Late the next day, the music building was buzzing. Students passed the glass-paneled studio, craning their necks to glimpse inside. Rumors had already spread: Soone sponsored a professional-grade renovation. Full Steinway, soundproof walls, ambient acoustics—state of the art.
But Lin Feng didn’t linger in the spotlight. He slipped out through the side door, hoodie up, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t doing this for recognition.
In his mind, he was already thinking two steps ahead.
anwhile, Across Campus...
Liu Ziyan was seething.
His own initiative—a high-profile tech startup pitch—had flopped within 24 hours. The QR code linked to a broken site. His promotional video had been flagged for "unauthorized use of copyrighted music." And worst of all, half the judges had mysteriously backed out after lunch.
He stared at the data on his phone, jaw clenched.
"He did this," Ziyan muttered. "He turned one gesture into a movent."
Across the room, Xu Qinglan was silent, arms folded.
"You said he was all talk," Ziyan snapped. "Now he’s making the rest of us look like amateurs."
Qinglan’s gaze was unreadable. "No. He’s just not doing this for prestige. That’s what makes him dangerous."
Back in the Lounge
Zhao Rouran scrolled through her feed: photos of the studio, comnts pouring in, fan theories blowing up.
"He turned a dusty room into a dream."
"Lin Feng’s backing a music outreach now?"
"Low-key king behavior. Respect."
She chuckled, then paused as a private ssage flashed across her screen:
From: Unknown
"The next move isn’t yours to make. He doesn’t belong here."
Her smile faded. A threat.
That Evening
Lin Feng returned to the studio to double-check everything. But as he stepped inside, a sharp chemical stench hit his nose.
Paint.
Not just any paint—graffiti. Soone had scrawled on the pristine wall in harsh red strokes:
"BUY YOUR WAY TO RESPECT. STILL A NOBODY."
Beneath it, a shattered cara lens lay on the floor—one of the security feeds, smashed.
[System: Host, permission to cyber-smack whoever did this? I’m offended on behalf of your interior design taste.]
Lin Feng was silent. He stared at the ss for a long ti, expression unreadable.
Then he calmly pulled out his phone and typed:
"Change of plans. Ti to respond. Publicly."
The Next Morning
The university’s student board forum blew up.
[Post by: Lin Feng]
"If influence is asured in sabotage, then I must be doing sothing right. To those who fear real change: thank you for the clarity. I’ll be investing double. And I invite anyone who believes in purpose over pedigree to join . Open applications: community talent fund, live at 6 PM."
Attached: photos of the vandalized studio—and the freshly repainted version, already restored. He’d fixed it overnight. No drama. Just action.
The comnts exploded.
"This guy’s unreal."
"He doesn’t fight back with words. He upgrades."
"Bro’s playing 4D chess."
Elsewhere
Xu Qinglan stared at the post, lips twitching. "He didn’t even na nas. He doesn’t have to."
Ziyan threw his phone across the couch. "This isn’t over."
6 PM – Live Broadcast
Lin Feng stood beside a young girl no older than 12, her violin trembling slightly in her grip. "She applied an hour ago," he said to the cara. "She plays from heart. That’s what matters."
Behind them: the studio, glowing under soft white lights.
He handed her the bow.
"Show them why we built this place."
And when the first notes filled the room—pure, hopeful, untouchable—it silenced the last whisper of sabotage.
[System: Host, you are now trending under: #PhantomSponsor, #LinFengEffect, and #StudioKnight. Would you like to file a patent for ’emotional checkmate’?]
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