What was a "black street"? As buildings increased in height with the advancement of technology, areas with a high concentration of skyscrapers blocked sunlight from narrow alleys at the bottom of these clusters. These streets were dark most of the day, so people called them "black streets."
The area where Fang Zhao now lived was surrounded by mass housing blocks more than 100 stories tall. There were gaps between these towers, and beneath these gaps lay the "black streets." People who lived on black streets were also called "those who lived in the gaps," a euphemism for the poor.
Conditions were rough on black streets. In addition to the lack of sunshine, it was a dangerous setting.
After the original owner of Fang Zhao’s body signed with a record label, he moved off-campus. Living alone was more conducive to creative work and was more private, but he had limited funds, so he could only afford to rent a container-style room on a black street. The original owner wanted to move out after he was paid for his work, but before he could submit his work, it was stolen by a trusted friend.
The original owner had four childhood friends: Fang Sheng, his ex-girlfriend Xi Hong, Zeng Huang, and Zeng Huang’s fiancée, Wan Yue.
The five of them grew up together. They lived in the same building as kids. Unfortunately, when they were in secondary school, an explosion occurred in the building and only a tenth of the residents survived. Only children who were boarders survived.
The government paid out a substantial amount in compensation and a strong welfare system was in place, so the five of them could afford to finish university with cash to spare. They attended the same primary school and secondary school and went on to attend college in Qi’an City. They attended different universities, but they stayed in touch. However, they weren’t as close as when they were children.
After the apocalypse, a global alliance was formed. The entire planet was a unified whole. There were no countries.
The alliance comprised of 12 continents—eight major continents and four special continents.
Fang Zhao lived in the political and financial hub of one of the eight major continents, Yanzhou, the capital city of Qi’an.
The original owner of the body was the best student among the five. The university he was admitted to was the best music school in Yanzhou: the Qi’an Academy of Music.
Since the beginning of the New Era, the composition department at the Qi’an Academy of Music accounted for nearly half of Yanzhou’s 100 most influential composers. Among them were composers who had global influence. The academy was a dream school for many.
Final-year students of the composition department were mostly signed by record companies before graduation. The original owner of the body was one such student. Half a year before graduation, he signed a six-month trainee contract with Silver Wing Media, one of Yanzhou’s three major entertainment conglomerates.
During the first three months, the original owner of the body ran errands for senior musicians and attended classes scheduled by the company. The second half of the internship was devoted to preparing for the annual new talent competition. How the trainees performed in the last three months determined if they would stay on at Silver Wing as full-time employees and shaped their futures. Silver Wing would allocate resources based on their performance in the new talent competition.
But the pieces the original owner had toiled on for the new talent competition were stolen by his childhood friend Fang Sheng.
Fang Sheng shared the same family name with the original owner – they were distant relatives. He was a good brother and partner, but he stabbed the original owner of the body in the back at a critical juncture. Caving to the painful blow and the pressure, the original owner committed suicide.
Fang Zhao stopped searching his new memory and noticed that it was getting lively outside. The movement of people could be heard everywhere. The apartment was located on the second floor. Right beneath it was a large shop where people could be heard opening shop and moving things. Residents of the building across the street had also opened their windows and were staring outside.
Even though it was quite dark, Fang Zhao still examined the street like taking in a rare piece of art.
Things had changed so much since the apocalypse, which was both alien and intriguing to Fang Zhao at the same time.
This was the new world.
A golden age had emerged after the near-apocalypse, also known as the Period of Destruction.
Those old friends who survived the end of the war must have been delighted. The 100-year war, which cost billions of lives, resulted in the prosperous times everyone had hoped for.
The noise and the dark should have gotten on his nerves, but Fang Zhao was an untapped bundle of energy. The world he had longed for was afoot again.
Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Fang Zhao greedily took in the fresh air of the new world.
Inspiration rumbled in his head, ready to burst out. His blood had risen to near-boiling temperatures. Every single one of his hairs was trembling in excitement.
But that wasn’t enough.
To create a masterpiece, that bit of inspiration wasn’t enough.
The noise grew louder, and it was bright outside. It was getting louder and brighter at an increasing pace.
Fang Zhao stopped searching his memory and locked the window. Based on the memory he inherited along with his new body, Fang Zhao knew that the busiest and also most valuable period of the day on a black street—daytime—was about to arrive.
He scanned the house and his gaze landed on the bracelet on top of his nightstand for two seconds. Fang Zhao darted over and fastened it to his left wrist. This was an item that 90 percent of people in the new world owned, something like a personal computer terminal.
Virtual currency was the norm, so Fang Zhao needed the bracelet to buy things. It also served as the key to his apartment.
After he fastened his bracelet, Fang Zhao paused before the door and turned back to scoop up the stray dog, who was staring at him, and brought him along.
