27. The Band and the Grand Plan to Make Money

Beneath the grand tree in the park, two figures crossed paths.

“Whoosh—”

Lester, with his chest tucked and abdomen drawn in, unleashed a straight left punch aimed at Dean’s face.

Dean’s left hand swept horizontally, catching Lester’s wrist. With a twist, he yanked Lester’s center of gravity toward himself.

A sudden sharp pain flickered across Lester’s face; he instinctively tried to yank his hand back. This only exacerbated the pain in his wrist, and his boxing stance fell apart as he lost his balance and leaned into his opponent.

Dean, quick as lightning, reached out with his right hand and gripped Lester’s elbow—left hand twisting the wrist, right hand pressing back against the elbow.

“Agh!”

Lester cried out in pain. His entire left arm, twisted like a machine-wrung rope, bent almost to the point of deformity, and the agony nearly brought him to his knees before Dean.

You have subdued Lester Spencer using grappling—wrist lock technique… Proficiency +1, Combat lv1 (30/200).

“It hurts! Let go! It’s going to break!”

Dean shoved him away, rolling his neck with calm composure.

“Can’t you go easy on your brother?” Lester panted heavily, wiping the cold sweat from his face, his lips twitching from the pain.

Dean shook his head. “A little pain now might save your life one day.”

“I’m not planning to become a cop and fight criminals to the death. I just want to learn a bit of self-defense!”

Lester bared his teeth. He’d noticed that ever since Dean’s amnesia, his personality had changed drastically—no more movies, no girlfriends, just training or studying.

A certain fierceness flashed in his gaze, always alert, as if he were constantly on edge, ready to explode at any moment.

“Man, I think you’ve developed a persecution complex. You’re wound tighter than a rubber band!” Lester complained, rubbing his wrist.

“Don’t use excuses to slack off. Let’s keep going!”

“Fine, but you need to teach me something new. That wrist lock trick was seriously cool.”

“With your slow reflexes, you’ll end up hurting yourself before you can even twist your enemy!”

…

Time flew by in their intense sparring. At one point, Dean went to observe a class at the Strip Avenue boxing gym.

He found that the basics being taught there he’d already acquired through his skill set, and far more comprehensively. What he lacked was actual combat experience.

But before getting into the ring, the coach imposed a slew of rules—no striking below the waist, no hitting the back, no knees or elbows…

After such a cautious bout, Dean realized that unless he spent a fortune on professional sparring partners, training at this boxing gym would be less efficient than just practicing on his own.

Besides, he had no intention of becoming a professional boxer. If he learned too many rules from these matches, he’d develop the habit of avoiding his opponent’s vital points—rendering himself useless.

“Chen He’gao’s no-holds-barred fighting style suits me better—by any means necessary, anything at hand can be a weapon.”

Dean no longer went to the boxing gym.

…

The third Tuesday of May.

That afternoon, after school, Lester called out to Dean in the parking lot. Brittany, clutching a book, followed at his side.

“Mate, you can’t just stuff your brain with muscle. Let me show you something new—kick back and relax a bit.” Lester winked mysteriously. Since he’d started dating Brittany, his personality had brightened considerably.

“There’s a concert in the activity room today. Why don’t we all go?” Brittany asked expectantly, dressed in a blue sundress. Her black hair draped over her shoulders, pure and pretty, accentuating her graceful curves.

“A high school concert? Which famous alum is coming back?” Dean was curious.

“More like a future star—Brittany’s good friend Caroline, lead singer of the Morning Band. She’s gorgeous and has loads of character!” Lester said proudly. “After the concert, Brittany will introduce you. How’s that for being a good friend?”

Dean understood, a flash of memory in his eyes—he thought of his previous life, of the singer girlfriend who’d broken up with him right after graduation.

All through college, she’d dragged him to concerts in the lecture halls, cheering on the local ‘King and Queen of Song.’

He hadn’t expected American high schools to be so trendy.

“This is a rare chance, don’t kill the vibe, man!” Lester punched Dean in the chest, then braced himself. “Worst case, I’ll make up your training with you tonight!”

“Alright, let’s go see.”

Dean had a hunch: this might be the opportunity to make money he’d been waiting for!

…

By the time the three entered the activity room, the performance had already begun.

Most of the lights inside were dimmed—only a single spotlight shone on the center of the stage.

Four white performers—three men and one woman—were on display.

The bassist, guitarist, and drummer wore black skinny jeans, T-shirts full of holes, and loose black jackets adorned with oversized safety pins.

Each sported gradient Mohawk haircuts, revealing tattoos at the nape of their necks.

Their style was unique and unconventional.

They played their instruments with passion, the bass and guitar strings humming, drums pounding.

Sound waves roared through the hall.

But it wasn’t the ear-splitting, explosive heavy metal Dean remembered.

The melodies were simple and pleasant, rhythmic and catchy—a kind of rock, perhaps?

The only female member, standing in front, drew the crowd’s attention.

Her outfit had a dark edge.

Her face, with its gentle contours, was done up with smoky makeup; her lips painted black, skin pale as a vampire.

