Chapter 108: The Kite

"Yeah! Teacher Huang, can you get Xiao Bai to sing 'Kite' for me? 'Kite' is my theme song! My name is Feng Zheng—'Feng' as in the surname, and 'Zheng' means iron-boned and resolute!" Feng Zheng’s latter words were clearly an introduction directed at Bai Yao.

Huang Guolun chuckled and said, "Let Xiao Bai have a break. I'll sing Sun Yanzi’s 'Kite' for you."

Feng Zheng hesitated, "You… can sing it?"

Wang Peng spoke up for Huang Guolun, "Teacher Huang can even sing 'Little Love Song,' let alone 'Kite'! He's amazing!"

Jiang Lili took the opportunity to praise Huang Guolun’s talents to the nearby students.

Zhao Jing, seeing Huang Guolun was about to sing, perked up immediately and told Shen Yumeng, "Teacher Huang is incredible! Last time, he played the water cup and sang 'Little Love Song' for us—it was absolutely stunning! Next time, he should show you the water cup trick. It’s a hundred times better than mine."

Shen Yumeng, having witnessed Bai Yao’s student performance, eagerly anticipated Huang Guolun’s singing as well and told Nan Fang, "If the students are this talented, Teacher Huang must be even more impressive."

Nan Fang replied indifferently, "Not necessarily. There are plenty of cases where the pupil surpasses the master."

This time, Zhao Jing didn’t argue but went along, "I guess so. After hearing Xiao Bai sing, I feel her voice has more character than Teacher Huang’s. But Teacher Huang’s overall musical talent is outstanding. His musical gift is pure and visible to the naked eye. Whatever he plays, he excels at it—even tapping a water cup can send chills down your spine."

Shen Yumeng laughed, "Stop flattering Teacher Huang to death."

Zhao Jing declared firmly, "I’m praising him, but I can’t kill him with compliments—he’s a true musical genius!"

The more Zhao Jing praised, the more Nan Fang wanted to see Huang Guolun falter, just to see what Zhao Jing would say afterward.

Nan Fang, being a professional in the music scene, understood music far more deeply than these outsiders.

The song 'Kite' that these college students requested was actually very difficult to sing, especially the unaccompanied, pure a cappella opening, which required extraordinary skill and foundation to perform well.

Most people trying this song would likely embarrass themselves with the very first note.

Even if Huang Guolun truly had an exceptional musical background, singing this song unprepared could still risk failure.

Nan Fang crossed his legs and smiled playfully, waiting to see how Huang Guolun would handle it.

After chatting briefly with Wang Peng and a few other students, Huang Guolun sat down at the piano, ready to perform.

Unlike Sun Yanzi’s original a cappella opening, Huang Guolun played a brief, drifting prelude—a short, single-scale melody that sounded like notes escaping from a music box, delightfully pleasant and soothing.

As the rhythm began, the college students in the café fell silent, eagerly awaiting Huang Guolun’s singing.

Nan Fang hummed quietly, thinking, “What’s the point? This so-called incredible music teacher dares not even start with pure voice.”

Sun Yanzi’s original opening was the perfect finishing touch to the song, her vocal solo mingling with the sound of the wind, as if releasing a kite with wistful, reluctant song—letting go of a relationship and setting the tone for the entire piece.

Huang Guolun’s alteration, to Nan Fang’s eyes, was lame—clearly a sign of insecurity about his vocal skills.

Was Huang Guolun really lacking confidence?

Of course not.

Nowadays, whenever it came to music, Huang Guolun possessed extraordinary, unshakable confidence, along with a heightened level of insight and understanding.

If it were before, he might have sung Sun Yanzi’s original version.

But now, with his effortless musical expressiveness, he preferred to interpret the piece according to his own understanding.

The original version’s opening was intimate with the wind sounds, full of imagery.

But the café lacked wind, and using piano to mimic grandiose wind accompaniment would ruin the song’s overall feeling.

Thus, Huang Guolun chose a drifting, music-box-like prelude to create a lonely, heartfelt opening.

Then the piano stopped.

The entire café fell silent.

His sudden “braking” held everyone’s emotions in suspense.

It was like the nine shallow breaths had all been taken, and now the deep breath was about to come, increasing everyone’s anticipation.

Everyone’s ears and hearts were cleansed by the drifting notes, waiting for Huang Guolun’s most beautiful voice.

He naturally did not disappoint.

With a poignant, unaccompanied vocal solo, he instantly elevated the café’s atmosphere by several dimensions.

