Chapter 109: Blown Sky-High

As a professional, Nan Fang habitually picked up on the singer’s techniques and nuances whenever he listened to someone sing. Previously, when Zhao Jing compared Huang Guolun to Jacky Cheung, Nan Fang had scoffed dismissively. But after hearing this rendition of “Kite,” Nan Fang found himself scoffing—not at Huang Guolun, but at his own earlier judgment.

In terms of this single performance, Huang Guolun’s singing was nothing short of flawless, divine even. No matter how nitpicky one might be, it was nearly impossible to find a single flaw in this segment. His voice was as steady and pure as if it were emanating from a vintage vinyl player—each note crafted with exquisite finesse, yet delivered with remarkable openness and natural ease.

During the soaring, ethereal high notes, Huang Guolun seemed like a singer daring the heavens, teetering on the edge of a precipitous cliff. Yet, his voice danced effortlessly with the scattered stones at the cliff’s edge, leaving listeners breathless with awe. For a moment, Nan Fang was struck by a terrifying revelation: even if they summoned the legendary Jacky Cheung to sing “Kite,” it might not surpass Huang Guolun’s rendition.

It was worth noting that Huang Guolun accompanied himself on the piano, weaving emotions, song, and instrument into an inseparable whole. This integration delivered a more immediate and stirring impact than even the great Jacky Cheung’s emotive vocals alone. Zhao Jing often insisted that true masters dwelled among the common folk, but Nan Fang had seldom encountered such folk musicians of genuine caliber. Even a prodigious talent like Bai Yao only left a lasting impression on select pieces; she was still far from reaching a master’s level.

Amateur singers in the folk scene often had pleasant voices, but their musical foundations were generally weak, making them incomparable to professional singers who earned their living through song. Yet Huang Guolun’s performance genuinely shook Nan Fang to the core. Although this song was not a grand, heroic anthem of overwhelming power, it embodied the essence of refinement, spirit, and vitality—qualities that shone through in every measure and all at a top-tier level.

Nan Fang could confidently assert that, based on this single song alone, Huang Guolun could outperform more than 95% of the current professional singers in the Chinese music scene. No wonder the ever-proud Zhao Jing held Huang Guolun, a high school music teacher, in such high esteem—his abilities were truly extraordinary.

Nan Fang relaxed his crossed legs and shed any lingering arrogance or disdain. Bowing his head in humble admiration, he hoped to hear more performances at this caliber from Huang Guolun, eager to learn from the music teacher and understand the secrets behind such captivating singing.

Nearly everyone in the café was captivated by Huang Guolun’s “Kite.” Many felt a deep resonance, recalling fleeting memories and the fragments of past loves scattered by the wind. Among them, Feng Zheng was probably the most moved and familiar with the song.

Though others had covered “Kite” before, Feng Zheng found those versions lacking compared to Stefanie Sun’s original; he rarely enjoyed cover renditions to avoid tarnishing the sacred song in his heart. Before Huang Guolun began, Feng Zheng was slightly disappointed—he had hoped to hear Bai Yao’s version instead, fearing that Huang Guolun’s mature, masculine voice might ruin the song for him. But after hearing it, he was utterly stunned.

In his eyes, Huang Guolun had redefined “Kite.” For a moment, Feng Zheng felt as if he had never truly understood the song until now. It was only when Huang Guolun sang it that he realized the piece bore far more depth and flavor than he had imagined. Wang Peng and Jiang Lili both declared Huang Guolun a genius music teacher, and indeed, the man’s singing was nothing short of miraculous.

The university students around Feng Zheng now witnessed firsthand the dazzling power of Huang Guolun’s musical charm. The teacher’s mature, steady demeanor—reminiscent of a seasoned official—suddenly seemed noble and imposing in their eyes.

Among them, Bai Yao, closest to Huang Guolun, was perhaps the least moved. Although she was hearing his “Kite” for the first time too, having practiced with him daily, she was already accustomed to the radiant musical aura he exuded. Whenever Huang Guolun sang such heartfelt songs, Bai Yao could sense the deep, soulful longing and remembrance flowing from his very bones.

Those close to Huang Guolun could tell that Chen Jia had never truly left his heart. His home was filled with photographs of the two together; his dressing room was stocked with her clothes, and even the shoe rack by the door held several pairs of her slippers. It seemed Huang Guolun lived in a state of enduring yearning, where days blurred into years.

Bai Yao often felt a pang of pity for him, wishing he could move on from such a life. But for a man so deeply sentimental, escaping that emotional prison was far from easy. No amount of persuasion from others would suffice—it was something only he could gradually come to terms with, letting time heal the wounds in his heart.

