Chapter 44: A Vote to Decide

Shangjiang City — Back Then, Our Youth Drama Crew

Zhang Zheng was reviewing submissions for the drama’s theme song again today, but he wasn’t in a particularly good mood.

Although the production team was strong and many long-established A-grade companies had submitted tracks, very few actually met the requirements.

For a song like this, the most crucial qualities were a sense of youthful innocence and girlish freshness. That alone limited the age of the singer—after all, not every female artist could be like that legendary diva, who could still perfectly pull off sugary songs despite her age.

Up till now, the best submission by far was the one from Zhao Entertainment, recommending Lin Ziyu as the singer.

In every respect, Lin Ziyu fit the production’s needs perfectly—the song was high quality, her skill solid, her style appropriate, and her popularity ranking was not low.

“If nothing more suitable comes in today, then it’s settled—we’ll go with Lin Ziyu.”

Zhang Zheng muttered to himself.

Even though the official submission window was a month, the crew still needed enough buffer time to handle contingencies. So realistically, they were near the end; later submissions wouldn’t be considered.

“Grade B—pass. Grade C—pass…”

He tossed one submission after another aside… until he saw one with a score of 3990.
He couldn’t help but laugh.

What bad luck—ten points short of A-grade. That alone made him pause and look more carefully.

And when he saw the submission came from Lin Entertainment, with Lin Xiyue and Xia Jinnian listed as the designated singers, his expression shifted.

Of course he remembered those two girls—the controversy during the PigPig Music competition when he served as head judge was still fresh in everyone’s mind.

Although they had left a favorable impression on him, he also knew perfectly well that newcomers like them had no business competing for a commercial project of this caliber.

He planned to skim the sheet music out of politeness and then toss it aside without even listening to the demo.

But the moment he glanced at the lyrics, his hand froze in mid-air.

He read the lyrics once.
Then again.
Then again.

By the fourth time, his hands were trembling.

These lyrics were perfect—a flawless match for the film’s themes. Every detail carried emotional weight, pulling the reader into bittersweet memories of youth.

The metaphors and imagery—like “teardrops freezing into ice” and “the spring breeze failing to reach the photograph frozen in time”—beautifully portrayed the cruelty of time and the stillness of sealed memories, steeped in quiet sorrow.

Even as a seasoned producer, he found the lyrics outstanding. And for a film theme song—where thematic alignment was essential—this submission was unbeatable.

He hummed a bit of the melody in his head, then opened the attached demo.

The demo quality surprised him even more. The two girls’ singing was no longer as raw as it had been in the Voice of the Future competition. At the very least, they now sounded like proper, competent artists.

Maybe they still weren’t “excellent,” but considering how little time had passed, their progress was remarkable. Talent and hard work—both were absolutely present. His opinion of them rose yet again.

“But the composition… that’s where it falls short.”

Zhang Zheng sighed. That was the biggest pity.

In his view, the melody simply did not live up to the brilliance of the lyrics.
Otherwise, the StarWeb system wouldn’t have rated it below an A.

But the lyrics were just too good—and perfectly suited to the film. For a film, where storytelling was compressed and symbolic, the theme song lyrics were a powerful extension of narrative interpretation.

If the composition had been just one tier better, he would have rejected Lin Ziyu’s submission without hesitation.

“…Forget it. I’ll submit both. Let Director Li decide.”

In the end, he decided to preliminarily approve both songs and pass them to the director’s team.

His efficiency was high—within an hour, both submissions were lying on the director’s desk.

Another hour passed, and suddenly all the major figures in the crew received a notification—there would be an urgent, important meeting.

Zhang Zheng received it too. He smiled knowingly.
Director Li must have been just as torn as he was.

Even so, when he arrived at the conference room, he was still startled.

Not only were all department heads present, but many major investors had also sent representatives. The level of seriousness made the importance clear.

“Everyone,” Director Li Yibai said, seated at the head of the table,
“after Teacher Zhang Zheng’s review, we currently have two options for the film’s theme song.”

“Option One: the submission from Zhao Entertainment, performed by Lin Ziyu.”

“Option Two: the submission from Lin Entertainment, performed by Lin Xiyue and Xia Jinnian.”

“I’ve sent both versions to the group chat. Please look them over.”

Many people were confused.
Lin Ziyu was an industry rising star—popular, talented, the perfect match.
In fact, many had assumed she would be the singer from the beginning.

As for the two girls in the second submission—most people hadn’t even heard of them.
How did their track make it into the final round?

Several individuals glanced at Zhang Zheng with suspicion, silently asking,
“Did you take a bribe?”

Zhang Zheng only gestured politely for them to read.

Half an hour passed.

The once-busy meeting room gradually fell silent.

Everyone now understood exactly why the second submission had made it this far.

A good lyric was something anyone could recognize—professional or not. Theme songs needed to resonate with the general public. If only experts could understand it, it was a failure as a commercial piece.

And it was obvious even to non-musicians that the quality of this lyric far surpassed the overall song rating.

On one side: a rising superstar, perfectly matched in style and ability, with a high-quality submission.

On the other side: two unknown rookies, whose composition and vocals were barely passable—but whose lyrics were overwhelmingly superior, and whose submission was more thematically powerful for a film.

No wonder Director Li had called a full meeting.
This wasn’t something that could be decided easily.
A vote was the only fair way.

No one would vote carelessly—this decision would affect the film’s box office, and therefore their own profits.

“To avoid influencing the discussion,” Director Li said calmly,
“Teacher Zhang and I will withhold our opinions. The rest of you may vote.”