Chapter 4: [A 《Sea Swallow》 That Stuns the Room!]
The interview room fell deathly silent.
The judges had never intended to ask a second question. Their plan had been to eliminate Zhang Ye in the first round. But now, the seven interviewers exchanged bewildered glances, utterly lost on how to score this. By all rights, the young man deserved full marks—no, double full marks.
Ten seconds. Nine hundred words recited flawlessly.
What kind of superhuman feat was this?
When they'd issued the challenge earlier and saw Zhang Ye's blank expression, they'd assumed him incompetent. Now the tables turned—his calm demeanor revealed not panic, but the quiet confidence of someone to whom memorizing a thousand words was child's play. They were the fools here.
Yet awarding full marks meant hiring him outright. While Zhang Ye's written exam ranked mid-tier among the twenty-odd candidates, his perfect interview score would rocket him to the top. Problem was—his appearance. Even for radio hosts who rarely showed their faces, public events demanded presentable looks. Zhang Ye's ordinary features and average height, they believed, would dampen audience enthusiasm.
Li Honglian hesitated. "Lao Zhao?"
Zhao Guozhou sighed, adopting a paternal tone. "Xiao Zhang, your exam results and today's performance prove you're exceptionally talented. As a broadcasting graduate, we should welcome you. But…" He gestured at Zhang Ye's face. "Your teachers must've warned you—this industry prioritizes looks. Let's bypass the second question. Choose any behind-the-scenes role. Start tomorrow."
Zhang Ye didn't blink. "Thank you, but I'll take the second test." This stubbornness was his last thread of dignity.
Zhao threw up his hands. Hopeless.
Li Honglian's teacup clinked sharply as she set it down. "Fine. I oversee foreign language programming. We need Russian talent. Compose an original Russian poem—here, now—and I'll give full marks."
Russian poetry? Original?
Zhao shot Li a look but stayed silent. The trap was set: Zhang Ye's resume listed only English proficiency. Even Russian majors struggled with poetic composition. This was an impossible ask—a final nail in his coffin.
Zhang Ye's fists clenched. Unfair. So damned unfair. But then it hit him—this world lacked Gorky. Lacked Pushkin. Their loss was his arsenal.
"Well?" Li drummed her nails. "We're waiting."
Zhang Ye closed his eyes, channeling university drills—the semester from hell when their voice coach made them memorize Russian phonetics through sheer repetition. One piece in particular surfaced...
"Песня о буревестнике," he began, each guttural syllable rolling like thunder.
The room froze.
Li Honglian's teacup slipped, splashing her lap. "That's… that's…"
Gorky's "The Song of the Stormy Petrel"—a revolutionary anthem from another world—now tore through the silence. Zhang Ye's voice swelled, embodying the defiant seabird challenging the storm:
"Над седой равниной моря ветер тучи собирает.
Между тучами и морем гордо реет Буревестник,
черной молнии подобный..."
Sparks seemed to fly from his tongue as he built to the iconic finale:
"Пусть сильнее грянет буря!"
Let the storm rage harder!
The last syllable hung like a lightning strike.
Every jaw in the room hit the floor.The interview room fell deathly silent.
The judges had never intended to ask a second question. Their plan had been to eliminate Zhang Ye in the first round. But now, the seven interviewers exchanged bewildered glances, utterly lost on how to score this. By all rights, the young man deserved full marks—no, double full marks.
Ten seconds. Nine hundred words recited flawlessly.
What kind of superhuman feat was this?
When they'd issued the challenge earlier and saw Zhang Ye's blank expression, they'd assumed him incompetent. Now the tables turned—his calm demeanor revealed not panic, but the quiet confidence of someone to whom memorizing a thousand words was child's play. They were the fools here.
Yet awarding full marks meant hiring him outright. While Zhang Ye's written exam ranked mid-tier among the twenty-odd candidates, his perfect interview score would rocket him to the top. Problem was—his appearance. Even for radio hosts who rarely showed their faces, public events demanded presentable looks. Zhang Ye's ordinary features and average height, they believed, would dampen audience enthusiasm.
Li Honglian hesitated. "Lao Zhao?"
Zhao Guozhou sighed, adopting a paternal tone. "Xiao Zhang, your exam results and today's performance prove you're exceptionally talented. As a broadcasting graduate, we should welcome you. But…" He gestured at Zhang Ye's face. "Your teachers must've warned you—this industry prioritizes looks. Let's bypass the second question. Choose any behind-the-scenes role. Start tomorrow."
Zhang Ye didn't blink. "Thank you, but I'll take the second test." This stubbornness was his last thread of dignity.
Zhao threw up his hands. Hopeless.
Li Honglian's teacup clinked sharply as she set it down. "Fine. I oversee foreign language programming. We need Russian talent. Compose an original Russian poem—here, now—and I'll give full marks."
Russian poetry? Original?
Zhao shot Li a look but stayed silent. The trap was set: Zhang Ye's resume listed only English proficiency. Even Russian majors struggled with poetic composition. This was an impossible ask—a final nail in his coffin.
Zhang Ye's fists clenched. Unfair. So damned unfair. But then it hit him—this world lacked Gorky. Lacked Pushkin. Their loss was his arsenal.
"Well?" Li drummed her nails. "We're waiting."
Zhang Ye closed his eyes, channeling university drills—the semester from hell when their voice coach made them memorize Russian phonetics through sheer repetition. One piece in particular surfaced...
"Песня о буревестнике," he began, each guttural syllable rolling like thunder.
The room froze.
Li Honglian's teacup slipped, splashing her lap. "That's… that's…"
Gorky's "The Song of the Stormy Petrel"—a revolutionary anthem from another world—now tore through the silence. Zhang Ye's voice swelled, embodying the defiant seabird challenging the storm:
"Над седой равниной моря ветер тучи собирает.
Между тучами и морем гордо реет Буревестник,
черной молнии подобный..."
Sparks seemed to fly from his tongue as he built to the iconic finale:
"Пусть сильнее грянет буря!"
Let the storm rage harder!
The last syllable hung like a lightning strike.
Every jaw in the room hit the floor.