VTV in Vietnam had a decent coverage rate, enough for a national station to matter, but the internet infrastructure was poor. The app and official website had been delayed for years.
Normally it wouldn't be a big deal. Young people in Vietnam rarely watched this channel, and those who still had TVs mostly used them for casual viewing. If you wanted to follow a drama, video platforms were far better.
But today was different for a certain group of young fans.
They had been waiting since early morning for the broadcast of the Vietnam-China diplomatic anniversary arts documentary, which would air after the news program Vietnam View.
"VTV doesn't even have an official website in this day and age. No wonder they can't grow," Hoàng Vũ muttered, venting his frustration.
He, Hoàng Vũ, although a Dai ethnic minority and not fluent in Chinese, idolized Chu Zhi. Almost all the music on his phone was Chu Zhi's works, especially the Chinese-style tracks, which he adored without reservation.
It made perfect sense. Absolutely.
Chinese dramas and films often became wildly popular in Vietnam, but Hoàng Vũ had never worshipped those actors because he knew they were fleeting stars. No celebrity could stay famous forever in Vietnam, but Chu Zhi could.
Beauty was a universal treasure. Hoàng Vũ had even reshaped his nose to match his idol's.
Since the cosmetic surgery, he walked with a newfound confidence, even visiting the restroom felt smoother, and his self-esteem had skyrocketed.
At twenty-one, Hoàng Vũ was vice president of Chu Zhi's overseas fan club in Vietnam. Thanks to organized promotions, all Vietnamese fans knew exactly when the Celebration Arts Documentary would air.
In general, Vietnamese fans were highly organized and disciplined. Otherwise, how could tens of thousands of petitions to "invite Chu Zhi" have appeared?
The Vietnamese fan strategy had been inspired by Korean fans. Last year, 1.24 million Korean fans petitioned at the Blue House to invite Chu Zhi for the 30th anniversary of China-South Korea diplomatic relations. It had failed, as there was no official celebration—only verbal congratulations from both ambassadors.
Simply put, Korean fans failed, and the Vietnamese copycat succeeded.
Korean fans were furious. Out of jealousy and frustration, they clashed with Vietnamese fans on Twitter, using offensive language. Posts were filtered, but in the parallel world, anyone curious could check them.
At 9:00 PM Hanoi time, 8:00 PM in the capital, an hour apart, Vietnam View ended and advertisements appeared.
After waiting for over ten minutes, Hoàng Vũ finally saw the long-awaited segment start at 9:15 PM.
But at first, the screen showed Zhuang dances, Dai dances, Chao opera, Zhuang opera, and classical Chinese dance. An hour passed. It felt even longer than being forced to stand during class.
Hoàng Vũ was about to wilt from impatience. Truthfully, he had no interest in these traditional performances. He only wanted to see one Jiu-yé, yet even this small request seemed impossible.
The key problem: live TV couldn't fast forward.
He decided to switch programs.
"Why did you turn it off? It's good," his father Hoàng Bàn Ngư called from behind.
"Ah?" Xiao Hoàng didn't even notice when Old Huang had sat down on the sofa.
"Turn it back. The last program is good," Hoàng Bàn Ngư repeated.
"What's good about it…" Hoàng Vũ grumbled but adjusted the channel back, muttering less under his breath.
"Sit to the side," Hoàng Bàn Ngư said, annoyed by his son blocking the view.
Hoàng Vũ dragged a small stool closer. Being nearsighted, the distance between the sofa and TV was too far, so he sat at the coffee table.
"Keep your phone farther away," Hoàng Bàn Ngư reminded before resuming watching. The TV showed the traditional programs Old Huang liked.
"What show is this? I never heard of it before. They're all artists—even that traitor Đặng Thái Sơn was invited," Hoàng Bàn Ngư exclaimed.
Old Huang had strong nationalistic feelings. He didn't care for Đặng Thái Sơn, even though he was Vietnam's most accomplished musician. Changing nationality made him worthless in Hoàng Bàn Ngư's eyes.
"This is a cultural showcase for the 70th anniversary of China-Vietnam diplomatic relations. Of course, they invited top artists from both countries," Hoàng Vũ explained.
