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“Bang, bang!”

Massive, muffled thuds exploded into the ears of the disinterested drunks.

Like thunder erupting from flat ground, it jolted their drowsy consciousnesses:

“Who the hell—”

Someone was about to curse, but then heard a crisp clap, like thunder striking dead wood:

“Clap!”

Their eyes turned to the bar, where they saw that ridiculous vagrant once again striking the wooden table:

“Bang-bang, clap!”

“Bang-bang, clap!”

“Bang-bang, clap!”

The drunks were born in rural towns—what would they know about musical rhythm?

But strangely enough, even though there were no other embellishments—just two simple strikes on the table followed by clapping hands, nothing more—it worked.

This simple yet crisp rhythm repeated over and over, echoing in their ears.

It actually had a somewhat seductive quality, as if inviting them to join in tapping the table and clapping along…

“What kind of trick is this!?”

The drunks restrained their own hands, forcibly suppressing the impulse to follow along.

Yet they completely forgot to mock him, not realizing they’d been drawn into the rhythm.

Tang Qi knew he’d achieved his goal—

As a creator of internet pre-made songs, he certainly understood that music had no inherent quality distinction.

But it had functionality and distinguished its audience.

A concerto might be grand and magnificent, but it wasn’t necessarily suitable for the common masses who’d worked hard all day and just wanted to get drunk and boast.

But give them some simple rhythmic patterns to help them empty their minds, and they would follow along.

Once their spirits were up, their hands would follow along tirelessly—

The drunks cared about face, but the little girl behind the bar didn’t care about any of that.

She just felt this rhythm wasn’t complicated—she could probably manage it herself.

Without realizing it, she was drawn in, following along tapping the table and clapping.

“Bang-bang, clap!”

“Bang-bang, clap!”

The rhythm produced by the two of them resonated, much louder than when Tang Qi played solo.

It echoed through the increasingly silent tavern, making the muffled thunder seem ready to burst through the earth.

‘Rhythm’ was rooted in the blood, an innate instinct, especially when it wasn’t complicated.

With the first person following, there would soon be a second, a third…

“Damn, this is actually pretty interesting.”

Hearing the ‘thunder’ growing louder, Jackal couldn’t help but put down his wine cup, muttering with pursed lips, then turning to shout at Tang Qi,

“But if you think just banging on tables counts as performing, I’m afraid selling your ass would suit you better!”

“Shut up, Jackal.” Black Snake beside him was also awakened by the ‘thunder.’

“Boss?”

Jackal was at a loss, but he feared Black Snake.

Just as he was about to explain, he saw Black Snake’s sharp eyes looking toward Catherine at the bar—

She seemed to have been drawn into this rhythm too, lightly following along with the drunks beating the rhythm.

So Black Snake also joined in tapping the table and clapping.

“It’s just banging on tables…”

Jackal gritted his teeth and spat coldly,

“What kind of tricks could there be? Once he opens his mouth, won’t it just kill the mood?”

No one would want to hear that tired old flattery and boasting.

Tang Qi knew this full well—

This simple drumbeat had perfectly executed its task.

It captured the drunks’ attention and elevated the tavern’s atmosphere.

But it could never gain recognition on its own.

A song that could earn applause needed more than just an intro.

It needed to truly enter the listeners’ hearts—

And those songs from the Academy that served officials and nobles had lyrics that were nothing but praise and romantic passion.

The drunks wouldn’t resonate with those.

Only one subject could truly make these farmers, who’d labored for a year only to be exploited by landlords, empathize—

Their lives.

So when the tavern once again resounded with that simple yet passionate ‘drumbeat,’

Tang Qi raised his voice and sang:

“When they praise the past, who fights for tomorrow’s task?

While they feast tonight in silk and jade, who’s held hostage by their wage?

This world is too damn sad—

The rich commit crimes, the poor take the blame they’ve had!”

The lyrics couldn’t match that familiar famous song.

He could only compose new verses himself, like casually hummed melodies.

But casual melodies didn’t matter.

What mattered was being memorable.

It had to be catchy, letting the audience hum along.

The Academy didn’t teach these things, and his predecessor could only play clumsy court ditties on the lute.

But Tang Qi, the pre-made meal producer, could produce such melodies at the drop of a hat.

As for the lyrics, just use the simplest words.

No need to name names.

The drunks understood who praised the past and who feasted in silk and jade.

“New nations rise, old dynasties fall;

Let the gods tell us all, who toils in fields through it all?”

