Chu Zhi returned to the hotel after attending the Russian musicians' salon. The room had been filled almost entirely with Russians, with only a handful of foreigners present.
The whole experience felt like a ragdoll accidentally wandering into a den of bears. Completely out of place.
Aleksei had chatted with Chu Zhi for a long time and poured him a generous amount of vodka. What could he say? With the spirit of a drunken immortal, the self-proclaimed Emperor Beast dominated the room.
In the end, Chu Zhi only remembered two things: first, Smirnoff vodka was dangerously smooth, if a bit too strong; second, Aleksei had earnestly hoped Chu Zhi would become a cultural bridge between China and Russia.
"Now that the vocal exchange activities are done, I guess I'm pretty much done here too?" Chu Zhi mumbled as he wobbled around the room, heading for a shower.
True to the name Emperor Beast, Chu Zhi always kept his composure in front of outsiders, no matter how inebriated he might be.
He fished his phone out of the bathtub and checked his email to review the itinerary. As the main guest, even though the vocal performance segment had ended, he was still required to attend the literature and film exchange sessions.
"Being the main guest just means your prestige is slightly boosted, but it doesn't actually help with anything. It's just a huge time-sink," Chu Zhi grumbled. Clearly tipsy, or he wouldn't have said something like that out loud.
He pulled out the book he always carried with him. Sitting down to read, the pages seemed to sway. He tried syncing his swaying head to match the rhythm, hoping it would stabilize — but it only made him dizzier.
He began pacing in circles around the room, hoping to walk off the alcohol, but the Emperor Beast couldn't even walk a straight line. He gave up and called the front desk to request a saxophone.
Anyone who'd stayed at the Four Seasons Lion Palace would know — this hotel had a unique charm. No matter what instrument you asked for, they could likely provide it. There was even a set of ancient Chinese chime bells displayed in the corridor of the third-floor café.
Knock knock
The moment he heard the knock, Chu Zhi perked up as if it were some kind of signal. His hazy, drunken state disappeared. The Emperor Beast took a deep breath, fixing his hair and straightening his clothes as he walked to the door. By the time he opened it, he looked entirely composed.
"Thank you, miss," Chu Zhi said in Russian, accepting the saxophone.
In Russia, tips weren't required unless you were in a café or upscale restaurant.
With the staff gone, Chu Zhi examined the saxophone. The "drunken immortal" buff was still going strong. It had been a while since he played an instrument, and his hands itched to get started.
[Host, do you care that much about your image in front of others?] the system suddenly asked.
"Isn't life all about the impressions you leave on those who know you?" Chu Zhi replied. "I want those impressions to be good."
[Being so concerned about others' opinions... don't you risk losing yourself? Isn't that exhausting?]
"Exhausting? Why would it be? Leaving a good impression is who I am," Chu Zhi answered.
Back on Earth, he had been a well-liked boss. In this life, he was adored by millions of fans. No problem there.
The system didn't press further. There was no need.
The Emperor Beast began playing a well-known saxophone classic — Going Home. He set up his phone to record, then uploaded the performance to his Bilibili account.
The next morning, Chu Zhi left early again, this time for the film exchange. The room was filled with world-renowned directors. Unfortunately, the Emperor Beast had little interest in movies and didn't recognize most of them.
He was only familiar with Meng Ren, a Chinese director.
This guy had flopped three commercial films in a row, bankrupting multiple investors, yet still managed to rack up awards — including the Golden Saint George at the Moscow International Film Festival. A commercial film director that even the gods feared.
Chu Zhi knew something about that award — Saint George was a Christian patron saint, the knight on the horse in the Russian coat of arms.
"I heard Director Wang's new film, Shiyi Lang, has you as the male lead?" Meng Ren asked.
"Isn't Director Wang still keeping that under wraps?" said Chu Zhi.
"Industry folks are already talking. Director Wang's projects are always highly anticipated," Meng Ren replied.
"This might be a good opportunity," he added. "From what I hear, this one's been in the works for years. A true passion project."
"If that's the case, I better make an early effort. Just hope I don't drag the whole production down," Chu Zhi said.
"Director Wang made a Cannes Best Actor and a Venice Best Actress. Just trust him." Meng Ren paused, then added, "But his temper on set isn't the best, so… good luck."
Chu Zhi was mentally prepared. Even though his previous two film shoots had gone smoothly thanks to his status, he knew enough to understand — getting yelled at by a director was part of the job.
After a bit more small talk, the screenings began.
Film exchange events differed in format. Multiple theaters screened the directors' films. Chu Zhi picked a nearby venue and watched Meng Ren's Ear.
The story was simple — a child who loved music loses his sight due to an accident.
Halfway through, it felt like an inspirational film. But the ending took a sharp turn. The dream fails. The protagonist lives a quiet, melancholic life. A perfect example of the saying: "There are no miracles in life, only life itself."
