Chapter 57: Heart of the Sword (Part One)

Director Chen wielded considerable influence within the industry. His early works—several grand historical dramas—had garnered widespread acclaim and numerous awards. At the same time, he was hailed as one of the most “conscientious” directors in the business.

With the recent completion of filming on his new series, “Noble House, Loyal Blood,” the production became a hot topic, second only to the heated competition for the title in the “A Song to Fame” contest. It was now mid-August, and post-production editing and special effects were in full swing. If all went well, the series would premiere in early September.

Director Chen was thoroughly satisfied with the overall effect of this historical epic. He was confident the ratings would set off an unprecedented frenzy. Yet one thing continued to vex him: the series’ theme song.

The premiere was fast approaching, but the theme song still hadn’t been decided. Had it been another director, they might have taken the easy route, choosing an existing song. But Chen was different. Every one of his productions demanded a song that matched its spirit—and it had to be new, unheard by the public.

Because Chen’s works always attracted massive attention, being chosen as the singer, lyricist, or composer of the theme, ending, or even insert songs was a golden opportunity for recognition. As such, countless submissions poured in by email—some from aspiring musicians, others from established industry songwriters. Yet, perhaps predictably, Chen rejected every single one without mercy.

His reasoning was simple: the “passion” was missing a touch of tenderness, while the “tenderness” lacked a stirring heroism. For the crew, Chen’s perfectionism was a source of exasperation. Some of the submitted songs were, in their eyes, quite good—if not exactly what Chen envisioned, then at least close enough. But no one dared to say such things aloud. As the premiere drew nearer, everyone was busy with their own responsibilities, with little time or energy to care about the theme song’s fate.

After searching through his memories for the past two days, Lin Chuan finally settled on a song from his previous life: “Sword Heart,” once performed by Zhang Jie. Lin Chuan was especially fond of its lyrics—one line in particular: “Worldly dust, trapping my youth. Forgive the wild pride I hide in my heart, to fight, facing the vastness of heaven and earth.” He spent an entire afternoon transcribing the melody into a simple score. Not knowing whether Director Chen would like it, he also wrote out “Farewell Song” as a backup.

That day, Lin Chuan brought his two compositions to the production office. He didn’t see the assistant director, Mu Qing; instead, a young assistant came to greet him. As they walked into the building, they passed many people hurrying by, none sparing him so much as a glance.

“Are you always this busy every day?” Lin Chuan asked.

The young assistant smiled and explained, “The new series just wrapped up, so everyone’s working on post-production. If things go well, we’ll air in September.”

Lin Chuan nodded and dropped the subject. Before long, they entered a spacious, nearly empty room. Judging by the relaxed demeanor of those present, this must have been one of the least busy departments in the entire crew.

“Sister Lu, this is Mr. Lin Chuan. He was recommended by the assistant director,” the assistant said, introducing him to an older woman.

This “Sister Lu” was seated at a desk, head lowered as she wrote something. At the mention of Mu Qing’s recommendation, she glanced at Lin Chuan with thinly veiled impatience. “Recommended by the assistant director? Did you bring your work?”

Clearly, Sister Lu had no idea who Lin Chuan was—hardly surprising, since the crew had been tied up with this series for nearly ten months, with no time for variety shows or talent competitions. They knew little of Lin Chuan’s contest exploits, and as post-production consumed their attention, even those who had heard his name likely forgot it as soon as it was mentioned.

Lin Chuan took no offense, simply handing over the sheet music he’d prepared.

Sister Lu glanced at it briefly, then said, “Just a score? No demo recording?”

“I can sing it live,” Lin Chuan replied.

“Live? Go ahead, sing one,” she said, her lips curling in a half-smile.

Lin Chuan gathered his emotions, cleared his throat, and began to sing.

Meanwhile, in the adjacent office, Director Chen sat behind his desk, his expression thunderous as he stared at a thick stack of documents. These were submissions from netizens—some decent, some mediocre—but none piqued the famed director’s interest. As a respected figure, he held his works to exacting standards, refusing to allow even the smallest blemish. A good theme song could elevate a series; on that, he would not compromise.

