Huaisheng Entertainment had always been the most unconventional company in the industry.

 If one said they were ambitious, then from management to staff to agents and artists, what everyone looked forward to most were pure‑fun team trips and the annual beach music festival.
If one said they were not ambitious, then their singers released music at the fastest pace and with the highest quality.

Filming was relatively slower. They did not always have the hottest traffic stars, and their box office might not top the charts, but every project that came out was solid and carried a good reputation.
Not to mention that quite a few exceptionally gifted young musicians, when thinking of debuting and looking for a company, always had Huaisheng Entertainment as their first choice.

Kuang Li and Fang Hang pulled a few other managers to the general manager’s office for hotpot, and together they set up a very strict screening standard—yet it still could not stop the wave of little guitarists who came just to chase their idol.

…

Recently, though, the little guitarists at Huaisheng Entertainment had been listless.
A new trainee agent glanced at the practice room and asked curiously, “Why is everyone so deflated? Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened,” the senior agent replied, used to it. “The general manager content is too low.”
He craned his neck for a look. “Severely low.”

There were many newcomers who joined Huaisheng Entertainment, each with their own reasons.
Maybe it was because the artist development plans there always focused on honing skills, with regular professional training and experienced instructors on site.
Maybe it was because the benefits were good and the contracts were relaxed—if a better opportunity appeared, they could leave at any time.

…

Or maybe it was because, every quarter, the whole company went out together to play like crazy, and the publicity department always edited the videos and posted them on the official account.
Plenty of peers, drooling with envy, would slip into the comments on their alternate accounts, asking in very roundabout ways what resources one needed to bring to jump ship.

But that mainly applied to singers and actors of other types. For guitarists who came specifically for Huaisheng Entertainment, eight or nine out of ten were there to chase a star.

“Remember that live house concert a few years ago? The sudden one, with zero promotion?”
The senior agent told the junior, “Good thing they saved us some inside tickets. Xiang Luan led the team; they all went… When they came back, they were so fired up they wanted to practice guitar twelve hours a day.”

After Ming Chi’s back injury fully healed, he could spend longer stretches playing guitar.
During that time, he traveled to many places, absorbing all kinds of local musical styles and playing techniques, and practically turned the guitar inside out.

The little guitarists were so stimulated they howled, and once they returned, every one of them dove straight into the practice rooms, burying themselves in work. The agents hardly had to worry at all.

As for what it was like at the time, even though the agents had not gone themselves, under the relentless enthusiastic sharing of the guitar kids—each with their own video clip—they almost had the whole thing memorized.

Rumor had it that this live house event was not only about singing and playing guitar; it was also a wedding for the general manager and his spouse, and everyone who attended got wedding candy.

Rumor had it that the general manager only did it because the weather had been bad for half a month, the ship had had to dock temporarily, and the port just happened to have a professional live house bar, with the approval process going unusually smoothly—so he was suddenly inspired to hold a small concert.
Rumor had it that the timing lined up perfectly: the moment the last song ended, the port’s whistles sounded.

Before the audience could react, Captain Ming, returning to his main role, had already jumped off the stage with his guitar in his arms.
Ming Chi grabbed his gentleman’s hand, stuffing candy into people’s palms as they ran out of the bar and drove that super cool car back into the floodlit harbor.

…

The mood on site, of course, had been both moving and exhilarating.
The young guitarists were buried in that wildly enthusiastic crowd, jumping and shouting blessings—“always be happy,” “forever blessed”—and yelling themselves hoarse giving their idol and his spouse long‑lasting well‑wishes.

For a whole month after they got back to the company, many were still not done bragging, secretly showing off to anyone they could about the candy they had gotten.

Not until the second month did it finally dawn on someone that this had in fact been a very spontaneous farewell ceremony.

Their idol would, of course, keep playing guitar, keep singing the songs he loved, and keep being endlessly happy together with the one he loved.
Maybe, when they arrived at some breathtaking place one day and heard a particularly beautiful guitar melody, they would look closely and realize it was actually the most handsome captain they had ever seen and the captain’s spouse.

Maybe in the future, if a ship were delayed unexpectedly in some port and there happened to be a good live house venue, there would suddenly appear a stunning guitar solo and performance.