Her black leather jacket, emblazoned with “Kaserin,” was open to reveal a tight, elastic tank top beneath.

Though petite, she had a full chest and a slender, snow-white waist.

Dancing, singing, telling your dream…

A lazy, magnetic voice rang out clearly amid the lively music, gripping the audience’s ears.

To Dean, it sounded like rock, but not as wild or noisy—more youthful and spirited.

She sang as she bounded and leaped across the stage, her long, fair legs in constant motion.

Her playful golden twin ponytails swung like flames behind her head.

—

In the center of the activity room, among the hundred-odd seats and crowded aisles, students cheered and moved their bodies in time with the music, lost in the moment.

Yet something seemed missing.

Dean thought for a moment.

It was the glowsticks that create concert ambiance—they hadn’t been invented yet.

“Hey man, why are you spacing out? Come join the fun!”

Lester shot Dean a look and, with Brittany, waved his hands and shouted enthusiastically at the band on stage.

…

The crowd surged with the dynamic music. For at least that moment, Dean was swept up in the heat and relaxation of the atmosphere, time slipping by unnoticed.

The band played seven songs in total—rock, country… a mixed style.

Dean didn’t recognize any, but the atmosphere and the band’s energy were excellent, the songs catchy and easy to sing along with, captivating the audience.

Still, compared to hit songs, they lacked that unforgettable hook or melody.

The concert lasted about half an hour. As the last note faded, the handsome bassist stepped to the very front and delivered a fiery, impromptu solo.

His fingers flew, leaving afterimages.

The deep, piercing notes felt like an electric current shooting through the eardrums, shaking the brain!

The audience soon broke out in sweat.

“Babies, have you had enough?” Caroline, her forehead beaded with sweat, waved to the crowd.

“No!”

“Encore!”

“I love you!” a fat boy screamed hoarsely.

Sweating slightly, Dean glanced at his friends beside him and burst into laughter.

In that laughter, all the stress of the past weeks seemed to melt away. His spirit relaxed, as if a hidden shackle had fallen away.

His system vibrated.

Spirit: 12 → 12.1

It was as if lightning split his mind; the surrounding noise turned to ash.

Dean’s dazed expression froze.

What was this? His spirit attribute increased just from attending a concert?

But after a moment’s thought, Dean realized the concert was merely the trigger. It was the relentless, nightly extreme training over the past week that had brought about this fundamental change.

“I love you all, my greedy little devils! But if we keep going, our hands and voices will catch fire. Allow us a rest, and time to prepare new songs. Next month, on the 16th, right here… please come support us again!”

“Ha! Look at our little Caroline, singing herself senseless.”

The bassist laughed, reminding his bandmate.

“Caroline, did you forget? Next month is summer break! Folks, in three months—September—the Morning Band will be back with another show!”

“Stay tuned!”

…

Even after the concert ended, the young audience lingered noisily, swarming the band for another half hour.

They begged for autographs, expressing their admiration and dreams.

Only after the music teacher repeatedly reminded them to clear the stage for rehearsal did the Morning Band finally escape.

…

At a wooden table on the school’s front lawn, seven sat together.

“Caroline, this is Lester from eleventh grade…” Brittany, a little shy, introduced her friends to the band. “My friend.”

“And this is Dean, also in eleventh grade, our mutual friend.”

Brittany looked at the three other band members.

“They’re Carter, Liam, and Noah…”

“Haha, little Brittany’s finally wised up—found herself a boyfriend to protect her!” Liam, the bassist, teased, glancing around casually.

He now looked entirely different—gone was the edgy stage outfit of ripped jacket and giant safety pins, replaced by a normal shirt and skinny jeans, though the rooster-like hair remained eye-catching.

The other members too had shed their heavy stage makeup.

Caroline’s transformation was the most striking. In a tight turtleneck and jeans, she’d gone from a rebellious, flamboyant rocker to a playful, pretty good girl—big, bright eyes, a face full of youthful energy, somewhat like Brittany.

No wonder they were such close friends, Dean thought.

“Lester… I trust my best friend’s judgment. You seem polite and ambitious—not like those other unreliable bad boys,” Caroline said sweetly, then, half-joking, half-warning, waved a tiny fist. “But if you hurt Brittany, I won’t let you off!”

Lester blushed.

“That’s right, kid…” the drummer, Noah, displaying his brawny arms, cut in with a hard voice, “Brittany is our band’s number one fan, under strict protection.”

“Do I really look like a playboy?” Lester protested.

“That’s enough, Noah—don’t scare our new friends,” Carter said, squeezing out a smile and patting Lester’s shoulder. “Let’s talk about something else. We’ve heard of you two—Sardine King, Kung Fu Kid—so, did you study with Bruce Lee?”

Dean’s face darkened, then he laughed and shook his head.

There was no malice or mockery—otherwise Dean would have let Shadow teach them a lesson.

“Call me Dean. Forget that stupid nickname.”

“You guys are gutsy—one of you beat Bob up, the other gave him an earful!” Liam looked at them with admiration.

