Chapter 11: The Theme Song Project for "Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio"

How long had it been since he last worked a regular office job? In his previous life, after achieving a bit of success, he’d stopped spending time in offices altogether. In this life, it was even more unnecessary—he’d just graduated. Now, having to sit in the office all day felt like a true ordeal for Su Chen.

Worse still, no one had assigned him any work.

Bored, Su Chen idly doodled on a piece of paper with his pen. The portrait of Tang Jiayi was taking shape beneath his hand.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang! He jolted in surprise, ruining the eyebrow he’d just drawn. It was the sound of a cup smashing.

“Stop telling me you’re working on it—I want results! Results!” someone bellowed. “If there isn’t a concrete solution to this by the end of today, the three of you can pack your things and get out!”

The entire floor could hear the outburst.

“Damn, did Manager Wang take his meds today?” muttered a senior composer nearby.

Another quickly chimed in, “More like he swallowed a bomb!”

“Hey, it’s all because of the ‘Strange Tales’ project. That bastard Lao Jie took the finished song to Xinghai, and even poached a few of our artists.”

“Now he’s turned around to compete with our company directly. Who wouldn’t be furious?”

“Completely pulled the rug out from under us, and at such a critical moment.”

“I can’t help but imagine Old Liu getting chewed out right now—it’s almost funny!”

A stifled laugh escaped someone, and soon everyone nearby was snickering under their breath.

“Don’t laugh,” Dong Xiaojie reminded them. “The problem started with our Group Two. Who knows, maybe we’ll be next.”

Her words immediately dampened the mood.

“Surely it won’t come to that?”

“Why not? Just wait, I bet there’ll be a meeting soon!” Dong Xiaojie said with certainty.

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In the conference room, General Manager Wang Yan sat at the head of the table. On either side sat Kong Qishui, the head of the Composition Department, and the leaders of the two groups. Shattered pieces of a teacup littered the floor near the door.

Once his anger had abated, Wang Yan’s face remained dark as he spoke. “Let’s hear it—how do you intend to solve this?”

The three of them looked at each other in silence.

Kong Qishui cursed inwardly, but as the department head, he had no choice but to speak up.

“There are over thirty people in our two groups, all working overtime on this. Last night—”

Before he could finish, Wang Yan cut him off. “I’m not here to listen to your complaints!”

Kong Qishui faltered, awkwardly rubbing his nose, but pressed on. “Manager Wang, as you know, composing depends on inspiration. We’d put all our focus on Lao Jie, and since his work was good, the others weren’t as involved. Now that this has happened, everyone’s—”

He trailed off, but Wang Yan understood.

“So, what you’re saying is, before the deadline, you can’t guarantee a song that will satisfy Director Li. Is that correct?”

Kong Qishui nodded, then hurriedly added, “Not necessarily!”

Wang Yan ignored him, giving a cold laugh. “Just one Lao Jie has left you all in disarray. Should I be impressed by his talent, or should I say the rest of you are just for show?”

His blunt words left the three deeply ashamed, but there was nothing to do but endure. After all, he was only stating the truth.

A heavy silence settled over the room once more.

Wang Yan pondered for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over the three below him. Then, with a grim face, he spoke: “Since you lack the ability, I’m announcing that from now on, I’ll personally oversee this project.”

“In ten minutes, everyone is to gather in this main conference room for a meeting!” he added. “That includes both junior and senior composers.”

Back in Group Two’s office area, the staff were still exchanging jokes when Liu Wenxiong walked over with a grim face. At once, everyone fell silent.

“Notify everyone—there’s a meeting in Conference Room 2 at 2:00 PM sharp!”

In his heart, Su Chen gave Dong Xiaojie a silent thumbs up—her prediction was spot on.

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With just over thirty people, the conference room was filled to capacity.

Wang Yan, as general manager, once again took the seat at the head of the table. Everyone else sat according to their group, lining either side.

As a newcomer, Su Chen sat at the very end next to Dong Xiaojie.

Once everyone had arrived, Wang Yan—though still stern—addressed them in a tone much gentler than the one he’d used with Kong Qishui and the other two earlier.

“I’m sure you all know why I’ve gathered everyone here today. Lao Jie took the song he wrote for the ‘Strange Tales’ project and jumped ship to Xinghai Media, causing the company no small amount of trouble.”

“‘Strange Tales’ is a matter of the company’s reputation—we cannot lose this project.”

“There were two weeks; now only two days remain. I’d like to know: does anyone have a presentable piece ready?”

“You’re all composers here—what are your thoughts on the matter?”

His gaze swept slowly across the room. Wherever it landed, people quickly bowed their heads, hoping not to be called on.

At a time like this, being singled out was a lose-lose: say the right thing and you risk being accused of showing off; say the wrong thing and you’ll be the scapegoat.

So everyone kept their guard up.

Seeing the silence, Wang Yan didn’t display much anger. As a company leader, he knew to treat rank-and-file employees differently from the department heads.

“Well, since no one wants to speak, I’ll announce the latest decision regarding the ‘Strange Tales’ project.”

“If we fail to win the bid for this project, everyone in the Composition Department will have their annual bonuses cut in half.”

A ripple of discontent passed through the room. Glances and small gestures were exchanged, communicating silent complaints.

Wang Yan took note of all this, but didn’t stop them. Instead, his tone suddenly changed.

“But where there is punishment, there is also reward.”

“If anyone secures the ‘Strange Tales’ theme song, that composer’s annual bonus will be doubled.”

“What’s more, the entire project fee of 800,000 yuan will go directly to the composer—the company will not take a cut.”

“In addition, within the company, that composer will be promoted one rank.”

This time, the commotion was obvious. Aside from a few, most people’s faces lit up with longing, as if fortune was about to descend upon them.

Many wished they could lock themselves away now and compose non-stop for two days and nights.

It was a lot of money.

For silver- and gold-ranked composers, perhaps it wasn’t much. But for the majority—ordinary composers, some not even considered senior—the sum would be more than they’d make in years.

Winning this project could be equivalent to several years’ pay.

Su Chen’s eyes flickered as well. In his experience, 800,000 yuan for a single song was an extremely high bid. Even for film and television projects with generous budgets, this was top-tier compensation in the industry.

He found himself curious about the background of this “Strange Tales” film.

At the same time, he felt a spark of hope. Here on Blue Star, his own circumstances were rather straitened. Aside from a single apartment, he’d squandered all his parents’ inheritance—he was nearly at the end of his rope.

No matter how confident he was about the future, distant water cannot put out a nearby fire.

“I’d like to ask—can employees who just joined today participate?”