The numbers were published in full, including a key detail: only 4,000 Chinese attendees had purchased tickets. Meanwhile, South Korea and Japan each accounted for 8,000 ticket holders.
The truth hit like a thunderclap.
The event, hosted in China, was actually unfair—but not to the international guests. It was unfair to the Chinese performers.
Leaders at the South Korean Cultural Foundation and Deputy Minister Inoue from Japan's Ministry of Culture stared in stunned silence.
This completely contradicted what they had assumed.
China had the smallest voter base? Then how did Chu Zhi still win by such a landslide?
Since the official tourism site was willing to post nationality data, the numbers were likely real—something that could easily be verified. Faking it would be pointless and risky. That kind of denial simply wasn't China's diplomatic style.
Deputy Minister Inoue, who had privately called singer Toriyama Jirou and asked him to aim for a top score, felt a deep well of frustration bubble up.
His anger didn't ease with reflection. Instead, it intensified.
He didn't send a secretary. He picked up the phone himself.
The call connected, and after a brief self-introduction, Inoue got to the point.
"Captain Toriyama, are you satisfied with your performance in China?" he asked sharply. "Would you say the outcome was acceptable?"
"If singer Chu Zhi hadn't been part of the competition, our chances of taking first would've been very high," Toriyama replied. "But with him present, second place was the best we could do. Personally, I believe it was a passing grade."
Toriyama knew the truth: Kubo Todoren only barely beat Byeon Jaejung. The deciding factor was how Chu Zhi's performance of Left Hand Points to the Moon completely drowned out Byeon Jaejung's high notes, like eating an A5 Wagyu steak followed by an M4—flavorless by comparison.
"Chu Zhi is a singer shaped by the rise of China's national fortunes," Toriyama explained. "His vocals were so powerful, the live mics overloaded. His artistic and vocal talents are overwhelming, unmatched for the next ten or twenty years."
Deputy Minister Inoue was speechless.
A singer forged by national luck? That was the highest possible praise.
But what did it even mean to sing so powerfully it caused mic distortion? Inoue didn't fully grasp the concept.
After a pause, he asked, "How does this compare to Kuninaga Issei's feat of shattering a sake glass with his high note?"
Kuninaga Issei was Japan's most legendary 20th-century male singer—the first recipient of the People's Honor Award, a man who shaped the nation's music and once beat top Western vocalists on the American stage. He was known for his piercing high notes and dubbed the "One-Blade Kuninaga."
Even so, Toriyama treaded carefully.
"Master Kuninaga laid the foundation for Yamato pop. Shattering a sake glass rates a difficulty of five—most singers couldn't do it. But distorting professional microphones, I'd rate that as a seven. Especially given the Chinese stage setup isn't low-grade."
With familiar context, even Inoue could grasp the scale.
If mic overload was two full notches harder, how terrifying was Chu Zhi?
"You'll see it on NHK soon, sir," Toriyama added. "Everything I said is real."
Inoue had planned to scold Toriyama for failure, but now… he couldn't. He could even request NHK to send over Chu Zhi's footage in advance.
"This year's result wasn't a disgrace," he murmured, then hung up.
He immediately asked his secretary to compile a full report on Chu Zhi. A singer shaped by national fortune—he needed to know more.
The event's organizers in Rongcheng had been meticulous. The entire voting process was recorded by cameras, with over four hours of video from the three ballot locations uploaded to the Ministry of Culture and Tourism's website.
The South Korean Cultural Foundation scoured the footage for tampering—but found nothing.
Back home, expectations had been high. Now, disappointed fans in South Korea vented their rage on Instagram and Twitter.
And just like that, public sentiment flipped.
"Absolutely wrecked, LOL. Where are all the haters now?"
"Why is Chu Zhi's stage presence so overwhelming? I thought it was rigged, but turns out the guy just activated god mode."
"Checked past voting records. Nope, nothing even close. Brother Jiu is unstoppable."
"Are you seriously unaware of how Chu Zhi took over the show in Russia?"
"I'm guilty too. Thought our crowd dominated the audience. Turns out Brother Jiu is just that good—does his family even know?"
Even skeptics were silenced.
Everything checked out—audience nationality, vote counts, transparency. But the results still felt… superhuman.
