Chapter 21: Where Justice Leads

"I... I didn't mean to!" "I... I didn't mean to!"

After seeing the little girl in front of him clearly, both Gu Cheng and the other apologized in unison.

It turned out to be Quan Baoya.

"I... I know." "I... I know."

"You go ahead."

After a few awkward overlaps in conversation, Gu Cheng, being gentlemanly, gestured for Quan Baoya to speak first.

Quan Baoya took two deep breaths and explained, "I called you this morning and you didn't answer. I was worried you might miss your flight, so I came to check on you."

Last night, it was the Quan siblings who helped Gu Cheng book his hotel room. When she arrived in the morning, she happened to encounter the same female receptionist from the previous night. She reported Gu Cheng's room number, mentioning that the guest might be hungover, and the receptionist allowed her to enter and check.

Thus, she startled Gu Cheng out of his nightmare, leading to an embarrassing misunderstanding.

"I'm fine now. She really is my friend, so you can leave," Gu Cheng said, dismissing the intrusive receptionist. He picked up his phone and checked the time—just past nine in the morning, so there was no rush.

There were a few missed calls from unknown numbers—these must have been from Quan Baoya.

He saved her number without much thought.

Once the waitress was out of sight, Quan Baoya gradually recovered from her embarrassment, realizing Gu Cheng had not intended any impropriety, and she forgave him.

"Did you just... have a nightmare? What did you mean by 'scumbag'?"

"Uh... nothing. Just think of it as me having done some things in the past I'm not proud of," Gu Cheng replied, a bit embarrassed but unwilling to hide anything.

Since he was living life anew, he intended to be honest.

Of course, his openness was mainly because the other was just a child—he had never seen her as a woman, so there was nothing he couldn't say.

"Enough about me. Let's talk about you. Why were you calling me so early? Surely it wasn't just to wake me up?"

Quan Baoya bit her lip and said, "I have something on my mind, and I'm hesitant. There's no one else I can talk to."

Gu Cheng was surprised, "You have so many friends at the company. Can't you talk to any of them?"

Quan Baoya sighed, "This is something I can't discuss with people at the company—if you weren't leaving, I wouldn't have had the courage to ask you."

"So yesterday..."

"Yesterday my brother was around, so it wasn't convenient."

"Alright, let's hear it," Gu Cheng said, getting dressed as he listened.

"In four months, I'll debut. The president wants me to sign the maximum term contract. My brother advised against it, saying long contracts are a trap; if I become famous, I'll get less money. What do you think?"

"About the contract, let me think," Gu Cheng said. He wasn't an expert in law, but coincidentally, he'd researched this last month when he was trying to leave the company.

So he was able to use what he'd just learned.

In the Dongyi legal system, protections for artists' contracts mainly rested on two points.

First, the maximum statutory term for management contracts was only seven years. Second, contracts signed by minors through their parents could be renegotiated once the artist reached adulthood.

Additionally, in practice, there was a one-year renewal buffer after the contract expired.

Quan Baoya was still just thirteen, so theoretically, S-M could bind her until November 5, 2005—her nineteenth birthday.

"Just sign the long-term contract. The company can't exploit you much, and your family isn't short of money," Gu Cheng thought for a moment and offered an opinion opposite to her brother’s.

However, upon hearing this, Quan Baoya visibly relaxed, which Gu Cheng found endearing.

"You little thing, you wanted to sign until your nineteenth birthday anyway. Just came to me for reassurance."

Quan Baoya said aggrievedly, "I heard that the president is investing thirty billion Dongyi currency in promotions for me. If I refuse to sign a long-term contract, it feels ungrateful and I’d be embarrassed."

Gu Cheng was unexpectedly moved with respect.

Such a traditional way of thinking was rare in his later years—

The internet had flattened the world, but also eroded the notion of ‘righteousness.’

Human warmth and camaraderie had gradually been replaced by cold, transactional relationships.

Packaging an artist was always a risky investment. Pouring huge sums into advertising, only for the artist to fall short and never become popular, was all too common.

In China a dozen years later, the industry would be rife with sayings like “the hopeless A Dou” and “the starlet who can’t be made famous.”

Given that Quan Baoya said President Lee was investing thirty billion Dongyi currency to promote her, such a benefactor deserved a long-term contract in return.

"I didn't expect you to be so sensible and righteous. I underestimated you," Gu Cheng said affectionately, patting Quan Baoya’s head.

"But I'm still a minor. My parents think my brother knows best," Quan Baoya said, sighing and seeking advice, "So I wanted to ask you. You're good with words—could you teach me an argument I can use to convince my parents?"

A minor’s signature carried no legal weight. Quan Baoya’s contract would ultimately require her guardians’ signatures.

"So you came to learn a line of reasoning... Let me think."

Gu Cheng mused that it must have been his eloquence in foreign language class that made her believe he knew everything.

He pondered his words carefully, and soon found the right approach.

"In the next couple of years, this may be the last golden age for agencies to support solo musicians. If you’re willing to sign a long-term contract and let the company see a return, they’ll be more willing to support solo artists in the future.