“Alright, let’s not gossip about the dead behind their backs,” Carter said, extending a hand.

—

“We’re officially friends now. You’re always welcome to watch us rehearse!”

…

Liam bought several bottles of Juice Burst, and everyone gathered around the table to chat.

Mostly, the band boasted about their achievements—school anniversaries, various commemorative performances, singing contests…

They discussed future plans.

Dean and Lester listened quietly, surprised to find that this little high school band was actually quite busy—endless rehearsals and gigs filled nearly all their free time.

They genuinely loved music.

“Has Fawkes finished his new piece?” Caroline asked Liam expectantly. “We need to prepare a new song for the summer singer’s competition.”

“As long as we get a new song and win, we’ll definitely sign with the local TV station or a music company—becoming real stars!” Carter said, fired up.

“Don’t mention it. I’ve asked several times, but he keeps complaining about having no inspiration,” Liam shook his head. “If I keep pushing, he’ll cut me off, and we’ll never get another song from him.”

All four looked grim.

“Let’s think—do we know any other songwriters in our circles?” Carter asked.

A silence fell over the group.

Dean’s gaze swept over the four band members, then he spoke up.

“You’re planning to buy a new song? Why not write your own?”

The drummer, Noah, sneered, glancing over with disdain—what did a brawler know about band business?

“Songwriting isn’t difficult, but our own stuff just doesn’t connect with listeners—last year and the year before, we walked away empty-handed in competitions,” Carter admitted. “We’re missing a creative genius.”

“So you always buy songs from others?” Dean’s mind raced. “Can you tell me more about it?”

“You, the straight-A nerd—why do you care?” the drummer grumbled.

Caroline glared at him, then turned to Dean. “Why do you ask? Do you have connections—know any Chinese-American lyricists or composers?”

Dean merely smiled, neither confirming nor denying.

The band exchanged glances.

Carter’s casual manner vanished; he became serious. “You’re not playing with us, are you?”

“Dean doesn’t say much, but he’s genuine—he’d never deceive a friend!” Lester said, slapping his chest.

Brittany bit her lip and nodded at her best friend. In just a week or two, the Chinese boy had overturned her old impression of him as timid and self-effacing. He was pretty good—dignified, unyielding.

And her boyfriend trusted him implicitly.

“Since we’re friends now, let’s talk specifics,” Caroline said, her eyes sparkling as she flicked her golden ponytail. “Morning Band is open to any genre—not just rock, but country, disco too. Blues, soul, and the new hiphop don’t really suit us, though. As for price, it depends on the song—anywhere from a hundred to ten thousand dollars.”

Dean stroked his chin. He was already eighteen. With this money, and the heat from Bob’s death dying down, he could finally purchase the heavy hardware he wanted at outdoor stores, supermarkets, or gun shows.

He’d be well-prepared for both melee and ranged combat.

“Does it have to fit a female vocalist?”

“Any member of Morning Band can take the lead,” Caroline said, raising her left hand and miming an air guitar with her right. “I can accompany too.”

Dean nodded. That opened up a wide range of options.

“And the copyright transfer?”

“No worries about copyrights. I’ll have a lawyer draft a proper transfer contract, explain every word, no tricks or fine print,” Liam said confidently. “I give you my word—you won’t get the short end of the stick.”

Noah added, “Surely you don’t think we’d risk offending a talented songwriter over a single song?”

“If we can spend a little money and establish a long-term relationship, we’d be happy,” Carter emphasized.

“If you really have the connections, trust Morning Band,” Caroline said, glancing at her best friend. “None of our families are rich, but together we can scrape together a few thousand bucks.”

“They’re trustworthy,” Brittany nodded immediately.

For a moment, everyone looked expectantly at Dean, who was deep in thought—including Lester, who couldn’t recall his friend ever knowing any famous composers.

But lately, Dean had surprised him too many times; Lester no longer dared to be certain.

“If all goes well, this Sunday, I’ll bring a new song for you to try. You’ll know the quality when you see it.”

Dean’s mind was flooded with memories—of his old singer girlfriend who demanded he wake her with a different English song every morning.

If he sang badly, she’d stay in bed and refuse to get up.

She’d drag him out for karaoke, making him play guitar accompaniment for her.

Four years of this torture had forced Dean, a music novice, to learn sheet music and guitar.

It wasn’t until the graduation party that he was finally freed.

Now, reborn, Dean had no intention of ever dating such a high-maintenance girlfriend again.

But now, that “suffering” had become valuable experience—the English songs he’d memorized, from classic Western hits to TikTok anthems popular twenty years later.

And now it was 1980, with most history aligned with the previous world.

Ninety-nine percent of those songs had yet to be released.

Given this opportunity, and with no cutthroat copyright games, why not sell a few to raise some startup capital?

“Let’s meet Sunday morning,” he said.

…

“It’s settled then.” Caroline reached out her soft hand, smiling radiantly to reveal perfect teeth. “Sunday at nine, school gate—we’ll see you there!”

“We’ll show you our secret base then.”

…