Lord Merle legally owned the land of Starberry Town, but he would never personally go to the countryside to cultivate wasteland.

So he divided out the most fertile fields, established orchards, and had his serfs grow the finest quality starberries.

Then he leased the remaining fields to free farmers, collecting rent and buying back surplus crops at low prices—

This place was surrounded by three mountains, isolated from the world.

To leave the town meant crossing the dangerous Dawnmist Forest.

The treacherous terrain, wild beasts, and even undead creatures could easily annihilate an entire organized adventuring party without a spellcaster.

Occasionally there would be lucky survivors like Tang Qi who escaped disaster.

But it was rarely caravans.

So the farmers had goods but couldn’t sell them.

As for the lord who reaped all the benefits, of course he wouldn’t risk the danger traveling between the two places.

He only had to hold balls in his villa in Longgold City, enjoying his blessings, letting his subordinate caravans run back and forth, and every year there would be an endless stream of gold coins drilling into his treasury…

Those who truly buried their hearts and blood in this land received only barely balanced accounts in return.

Who was the master here?

But who was toiling on this land?

“It’s me, it’s me!”

Tang Qi had been hungry and thirsty for too long, making his voice somewhat hoarse.

But the stage was set—he absolutely could not lose his nerve.

Even if it meant tearing his vocal cords, he had to sing loudly.

“Don’t let empty promises blind your self;

Don’t let them rob the work of my labor’s wealth—

Grab your hoe, even if it means killing and burning;

Raise your head high, even if your throat keeps yearning!

To hell with heroes, to hell with legends told;

To hell with landlords, to hell with life so cold!”

“Cut off his goat beard!”

The dwarf beating the rhythm drained his berry wine and couldn’t help but slam the table and rise.

Born in the mountains, he could never stand the nobility’s elaborate etiquette.

“To hell with landlords, to hell with life so cold!”

Adventurers throwing drunken fits didn’t care who paid their commission.

But Jackal hurriedly pressed down on his dwarf companion’s shoulder, both shocked and afraid:

“Stonecrusher, are you crazy? That’s our employer!”

Black Snake stretched lazily, leaning back against the wall in the corner:

“The employer in Longgold City can’t hear us. If you’re pissed off, what’s wrong with cursing a bit?

We’re hired mercenaries, not begging dogs.”

If they were truly that loyal, how could they possibly run to the tavern to drink during their night shift?

Jackal was still uneasy, hastily looking around.

But he discovered no one in this corner paid any attention to him.

Tang Qi’s ‘ballad’ was crude, but the advantage of crudeness was that it was easy to learn.

This certainly couldn’t be called a good song.

But it was enough for them to vent.

When he repeated it for the second time, some people were already singing along to the tune.

Normally they were dissatisfied with the lord but wouldn’t openly voice it.

But tonight, wind and rain trapped the drunks in this small space.

They were already living in drunken dreams.

As long as tomorrow hadn’t arrived yet, they could still pretend to live in dreams.

No one cared about sleep-talk.

Being drunk meant not fearing wild words.

“To hell with landlords, to hell with life so cold!”

“Poet, you’re a goddamn genius!”

“Catherine, three more starberry wines, oh, and my favorite mashed potatoes—I’m sleeping here tonight!”

“Grandma, I miss you…”

Amid cheers and clinking glasses, they only felt exhilarated.

So much so that no one cared about the song’s author anymore.

Even fewer cared about his previous jokes.

They only hoped this night could be a bit longer.

After all, when that fish-belly white appeared on the horizon, they would still have to forget the present and wake from their dreams.

So when Tang Qi had a break, he coughed lightly and rested, making vocal fry sounds: “Mmm-mmm…”

This massaged his aching throat.

A tray was placed before him.

On it were cold, hard black bread, stewed beans, and a cup of fragrant berry wine with a slight fluorescent glow.

He slowly raised his eyes and met Catherine’s bright gaze.

Hearing her say:

“Well done. Would you like to eat something?”

Respect needed to be earned, not given.

He was a poet, not a beggar.

This was payment, not charity.

“Of course, thank you.”

Tang Qi nodded, but unexpectedly noticed the little girl beside Catherine.

She was the first audience member who’d followed along with the rhythm.

The young girl was still immersed in the ballad, raising her small fist and loudly imitating:

“To hell with landlords, to hell with life so cold!”

Catherine extended a finger and struck her head hard:

“Don’t learn bad language!”

The girl clutched her head in pain:

“Oww~”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep