Golden Wheat Awards (Official Weibo): We’re honored to welcome TIME to attend our award ceremony tomorrow night. The queen of pop and godmother of music is finally stepping out from behind the curtain. Are you ready?
This one simple, fewer-than-50-word post from the Golden Wheat Awards’ verified account hit the internet like a bomb.
Within three minutes of being posted, likes, shares, and comments shot past ten thousand. The first thousand comments were practically all the same:
“Aaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!”
“Checked a hundred times—it’s the real verified account, not fake. So this is real? Like, real real? I can’t believe it!”
“Can’t believe it +1. But the Golden Wheat Awards is the most reputable music award in the Chinese-speaking world. They never tease fans. So… it’s happening?!”
“I’m gonna run laps to calm down—this is too much happiness too fast!”
From shock to disbelief to full-blown hysteria, the comments surged like a tidal wave. Within half a day, the hype around TIME’s appearance matched—and even began to surpass—the whirlwind around the “Lu Tingchuan Hidden Marriage Scandal.”
To understand why TIME had that kind of influence, you had to look at what she’d accomplished.
Six years ago, the music industry had entered a slump. Album sales were tanking, even for top artists. The whole industry looked like it was withering. This dragged on for over a year—until five years ago, when once-faded singer Shen Hui released an album titled Moonlight. Ten songs in total, blending elements of Chinese classical music, Kunqu, Yue opera, and more. Elegant, ethereal, and hauntingly beautiful.
What’s more, the album pioneered a new digital-first model—online promotion, with paid downloads. The first promotional single, released for free, hit over ten million plays in just 24 hours.
By the next day, the full album went live for download. Within one hour, paid downloads broke ten thousand. By the end of the week, every physical copy was sold out. Shen Hui was reborn as a superstar, and Moonlight ushered in a brand-new era for the Chinese music industry—solidifying online paid distribution as the new norm.
But what truly made the album iconic? 80% of the credit went to one person—TIME.
She wrote the lyrics, composed the melodies, did all the arrangements and production. Every single detail of the album was hers.
Her unique style—seamlessly blending traditional and modern instruments, Eastern and Western tones—set the music world ablaze. Suddenly, everyone was following in her footsteps. The industry bloomed again.
The following year, TIME dropped that style entirely and explored new territory—blending Chinese music with Western styles, adding in Gypsy, Siberian, and other regional folk influences, as well as traditional instruments from around the world. Over the next four years, she kept innovating, producing hit after hit for Shen Hui, including the albums Happiness Knocks and Sleeping Beauty, propelling Shen Hui to undisputed diva status.
Meanwhile, TIME herself became a legend. She gained a fanbase as massive as any celebrity’s and earned titles like “Godmother of Pop” and “Father of Modern Music.”
In the past five years, almost every major music award has gone to songs produced by TIME. Just this February, she won Best Instrumental Composition at the Grammys. Sleeping Beauty also earned Shen Hui Album of the Year and Best Pop Vocal Performance.
If you don’t know the Grammys—surely you’ve heard of the Oscars.
Well, the Grammys are the Oscars of the music world.
Speaking of Oscars—last December, the film You and Me, scored by TIME, was nominated for Best Original Score.
The Oscars may not be the highest-tier film award in the world, but for Chinese artists, they’re notoriously difficult to win. To date, only two Chinese musicians have ever won in that category—one decades ago, the other over ten years back. Nominations are few and far between.
So even without a win, TIME’s nomination alone was a huge deal.
In China, patriotism runs deep. Whether it’s the Grammys or the Oscars, a Chinese person being recognized is considered a national honor. So TIME’s status soared.
What made her even more of a legend was the mystery.
From the day TIME entered the public eye to her global fame today, no one has ever seen her in person. No one knows who she is. For years, she’s only worked with Shen Hui—she turned down every other high-profile request, even from industry veterans offering sky-high payments.
If anyone knew her identity, it would be Shen Hui. But she always kept tight-lipped.
“Someday,” she said. “When she’s ready, I’ll tell you.”
To this day, no one even knows if TIME is male or female.