With a sigh, Chen swept the stack into his wastebasket. Suddenly, a voice drifted in—not loud, but enough for Chen’s eyes to narrow.

“Hear the melancholy of the zither, regrets that cannot be forgotten, worldly dust, trapping my youth. Forgive the wild pride I hide in my heart, to fight, facing the vastness of heaven and earth. Life is somber, dreams entwined, burning like fire, past and present—a journey through rise and fall. With the cold blade, the solitude of the zither, I write the stories of now and then, a lonely sword… at my fingertips… laughter and talk…”

In a flash, Chen sprang from his chair, shivering with excitement, and strode quickly out the door. Before he could reach the source of the singing, he heard a woman’s indifferent voice: “Someone like that has the nerve to perform here? I really don’t know what Mu Qing was thinking, recommending just anyone.”

“Sister Lu, I thought the guy sang pretty well…” a man murmured.

“Pretty well? If Sister Lu says no, then it’s a no.” Another man’s obsequious tone silenced the first speaker.

At that moment, hurried footsteps approached. Director Chen swept into the room, eyes scanning for strangers. Finding none, he fixed his gaze and demanded, “Yang Lu, who sang that song just now?”

Yang Lu was at her desk, crumpling Lin Chuan’s sheet into a ball, ready to throw it out. She and Mu Qing had long been at odds, and since Lin Chuan came on Mu Qing’s recommendation, she’d seen no reason to give him a chance. But she hadn’t expected Director Chen to arrive at that very moment. Seeing his dark expression, she stood up, flustered. “Director Chen… what brings you here?”

“I asked you, who sang that song just now?” Chen’s temper flared at her evasiveness.

“He… he’s already left…” Yang Lu stammered, pointing to the door. She had intended to deny anyone had sung, but one look at Chen’s piercing glare left her with no courage.

Watching Chen dash out, Yang Lu stamped her foot, furious with herself for letting Lin Chuan sing in the first place. Now it seemed almost certain Chen would take a liking to his song. All that remained in Yang Lu’s heart was regret.

Meanwhile, accompanied by the assistant as they left the building, Lin Chuan felt his own frustration mounting. Judging by Sister Lu’s attitude, she clearly hadn’t taken his song seriously—much less would she pass it on to Director Chen. That thought only made him more disgruntled. If Director Chen himself had rejected “Sword Heart,” Lin Chuan could have accepted it. But to be dismissed out of hand, before the director even heard it—the injustice stung.

But what could he do? Despite his newfound popularity from the talent contest, he was no star. If they didn’t care, there was little he could do about it.

He was just about to step out the door when hurried footsteps sounded behind him. Someone called out, “Young man, wait a moment…”

Lin Chuan paused, puzzled, and turned around. An elderly man—perhaps in his sixties, his hair streaked with silver—approached with urgent determination. As he caught his breath, the assistant at Lin Chuan’s side greeted him quickly, “Director Chen.”

“Director Chen? That’s… Director Chen?” Lin Chuan was momentarily stunned.

A smile broke across Chen’s face. “Young man, that song just now—was it yours?”

Lin Chuan nodded. “Yes, it was.”

“Excellent! We’re searching for a theme song for our series, and what I heard just now—though only a snippet—was intriguing. Could you sing it again, from the beginning?” Chen was clearly excited.

“Of course. Right here?” Lin Chuan asked, glancing uneasily at the people passing by.

Chen waved off his hesitation. “No problem, sing here.”

After a brief pause, Lin Chuan nodded.

“Sealed within starlit destinies, a soul awakens from hazy nightmares, unraveling the threads of fate, unable to escape this lifetime’s loneliness…”

His voice rang out in the lobby, drawing the attention of many staff members. As they listened, all were taken aback—especially when they saw Director Chen himself standing by, watching intently. They could only wonder who this young man was, to attract such interest.

As the song came to its end, Chen’s face lit up with fervor. He seized Lin Chuan’s hands and declared, “This is it! This is the theme song I’ve been searching for. Outstanding, young man…”