng had known the real reason.

It hadn’t been some supernatural force—it was simply the subconscious submission that people felt toward someone truly strong.

Everyone’s gaze turned to Xie Xizhao, making him the center of attention. He had been preoccupied with analyzing an interesting bridge section in the last demo when he heard the question and lifted his head.

After a brief pause, he said, “They’re all pretty good.”

Miao Haicheng chuckled. “With that attitude, maybe you guys should have more comebacks?”

That was clearly a joke.

Ai Qingyuan was the first to protest. “No way! Even the village’s workhorse needs a break. Stop thinking about squeezing us dry, will you?”

Then, without missing a beat, he turned to Xie Xizhao. “Xizhao, just pick one. Your taste is better than ours anyway.”

He spoke as if it were a matter of course.

Xie Xizhao had already made his decision. What he had said earlier was just a polite remark. Since Ai Qingyuan put it that way, he answered directly, “If it were up to me, I’d prefer the third one.”

A staff member in charge of playback scrolled the mouse and pulled up the third demo.

The title appeared on the screen:

“Rift”

Before Miao Haicheng could say anything, Fu Wenze chimed in first. “The instrumental for this one is pretty interesting.”

Fu Wenze hadn’t said that casually.

After playing the demo again for everyone, they all understood what he meant.

As the rap lead, he was more sensitive to rhythm, and compared to the other tracks, the key difference in this one lay in the use of drum beats. The beats weren’t particularly heavy, but they had clearly been processed, making them stand out.

With distinct drum beats, the rhythm naturally became more pronounced, which also made it easier to choreograph a boy group dance routine.

Of course, since this was just a demo, the instrumental was bound to be rougher than a finalized track. But that also meant it had greater potential for refinement.

Zou Yi, however, had focused on a different aspect.

“This song…” he said, “has a kind of eerie, surreal feeling.”

But he quickly felt that his description wasn’t quite right—it was too abstract. “Not exactly a bizarre vibe, more like…”

“Lively,” Xie Xizhao interjected.

He had found the word that Zou Yi had been struggling to pinpoint.

“Because the instrumental doesn’t rely on heavy orchestration, and the arrangement is more jumpy,” Xie Xizhao tapped his fingers against the table. “It probably uses a lot of rests and ornamentations, which makes it feel very agile.”

He paused for a moment before adding, “Kind of like… hopscotch?”

A simple and vivid metaphor.

Everyone perked up.

That was it.

“Rather than calling it eerie, it’s more like a sense of fantasy,” Xie Xizhao continued. “It’s… hmm, let me put it in a way that’s easier to understand. When writing the melody, they probably used a lot of black keys on the piano. That kind of composition tends to create an uncanny, almost mystical feel.”

Not everyone present was well-versed in music theory, so Xie Xizhao made an effort to explain it in the simplest way possible.

“I think I get it now,” Miao Haicheng said. “So this song just has a very unique style, right?”

Xie Xizhao nodded.

One of the planners had already pulled up the songwriting and arrangement credits for the demo. The arranger was a rising talent in the domestic scene, known for their bold and intricate style.

Although not a big name yet, their compositions were undeniably fresh and innovative.

“If we go with this song,” the lead planner said, “then the core theme of the title track will lean more toward nature. The composer mentioned that the inspiration came from the fleeting changes of light and shadow, and the word ‘Rift’ was meant to capture that ephemeral moment.”

She paused for a moment. “The choreography should be easy to create—probably a clean and minimalist style.”

“But…”

“You think it’s not strong enough for a title track?” Xie Xizhao asked.

The lead planner looked at him in slight surprise. “Yes.”

The ranking already reflected their preference. There were four potential title tracks, and this one was placed third. To the planning team, it wasn’t the most suitable choice.

She thought for a moment before explaining, “Concept-driven releases are trending right now. Your group’s name is Phoenix, which represents rebirth through fire. That’s a grand and weighty theme, and this song doesn’t quite match it. It would be better suited as a secondary title track.”

She paused again. “From our perspective, a debut album sets the tone. The lead single is the conceptual starting point for all future releases, so it’s better to go with something that has more room for expansion.”

After saying everything on her mind, she still couldn’t shake her lingering surprise.

Normally, rookies just followed the company’s planning. Many groups debuted with pre-purchased songs, or they were simply handed a completed album and told to adapt to its style.

At first, they had assumed this selection meeting was just a formality—something done out of respect for Ai Qingyuan.

Perhaps that had indeed been the company’s initial intention.

But gradually, the focus had shifted, slipping out of their control and centering on someone else entirely.

And yet, what truly caught her off guard was something beyond just that.

Her reasoning was sound. Many people in the room fell silent, deep in thought.

Xie Xizhao was no exception.

But after thinking it through, he spoke.

“You just said,” he began, “it can be modified, right?”

In an instant, the lead planner—who had already felt a vague sense of unease—heard a metaphorical thud in her heart.

