From the moment of his rebirth, Li Mu had pondered how to leverage his internet knowledge to earn his first year's college tuition and a laptop by summer's end.
He never imagined his first windfall would come from selling songs. Life truly brimmed with surprises.
By 6 PM, Li Mu held demo CDs of his two tracks. Zhang Kexuan, riding high on excitement, refused to let their "genius" guest leave, insisting Li Mu and Chen Wan join them for Jinling's finest street feast.
Li Mu initially declined, wanting to drive back to Haizhou before nightfall. But Zhang protested: "Night driving's risky!" Chen Wan chimed in: "Stay till tomorrow morning. It's safer."
Zhang suddenly snapped his fingers: "Tonight's the Olympic bid announcement! If Beijing wins, the whole city will celebrate! Let's feast, drink ice-cold beers, and watch history!"
Li Mu checked his mental calendar—July 13. At 10 PM, Samaranch would declare Beijing the 2008 Summer Olympics host. A nationwide celebration indeed. Why not indulge?
After calling his parents, Li Mu followed Zhang's imported Land Cruiser in Chen Wan's Audi A6 to a bustling downtown food stall. Such open-air eateries in prime locations would vanish in coming years—a fleeting privilege of the era.
Their destination boasted a centerpiece rarely seen then: a rear-projection TV. Zhang, a regular, secured VIP seating directly facing the screen. "We watch soccer here often," Zhang said, settling in. "You into football?"
"More spectator than player," Li Mu admitted.
Zhang grinned. "Same here. But our national team's killing it this year—six straight wins in World Cup qualifiers!"
Drummer Ye Tianming scoffed: "Against minnows like Maldives and Cambodia? Wait till the Asian Zone Final Round—then we'll see."
Guitarist Xia Ji countered: "I've got a feeling this is our year!"
Li Mu mentally mapped the timeline—group stages concluded, final qualifiers starting late August. He vividly recalled the October night when China clinched World Cup entry, only to crash spectacularly later.
Zhang ordered a carnivorous spread—grilled skewers, spicy crayfish, and imported Coronas. Li Mu basked in the moment: summer twilight, icy beers, Chen Wan's radiance, and four wealthy disciples hanging on his every word. The band's name—"Jinling Soundwave"—earned no comment. Rock bands loved obscure monikers anyway.
As conversations flowed, Li Mu discovered genuine passion beneath the quartet's privileged facades. Their shared musical fervor bridged social gaps, lubricated by endless toasts.
By 9:30 PM, a pleasant buzz accompanied the swelling crowds outside. Flag-draped citizens congregated beneath building-sized screens broadcasting CCTV's live feed. Police monitored discreetly as volunteers distributed free bottled water.
"Beijing will win!" someone roared. The cry rippled through thousands: "Beijing will WIN!"
Inspired, Zhang declared: "I'm buying every Corona here to share when we win!" His bandmates joined the pledge.
Li Mu cautioned: "Get cans instead. Glass bottles in crowds are dangerous."
"Smart!" Zhang tossed his Land Cruiser keys to the stall owner. "Old Zhou, buy all the canned beer you can find!"
The proprietor, caught in the patriotic fervor, insisted: "Count me in!" Chen Wan and Li Mu added their shares.
In this pre-breathalyzer era, Li Mu noted approvingly how Zhang never considered driving drunk.
By 10 PM, Zhou returned with a dozen beer crates—24 cans each. Mere droplets for the ocean of revelers, but goodwill mattered.
At 10:08 PM, Samaranch uttered the magic words: "Beijing."
The nation erupted.
Firecrackers tore through Jinling's skies as strangers embraced. Zhang's crew tore through crate lids, hurling cans into outstretched hands. Chen Wan, usually poised, whooped while spraying beer like championship champagne.
Li Mu leaned against the Audi, watching history repeat. Eight years from now, these streets would witness different celebrations—but tonight's pure, uncynical joy was irreplaceable.
Amid the chaos, Zhang slung an arm around Li Mu: "Brother Mu! Your songs, our band—we're gonna be legends!"
Li Mu smiled. Legends indeed—just not in the way they imagined.