…Or maybe there would be a bonfire party on the beach.
Or they might run into a group of kids who loved music but had no one to teach them.
Or it might be on a mist‑shrouded mountaintop, at a bridge with bright moonlight and running water, in some place so beautiful it stole the breath away, under the sun where people brushed past one another.

Or on some night when the ship sailed on the sea, the wind pleasantly cool, and the moonlight and waves unbelievably lovely.

Only, apart from the wind, the waves, and the moon that could go anywhere—as well as the gentleman and elder gentleman who would definitely be with Captain Ming—there would no longer be anyone who could find Ming Chi.

The only one who had accepted this fact smoothly was Xiang Luan, who had grown by leaps and bounds under the general manager’s personal guidance and now carried the steadiness and bearing of a senior.

The rest of the little guitarists still had not gotten past this hurdle.
Every year around this time they would wither on schedule, and because there had been no news about the general manager at all for a whole year, their condition was particularly bad this year—they did not even have much energy to practice.

The rookie agent had of course heard stories about the general manager, but had not expected Ming Chi’s influence to reach so far. Listening, he grew nervous. “So what do we do?”

“It’s fine,” the senior agent said, very experienced. He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and sent over a compressed file. “Which kids are yours? Just find a clip in here and play it for them.”

Each agent had a copy of this zip file.
It had been edited personally by Xiang Luan.

It was a “convincing‑Xiang fan edit,” cutting together all of his big brother’s flashiest, most brilliant solos into one compilation. Since the source material was the precious master audio they had painstakingly pried from Fang Hang, the effect was simply unbeatable.

The main use of the video was to rope newcomers into fan status when they joined the company, and to serve as a powerful motivator whenever symptoms of “severe general manager deficiency” appeared.

The rookie agent saved the several‑gigabyte archive and could not help asking, “What if it still doesn’t work?”

The senior agent stopped walking and stroked his chin.
Then he suddenly lowered his voice mysteriously. “Do you know what the company’s annual rookie award is?”

“A cruise ship ticket,” he said.

The newcomer blinked. “But… doesn’t everyone get one?”

“They don’t know that,” the veteran said earnestly, patting his colleague’s shoulder. “Tell them that whoever scores best in the year‑end evaluation gets a chance to board the ship and chase their idol.”

“After that,” he added, “you can stop worrying about their practice schedule.”

…

The burst of renewed passion from the guitar kids gave Manager Fang quite a scare.

Carrying a pack of beer, Fang Hang closed the door to the rooftop and went up, seeing Kuang Li smoking by the railing.
Hearing someone behind him, Kuang Li turned and gave him a brief nod.

Fang walked over. Golden light from the setting sun just brushed the edge of the concrete and glinted off the glass.
Kuang handed him a cigarette. “All set?”

“All set,” Fang replied, checking his watch. “Six o’clock, meet in the general manager’s office. Dinner, all‑night KTV, and tomorrow we’ll go watch the sunrise.”

This utterly unoriginal series of activities was, ironically, their firm annual tradition.
At this time every year, the managers met once, bringing no outsiders, then sat by the sea until the sun rose completely and the sky grew bright.

There had only been one exception—some years back, when they had gone to help the general manager tidy up his new home.
They had crashed his wedding, each scoring some wedding candy. Fang’s son had tagged along too and gotten his favorite sweets, running after Ming Chi, calling “uncle” nonstop.

What Ming Chi had bought was an ordinary three‑bedroom apartment with a spacious balcony. The floor height was just right to see both sea and mountains in the distance, and at night it was just one particularly normal light among thousands.
The most satisfying part was the underfloor heating, which worked wonderfully. After they finished moving and then messing around half the night, everyone slept so comfortably that no one got up the next morning; by the time they woke, the sun was already high.

“So it’s been that long already.”

Fang cracked open his beer and clinked cans with Kuang. “Time flies.”

Kuang stubbed out his cigarette, watched the sun slowly sink into the sea of clouds, and drank.
Yes—time flew.

So long had passed.
Sometimes he still dreamed of that time, still woke drenched in sweat, but the moment he opened his eyes he would remember that all the storms had completely subsided.

The person they cared most about was now living the freest, most comfortable life, together with the person he loved most.
If even a blessing like that could come true, what could possibly be impossible?

If they wanted to keep working in this industry, they would of course have to face countless problems and difficulties.
But they had already made it through those things back then—what could be more serious than that?

