(Reader advisory: Let's abandon logic, set aside our worries, and leave our brains here as the author indulges in their own self-indulgent writing.)
In a parallel universe, there exists a vibrant blue planet called Earth Star.
The geopolitical layout of Earth Star mirrors our own, but with key differences. Notably, its entertainment and cultural industries lag behind, while its economy surges ahead.
This imbalance—a robust economy unsupported by a thriving cultural sector—creates a distorted societal development.
This is the Demon Capital, a dazzling metropolis where towering skyscrapers coexist with a fully developed entertainment ecosystem.
Recently launched idol audition shows have sparked a frenzy of imitation among Chinese television networks, with deep-pocketed stations and internet giants scrambling to develop their own versions.
The Demon Capital boasts a comprehensive trainee pipeline, largely modeled after the trainee systems of South Korean K-pop groups. While quantity abounds, quality varies widely.
In these idol audition programs, so-called "ordinary citizens" with complex hidden connections rely on choreography experts from dance studios for their routines, while specialized Cultural and Creative Companies handle songwriting and composition.
It was eleven o'clock at night. Except for those working the night shift, most office workers had long since finished their day and returned home to their families and warm beds.
But in the Demon Capital, Nuocheng Company, a modestly sized cultural and creative firm specializing in songwriting and composition, was still burning the midnight oil. In this city teeming with such enterprises, Nuocheng occupied an awkward middle ground, neither outstanding nor entirely failing.
The company's continued survival in the Demon Capital was largely due to a former Gold-tier Composer who had once walked through its doors. In this world, songwriters and composers were assigned professional rankings.
The ladder began with entry-level Apprentices. Upon successful completion of their training, they progressed to Bronze-tier, followed by Silver, Gold, Platinum, and Diamond. Above Diamond, China had only ever seen two or three legendary veterans reach that level.
These titans had composed the music and lyrics for the grand founding ceremony of the nation. Their achievements defied conventional ranking, and the industry revered them as the Song Emperor and Lyric Father, titles that encapsulated their legendary status.
Returning to Nuocheng Company, the Gold-tier Composer had earned his rank by creating two or three songs that achieved the "Rising Fame" level.
At the time, everyone believed that Nuocheng would leverage this thirty-something Golden Composer to propel the company to new heights.
But who could have foreseen that the Golden Composer would be poached so soon? The larger companies paid the hefty compensation fee without a second thought, plunging Nuocheng Company into irreversible decline.
Now relegated to the status of a third-rate cultural and creative company, Nuocheng scrapes by on scraps. Were it not for the booming idol audition industry, the company would have folded long ago.
The rapid expansion of the idol audition industry has flooded the market with trainees, creating a desperate need for performance material. The management companies behind these trainees have become increasingly indiscriminate, relentlessly cutting costs and accepting subpar material.
Most idols who debut through these auditions rely on catering to fandoms driven by fleeting trends. Fans care little about the actual quality of their idols' music; even if their "oppas" merely twitch on stage, the fans will applaud wildly and shower them with blind praise.
With quality no longer a priority, mediocrity thrives. This new reality has opened a path for small to medium-sized companies like Nuocheng.
Every week, dozens—sometimes hundreds—of trainees approach Nuocheng seeking songs. Li Tong, the company's owner, orders his supervisors to relentlessly exploit the composers and lyricists under their control.
Typically, this kind of work involves a composer and a lyricist collaborating, making the workload relatively manageable. However, due to Nuocheng Company's relentless exploitation, many well-connected employees had already left.
Those who remained were now burdened with the workload of their departed colleagues. The lights still burned late in Nuocheng Company's rented office floor, where one employee toiled overtime.
Despite feeling dizzy and utterly drained, he remained at his workstation, racing to finish two songs due the next day. His desk displayed both "Composer" and "Lyricist" plaques, marked with the Bronze-tier (★) designation.
"Just a little longer..." he muttered to himself. "I'll hit seven years soon, and I'll finally be able to settle down in the Demon Capital."
The man, who had come from a small village, considered this a hard-won victory. He had struggled to secure a job in the Demon Capital, and even though his meager savings left little after covering basic expenses, he chose to stay.
Back in his village, his parents often boasted about their son working at a cultural and creative company in the Demon Capital—one of their few sources of pride.
The man desperately needed this job; he needed a Demon Capital hukou.
Knowing this, his supervisor ruthlessly exploited him. Losing this job now would make a seamless transition to another impossible. He had signed a non-compete agreement, stipulating that even after leaving Nuocheng Company, he couldn't work as a writer for any other company for a year.
Violating the agreement would mean paying a penalty a hundred times his annual salary—a staggering sum of millions that would crush even his broad shoulders.
If he quit and left the industry, where else could he earn a living? He couldn't afford to lapse on his social security contributions or other essential expenses like rent. His meager savings wouldn't last three months.
He tried to rally himself, but everything before him grew increasingly blurry. Slapping his face and splashing mineral water on it brought no relief.
Soon, darkness enveloped him. He collapsed at his desk, dying suddenly before he could even call for help.
Time ticked on. Just after midnight, a peculiar starlight pierced through from beyond the cosmos, instantly plunging into Earth's atmosphere.
Astronomy enthusiasts noticed a meteor-like light, shimmering with a noble purple hue, streaking across the sky and plunging into China.
It landed in Demon Capital, striking the young man who had just died suddenly!
When astronomy enthusiasts posted about the phenomenon online, it caught some attention. A prominent astrologer declared it a celestial descent of the Purple Micro Star, foretelling the emergence of a prodigious genius in some future industry—a talent destined to revolutionize its landscape.
Most people took the news with a grain of salt. After all, astronomy remained largely a mystery to the public, their knowledge limited to recognizing constellations.
As the purple starlight flooded the corporate slave's lifeless body, its unique radiance began to cleanse him from within, initiating a profound transformation.
With a gasp, the man suddenly shot to his feet, as if resurfacing from drowning. He stared around in panic, his breathing gradually calming. The office remained eerily silent.
He gazed at the dazzling nightscape of Demon Capital through the window, the glass reflecting his disheveled, utterly ordinary appearance.
His first words were: "How... how did I get here?!"