Everyone wanted to know: Just what did Chu Zhi sing?
CCTV announced the airdate: June 16. Just three days away.
Excitement reached fever pitch.
But not all voices joined the celebration. One reasonable user, FireFromTheSea, raised a fair point:
"Why weren't audience ratios evenly distributed?"
With a 2:4:4 split between China, South Korea, and Japan, how could a Chinese singer possibly win—unless someone like Chu Zhi had overwhelming popularity?
"We're not asking for favoritism," the post continued. "Just fairness. Don't give us this 'music has no borders' spiel. I won't vote for another country's singer unless their music moves me. Musicians have nationalities. Organizers should answer this."
The thread gained traction.
The reality? Without Chu Zhi, even top-tier Chinese singers like Gu Peng, Yuan He, and Qi Dake couldn't place top three.
It felt like sabotage.
Soon, angry netizens stormed the organizing committee's socials, especially the Literary Federation.
The Federation quickly posted a PR response:
"We invited top vocalists like @ChuZhi_Official, @QiDake_NotSiegfried, @YuanHe_Singer, @WangDong_Singer, and @GuPeng_BirdWings to represent our country. However, ticket sales were handled by Rongcheng authorities. We'll be following up on this matter."
A neat sidestep. Took the credit, dodged the blame.
Netizens found a new target.
"Are the ticket managers insane?" Yuan He exploded. "Trying to make us lose? If it weren't for Chu Zhi, how would we have even competed?"
His friend Tutu blinked. "Wait. Our Chu Zhi? Weren't you the one who disliked him most?"
"What are you talking about? Who in their right mind would dislike Teacher Chu Zhi? That's ridiculous."
"Uh-huh…" Tutu muttered, concerned.
"I'm calling my uncle. Rongcheng botched this," Yuan He growled, storming off.
Tutu sighed, watching him go. "So much for resisting the rumors."
There was an old saying in the industry:
If you know Chu Zhi long enough, you'll end up being his friend.
"Is he really that charismatic?" Tutu wondered aloud.
The buzz landed the event on trending searches. It only lasted a few hours before the heat was dialed down, but state media had already taken notice.
Rongcheng officials scrambled to release a statement promising an investigation, quelling the online uproar.
And in this whirlwind of chaos, the long-awaited show finally aired—on CCTV in China, KBS in South Korea, and NHK in Japan.
===
So… a few days ago, I already told you that my body felt totally broken, right?
Well. Newsflash: it's still broken.
The physical pain is still there, but what's worse is that my brain, while no longer foggy, is now just... lagging. And as someone who takes immense pride in how fast my brain usually works, this has been nothing short of torture. Seriously.
I feel so deeply insulted by myself, honestly.
Like—what do you mean I have to think before writing? Or actually analyze a sentence to understand its meaning??
Usually, I just glance at a sentence and bam—I know what it says, how it feels, and how to express it.
Now?
It's like my mind just stands there, blinking, going:
"Wait... give me a sec... what was that again?"
(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻
Do you know how many times I got mad at myself for taking too long to understand a line? TOO MANY.
The betrayal. The insult. It's giving: who even am I anymore? (╥﹏╥)
Because of that, I've honestly lost the mood to keep translating this particular novel right now. It's not about the story. It's not about the characters. It's just... my brain is lagging and my heart is not here.
Even though the fog is clearing, the mood is broken. So until I feel emotionally reset again, I don't think I'll be able to push past 3 chapters per day for writing the continuation of my draft for these novel. I'm really sorry for that.
For now, I've decided to switch gears and start translating a new project I mentioned earlier in my "upcoming work" note:
A post-apocalyptic themed novel.
Hopefully, the genre shift and change of energy can help stabilize my mood and bring back the fire.
I understand this might be disappointing for those of you waiting for regular updates, and I truly apologize.
But I promise—once my mood improves, or once the cosmic interference (hello lunar eclipse, Sura month, & the fact that Earth on high frequency👀) settles down and stops messing with my Yin alignment, and my energy, I'll return to this project in full.
And when I do, I'll work on building up a thick chapter buffer like usual.
Thanks for your understanding and patience (｡•́‿•̀｡) You're the best.
With slightly fried neurons but much love,
— your translator, Reiya (ฅ'ω'ฅ)