“I’m fine, Director Zhu. No need to worry about me—we can go straight into the next segment,” Luo Ming replied instinctively.
Though the headpiece was heavy and made his neck feel a bit stiff, as a man, he could tough it out without making a fuss.
Director Zhu nodded in satisfaction at this response, thinking to himself: “She really is Xiao Lin’s sister—completely different from those delicate actresses. The female guests from previous episodes, if they had to wear such heavy crowns and jewelry, would’ve complained endlessly even with CCTV’s authority hanging over them. And even if they didn’t make a scene, they’d still need multiple breaks during recording.
Not to mention, this girl even brought us such a beautiful original song. With that track, this episode’s ratings are bound to be solid.”
Since “Lin Shuwen” had been so cooperative with the production team, Director Zhu wouldn’t completely ignore her comfort either. He glanced at his watch—it was 10:20 AM, and they still had plenty of time.
So Director Zhu announced to everyone: “Let’s take a 20-minute break. We’ll resume at 10:40. Let’s aim to get the second segment done in one take too, so we can wrap up early and you all can have the afternoon off.”
With Director Zhu calling for a break, Luo Ming didn’t need to force himself to keep standing. He found a chair and sat down. Chen Sichu immediately trotted over and asked, “Wen Jie, is your neck killing you? Want me to give you a massage?”
“No need, I’m fine.”
Luo Ming’s main concern was embarrassment. He was the youngest person on stage. Professor Zhou had a head full of white hair and looked to be over seventy—and he hadn’t complained about being tired. If a young guy like Luo Ming started whining first, that would just be shameful.
Twenty minutes later, the recording resumed.
The production team had prepared a set of buzzer-based quick-answer questions.
After explaining the rules, Sa Ning read out the first question: “Please find a line of poetry from these twelve characters on the big screen: 见城秋叶洛友阳声里亲风问.
3, 2, 1! Begin!”
The moment Luo Ming heard Sa Ning say “begin,” he shot his hand out and started jabbing the buzzer frantically.
“Ding-dong~”
“Number two, Li Yunshang, please answer!”
“Luoyang city, in autumn, I see the west wind.”
“Correct! One point!”
For the next several questions, Luo Ming kept trying to buzz in. But in the first round of seven questions, he didn’t manage to snag a single one.
Luo Ming started questioning his life choices. In his previous life, he had transmigrated at 33, having been single for 29 years. In this life, he was currently single—23 years and counting. Combined, that was 52 years of single-man hand speed. How could he not get a single question?
The winner of the first round was Professor Zhou Hongbing, who then designated Li Yunshang to perform a segment—as pre-arranged by the production team.
Naturally, Li Yunshang wouldn’t perform right away. The performances were scheduled to take place after all the quiz rounds, to make recording easier.
Since the show would be edited in post-production anyway, it didn’t matter when the performances were actually filmed.
Soon, the second round of buzzer questions began.
Luo Ming was still jabbing away at his buzzer.
Backstage, Director Zhu noticed Luo Ming’s frantic pressing and turned to Lin Shuyue, asking, “Xiao Lin, why is your sister keep hitting the buzzer? Doesn’t she know her buzzer isn’t connected?”
“Huh? Director Zhu, you disconnected her buzzer signal?”
“That’s how we’ve done it for the past episodes, isn’t it? We agreed on this beforehand—to keep the celebrities from embarrassing themselves, we just cut the signal to their buzzers.”
“Uh, Director Zhu, my sister should be fine in this regard. She graduated from Shanghai Jiao Tong University.”
Director Zhu was stunned for a moment, then slapped his forehead: “Why didn’t you tell me sooner!”
Lin Shuyue scratched her head. She wanted to say that all the show’s guests had submitted personal profiles—Director Zhu just hadn’t bothered to read them.
“Cut~” Director Zhu called a halt.
Then, under Luo Ming’s utterly bewildered gaze, the production staff reconnected his buzzer signal.
“Pfft~” Sa Ning couldn’t hold back his laughter.
He had just watched Luo Ming mashing that buzzer like crazy, only to never get called once.
Sa Ning had initially thought Luo Ming was just unlucky—he hadn’t realized the production team had excluded him from the game from the very start.
After reconnecting the buzzer signal, Director Zhu called “ACTION” again.
“Question four: Fill in the missing character in this line of poetry: ‘Why should the Qiang flute resent the willows? The spring wind never ___ Jade Gate Pass.'”
“Ding-dong!” The moment the signal was reconnected, Luo Ming snagged this question.
“Number three! Lin Shuwen, please answer.”
“The spring wind never passes Jade Gate Pass.”
“Which ‘du’?”
Many people get this character wrong, mixing it up with “pass” or “cross.” But Luo Ming wouldn’t make that mistake. Without hesitation, he said: “The ‘du’ that means temperature.”
“Congratulations! You got it right!”
After that, Luo Ming went on a tear, snagging another question and answering it correctly.
Unfortunately, Li Yunshang had already answered three questions correctly, so Luo Ming didn’t win that round.
In the following rounds, Luo Ming participated fully in the game, and every question he snagged he answered correctly. But for some reason, his success rate at actually getting to answer was still lower than everyone else’s.
This made Luo Ming wonder if the buzzer system hadn’t been fully fixed after all.
Soon, they arrived at the final question of the last round. None of the other guests buzzed in for this one, because it was deliberately left for Luo Ming—the production team wanted him to win this round.
“Ding-dong~”
“Number three, Lin Shuwen, please recite a Tang poem that includes one of the twenty-four solar terms.”
Clear and Bright, by Du Mu of the Tang Dynasty
A drizzling rain falls like tears on the Clear and Bright day;
The mourner’s heart is going to break on his way.
Where can a winehouse be found to drown his sad hours?
A cowherd points to a hamlet amid apricot flowers.
“Congratulations! Correct! The winner of this round is Lin Shuwen. Shuwen, it’s your turn to designate a performance—who would you like to choose?”
“It seems I’m the only one here who hasn’t performed yet! So I’ll designate myself. Funny enough, the poem I just recited was Du Mu’s ‘Clear and Bright,’ and I happen to have written an original song recently inspired by that very solar term. It’s called ‘Above the Clear and Bright Rain.'”
“Is that so? What a coincidence! Everyone, let’s give a warm welcome to Shuwen as she takes the stage!”
“Cut~” The moment Sa Ning finished speaking, Director Zhu called for a stop.
Then, following the pre-arranged performance order, each guest took the stage one by one.
Li Yunshang performed a solo on the vertical flute.
The two veteran actors both sang songs.
Professor Zhou Hongbing performed a solo on the erhu.
The vice president of the China Poetry Association performed a poetry recitation.
Finally, it was Luo Ming’s turn to take the stage.
A long, flowing guzheng melody filled the stage—pleasant to the ear, yet somewhat sparse on its own.
In truth, the instrumental intro of this song in his previous life involved a variety of instruments: yangqin, drums, maracas, bells, guzheng, flute, and gong.
The gong, in particular, is not a common instrument in pop songs, yet it carries a distinctly Chinese character. Around the 14th to 16th second mark of the intro, with a resonant “dong~” sound, the swirling, rising emotions of the melody suddenly find a bursting outlet.
Unfortunately, Luo Ming’s last-minute song change left them pressed for time, so only the guzheng served as the main melody accompaniment. The finishing touch—that gong strike—had to be borrowed by Lin Shuyue from a colleague late at night.
“Dong~” The crisp sound of the gong rang out, and “Lin Shuwen’s” performance began.
