Chapter 15 College Art Festival

When the steaming pot of pork ribs arrived, we were drooling. School canteen food was painfully bland, though flies loved it—hence the frequent "moth to flame" dramas proving "humans die for wealth, flies die for food."

We refused alcohol, ordering Sprite and Coke. Two ribs each felt like rain after a drought—but when reaching for more, the pot was empty. D*mn wolves! We sent a "delegation" for refills—vegetables and staples were free, so we feasted. We even competed to see who could eat more, till the boss eyed us like enemies.

When the bill came, Lord Wu said: "Who's got money? I only have cigarette cash.""Me too—enough for toilet paper," Xiaohua added."Ten yuan here," Little J said.F*ck—we were broke! I patted my pocket—new pants, forgot to take money out. We were screwed.Lord Wu panicked: "You came to eat without money? Unbelievable."We agreed to call for help. Lord Wu made the call: "Chuanchuan? Where are you?... Great, come to Beautiful Hotpot on North Street... Call when here."Ten minutes later, Chuanchuan arrived. Saved—otherwise, we'd be washing dishes. Four guys washing dishes? We'd probably smash them all, reenacting WWII 突围 (breakout) and destroying the joint. Chuanchuan paid, rescuing us like prisoners.

On the way back, we discussed the CF tournament—Chuanchuan was in. At school, new posters: "Campus Singer Competition" and 社团 (club) events. It was "College Cultural Art Festival"—all student organizations had to host activities. The e-sports tourney was by the Student Union, the singing comp by the Youth League.

I checked my only club, the Literature Society: "60th National Day" essay contest. Boring theme—turned out the school mandated it. I called the president:"Literature Society? Why this theme?""School order—we have to follow."No wonder. I complained about no notifications: "Posters only? Text me next time—I'm busy.""Okay.""Don't 敷衍 (perfunctory) me—no text, I'll pretend to die!"They laughed, promising. Now I had stuff to do: write a suggestion letter, pick a singer comp song, prepare for e-sports. My busy college life was just starting.

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As the saying goes: "Hope is fire, disappointment is smoke. Life is lighting fires everywhere, smoking everywhere." I signed up for the singer comp, crossing fingers.

"We're not kids—should find girlfriends," Lord Wu said, smoking.I hadn't smoked in ages: "Lord Wu, hand me a smoke." He lit one for me. Little J came over: "Give a smoke me.""Your dialect puts the subject last?" I asked."Yeah, we say 'la' (that) like ' 辣 '," Little J said.Lord Wu tried teaching him: "那里 (there), 承诺 (promise)."Little J butchered it: "辣里,承落."Lord Wu tried English: "I Don't know!"Little J mimicked: "I Don't know!" Lord Wu gave up, but Little J begged till he got a smoke.

Xiaohua and Chuanchuan entered the smoky dorm. "Smoking's bad," Chuanchuan said."Smoking is art, seeking a beating is attitude," Lord Wu retorted.We played cards after. Later, they discussed poetry—rarely 高雅 (elegant):"Nalan Rongruo's 'If life were just 初见 (first sight), why sad autumn wind on painted fan' is moving," Xiaohua sighed.Chuanchuan parodied: "山穷水尽,咦?无路;柳暗花明,呦!一村."Lord Wu one-upped 李白 (Li Bai): "床,钱,明月,光,衣,失,地上,爽.""Great 'poem'—so lewd!" Xiaohua praised.They ended with Lord Wu's drunk poem: "Drunk wandering campus, lost in directions. Hit a wall unawares, lie counting stars."

The singer competition was divided into preliminary, semi-final, and final rounds, making it seem quite formal. When I received the notice for the preliminary round of the campus singer competition, I felt a tinge of excitement, but also some anxiety because I hadn't decided on a song yet, which was frustrating. Naturally, I wanted to sing songs by Xu Song, my go-to artist, but I was torn between Cheng Fu (Schemes) and Funeral of a Rose.

Xiaohua suggested that since we're supposed to be the "sun at eight or nine o'clock," I shouldn't choose such gloomy songs. He promptly dismissed both my choices. In the end, I followed Xiaohua's advice and prepared to sing Stubborn by Mayday. Before the preliminaries, I decided a slogan would be good to boost morale and prevent stage fright.

After much reasoning and brainstorming, we finalized the slogan: "Youth is like the morning sun, brooking no delay!" It was all about the momentum. When Dong Yulan and her dormmates heard I was joining the competition, they all burst into laughter. Some said my condition wasn't fit for singing. I was 郁闷 —what was wrong with my condition? Well, maybe I wasn't cut out for hidden rules.

