Five days after the semi-finals aired.

The annual special feature of "Chinese Music Weekly" went online.

The significance of this magazine in the industry needs no explanation.

Founded thirty-one years ago, it only releases one annual special feature per year. Whoever is featured on the cover is essentially receiving a stamp of certification.

The last person to grace the annual special cover was a heavenly king-level singer seven years ago. At that time, he had already been debuted for four years, with three albums and two Golden Melody Awards to his name.

The title of this issue's cover was...

Godfather of R&B.

The accompanying image was a profile of Lu Zhixian playing the guitar on the semi-finals stage.

The lights shone down from above, cutting his silhouette cleanly and sharply. The background was that night sky screen, with starlight scattered behind him.

The article began with the "Xian" album.

It analyzed every song, from production standards to arrangement ideas, and from timbre control to emotional expression, spanning nearly three thousand words.

Then, the tone shifted, moving to the national popularity of "fragrance of rice," and then to the semi-finals stage performance of "the brightest star in the night sky."

The final paragraph was written like this:

"The last person to be crowned with the title of 'Godfather' was Mr. Zhou, who pioneered the golden age of Chinese pop music thirty years ago. Lu Zhixian has completed in less than a year what takes others ten years to accumulate. This title wasn't given by the media; it was given by the works."

The moment the article was published, the social media platforms of the entire Chinese music scene exploded simultaneously.

Reactions were polarized, split cleanly down the middle.

Among the older generation of musicians, some publicly expressed their views.

A producer who had won three Golden Melody Awards for Best Arrangement posted a message on his Moments, which was screenshotted and spread.

"After listening to the 'Xian' album, I truly feel this young man has something. If nothing else, just that harmony arrangement—those in the country who can reach this level can be counted on one hand."

But some weren't buying it.

A well-known producer with over twenty years of experience in the industry posted a status on social media that night, with very direct wording.

"The word 'Godfather' isn't given casually. One album plus a few singles—is that enough? Mr. Zhou took fifteen years and seventeen albums to be called Godfather. Is the threshold this low now?"

Ten minutes after this status was posted, three thousand comments flooded in.

Two trending search terms exploded at the same time.

#Lu Zhixian Godfather of R&B#

#Does Lu Zhixian Deserve the Title of Godfather#

The two terms were at second and fourth place, separated by an entertainment gossip piece.

The comment section turned into a massive debate scene.

The supporting side listed data.

Album sales, music platform play counts, semi-finals stage fancam data, various chart rankings—they were pasted one by one.

The opposing side talked about seniority. Debuted for less than a year, limited number of works, insufficient industry accumulation—how can he compare to Mr. Zhou? What would those seniors who have been making music for twenty years think?

The centrists were the happiest.

Eating popcorn online, liking both sides, they moved freely through the comment section.

"I just want to ask, is there a prize for winning the argument?"

"I suggest both sides release a song each. Let the works speak; don't just type in the comments."

"The supporters and opponents have argued for eight hundred floors. What is Lu Zhixian himself doing? Probably sleeping."

This last guess wasn't quite accurate.

Lu Zhixian wasn't sleeping.

He was eating breakfast.

In the kitchen, the pot on the stove was steaming, and the aroma of scallion oil drifted all the way from the kitchen to the living room.

Lu Zhixian carried a bowl of scallion oil noodles to the dining table and sat down. He lifted his chopsticks, the noodles flipped over in the bowl, and the scallion oil was evenly coated on every strand.

He took a bite.

His expression was subtle.

Delicious.

Not just normally delicious, but the kind of delicious that made even him freeze for a moment.

Master-level Culinary Arts was a step further than the cooking skills obtained as a Master Chef. The level of this bowl of noodles today had already exceeded his expectations.

He took another bite to confirm it wasn't an illusion.

The Master-level Culinary Arts obtained from the three-hundred-draw pull—its only use right now was to let him eat a god-tier bowl of scallion oil noodles every morning.

Was it worth it?

It seemed worth it.

He carried the bowl to the living room sofa, sat down, picked up his phone with one hand, and scrolled while eating.

The trending search page came into view. Two terms were hanging in the front rows, and the number of comments was still skyrocketing.

"Godfather of R&B."

He looked at those words, and his chopsticks paused for a moment.

Then he continued eating his noodles.

Lao Zhao came in at some point, holding a tablet, and sat opposite him with a serious face.

"Did you see it? That 'Chinese Music Weekly' cover."

"I saw it."

"You saw the trending searches too?"

"I did."

"Do you want to respond? Public opinion is arguing fiercely on both sides. If you take a stand, it can set the direction."

Lu Zhixian slurped the last mouthful of noodles into his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed.

"Lao Zhao."

"Hmm?"

"The noodles I made are really good."

Lao Zhao's expression froze for a second. His mouth opened, but he swallowed back the words he was about to say.