So now, the news that TIME would be appearing at the Golden Wheat Awards?
No wonder everyone was losing their minds.
This was the same person who had skipped the Grammys, never attended a single public event, and whose every award had been accepted by her agent, Sophie.
Yao Weiwei tried to calm her racing heart, taking deep breaths. Yes, she was a huge TIME fan too. But no, she wasn’t that shallow—this wasn’t just starstruck fangirling.
No. This was different.
As a staff member at Lemon TV—the official broadcaster of the Golden Wheat Awards—she had been given the honor of meeting with TIME personally to go over the show rundown and blocking.
She was going to see TIME. In person. In real life.
Her heart was about to explode.
What she didn’t know was that an hour later, her poor heart would be hit by an even bigger shockwave.
When Xia Shi finally woke up, it was already 2:30 in the afternoon. After a quick wash and change, she headed downstairs—only to find a full house in the living room.
Lu Tingchuan. Lu Xuan. Yu Shuo. Sophie.
And… a young woman in her twenties whom she didn’t recognize.
As soon as Lu Xuan saw her, he hopped off the couch and ran over.
“Mommy’s awake? Mommy, are you still tired?”
Xia Shi blinked, confused.
Lu Xuan looked up at her with his little face full of concern. “I wanted to come find you earlier, but Daddy said no. He said Mommy was really tired and had a sore back and needed rest. He wouldn’t let me wake you up. Does your back still hurt, Mommy? I can give you a massage!”
Tired…
Sore back…
Lu Xuan didn’t understand.
But every adult in the room definitely did.
Yu Shuo and Sophie rolled their eyes like pros.
Yao Weiwei outright spit out her tea and scrambled for a napkin, dabbing furiously at the mess.
Xia Shi turned away, her face the color of a boiled shrimp.
However, Lu Tingchuan was completely unfazed. Like his skin was made of steel. He calmly scooped Lu Xuan up.
“Mommy’s just jet-lagged.”
Lu Xuan turned around, pouting. “But that’s not what you said this morning…”
Before he could finish, Lu Tingchuan gave his little butt a light pat.
“Go play with Auntie Wu. Daddy and Mommy need to talk to the guests.”
Auntie Wu, or “Wu Jie” to them, was the Lu family’s longtime housekeeper. She recently moved in full-time, now that Xia Shi and Lu Xuan had settled back in China for good.
Still pouting, Lu Xuan gave one last look at the guests on the couch, then obediently took Wu Jie’s hand and headed upstairs to the toy room.
Lu Tingchuan pulled Xia Shi down next to him and scooted even closer. She whispered, “You couldn’t wake me up when we had guests?”
“You were exhausted. I couldn’t bear to.”
She blushed even harder.
Even though they were whispering too quietly for the others to hear, the romantic tension in the air was unmistakable.
Yao Weiwei felt like she was being force-fed dog food.
TIME… is Xia Shi?!
And Xia Shi… is with Lu Tingchuan?!
Her goddess.
Her god.
They were together.
Before stepping into this house, she’d been sighing in secret over the news of Lu Tingchuan being married with a child.
She considered herself a rational fan—not like those lunatics on Weibo—but still, deep down, she hadn’t thought Xia Shi was good enough.
But now—
Xia Shi is TIME.
Her goddess and her god were a couple.
And they were sitting here, showing off their love, completely unbothered by the storm blowing up online.
Yu Shuo and Sophie clearly saw this all the time. They rolled their eyes in sync and coughed politely.
Then Sophie said, “This is Ms. Yao Weiwei from Lemon TV. She’s here to go over the award show logistics.”
Xia Shi stood up with a smile and held out her hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m TIME.”
The sound of her voice made Yao Weiwei pause.
It was low, slightly hoarse—so different from the ethereal voice that had once been called “the voice of a mermaid.”
But she quickly realized she was staring and apologized.
Xia Shi shrugged.
“It’s okay. A lot of people who knew me before react like that when they hear my voice now. I’m used to it.”
Yao Weiwei flushed red with embarrassment.
“I’m used to it.”
Such a simple phrase—how much pain must be hidden behind it?