It made sense. The earlier news about the anniversary was in the People's Daily, but he hadn't expected the TV broadcast to include the arts segment.
"It's China-Vietnam relations," Hoàng Bàn Ngư corrected, then asked curiously, "Since when did you get interested in these performances?"
He knew his son well. Hoàng Vũ had zero interest in traditional culture.
Hoàng Vũ followed his idol on Instagram. The latest update read: [Celebrating the 70th anniversary of China-Vietnam diplomatic relations, performing with artists, feeling quite the pressure.] The automatic translation made it clear. Many Vietnamese fans instinctively read it as China-Vietnam, with China first.
"Because tonight my idol is performing," Hoàng Vũ said.
"Chu Zhi?" Hoàng Bàn Ngư frowned. His dislike of the Chinese singer was all due to his son.
Hoàng Vũ had never liked studying, preferred computers and phones, and had been nearsighted from a young age. Last year, Hoàng Bàn Ngư gave him money for laser eye surgery.
No one expected Hoàng Vũ to use that money to undergo cosmetic surgery to look like his idol Chu Zhi.
After learning this, Hoàng Bàn Ngư's dislike of the singer only grew.
"Inviting a young singer to this kind of event? Isn't that embarrassing?" Hoàng Bàn Ngư said.
"No matter the event, Jiu-yé is a god!" Hoàng Vũ replied with full confidence.
"Haha," Hoàng Bàn Ngư sneered.
Part of his judgment was dislike of Chinese celebrities, part was practical. The earlier performances were from older, highly respected artists. A young star among them was like a playful wolf joining a pack of elders.
The next segment passed. It was obvious the VTV director knew who was most popular. Chu Zhi's performance had been placed third from last on purpose.
Not last, because the grand finale performances, both traditional and modern, had to feature Vietnamese artists.
Chu Zhi stepped to the center of the hall. Hoàng Vũ immediately put down his phone, fully focused.
Hoàng Bàn Ngư, previously hunched forward, now leaned back on the sofa.
"I will sing a Vietnamese song, Gp.m.trong.m," Chu Zhi said.
Without much introduction, he began.
Oh? In Vietnamese? Hoàng Bàn Ngư was slightly surprised.
Hoàng Vũ, the fan, was thrilled. His idol had learned Vietnamese just for the fans. How could he not love such devotion?
The excitement didn't last long. The melancholic prelude pulled viewers into the 1990s. No era could hide the melody of time.
🎵The sky is so vast, did you hear my call?
Mother, where are you now? I miss you so much🎵
Simple, unadorned lyrics, a direct outpouring of emotion. Hoàng Bàn Ngư shivered, staring at the screen.
The song carried an unbearable sadness. Hoàng Bàn Ngư leaned closer, listening to the young Chinese singer's voice, more affecting than he expected.
Hoàng Vũ felt electrified, frozen in place.
🎵No matter where I am, I hope my children are happy
Once you shielded me from the wind and rain, your warmth remains
Mother, now you are far away🎵
The song's ending was not heart-wrenching or loud but as serene as a lake. The mirrored surface reflected the trees and sky. One felt immersed in it.
As night fell, the tender green of the trees became ink-dark. Darkness hung overhead. There was no moon, no light, nothing visible.
It was as if black walls enclosed all sides, north, south, east, west, and above. The endless blackness was terrifying.
Hoàng Bàn Ngư instinctively leaned back, wanting distance from the TV, holding his breath.
It felt like being underwater, not wanting to see the bottom, holding one's breath to dive under the only spot without a black wall.
It initially felt better, but soon the weight of the water pressed on his chest, making him uncomfortable.
Chu Zhi's voice, steeped in pure despair, could move seasoned political veterans to tears. Ordinary people were even more affected.
🎵Do not worry for me anymore. I am grown and can take care of myself
We will meet again, Mother🎵
At the end, twenty-one-year-old Hoàng Vũ cried uncontrollably.
To be precise, not only the twenty-one-year-old, even his father Hoàng Bàn Ngư, forty-eight, a grown man, had tears streaming down his face.