As he left, Fang Zhao noticed that many others were headed to the first floor, just like him. His building was like a beehive, housing a massive number of residents. Most, like Fang Zhao, also struggled to make ends meet and could afford no more than a tiny, cramped room devoid of sunlight for most of the time.
Where tall buildings were clustered, even though it was daytime, the streets below were dark most of the time. People who could afford to moved to higher floors. People are always drawn to the light.
As for those who couldn’t afford an apartment on a higher floor or were handicapped, they set their sights on noon every day, the only time when black streets were briefly graced by sunlight.
The people who were rushing downstairs glanced at Fang Zhao quickly and walked past him. They only had a vague impression of him. They didn’t know him well, so they didn’t bother to say hello.
Several of them gave Fang Zhao a curious glance when they noticed he was carrying a dog. Fang Zhao didn’t mind and smiled at them in return.
The fellow residents were obviously taken aback. They were probably surprised that this usually depressed young man was smiling.
The people who went outside around that time to get a tan were mostly elderly. The crowd that emerged from the elevator was mostly made up of stumbling, grey-haired old men and women.
As he emerged from the lobby of his building, Fang Zhao noticed that the street was already quite crowded. Major forms of transportation were diverted elsewhere, so black streets were usually free of car traffic. During the day, they were very empty, except for now.
As the sun rose, it shined on the lower levels of the mass housing blocks. People who didn’t go outside also opened their windows to take in the precious sunshine.
Fang Zhao wasn’t in a hurry to stake out his spot. Instead, he walked into the shop on the first floor. He was starving. Everything else could wait.
Because of the apocalypse, the planetary government of the New Era did not impose gun controls initially, lest another major war break out again. In the unfortunate scenario where events unfolded that way, at least people could fight right away. But eventually, the situation grew out of control. Arms became prolific and riots rampant. Several continents went through leadership changes and the planetary government was nearly toppled. That was when gun controls were implemented. Gun controls were especially strict in the past century. It was impossible for the average citizen to own a gun.
But Yue Qing, the owner of the shop, was a veteran and one of the few people on this black street that owned arms legally. The punks of black streets didn’t dare mess with people with arms, which was the main reason why this shop could operate in peace.
When Fang Zhao entered the shop, a yawning Yue Qing gave him a quick glance. He remembered Fang Zhao from yesterday, when the kid was hellbent on killing himself and oblivious to feedback. He'd thought another black street suicide was in the works, but low and behold, Fang Zhao showed up again.
Yue Qing’s line of sight shifted to the dog Fang Zhao was holding. That’s right—it was the kid from the yesterday. He saw him take the stray dog home. Several punks who were shopping at his stores started a bet on what Fang Zhao would do with the dog—whether it would become a burial item or if he would kill it and eat it. It looked like they were all wrong.
Fang Zhao sensed Yue Qing’s probing eyes, but his stare suggested curiosity and no ill will, so Fang Zhao didn’t react. Drawing from his memory, he bought the cheapest items: three thumb-length sealed strips. Their size was misleading—the strips felt like metal in hand. Low-end compressed food.
Yue Qing stopped staring and eyed the item Fang Zhao had picked. "That’s 9 dollars. You want them decompressed?"
Decompression referred to the decompression of compressed food, which restored these compressed blocks into an edible form.
"Yes. And a cup of tea please," Fang Zhao said.
"Decompression is fifty cents, the tea is another fifty cents—the total is 10 dollars." As he spoke, Yue Qing opened the three strips and stuck them into a decompressor. Ten seconds later, he removed the tray from inside, on which sat three items that resembled dim sum. They were each about 20 centimeters by 8 centimeters in size and steaming hot.
"Takeaway?" Yue Qing asked.
"No, I’ll eat here." Fang Zhao took the plate and asked, "Boss Yue, can I move a chair outside?"
"Not too far out," Yue Qing answered without lifting his head. He wasn’t afraid the kid would steal his chair. Very few people had the guts to steal from him on this street.
Fang Zhao put down the dog near the store entrance and returned inside for a chair.
Fang Zhao gave the dog one of the three compressed cakes and kept the other two for himself. If this were the apocalypse, he would not have generously shared his food with a dog he just met, but Fang Zhao was in a good mood, having been reborn into the New Era. He was willing to share. Since the original owner of his body adopted it and it did not die, he would keep it for now.
The compressed cakes tasted horrible, and the tea was cheap powder-based stuff—otherwise they wouldn’t be so cheap. But for someone who had survived the apocalypse, Fang Zhao thought the food was a delicacy. During the end of days, he had to endure famine. Later on, he didn’t have to worry about food, but he wasn’t picky.
