Chapter 309: Frost melts when spring comes
On the giant nomination screen hanging above the stage, a ripple ran through the list for Most Popular Artist.
Everyone froze.
Names shuffled. Numbers flickered. And then—
Her name appeared.
"Hua Jing."
The crowd gasped.
"How... how is that possible?" someone whispered.
The host, caught completely off guard, glanced up at the screen with the same stunned expression as everyone else.
It didn’t matter.
The moment her name appeared, the votes surged like lightning.
The counter, once a steady climb for Hua Ling, began spinning upward for Hua Jing instead. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Every passing second was another tidal wave of support crashing down in her favor.
[WHAT?! SHE WASN’T EVEN NOMINATED FIVE MINUTES AGO!!]
[I don’t care how—SHE’S ON THE LIST, THAT’S ALL THAT MATTERS!]
[Look at the numbers! Look at them climb!]
[She’s already at 300,000—NO, 400,000! THIS IS INSANE.]
[My goddess has returned and she’s taking back what’s hers.]
Inside the stadium, fans were pulling out their phones with shaking hands, their eyes still locked on Hua Jing standing there in red. Tears blurred their vision as they pressed their screens over and over again, pouring votes into her name like their very lives depended on it.
"She’s back. She’s really back..."
It wasn’t just support.
It was worship.
And Hua Ling, sitting stiffly in her golden gown, could do nothing but watch as her million votes—the result of years of manipulation, PR, and pitiful acts—were being eclipsed in real time.
The cheers shook the ceiling. The numbers soared.
And the message was undeniable.
The queen had returned to claim her crown!
...
The stadium stilled.
Every eye followed Hua Jing as she walked, step by deliberate step, toward the microphone waiting at center stage.
It wasn’t just any microphone. Its body shimmered faintly, silver threads twined around the shaft like frost etchings, sparkling beneath the stage lights. The way it reflected against her red gown made it seem as if the mic itself had been carved for her and her alone.
When she stopped before it, she lifted her pale hand. Her slender fingers brushed over the metal lightly, almost reverently, as though she were greeting an old companion.
And then—
Her lips parted.
The first note slipped out.
The entire stadium held its breath.
Her voice was clear, ringing, and yet laced with a husky undertone, like a whisper caught in a winter wind. Each syllable shimmered in the air and fell over the crowd like snowfall.
It was hypnotic.
Fans blinked up at her, wide-eyed, as though they’d all fallen into a trance.
And behind her, the piano swelled.
Fu Jingrong’s pale fingers glided across the keys with practiced ease. His eyes remained closed, his expression unreadable, but the music he drew from the instrument was devastatingly beautiful.
Hua Jing’s voice rose and wove itself around the melody, threading with his piano like two strands of silk meeting in midair.
Only then did the crowd realize what they were hearing.
Gasps exploded across the stadium.
"She’s... she’s singing—!"
"No way! That song—"
"Oh my god—The Frost We Met!"
The words spread like wildfire.
The Frost We Met.
The legendary song. The most haunting piece Fu Jingrong had ever written. A melody sharp enough to cut bone, lyrics so raw they left listeners bleeding inside. A song that had only ever been performed live once—by Fu Jingrong himself.
And after that night, he had locked it away.
Until now.
[NO WAY. NO. WAY. SHE’S ACTUALLY SINGING THE FROST WE MET.]
[Do you understand how insane this is?! Even senior vocalists have failed to cover this song—it’s too difficult!]
[The layering alone—oh my god—the transitions—the range—you need control like a MACHINE to sing this!]
[How is she doing this while looking like THAT?! This isn’t real life, this is a movie!]
The disbelief wasn’t only online.
In the audience, jaws hung open. Some fans clutched their cheeks as if to keep themselves from screaming. Others had already burst into tears, unable to hold back the torrent of emotions the song dragged out of them.
Her voice soared higher.
The notes curved upward like blades, slicing through every defense the audience had. It hurt. It hurt so much to listen—and yet no one dared turn away.
It was agony. It was ecstasy.
[The lyrics—oh god, the lyrics—]
["The frost we met under never melted, and neither did my heart."]
[I’m sobbing. I’m actually sobbing.]