“I don’t want to bind you for another second,” he sang.

“I also know how wonderful the sky is.”

“Please, look for me.”

Sun Yanzi’s original phrasing felt like looking up at a kite’s broken string in the sky, her voice tender and infused with the strength and resilience of a new era woman—singing of liberation and reluctant farewell.

Huang Guolun’s rendition was mature and steady, equally gentle and reluctant, but layered with the weariness, helplessness, and reflection born of life’s changes.

His voice was more magnetic than even Nan Fang’s previous stage performances.

Not only did his vocal cords convey a profound, worldly weariness, but his superb control allowed his breath to rise from the dantian, generating heat as it passed through his throat and mouth, emitting a captivating warmth to the ears.

His voice was like a blade forged by life’s fire—without an edge, yet once unsheathed, it left an indelible mark on hearts and souls.

Most people couldn’t exactly say what made Huang Guolun’s singing so beautiful, but to their ears, it was irresistibly pleasing, deeply moving, and utterly enchanting.

Zhao Yan, who had brought tiramisu to Feng Zheng, was spellbound the moment Huang Guolun began singing. Holding her dessert tray, she froze mid-aisle, unable to take a step.

It was as if Huang Guolun’s voice had magnetized the floor beneath her feet, utterly dominating her.

Most singers’ voices are heard; Huang Guolun’s singing seemed to communicate his very soul, touching deeply. Perhaps this was what they called a profound connection.

Zhao Jing, Shen Yumeng, and the other students listening felt as if they were intoxicated without a drop, like drinking a famed wine they knew might overwhelm them, yet still savoring every drop with delight.

This swelling pleasure, stirred from within by Huang Guolun’s voice, was trapped inside them, unable to escape—a feeling those who understood would recognize, wishing Huang Guolun would take them even deeper into the song.

The song’s opening composition was restrained, and Huang Guolun also wanted to take himself deeper.

His ten fingers struck the keys again; the piano resumed, gentle as a sea breeze.

It was like a man standing by the shore, gazing at the sky and heaven alike, his old wounds cruelly reopened.

With a voice as if questioning the heavens, he began a nostalgic, sorrowful verse:

“Where did the kite in the sky go? In the blink of an eye, it vanished.”

“Who cut its string? Do you know?”

“Where did the us of the past go? The road was too far—I forgot.”

“If you want to fly, I understand. Your freedom is fine.”

“I don’t want to bind you for another second.”

“I also know how wonderful the sky is.”

“Please, look for me.”

Through his voice, the kite that vanished in an instant was obviously Chen Jia.

Who cut the string between them? He did not know.

Perhaps it was fate.

Everything was predestined.

This was the comfort he gave himself.

Maybe Chen Jia wanted to chase her dreams somewhere freer.

Who alive could truly know the wonders of heaven?

Only Chen Jia could look on his behalf.

With this dreamy questioning and longing, Huang Guolun sang with increasing passion:

“See you soaring high through the clouds. I stand on the mountain, shouting aloud, oh—”

“Maybe you won’t hear, but find your dreams and live better!”

In this soaring moment, Huang Guolun brought Chen Jia vividly to life.

Though separated by heaven and earth,

In the soul-stirring music, Huang Guolun seemed to see and feel Chen Jia watching him sing, hearing his heartfelt voice.

He had always known Chen Jia wished him well, hoping for his happiness.

But he hoped even more that Chen Jia found her dreams in that unknown heaven and lived well.

He would bear the pain of the mortal world alone, as long as she was happy.

In the final, heartfelt climax, Huang Guolun, as if weaving a self-deceptive lie, could not continue and eventually bared his true feelings:

“I don’t want love’s low tide, oh—”

“I will smile, tears must not fall.”

“I’m fine. How are you now?”

“You’ll know I haven’t left.”

“Memories fly into the wind.”

“Where did the kite in the sky go…”

With the piano accompaniment, he sang this song, soaring continuously and seamlessly.

The emotional release rose and fell like mercury spilling, piercing everyone’s heart.

By the end, Zhao Jing nearly collapsed onto the sofa seat—Huang Guolun had truly sung her into submission.

When this man stirred the deepest emotions through music, he was simply unstoppable.

In that moment, if Wu Yanzu and Huang Guolun stood before her to offer company for the night, Zhao Jing would still choose… Wu Yanzu.

Beside her, Nan Fang had not closed his handsome mouth since Huang Guolun began singing, as if witnessing another musical master among their classmates in the café.