Compared to simple and crude food items and the stress of war, compressed cakes were exquisite. Now he could actually sit and enjoy lunch in peace. That already meant the world to Fang Zhao.
The noonday sun was already shining, dispersing the gloom and cold of the black street.
Store owner Yue Qing also moved a chair to his storefront to catch a tan and doze off. He didn’t get much business during the day. Black streets were the liveliest by night, so he didn’t sleep much at night and caught up during the day. This was also when most store owners on black streets rested.
After downing two compressed cakes in large mouthfuls, Fang Zhao eyed the dog sitting by his feet. He had finished its compressed cake and was licking crumbs off the ground. These veteran strays were experts on what was and was not edible. They couldn’t have lived this long on a black street without some basic survival skills.
His appetite satisfied, Fang Zhao relished every second as he sat on the curb and looked to the sky. The sky resembled a bright blue strip, the bright sun unabashedly overlooking the landscape from above. Not a trace of the murkiness and bloodiness of the near-apocalypse.
"This is great."
The apocalypse hadn't panned out after all.
What they called the apocalypse became what people in the New Era dubbed the Period of Destruction. After an extended period of massacres and extinctions, new life sprouted from all things on earth. It was a rebirth of sorts. Human beings were still in charge of the planet.
The world had finally ushered in prosperous times again.
It hadn’t been this peaceful in a very long time. His creative wheels couldn’t help spinning again.
Fang Zhao started to lightly tap the fingers he casually placed on his lap. Very few people noticed, and even if they did, they wouldn’t know what it was all about.
Yue Qing stared for some time but couldn’t make anything out of it. As a veteran, he had been part of quite a few military operations and learned many types of code, but what Fang Zhao tapped wasn’t among the codes he knew.
After staring cluelessly for a while, Yue Qing gave up and continued to nurture his tan.
Some people tapped their fingers unconsciously when they were thinking, but people who knew Fang Zhao could tell that his finger tapping was his way of composing. When he was inspired, he would start composing, but during the apocalypse, he never had the time or space to compose in peace. Pen and paper were out of the question, so Fang Zhao came up with his own method, creating a system of musical notation that took advantage of his impeccable memory. Come to think of it, it was a code of sorts, a code that only Fang Zhao could decipher.
The sun lingered on the black street only very briefly, for about an hour or so, before gradually fading in retreat.
Without the sunshine, the temperature at street level dropped several degrees. But it was already late May and the weather in Yanzhou was quite mild, so some of the elderly residents didn’t head back after getting their tan, chatting with old friends instead. This was their liveliest time of day.
Fang Zhao didn’t want to stay any longer. He returned his plate, his cup, and his chair to the shop.
At that moment, the street chatter suddenly grew louder. The sound of an approaching aircraft could be heard.
Yue Qing raised his head, let out a sardonic laugh, and pointed to the sky. "Your friend has made it big time."
Fang Zhao could see.
A flying car descended.
Flying cars were a luxury item for people who lived near black streets at the bottom of the mass housing blocks. Not everyone could afford one. The fuel it used was more expensive than regular fuel.
Every time a flying car arrived, it was either a mafia boss or someone who had made it.
The elderly people of black streets were very curious about events like this, so when they heard the hovering, they stopped their conversations and watched the arriving car in unison. They wanted to know who had made it and whether they knew the person. If they did, it would confer bragging rights for another 10 days or so.
The people who were sitting on their stools at the flying car’s landing spot had already scattered, creating a clearing for its arrival.
The flying car was emblazoned with a flashy, gaudy wind graphic with seven colors. It was a symbol widely known in Qi’an and even the entire Yanzhou.
"It’s a Neon Culture official car."
"Was someone signed by Neon Culture?"
"Wow, such great fortune, such great fortune. Neon Culture is loaded."
"Someone else from our street was signed by one of the Big Three and became a big star. What was his name? I can’t remember. Anyway, he is rich now."
The three leading entertainment conglomerates in Qi’an were Silver Wing Media, Neon Culture, and Tongshan True Entertainment. Even though it was clear at first glance that the car was an official company car and not a private vehicle, they were talking about the famed Neon Culture here, one of the Big Three. Who would worry about money after joining Neon Culture?
The entertainment industry was a gold mine. That was what the masses thought.
Signing with Neon Culture equaled a change in fortunes, which equaled rolling in cash. That was what most people living on black streets thought.
The original owner of the body had signed with Silver Wing Media as an intern six months before graduation. As for this childhood friend of his, he wasn’t much of a student and his school wasn’t as prestigious as Qi’an Academy of Music, so he wasn’t signed with graduation right around the corner. But now, things were different. People changed.