[Her voice. Her VOICE. She’s not just singing it—she’s living it.]
Hua Ling’s smile had long since vanished.
Her nails dug into her palms so deeply they nearly drew blood. The entire arena was wrapped around Hua Jing’s voice, not hers. The votes, the cheers, the attention—everything she had clawed for over the past year—was being stolen in real time.
And still Hua Jing sang.
Her voice twisted upward again, into the impossible high note that had broken countless vocalists in the past.
The note rang out—pure, unshaken, unwavering.
The crowd erupted.
[SHE HIT IT. SHE HIT THE HIGH NOTE.]
[ARE YOU HEARING THIS LIVE?? IS THIS EVEN HUMAN??]
[This is it. This is the moment. She’s not just back—she’s DESTROYING the entire stage.]
[Fu Jingrong’s piano + Hua Jing’s voice = HISTORY.]
And then, the unthinkable settled in.
Fu Jingrong and Hua Jing—known throughout the industry as mortal enemies, people who would never, ever stand on the same stage—were here. Together.
And they weren’t clashing.
They were in perfect harmony!
The final note lingered.
It hung in the air like a thread of frost, delicate, crystalline, and impossibly sharp. For a heartbeat, no one moved. The stadium was a frozen world, caught in the last echo of her voice.
Then Hua Jing lifted her head.
Her lips curved upward, forming an impeccable smile—serene, dazzling, devastating. The lights caught the red of her gown, the pale sheen of her skin, the gleam of her eyes.
The stadium erupted.
The walls shook from the sheer force of the applause. People screamed until their throats burned, clapped until their palms stung, and yet none of them could stop.
It was hysteria. It was worship.
And as the cheers rolled on like crashing waves, the numbers began to climb.
On the big screen above the stage, the live voting counter surged like a flood. Tens of thousands of votes poured in every second, the digits racing so fast the system struggled to keep up.
In less than a minute, Hua Jing’s name leapt into the second spot.
She was right behind Fu Jingrong.
And still her numbers climbed.
[SHE’S NUMBER TWO ALREADY!]
[The gap is shrinking! She’s catching up—she’s ACTUALLY catching up!]
[Do you understand how insane this is?! Hua Ling had over a million votes and Hua Jing was nowhere on the board an hour ago!]
[The QUEEN is back. The REAL queen.]
Among the thunder of cheers, one group of fans screamed louder than anyone else—the OG Hua Jing supporters.
They were the ones who had never left. The ones who hadn’t switched sides after the accident. The ones who had endured mockery for waiting on someone the world said would never return.
Now, tears streaked their faces as they shouted, fists pumping in triumph.
[THIS is how you sing live!]
[THIS is real talent! Not that fake lip-sync garbage!]
[She doesn’t need excuses—she doesn’t need pity. She stands and CONQUERS.]
The jab was obvious.
Hua Ling’s fans, who had smugly defended her lip-synced performance earlier by claiming she was "out of breath from dancing," now found themselves drowned. Their words shriveled in their throats.
The stark difference between the two performances could not be denied.
Hua Jing had not just sung—she had bared her soul, carved her voice into every heart present.
Even Hua Ling’s own fans faltered, unable to form a defense. A suffocating silence pressed on them, while Hua Jing’s voice still rang in their ears.
It was truly so beautiful that everyone still felt they were dreaming!
The artists seated below rose one after another.
They clapped, some with tears in their eyes, some with awe on their faces, all standing for the woman who had returned from the ashes. A full standing ovation, not just from fans, but from the peers who knew exactly what kind of monster talent she was.
This was no ordinary comeback.
This was resurrection.
The entertainment industry itself had mourned when she and Fu Jingrong disappeared a year ago. In their absence, the stage had dimmed, the spark had faded, and no new artist could touch the unreachable standards they had set.
Now—both of them were back.
At the same time.
On the same stage.
The fans could hardly believe they were alive to witness it. It was like seeing gods descend from the heavens.
And the song they had chosen—The Frost We Met—only deepened the meaning.
A song that was half a farewell, half a promise. A song that seemed to say: even if we part, it will not be forever. Even frost melts when spring comes.