Chu Zhi understood why Meng Ren had flopped commercially. With this kind of narrative…
"Come to think of it, if the film had a happy ending, would Ear still carry this much artistic weight?" Chu Zhi concluded it wouldn't. Tragedy often birthed great art.
Still, if he'd known the ending beforehand, the Emperor Beast wouldn't have watched it. Not because he didn't understand art — it was just too emotionally draining.
Most of the films at the exhibition had tragic endings. Chu Zhi only managed to sit through three before retreating.
Even his "high-carb meal plan" for the day had failed. A complete nutritional breakdown.
The literary exchange was much better. Chu Zhi listened to several acclaimed authors speak — all of them winners of major global literary prizes like the Dublin Literary Award, Goncourt Prize, Booker Prize, or Jerusalem Prize.
"My poetry collection only just won the Yomiuri Prize in Japan. Still a long way to go," Chu Zhi thought.
Clearly, breaking into the global scene through Japan wasn't viable. They didn't even have internationally recognized poets.
He needed to publish an English version of The Great Riddle in Europe or America. Something for the to-do list.
Chu Zhi wrapped up his three-day trip in Russia and returned to the Magic City. He declined a scheduled in-person interview with the Russian state television and offered a phone interview instead.
There simply wasn't enough time to stay another four or five days. Flying back and forth would take over ten hours each way.
On the plane—
"Jiu-yé, what if the plane crashes? Do you think we could survive?" asked Lao Qian, seated beside him.
"Why the hell would you ask that on a plane? That's so unlucky," Chu Zhi replied.
"Yeah, I know. It's just… two of my dumb friends made me watch Air Panic and Hijack before the flight. Got me all nervous," Lao Qian explained.
"Real dumb friends," Chu Zhi said. "Look, survival's unlikely. But plane crashes are rare. Stop overthinking it."
Lao Qian fell silent, not because of Chu Zhi's words, but because he suddenly imagined his ex-girlfriends mourning him.
And his Bingbing. But if Jiu-yé died? He couldn't even fathom it. Asia would plunge into collective mourning…
Jiu-yé would become a legend. A mythic figure in death.
Wait. Lao Qian stopped himself mid-thought.
"Hold up, something's wrong with my thinking. At the rate Jiu-yé's going, he doesn't even need to die to become an Asian legend."
As for becoming a global legend? Western media didn't care for Asian culture. That wasn't on Chu Zhi — just the reality.
All that anxious daydreaming amounted to nothing. The flight landed smoothly.
By then, news of the forum had already been circulated by media and news agencies worldwide.
Russian outlets, Belarusian outlets, even Azerbaijani news highlighted Chu Zhi in their reports.
Articles like:
"This Russian Song You Should Hear"
"Chinese Vocalist Chu Zhi Delivers Stunning Original Performance"
"The Youngest Main Guest Ever"
Western media barely mentioned Chu Zhi. And when they did, it was a passing remark.
Back home, no surprise — the Little Fruits were in celebration mode again. Chu Zhi brought good news practically every month.
Then came the national morning news:
"On November 7, the 10th St. Petersburg International Cultural Forum officially opened for a weeklong run. China sent a strong delegation, producing multiple brilliant performances. Pop singer Chu Zhi delivered a stunning original Russian-language song, Katyusha, at the Philharmonic Hall.
Forum chairman Aleksei later praised the song: 'Katyusha is my favorite Russian folk-style song in recent years. Russian folk music often centers on themes of tragedy and patriotism, like Ivan Susanin's sacrifice or the tragic end of Symphony No. 6. Built upon Western classical structure, our national music has strong emotional roots. I believe Katyusha, like Kalinka or At the Gates, will become a beloved folk anthem passed down by the people.'"
Chu Zhi appearing on national television wasn't unusual anymore, but being featured on the morning news still felt like a win. Too bad it wasn't the prime-time evening broadcast…
Worth noting: across the former Soviet Union, people still watched Russian state television. The true popularity explosion of Katyusha hadn't happened yet — the full forum broadcast wouldn't air until the evening of the 9th, two days later.
Chu Zhi didn't stay long in China. Within hours of landing, he was already en route to Seoul.
The drama My Love From the Stars was set to launch across Asia on Christmas.
It was mid-November. Just a month away. Promotional activities for the second round had begun in multiple countries.
They needed to record short videos with the lead actors, saying things like:
"Christmas. You Came From the Stars. Don't miss it. I'm Chu Zhi."
Plus a few group lines from the main cast.
Chu Zhi was a big name, sure, but he couldn't exactly expect the other actors to fly to China just for this.
Netflix requested versions in six languages: Japanese, Korean, Russian, Chinese, English, and Thai. Chu Zhi spoke the first five. Thai was the only one he had to cram — but learning a few lines was easy enough. Fifteen minutes tops.
While Chu Zhi breezed through his lines, his co-stars like Song Minghee only spoke English, making their recording process far more painful. It took an entire afternoon to finish all six versions.