Having known Lu Zhixian for so long, he had learned one thing: if this guy didn't want to talk about a topic, you couldn't pry it open.

"What does the noodles being delicious have to do with the trending searches?"

"Nothing," Lu Zhixian put the bowl on the coffee table and wiped his mouth. "But the noodles are truly delicious."

Lao Zhao gave up.

At 2:17 PM that day.

A Weibo post broke the deadlock.

The person who posted it was Mr. Zhou, who was mentioned in the article. To be precise, it was posted by Mr. Zhou's assistant on his behalf, because the old gentleman himself never personally operated social media platforms.

The Weibo content was extremely simple.

It reposted that article from "Chinese Music Weekly" with a single-word caption.

"Good."

No extra explanation, no elaborate discourse, just one word.

But everyone understood.

Tens of thousands of comments flooded in within thirty seconds.

"Mr. Zhou has personally certified it. What else is there to argue about?"

"The word 'Good' carries more weight than ten thousand comments."

"When a big shot speaks, it's different. One word resolves all controversy."

"Is the opposition still there? Come out and take a walk?"

That well-known producer who had posted a status questioning him quietly deleted his post forty minutes after Mr. Zhou's Weibo was sent.

No statement, no explanation, just deleted it.

But screenshots were already flying everywhere.

This Weibo post directly suppressed half of the controversy.

The remaining half was slowly diluted over the next two days by the constant stream of supportive voices, eventually turning into background noise.

But the more critical change wasn't in the public opinion arena.

It was within the industry.

Over the next three days, the notification sound on Lu Zhixian's phone almost never stopped.

Messages from industry seniors came one after another.

Some were congratulations. "Read the weekly's article. It's well-written; you deserve it."

Some were dinner invitations. "Zhixian, have time to sit down together some other day? Let's talk about music. My treat."

Some were testing the waters for cooperation. "I have a project on hand and want to talk to you about it. Give me a call when it's convenient."

Lu Zhixian looked through them one by one, replying to those that needed it, thanking those that needed it, and marking the non-urgent ones to be left for later.

He knew very well what these messages meant.

Socializing in the industry isn't about making friends; it's about confirming one's position.

These people sent messages not because they suddenly thought he was good, but because his position had changed, and they needed to recalibrate their relationship with him.

This logic—having been a producer for over a decade in his past life—he understood better than anyone.

Only in his past life, he was the one sending the messages.

After Lao Zhao finished organizing the resource changes of the past few days, he listed a manifest and sat down to talk with Lu Zhixian.

The location was the apartment living room, with coffee brewed by Lu Zhixian himself on the table.

With the buff attached to Master-level Culinary Arts, the taste was better than a sixty-yuan hand-pour from outside.

Lao Zhao took a sip, froze for a moment, but didn't comment.

"Let's talk business." He spread out the list.

"Brand collaborations, performance invitations, variety show appearances, movie/TV OSTs—all four sectors are seeing across-the-board growth. Your current commercial value assessment has more than doubled compared to three months ago."

He paused and looked up at Lu Zhixian.

"Your position is different now."

Lu Zhixian held his coffee cup, took a sip, and didn't respond.

"Before, you were a dark horse among newcomers. Now, you aren't," Lao Zhao's tone became serious.

"After that 'Chinese Music Weekly' cover came out, the industry's positioning of you changed. You aren't in the newcomer lane anymore; you've been pulled directly to the top tier."

"No rush." Lu Zhixian put down his coffee cup.

"We'll talk about it later."

Lao Zhao held back his words, nodded, and looked down at the next item on the list.

But his expression could no longer be hidden.

His brows and eyes were full of excitement that couldn't be suppressed, and the curve of his lips looked like he was holding back a laugh.

Seeing him like that, Lu Zhixian knew something big was coming.

But Lao Zhao didn't say it, and he didn't ask.

That night.

In the apartment's studio, the lights weren't on; only the light from the system interface reflected on Lu Zhixian's face.

He sat alone in the chair, opened the popularity points panel, and looked at the data changes brought by the "Godfather" title.

The growth curve was a steep upward line, with a slope even more exaggerated than after the semi-finals.

He watched for a while, then closed the interface.

Leaning back in his chair, his gaze fell on the ceiling.

The studio was very quiet, with only the low-frequency hum of the air conditioner.

In his past life, he had spent over a decade in recording studios.

The word "Godfather"—he hadn't even thought about it in his past life.

In this life, it took less than two years.

He smiled.

The sound was very light, dissipating in the empty studio.

It was hard to say if it was a sigh of emotion or something else.

His phone lit up.

He glanced to the side.

Lao Zhao sent a message.

[Tomorrow morning at ten, there's a conference call. You must attend.]

[I'll tell you the specific details then, but I'll give you a heads-up first.]

[It's an internationally renowned brand.]

Lu Zhixian stared at the last four words on the screen, freezing for two seconds.

Then he remembered his fluent London-accented English.

"...It's actually going to be used?"