Her premonition had come true.

—

After the meeting ended, Xie Xizhao and Zou Yi were the last to leave.

Zou Yi hesitated for a moment before speaking. “The first title track is actually pretty good too.”

Xie Xizhao slowed his pace, walking beside him.

He really disliked these kinds of meetings. Back when the system held internal award ceremonies, even when he was the one receiving an award, he always found a way to take it easy.

But this time, there was no escaping it, and he felt utterly drained.

He sipped his milk tea. “Mhm, mhm.”

Zou Yi: “…”

He’s not even listening, is he?

But as it turned out, his assumption was wrong.

Xie Xizhao swallowed his milk tea and finally responded.

“Brother, I know what you mean.”

Zou Yi wasn’t trying to criticize him—he just instinctively considered things from Xie Xizhao’s perspective.

Any of the potential title tracks would work. Honestly, in today’s industry, great songs were hard to come by, and companies like Newstar had already proven that alternative strategies could still make money.

More importantly, Xie Xizhao wasn’t an artist under Shenghong.

Not only was he an outsider, but there was also a bit of competition between them. To put it bluntly, his position was awkward.

Zou Yi just thought it would be better to avoid unnecessary trouble.

But Xie Xizhao simply said, “Brother, just think of it as my perfectionism acting up.”

He couldn’t stand the idea of participating in an album that was just okay or decent. He didn’t care about others’ opinions. Besides, he knew that apart from the higher-ups, most people were just workers trying to do their jobs. As long as he didn’t cause trouble, they wouldn’t develop any real bias or resentment.

After returning to the dorm and grabbing dinner, Xie Xizhao headed straight to the composition room.

Instead of immediately opening his laptop, he grabbed the notebook he used for jotting down ideas and wrote a few key phrases.

Then, he played the demo that had initially caught his attention.

The demo looped for the third time when someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Xie Xizhao said.

As expected, it was Fu Wenze.

Fu Wenze closed the door behind him.

Xie Xizhao had a habit of taking a shower before working, and it seemed Fu Wenze had picked up on it too. He also preferred to wash up early. Now, both of them were dressed in casual loungewear, making the atmosphere feel more like home.

Xie Xizhao pulled out a chair for him and gestured casually. “Sit.”

Fu Wenze took the seat. “I was just passing by. I’ll be leaving soon.”

Tsk.

Xie Xizhao raised an eyebrow. “Say that again, and I’ll have to lock the door.”

Fu Wenze chuckled.

He didn’t keep teasing Xie Xizhao—there was no point, really.

Instead, he got straight to the point. “How far have you gotten?”

Xie Xizhao slid his draft over. Fu Wenze took it and carefully flipped through the pages.

If there was anyone in the group who could actually discuss songwriting with Xie Xizhao, he knew it was only Fu Wenze—who had always written his own rap lyrics.

As for the other three members? Two of them were in his sub-unit, and they might contribute lyrics at best. The last one, Ai Qingyuan…

Forget it.

Besides, Xie Xizhao had already noticed during the song selection meeting that Fu Wenze had his own ideas about music.

So it wasn’t surprising at all that he had come.

There weren’t too many notes, and Fu Wenze quickly skimmed through them. Then, he asked, “Are you planning to completely overhaul this?”

“Not really.” Xie Xizhao thought for a moment. “The melody stays the same, and the lyrics will just be tweaked to fit the concept better. But I’m redoing the arrangement. So… half and half?”

Fu Wenze: “…”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. After a brief pause, he finally asked,

“Need any help?”

“Yeah,” Xie Xizhao replied. “Help me organize my thoughts.”

Fu Wenze nodded slightly. “Alright. Let’s start from the beginning.”

Xie Xizhao nodded back.

Fu Wenze flipped back to the first page. “First of all, I do think that in terms of concept and song structure, the original version feels a bit… monotonous. No, maybe that’s not the right word.”

He rephrased, using a gentler term. “Not quite fitting for a title track.”

Just like the lead planner had said, it would work better as a secondary title or simply as a regular album track.

“But the melody itself is really interesting,” Fu Wenze added. “It’s not something you hear often in the market. I think its strengths lie in its replay value and that ‘strange-yet-intriguing’ feeling that Zou Yi mentioned. The lyrics, though… they’re the same old themes.”

He agreed with Xie Xizhao’s choice, of course. He was also someone who preferred the unconventional.

As for the lyrics, the song ultimately landed on the theme of love—or, more accurately, the budding emotions of youth. The lyricist had started with the idea of “light and shadow filtering through a gap” and ended with “the gap in one’s heart,” using it as a metaphor for the beginning of attraction.

Which made sense.

After all, for a boy band—or to put it more broadly, for any idol group that relied on fans—love was a safe and popular concept. The vague spark of first attraction, first love, passionate romance, heartbreak… all these themes had been explored to death.