As Fang Zhao watched the person who emerged from the flying car, his new memory gave him the lowdown on the passenger. Fang Sheng was a childhood friend of his body’s original owner. They were friends who kept no secrets. The original owner was even contemplating using his connections to get his friend hired at Silver Wing after the new talent competition, if not as an artist then as an assistant. In any case, he wouldn’t be unemployed. Yet he was stabbed in the back by his friend in the end.
Now Fang Sheng had replaced his cheap wardrobe and came and went in a flying car. It wasn’t a high-end flying car, but it was still a flying car, and a Neon Culture company car at that. That was enough to draw attention on a black street.
Fang Sheng stole the fruit of his friend’s hard work and leveraged it into a contract with Neon Culture. It looked like Neon Culture was happy with the songs Fang Sheng submitted; otherwise, they wouldn’t have sent a car. Fang Zhao had seen plenty of folks like that—people who had no talent but who knew how to scheme.
As Fang Sheng emerged from the flying car, he reveled in the jealous gazes thrown his way. Being the center of attention made him feel like a star, so when Fang Sheng got out, he was giddy with delight—until he saw Fang Zhao standing at the store entrance. His mood instantly soured.
When Fang Sheng saw Fang Zhao standing there, he was awfully surprised. Based on his understanding of his friend’s personality, coupled with the gossip he had gleaned from a few punks on the black street, Fang Zhao should have committed suicide today. Even if he hadn't, he’d be holed up in his apartment brainstorming a solution, or mired in an endless bout of bitching and self-pity. Who would have thought he’d be in the mood to get a tan?
Had this dumbass composer lost it?
What was even more surprising was Fang Zhao’s state of mind. There wasn’t any despair, self-pity, or any sign of madness from the pressure. Instead, he looked like nothing had happened, as if his work hadn’t been stolen and he wasn’t dealing with a predicament. That sent Fang Sheng into a panic.
What exactly had happened to Fang Zhao?
Fang Sheng’s probing gaze didn’t linger and he didn’t dare look Fang Zhao in the eye. Fang Zhao’s eyes projected an eerie look of calm. They looked like a bottomless ocean that would sprout a monster at any given moment. It gave him the chills.
But Fang Sheng didn’t think he had done anything wrong. Who didn’t look out for their own interests? Why wouldn’t he capitalize on a golden opportunity? It wasn't that he didn’t have a history with Fang Zhao, but compared to the huge benefits he had reaped, their relationship wasn’t worth a mention. At least, that was what he thought.
"What are you looking at? Hurry up and pack your things so we can head back to the office. Don’t waste your time here," the driver who emerged from the car urged as he scanned the bystanders on the black street in disdain.
"Oh… OK." Fang Sheng stopped procrastinating and rushed to the elevator, his silhouette cutting an awkward figure, as if he were avoiding something.
After Fang Sheng stole the three songs from Fang Zhao, he had applied to Neon Culture. Their recruiters liked what they saw and signed him. Neon Culture was indeed happy with the scores that Fang Sheng had submitted, paying him an advance and even arranging for new living quarters. Fang Sheng was there to move. He lived on the fifth floor. Even though the conditions were slightly better than Fang Zhao’s surroundings on the second floor, the fifth floor was still considered a lower floor at the mass housing block. It was still dirty, messy and crappy. When he found out he could move out, Fang Sheng wasted no time in asking for a chauffeured company car.
His mind preoccupied, Fang Sheng appeared out of sorts. When he emerged from the building after collecting his things, Fang eyed the shop again and didn’t see Fang Zhao, much to his relief. He immediately thought he was too timid and didn’t need to be afraid of Fang Zhao.
He was worried that Fang Zhao would report the theft of his songs, but when he was packing, he pondered the matter again and concluded he had nothing to fear. He had uploaded the three songs first and they were registered under his name. Legally speaking, he was their rightful composer and owner.
Even if Fang Zhao wanted to sue, he still had nothing to fear. When Fang Zhao was busy composing, he had already covered his tracks. How could Fang Zhao sue without evidence?
Moreover, Fang Zhao didn’t have money to sue. He had enough trouble paying for food and clothing—maybe he didn’t even have next month’s rent. How could Fang Zhao sue him? Would he borrow money from Zeng Huang and Wan Yue?
Ha!
Fang Sheng despised those two indigents—they were no threat. All he had to do was stick to his claim that he wrote those three songs.
Before he got into his car, Fang Sheng glanced at the black street again, his line of sight focusing on the windows of Fang Zhao’s second-floor apartment. The windows were shut tight and darkened. He couldn’t tell if anyone was in.
Fang Sheng took a deep breath and ducked into his car. From now on, he had nothing to do with shitty neighborhoods like this black street. Bye bye poverty and hello riches! Onto the pinnacle of his life!
Be it Fang Zhao or black streets, he didn’t have to deal with them anymore. He had qualified for the new talent competition. His future lay in the glittering song chart of the new talent contest.
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