"It's so painful, ugh ugh ugh," Hoàng Vũ sobbed, chest tight from the song.
Hoàng Bàn Ngư could not hold back his tears either, thinking of his own mother.
"Ugh ugh ugh, Dad, whatever you say, I still say my idol is amazing," Hoàng Vũ sobbed, struggling to finish the sentence despite his voice breaking.
Hoàng Bàn Ngư said nothing. He had fallen into thoughts of his own mother.
"Dad, why are you crying?" Hoàng Vũ asked, trying to regain control of his emotions.
"I miss your grandmother. When I was little and my body was weak, it was your grandmother who carried me to the city for treatment every week," Hoàng Bàn Ngư said.
"Dad, don't cry, please don't cry," Hoàng Vũ quickly comforted him.
Tears, however, were difficult to control with words. Hoàng Vũ raised his voice, "Dad! Grandma is still alive back home. If you miss her, just go see her. Why cry?"
Hoàng Bàn Ngư snapped out of his thoughts. Right, his mother was still alive. Why was he crying?
Feeling embarrassed in front of his son, Hoàng Bàn Ngư shifted the topic. "I feel like this Chinese singer lost his mother."
"That's nonsense!" Hoàng Vũ immediately replied.
Hoàng Bàn Ngư explained, "The song carries such deep emotion about missing one's mother. I think it must be sung by someone who can no longer see their mother."
"I didn't expect the most impressive performance to be by a Chinese singer," Hoàng Bàn Ngư said as he stood, intending to call his own mother.
Hoàng Vũ didn't know it, but his father's words seemed to awaken something in him…
From Vietnam to China, all the news focused on Emperor Beast. Chu Zhi and his team, however, were focused on another matter.
"Are we sure Jiu-yé never releases departure photos?"
"Chu Zhi is already high-profile enough. We should keep a low profile. Even without departure photos, candid photos from the scene are enough. Departure photos are unnecessary."
"True, we will still outshine everyone."
This conversation took place between Chen Daye and Da Wang in their company, regarding Chu Zhi's attendance at the upcoming Mass Film Hundred Flowers Awards ceremony.
Departure photos were typically official, edited images released by the celebrity's social media before attending a formal awards ceremony.
Who still compared celebrities from the red carpet? That was ancient history. Today, in the entertainment industry, the moment you arrive, the comparisons begin.
Don't be surprised at this trend. If it weren't profitable, stars wouldn't bother. Fans are the driving force. Before the main star even arrives, fans have already started.
Fan attention is guided by management teams, but the real reason is fashion magazines—the top five men's magazines and seven major women's magazines.
Fashion experts evaluate attire in departure photos. The competitive tension rises. Terms like "departure photos," "red carpet," and "outfits" define the fashion battlefield.
Self-media also evaluates clothing, praising or criticizing, for example, highlighting who wears haute couture versus ready-to-wear.
Chu Zhi, thanks to last year's Shiyi Lang, had already won the newcomer award for commercial and artistic achievements. Playing Emperor Beast was not particularly surprising for him.
"Shiyi Lang was definitely the peak of my acting career. Debut at the peak, then continuous dives, ha ha," Chu Zhi muttered quietly, amused with himself.
The Hundred Flowers Award trophy, showing the goddess with raised hands holding flowers, looked quite elegant.
Online, someone once asked: the trophy was designed by Professor Yao from Jingdezhen Ceramic University, and the Oscar statuette by George Stanley. Both are humanoid. The question: which one is better for cracking walnuts with the head?
"Xiao Chu, come on, tonight Uncle will take you to eat well," Wang Xian said.
"What's good to eat in Jiangcheng?" Chu Zhi asked casually.
"There's plenty. Follow me. I promise your stomach won't feel cheated," Wang Xian replied.
This year, the Mass Film Hundred Flowers Awards ceremony took place at Jiangcheng Sports Center. Wang Xian, who greeted Chu Zhi warmly, was a veteran actor.
Many might struggle to recall his name, but everyone had seen his dramas. He had won multiple Magnolia Awards and Feitian Awards for Best Actor.