The two said nothing more, sipping their beer as the sky slowly darkened and the streetlights along the road flicked on one by one.

Huaisheng Entertainment no longer needed people to work overtime late into the night, standing on an empty street arguing about whether to eat spicy hotpot or mala tang.
But it still was not enough for them. They still had a little ambition, wanting to make this place better, wanting the company to become more famous and powerful.

Powerful enough that no matter where the general manager was, he might hear news of them and smile to himself.
Powerful enough that even though they knew it was totally unnecessary, they would still always be the backbone behind their young general manager.

“How are we this lucky…” Fang suddenly laughed. “If we could ever all get together again, that would be perfect.”

“On a world trip, three to five years is normal,” Kuang said.

“I know.” Fang nodded. “The longer he travels, the better.”

They also hoped Ming Chi would take his time.
Go to more places he wanted to see, live more of the life he wanted to live, without anyone needing to know, without anyone disturbing him.

Even though they had all silently agreed not to bring it up again, they still sometimes dreamed about those nights.
Those nights when they were drunk out of their minds, squatting in a daze under the streetlamp by the company gate, so full of regret, wishing so hard that their general manager had abandoned them and gone off alone to find freedom.

So they were in no hurry at all.
They all hoped, from the bottom of their hearts, that Ming Chi would have as much fun, for as long, as he liked.

Only, every year around this time, they could not help feeling a small pang of longing.

They missed that last truly proper meeting, when they had helped him clean up his new place.
It had happened to be snowing heavily outside that day, but inside the apartment it was wonderfully warm, and the windows were fogged white.

The snow blanketed the whole city, but the sky had cleared, with stars bright and sharp. The lanterns Kuang had hung on the balcony glowed a lively, festive red.

They could not stop bustling about with all hands, making every corner neat and orderly, then gathering for hotpot and beer.
That time, none of them held their liquor; every one of them ended up sprawled around the living room floor, grinning stupidly with their mouths open.

…

By the end, all their faces were wet, and wiping did nothing; tears just kept rolling down their necks.

How could there be something this wonderful?
How could they be this lucky?

Fang kneaded his shoulders hard, stretched lazily, then finished off his beer in one gulp.
He tossed the empty can into the trash and was just about to call to Kuang to head down when the manager’s phone suddenly rang.

Kuang set down his beer, listened, and his expression turned a little strange as he glanced at Fang.

“What is it?” Fang asked, startled.

“The new security guard says he’s noticed something strange, very unusual,” said Kuang. “Two unidentified guests have entered the building.”

One wore a baseball cap pulled low, very mysterious.
Three seconds after they appeared in the practice room, an eruption of cheers shook the entire floor.

The company’s artists had started acting oddly, too.
Especially the guitarists.
Especially the usually very mature and steady Xiang Luan.

When the guard made the call, he had just been spun around several times and only just steadied himself, standing with the agents who had rushed over. It took them quite a while of staring before they finally recognized the blur of Xiang Luan sprinting down the stairs and along the corridor with his guitar on his back like a gust of wind.

Now, those two “unidentified guests” had left the practice room and were heading for the management floor.

…

Fang and Kuang exchanged a look.
They immediately rushed down to the office area. Fang arrived one step behind Kuang, panting when he reached their destination. The door to the general manager’s office was already open.

The lights were on inside.
Wind slipped in through a window that had not been fully closed, lifting the curtains gently.

A figure sat curled on the sofa, typing on a laptop. When the gentleman beside him pressed lightly at his lower back, he reflexively straightened up and leaned against the cushion that appeared behind him at just the right moment.

Ming Chi lifted his gaze and met the onrushing crowd that might as well have been an earthquake, and his eyes curved into a smile.

He closed the laptop. “Isn’t tonight the karaoke night?”

The managers fell over each other in the doorway, nodding as hard as they could.
One of them was still rubbing his eyes like mad, and the legal department manager, called into service, twisted the marketing manager’s thigh hard to help confirm for everyone that this was not a dream.

Ming Chi stood up together with Ming Weiting.
He took off his cap and put it away, picked up his guitar case and slung it over his shoulder, then laced his fingers with the shadow gentleman’s.

“Can I bring my family along?” General Manager Ming asked. “Is that okay?”