Listening to Huang Guolun sing like this always stirred a bittersweet ache within Bai Yao. Yet, like a sponge, she absorbed every drop of musical nourishment he offered, striving to learn his technique of conveying sorrow without despair, and his stirring, poignant artistry.

She was well aware of her own vocal shortcomings but firmly believed that with earnest effort, she would one day master these skills.

The piano finally fell silent.

The café erupted in waves of applause.

If Nan Fang’s earlier singing could be called professional level, and Bai Yao’s was dazzling, then Huang Guolun’s was undeniably masterful.

A female voice nearby sighed, “Teacher Huang’s singing is so beautiful. It’s the first time I’ve heard a song and felt like my heart was being held—so magical.”

Jiang Lili smiled, “That’s what it means to be conquered! He conquered me the first time I heard him sing too.”

Wang Peng added, “Teacher Huang is amazing at covers, but his original songs are even better!”

Jiang Lili enthusiastically agreed, “Exactly! Last time, Peng and I heard him sing ‘Anhe Bridge.’ Wow, it was absolutely stunning! I said then, this man is definitely a genius!”

A young man asked with interest, “‘Anhe Bridge’? What kind of song is that?”

“A folk song, an amazing folk song!” Wang Peng replied, savoring the memory.

On the other side, Feng Zheng excitedly shouted, “Teacher Huang, your ‘Kite’ is incredible! It’s as good as my idol Stefanie Sun!”

Jiang Lili teased Feng Zheng, “Don’t get too full of yourself... Teacher Huang, please sing ‘Anhe Bridge’ for us! Your ‘Anhe Bridge’ is way better than ‘Kite’!”

Upon hearing that “Anhe Bridge” was even better than “Kite,” the other students eagerly clamored for Huang Guolun to perform it.

Meanwhile, Zhao Jing was boasting to Shen Yumeng and Nan Fang, “Teacher Huang is a master of pop, rock, and folk—he’s unbeatable! I don’t know about rock, but his folk singing is electrifying! Wait until you hear ‘Anhe Bridge.’ I won’t claim it’s the absolute pinnacle of folk music, but it’s definitely first-class. Last time he played the hand drum for us at the duck restaurant, the vibe was unmatched!”

Nan Fang, ever the professional, scoffed at Zhao Jing’s extravagant praise. “Isn’t that a bit much? There’s no such thing as a musician who masters everything. In music, specialization is key. But I have to admit, Teacher Huang’s singing is truly impressive.”

Zhao Jing puffed out her chest and boldly declared, “Impressive? I’d say he’s on the same level as Eason Chan!”

Shen Yumeng, possessing even stronger musical knowledge, nodded in agreement. “You know, Teacher Huang’s slow ballads do remind me a bit of Eason. He’s a classic baritone with incredible control in both chest and head voice—very powerful. His transitions are seamless, almost invisible. What impresses me most is his breath control—so steady and supportive. With such a foundation, his use of vocal techniques is always just right. Singing for him seems effortless; his adaptability is unmatched.”

Nan Fang nodded in agreement, admiring Shen Yumeng’s apt assessment.

Though a traditional music teacher, Huang Guolun’s singing bore no trace of rigid academic style, which was rare. His powerful breath support revealed his deep skill, yet his singing was spontaneous and unpretentious, never flaunting technical prowess—it simply blossomed naturally.

If Nan Fang were to compare him to another singer, it would be Adele, who shares a similarly strong academic background.

Zhao Jing, however, felt Shen Yumeng’s praise was insufficient and continued, “You guys realize how strong Teacher Huang is now, right? But that’s not all! Singing is one thing, but his songwriting is even more impressive! I’ve already heard several of his originals; any one of them would top the charts! They’re all amazing! Don’t look at me like I’m bragging—I’m telling you, he’s even more amazing than I say! Just wait and see. By the end of the night, I guarantee you’ll be begging to hear him sing.”

Shen Yumeng, exasperated by Zhao Jing’s hyperbole, protested, “Enough already! You’re about to put Teacher Huang on a pedestal. He’s great, the best in the world—okay, okay!”

“Teacher Huang might actually become number one in the Chinese music scene someday!”

Though Nan Fang acknowledged Huang Guolun’s talent, he found Zhao Jing’s over-the-top praise a bit too much. He even wondered if Zhao Jing had been brainwashed by some cult, given her fanatical obsession with Huang Guolun’s music.

Was this music teacher’s original work truly that extraordinary?

Taking a sip of coffee, prodded by Zhao Jing’s enthusiasm, Nan Fang turned toward the small stage, curious to see just how impressive Teacher Huang’s original music could be.