Wang Xian acted friendly for two reasons: first, he felt this young man was promising from media reports; second, Wang Xian and director Wang Anyi had been long-time friends, with Wang Xian starring in the director's debut film.
The film industry was divided into circles. Chu Zhi felt fortunate he never immersed himself in the entertainment world. It was too complicated, full of factions and favoritism.
Chu Zhi focused on his meals. Not a professional eater, he still needed excess carbs daily, and even Emperor Beast himself had no leftovers to spare.
Seriously, Wang Xian's invitation had no ulterior motives. But another veteran, Huo Lao, chairman of the Chinese TV Artists Association Actors Committee, had other thoughts. He tried to probe, but Chu Zhi gave no response.
What commanded respect from these veterans was not Chu Zhi's popularity, but his official connections.
The TV Artists Association was under the Writers' Federation, essentially semi-official. And this young man's position? Senior advisor for the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. Even the ranking crushed theirs.
At the table of nine, Chu Zhi was the youngest. The closest in age was Tong Xi, a Hundred Flowers Best Actor winner, in his mid-thirties.
Same surnames were rare, though Tong Xi mentioned it was common in Han City, Shan Province.
"My grandfather told me, and his grandfather told him, our ancestors may have been related to the historian Sima," Tong Xi shared a story.
Despite being youngest, Chu Zhi became the center of the conversation. He mostly listened, however, letting the elders share.
Listening was rarer than speaking. Anyone could speak if the environment was right, but true attentive listening? In a big city, you might not find one person capable of it.
The dinner took place at the century-old Lao Huibin Restaurant in old Jiangcheng. Chu Zhi had dined at many famous restaurants, even Tan's cuisine and Wang's cuisine, but none tasted as satisfying as this, at least to Emperor Beast.
"小 Chu must be about twenty-five?" Wang Xian asked. Seeing Chu Zhi nod, he continued, "At twenty-five, it's time to consider marriage. Do you have a special someone?"
"My career is still rising. I don't have the energy for romance," Chu Zhi replied.
Even with numerous representative works, dating could cause a collapse for someone at the peak of popularity. Chu Zhi did not want his career affected.
"You're not that young anymore. Maybe a girlfriend outside the circle would be better," Wang Xian suggested. "I have a niece, graduated from Peking University Philosophy this year. Want to meet her?"
"Ha ha ha, Old Xian, you are showing your true colors," Huo Lao laughed. He called Wang Xian Old Xian because of a past bet where Wang Xian attempted to not eat for five days to become an immortal, with the pronunciation of Old Xian and Wang Xian similar.
"The entertainment world is full of beautiful men and women, but someone like brother Jiu, a true force of chaos, I've only seen one," Tong Xi commented. "I'm sure many women pursue him."
"小 Chu isn't in good health either," Wang Xian said. "You call me Uncle, so I cannot bear seeing you without care. Men should start a family before establishing a career, and your career is already solid."
The discussion about whether Chu Zhi should date continued among the veteran actors.
It wasn't arrogance. Chu Zhi's demeanor at the table—［cat_cute.jpg］—made the elders concerned.
Putting on a cute act in front of elders? Definitely Emperor Beast's specialty.
Outside the restaurant, the Mass Film Hundred Flowers Awards were heating up. Every award for Best Actor and Best Actress drew attention.
Because Chu Zhi won the Newcomer Award, its attention rivaled that of Best Actor and Best Actress. By attention, meaning news mentions and reposts.
Online coverage focused on both the winners and celebrities' red carpet outfits.
Due to Chu Zhi's strong nationalist stance, he lost foreign luxury endorsements and fashion opportunities. Magazines and editors didn't mention his name.
Ignoring was the only option. Criticism? Impossible. Fans like Little Fruits had the most online clout. No magazine could offend them.
Fashion magazines ignored him, but self-media wouldn't.
For instance, Bilibili uploader Ahalololo, a fashion and beauty influencer with over twenty million followers, ran a series called Watching the Red Carpet Together. The series evaluated the attire of domestic and foreign celebrities at high-profile award ceremonies.