Others said I looked like a telegraph pole—tall and thin. I retorted that it wasn't a beauty or modeling contest; what did appearance matter? The most irritating was Black Mountain Old Demon, who said my looks and voice might scare the judges to death, and we couldn't afford the compensation. Sure, I'm not handsome, but I'm presentable! In high school, I was called the "Singing King"—a minor celebrity, you know.

Besides, if someone died of fright, it's their poor mental endurance, not my fault. Old Demon countered with the logic that "being ugly isn't a sin, but scaring people is," 扼杀 (strangling) my argument. Only Dong Yulan was decent, saying she'd wait to see my performance. Yang later revealed that Dong Yulan was from the Youth League Committee, in charge of the event.

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With everyone's expectations and some mockery in mind, I went to the competition confidently. The preliminary round was held in a large classroom on the first floor of Building 8. I was shocked to see it packed—even standing room was scarce. D*mn, it was worse than a train station! If I'd known, I could've posted bouncers and charged admission—it'd be a cash cow.

But it wasn't my call. Squeezing in with my skinny frame, I arrived before it started. A girl next to me was practicing a high-pitched song I didn't know—she had talent. A guy was even more impressive, practicing The Flight I Want—mind-blowing!

Soon, a host-like person gave an opening speech: "Dear judges and classmates, good afternoon. We're here for the preliminary round of the campus singer competition. Please prepare. Rules: Register for your number on the left, exit on the right after singing. With about 300 participants, keep your performance short—judges will stop you. Best to sing the chorus only!"

As he finished, contestant No. 01 took the stage, only to be stopped after a few English lines. I was daydreaming about hosting my own competition for profit when my name was called. Seeing my number—38—I almost cried. And guess who was issuing the numbers? Dong Yulan. Revenge, definitely revenge! But under her roof, I had to submit. She made a Nike "swoosh" gesture, maybe meaning "success"—maybe I'd misunderstood.

When the 37th contestant in front of me turned around (showcasing her "national fabric-saving" chest) and asked, "Nervous? I'm so nervous!" I lied, "No," then added, "Just kidding." She smiled, and soon it was her turn. She sang Later by Rene Liu—good voice, but poor technique.

When it was my turn, I was incredibly nervous—never sung for so many "radish judges" before. (Reader: "Radish judges"? Compliment or insult?) I sang a few lines of Stubborn: "My last stubbornness, holding on tight, going crazy for myself this time, this is my stubbornness." Then I dropped the mic and bolted— 我跑调了 (I was off-key)! Too embarrassed to stay, I fled to the dorm, not even caring to hear others.

Later, I heard the competition was full of hilarious acts: a guy singing Zeng Yike's Leo, another doing New Concubine Drunk, and someone (gender unclear) singing The Flight I Want—probably that earlier guy. Medical school guys really embarrassed us—singing like girls. Worse, an 185cm dude sang Monkey King, with four buddies doing Calabash Brothers, Love of the Boat Trackers, Leo Song (Haier Brothers theme), and the most epic—Little Nezha with backup dancers.

Rumor had it they were sophomore dormmates fed up with the Youth League Committee, plotting to disrupt the event. That night, drunk students beat a guard and escaped—probably them celebrating. When a college reporter asked judges about the preliminaries, they said, "There are always weirdos, but this year's extra special!" I respected those guys—they did what they wanted, pioneered for others, and p*ss*d off the committee. Secretary Shi of the Youth League was furious but couldn't act—they'd done nothing wrong.

The school forum exploded with topics like "Heroes Sacrifice Themselves, Committee Secretary Fumes." A poll on whether they were heroes or fools sparked debate. This became a campus legend, praised in casual chats. My take: "Talent emerges every generation, each leading for decades."

After the competition, I skipped class—depressed by the loss and fearing mockery. But daily CF practice paid off—my skills improved significantly, only seven or eight kills behind Little J. Even he admired my progress (easy when starting from scratch). Little J's skills were stable, like leveling up in an MMO—fast at first, then slower.

Lord Wu, Xiaohua, and Chuanchuan practiced hard too. Under Little J's leadership, we played as a team. We often used five connected computers at the net bar, dominating Hebei Server. Our tactics p*ss*d people off: Xiaohua camped in corners, Lord Wu charged with an AK-47 (taking hits), Chuanchuan sniped, and Little J and I led the assault. Little J used an M4-A1, I followed with an M4 for flanking. Anyone facing our team would lose sleep over our strategy.