Considering this was their debut album, it was understandable that the producers wanted to play it safe.

But—

As Fu Wenze put it:

“A bit too cliché.”

Xie Xizhao decided to leave the discussion about lyrics for later. Instead, he asked, “What do you think our styles are? Or rather—what kind of style should our group have?”

After a brief silence, Fu Wenze said, “We might need to categorize this.”

“I have a similar positioning to Ai Qingyuan,” he stated objectively. “The company probably designed our personas in a similar way—hormones, sex appeal, boyfriend material. As for the others, Panpan and Teacher Zou can be grouped together since they both have a gentler, harmless image.”

“As for you…”

His voice paused for a moment.

Xie Xizhao said, “Two groups, then. Zou, Panpan, and I would be in the same category.”

Fu Wenze shook his head. “I think you should have your own category.”

Xie Xizhao: “…?”

The discussion had only just begun, and they already had differing opinions. But he actually liked this kind of clash in perspectives.

So, he humbly asked, “What kind of type do you think I am?”

“That’s hard to say,” Fu Wenze admitted honestly.

Was Xie Xizhao gentle?

Without a doubt, he was very gentle.

But at the same time, he had an undeniable allure—something Fu Wenze couldn’t quite put into words. If he had to describe it, he’d say that magazine photoshoot during the competition suited Xie Xizhao perfectly. He fit the “forbidden desire” aesthetic—where both the restraint and the temptation had to coexist.

However, the magazine had used a black-and-white filter that felt too cold. Personally, Fu Wenze felt that Xie Xizhao’s kind of allure suited a warmer color palette.

His fingers, which had been tapping against the chair’s edge, suddenly stopped.

Thinking of Xie Xizhao, Fu Wenze suddenly said, “What do you think about the concept of ‘the gap between the sun and the moon’?”

Xie Xizhao was briefly stunned before he chuckled. “So I’ve become your source of inspiration now?”

Xie Xizhao.

Dawn and dusk. Morning and night.

Not sunrise, then sunset—just the moment of transition between them, the fleeting exchange of sun and moon.

This concept was indeed grander than the original “between light and shadow” idea and was much closer to what Xie Xizhao had in mind.

He asked, “Are you thinking of a theme centered around life and time?”

Fu Wenze indeed had the same idea. He said, “I feel like it would be grand and impactful, and it’s quite meaningful as well.”

Xie Xizhao paused for a moment. “What if we take it even higher?”

Even higher…

Fu Wenze thought of the draft he had just seen, and something clicked in his mind.

He looked into Xie Xizhao’s clear eyes. “You mean…”

“The Phoenix—nirvana and rebirth.” Xie Xizhao spoke slowly. “It’s a truly powerful concept. No matter what kind of personalities or styles we have, we all align with this theme.”

“That’s why I think, no matter which song we choose as the title track, we shouldn’t abandon certain elements.”

What elements?

The grandeur of mythology.

The sacred and untouchable realm above the clouds.

Fu Wenze had looked toward the sun and moon through the lens of light and shadow, but Xie Xizhao looked even further—beyond them.

His voice was calm and distant, as if it truly came from the heavens.

“God created Adam and Eve, but even in the carefree paradise of Eden, there was temptation from the serpent. Everyone believes that gods are high above, flawless and untouchable.

Possessing an unshakable and indestructible divinity—yes, that seems ideal. But—

Is divinity truly unbreakable?”

He met Fu Wenze’s gaze. The latter’s eyes clearly flickered with a sense of awe.

“You want to create a theme about the fall of gods?” Fu Wenze asked.

Xie Xizhao shook his head.

“I don’t see it as a ‘fall,’” he replied.

Fu Wenze exhaled a breath. “I get what you mean now.”

It was only at this moment that he fully realized—Xie Xizhao had been serious all along.

He truly hadn’t changed much.

The lyricist’s core theme of “love” remained untouched—it simply became the key that pried open the rift in divinity. The composer’s light and intricate style stayed the same, only now, its liveliness was elevated to something sacred and grand.

The sanctity aligned with the mythological concept of the phoenix that had represented them since their debut.

And what about them, the people themselves?

That was precisely where the transformation took place—to fit their own unique essence.

Gentleness and sensuality. Purity and desire.

A god, high above, loves all things in the world with mercy and equality. But sometimes, in a fleeting moment, even divinity can waver. This wavering could, of course, stem from the simple and pure stirrings of emotion, but…

It was more than that.

Fu Wenze suddenly thought of their debut night.

The sea of lights in the crowd, the cascading ribbons floating through the air, and the deafening, faceless shouts calling their names.

He had always been someone distant, reserved—but in that moment, for the first time, he truly felt the deepest emotional connection that could exist between an idol and their fans.

It is never just emotions that move people.

It is sincerity.

That was the rift in divinity.

That was the true concept Xie Xizhao wanted to create.

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