If the company makes you famous and you jump ship, it’ll push them into only supporting and exploiting groups—from then on, future generations will suffer because of you. Even if you’re legally in the clear, history will judge you. Why put yourself through that?"

"I... I don't understand. Why is this 'the last golden age for solo musicians'? And will my decision really have such a big impact?"

Quan Baoya was startled, not expecting her choice to carry such historical weight.

Gu Cheng, however, was clear-minded.

Historically, the last batch of dazzling solo stars from China and Dongyi all debuted before 2000, no later than 2002. Only in Fusang, where piracy was strictly combated and internet music suppressed, did the industry remain more traditional, allowing for the rise of a few new-century divas like Mika Nakashima.

The ‘internet winter’ was, paradoxically, the spring for individual musicians—because internet stocks were collectively battered, piracy sites couldn’t survive on ad revenue alone, and many went bankrupt. This allowed traditional record companies to eke out two more years.

But after 2003, when the internet blossomed again, the physical music industry suffered irreversible destruction.

For the next twenty years, no East Asian country produced a solo superstar on the level of Jay Zhou, Jolin Tsai, Quan Baoya, or Ayumi Hamasaki. Occasionally, someone with high sales and popularity would shine briefly, but they’d either fade quickly or come from groups, never achieving Jay Zhou’s sustained dominance.

This “prophecy” Gu Cheng couldn’t share with Quan Baoya, but its logic could be explained.

Quan Baoya listened intently, seemingly moved and a little melancholy. “Why, when the internet develops, do agencies stop supporting solo artists and only promote groups? I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!”

Gu Cheng drew open the curtains, letting early spring sunlight spill in, and spoke with his back to her:

“It’s simple. In the traditional record industry, agencies had many resources to control artists—like factories and distribution channels. Even if an artist wanted to leave a big record company, it was costly. In this environment, agencies were more willing to invest in artists.

It’s the same in literature. In the paper book era, publishers could control writers through ISBNs, publishers, printers, and bookstore channels, so writers seldom demanded outrageous fees after becoming famous.

But after the internet arrived? Society became flat. People could listen to digital music, read e-books. Netizens no longer needed factories, printers, publishers, or bookstores to get what they wanted. Agencies couldn’t use outdated resources to threaten artists anymore.

Once an artist becomes famous, they can leave the agency when their contract ends. Investors aren’t stupid. Knowing an artist will leave as soon as they’re successful, they stop investing in solo acts.

Groups are different. The brand belongs to the agency. Even if an artist becomes famous and leaves, the name stays; the company can fill the group with replacements and keep it going. So, groups are the agency’s natural defense against the declining ‘human factor’ in entertainment in the internet era.

The price is, from then on, those with individuality and irreplaceable talent will no longer be tolerated—the investors want replaceable nine-out-of-ten singers, not world-shaking geniuses.”

Quan Baoya took a long time to digest this, and even with her precocious understanding, she felt troubled for quite a while.

Gu Cheng knew it was brutal, but he had to awaken her to reality.

“You don’t understand stocks and economics, so I won’t go into details. Just remember this: I think the internet winter is coming soon, maybe lasting two or three years.

In other words, if you sign a long-term contract with S-M today, showing them that ‘even in the internet age, there are still righteous, extraordinary talents,’ maybe in the coming internet winter, they’ll be inspired to promote a few more talented solo musicians.

If you break faith, you could push the company to turn ruthless early, never trusting solo acts again, becoming just a group machine—then your ‘betrayal’ would close the path for future newcomers. Could you live with that? Do you want to be remembered as a ‘historical turning point’?”

“No, I don’t!” Quan Baoya clenched her little fists and said indignantly, “I’ll go back and convince my parents to sign until I’m nineteen—but Cheng-ge, you really know so much, about everything. How are you so amazing?”

“Silly child, suffering teaches you a lot.”

Gu Cheng was gratified, and seeing it was getting late, began to pack his things.

He thought for a moment, tore a page from his notebook, and wrote a string of characters.

“This is my MSN account. If I’m in China and you have questions, just ask online—it’ll save you international call charges. If you prefer, email works too.”

Quan Baoya carefully recited it twice and tucked the paper away.

The two went downstairs, checked out, and Gu Cheng escorted her back to her home on Handong Road.

At the elevator, Quan Baoya turned and looked back deeply.

“What is it? Hurry up and go.”

“You’ve gained weight. Remember to weigh yourself at home. Business is important, but health is even more so.”

“Really...? You can tell?” Gu Cheng felt a bit self-conscious.

“I’m very sensitive to weight—You’ve gained at least five pounds.”

With that, Quan Baoya darted into the elevator like a little deer.

“Is that necessary...? It’s not like I’d hit you just because you said I’m fat.”

Gu Cheng laughed at himself helplessly, then hopped onto the subway at Cheongdam-dong and headed to Incheon Airport.

He boarded the flight from Seoul to Beijing right on time.

By three thirty in the afternoon, he was already at the door of “Big Huang Yi.”