Chapter 6: “Interstellar Singer”

“What did you say?! Say that again!” The Wordweaver, Star Anchor, fixed her beloved disciple with a piercing stare, searching him for any trace of a lie.

“Teacher, we cannot go to Earth for a cultural exchange.” As Star Anchor’s last and most cherished pupil, Shu had always respected her deeply, and he understood her obsession with Earth’s culture. But this time, he truly was powerless.

“Why? Didn’t you tell them that it was I—Wordweaver, Star Anchor—the Director of the Interstellar Institute of Literature, who wished to go to Earth for this cultural exchange?!”

Star Anchor’s fury sent her psychic force spiraling out of control, pressing down on Shu until he could barely breathe, but he forced himself to finish speaking despite the crushing pressure.

“Teacher, I did tell them. But their reason for rejection was that the Interstellar Federation does not permit any institution, from any star system, to conduct cultural exchanges with Earth. This is a top-level directive.”

Star Anchor’s psychic force exploded in an instant, but fortunately, the protective device on Shu’s body activated in time, sparing him from harm.

·

“Teacher, please calm down.” Shu, quick-witted and deft, opened his terminal, and a holographic video was projected at once.

“‘Bodhisattva Barbarian: Palindrome for Four Seasons—Spring Lament in the Boudoir,’ author, Su Shi.” The person in the video recited the poem in standard Huaxia, their voice rich with emotion.

A miracle occurred.

The wild, chaotic psychic tendrils that had nearly torn the room apart were, in the instant they heard that voice, as if gently stroked by an invisible, tender hand. Before their very eyes, they grew docile and soft, slowly withdrawing back into Star Anchor’s body.

Her expression, too, shifted from terrifying rage to a gradual calm.

“Shu, is there something you know?”

“Teacher, please—please listen to me calmly.” Unlike Star Anchor, Shu was born to privilege, and so he knew things that others could hardly imagine. Yet as he recounted this, his heart pounded with fear, terrified that Star Anchor might lose control again.

“I heard that, when the Earth government first joined the Interstellar Federation, they were deemed an ‘emotionally unstable’ entity and required to have all citizens wear emotion-monitoring devices, so they could be soothed if they ever lost control. But the Earth government refused, saying their people were free. The Federation didn’t press the matter and ultimately agreed, but from that moment on, the Federation forbade any star system or institution from conducting cultural exchange with Earth.”

Star Anchor’s breath came fast and shallow, her body trembling faintly, but this time she managed to restrain herself.

Seeing this, Shu felt a wave of relief and continued, “Of course, we could go in a private capacity—the Federation doesn’t prohibit that. It’s just… there are no major routes directly to Earth. If we want to go, we’d have to first travel to the nearest star system with a major route, and then take a private ship to Earth. But… as you know, private ships aren’t very safe. We’d probably have to hire protection. Teacher, is Earth’s culture really worth all this?”

Star Anchor’s breathing had steadied. She closed her eyes, and after a long silence, finally spoke: “Next month, the Institute’s literary appreciation symposium will be held. Let’s focus on that first.”

“…Yes, Teacher.”

Shu bowed respectfully and left.

Star Anchor sat quietly for a while, then, as if struck by a thought, opened her terminal and found the entry she had edited in the database about Earth’s culture.

The number of views was zero.

Star Anchor’s smile was more painful than tears.

“Why… must it be like this…?”

·

“Why else? Obviously because I’m amazing.” Feng Jingyu lifted her chin with pride. “It was my discerning eye that convinced Yu Huaiyin to join my plan. Once the Yu family saw my potential, they knew I was their best choice, so they brought their resources and joined us. Isn’t that right, Cen~Lan~sister~?”

“Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right,” Cen Lan replied with a smile. “The Yu family’s music library is incredibly rich. Our next step can proceed without a hitch.”

“If the Interstellar Federation won’t let other star systems conduct cultural exchange with us, then we won’t exchange—we’ll compete!” Feng Jingyu clapped her hands sharply. “I’ve already thought of a name for the competition: ‘Interstellar Singer’!” She looked at Cen Lan. “And you’re not allowed to say the name is tacky.”

“It’s not tacky at all. I think it’s a great name—people will know at a glance what the contest is about.” Cen Lan praised her sincerely.

“Great minds think alike. As for which star systems will participate… I’ll leave that to you. But remember, including Yu Huaiyin, there can’t be more than seven contestants.”

“Why can’t there be more than seven?”

“It’s just like how the seven artifacts actually have an eighth—on the surface, we say there are only seven contestants, but in truth, we have eight…” Seeing Cen Lan’s completely baffled expression, Feng Jingyu blinked and laughed. “I’m joking. With seven contestants, we have the most flexibility. I’ll send you the competition rules later and you’ll see.”

Of course, the reason for seven was because, in her previous life, a certain TV station always had seven contestants. After much deliberation, it was the optimal number—there was no way it could go wrong.

“Alright.” Cen Lan didn’t press further. Experience had shown that Feng Jingyu’s decisions always seemed inexplicable at first, but every time, they achieved the best possible results. “Mr. Yu’s music video is finished. If you’ve watched it and have no objections, I’ll upload it to the StarNet.”

“I’ve already seen it. This is exactly the effect I wanted.” Feng Jingyu rested her elbows on the table, fingers interlaced to form a support, her chin nestled atop them. “Everything is proceeding according to plan.”

She felt a slight pang of regret—why hadn’t she thought to wear glasses? The scene would have looked even more harmonious.

“Then let’s proceed as planned.”

·

“I saw fear in your eyes

That’s only natural

It’s right for you to revere me

Because I am the master of music

It is the sword in my hand

Where my heart leads

There the sword points

…

I will sweep away all obstacles with my music

Including you”

…

Star Anchor stared, dumbfounded, as she finished watching the entire video. She had never heard music so fierce, so arrogant. It was a style entirely unlike Yu Huaiyin’s previous “Cycle.”

In the video, the young man sat upon a throne, singing, his eyes brimming with contempt for all, radiating a lofty arrogance. As if he were telling anyone watching: Do you have what it takes to defeat me?

Star Anchor’s gaze landed on the lyricist’s name. “Autumn Whisper… Truly worthy of the name Autumn Whisper…” She let out a low laugh. “No cultural exchange? Then we’ll fight it out in the arena. So what if our civilization’s approval rating is low? We’ll settle it with a contest. Earthlings… Earthlings truly are… hahahahaha…”

“Teacher, the literary appreciation symposium is about to begin,” Shu reminded quietly from the side.

“Add these lyrics to the appreciation program,” Star Anchor commanded.

Shu stared at her in shock. “Teacher, are you sure? This is… a letter of challenge, full of provocation.”

“A letter of challenge? Indeed, it is a letter of challenge, but it’s not a provocation. It’s a declaration from an unyielding civilization to the stars: I will not be defeated. No matter how tightly you blockade us, you cannot halt our advance.” Star Anchor strode toward the hall, her director’s robe of the Interstellar Institute of Literature gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight. “It’s time they understood: true civilization cannot be buried.”