YouTube was flooded with independent channels re-uploading the news, and audiences across Asia were eating it up. After all, apart from pop music, there weren't many things about China that could be mocked on a national level.
If there's a weakness, people will jump on it.
South Korean blogger: [Chinese pop music? Isn't it just as bad as Chinese soccer? None of my friends listen to it. It's all filled with cheap knockoffs.]
Thai blogger: [I know Chinese pop likes to borrow ideas, but I never thought even the Expo, such an important stage, would feature something so blatantly copied. Unbelievable.]
Indian blogger: [If they don't have good composers, as a leading power in the East, we could lend them a couple. Honestly, the Expo should've been held in Mumbai. Isn't Shanghai often called "Little Mumbai"? No way it compares.]
Vietnamese blogger: [I've followed Chinese pop and even did a breakdown on my channel. It's been getting worse. Back then our pop music copied China's melodies, but now our EDM is what Chinese netizens listen to most.]
Soon bloggers from the Philippines, Malaysia, and Singapore also joined in, chasing the heat and offering their "opinions."
At 7 p.m. Tokyo time that night, the person whose work had been plagiarized finally spoke up.
Hirokumo Ryōko quietly posted a screenshot of her song on Instagram, with a short caption: [No copyright purchase request received.]
That single line sent the discussion spiraling higher. Chinese independent media reposted it nonstop, and even a couple of official outlets joined the pile-on.
Coincidentally, music critic Zhang Mingyi, who'd been silent since Gu Duo Fu's fiasco, jumped into the fray. He didn't post, but instead replied in a Douban discussion thread.
"Woke up to this huge news. Saw the composer's name, Miao Mu. Ah, the old offender, then no surprise. I know of at least three of his songs accused of plagiarism, like Plum Blossom Tune, Mandarin Ducks by the Stream, and Ever-Changing. What's worth roasting is, why'd the Expo pick his song anyway? Jiu-yé, Lin Feifei, Zhang Gu… any of them could've written one!"
His comment dragged up Miao Mu's shady history, and netizens started digging.
The gossip crowd went wild. Whether or not the Expo boosted the nation's image, at least it shouldn't embarrass it. Amid all the ranting, the Expo Museum's official Weibo, which had only a few thousand followers, suddenly shot up to hundreds of thousands in just two days.
"Here's a joke: 1.4 billion people and not one composer."
"Eighty percent of their songs sound the same. Easier than buying an essay. Too easy to cash in."
"Hey, do a giveaway."
"No official statement yet?"
"Geniuses everywhere, but they waste their resources. Weren't brother Jiu's Chinese People and As Wished good enough?"
Plenty of nastier comments got filtered out by the system, but the outrage was clear. That night, the official account even shut its comment section.
Truth be told, Zhang Mingyi knew the Expo song came from a "City Song Collection" campaign, meant to give newcomers a chance. Chu Zhi and the others hadn't even participated. He was deliberately stirring things up.
There wasn't much choice. Ever since Chu Zhi became a global superstar, Chinese music critics had been sidelined. Little Fruits used to share their praise, but not anymore. Everyone already knew his albums were world-class. Why would fans bother with Chinese internet critics?
With that door closed, critics like Zuo Yang Feixing, Gu Duo Fu, Hu Du, and Zhang Mingyi had to find other ways to stay relevant.
Of course, not everyone in China was angry. Nan Kui, the lead singer of Crimson Youth, was thrilled when he saw the news. He nearly burst out laughing.
"Tsk, tsk, crashed and burned, huh."
"Good thing I didn't join that chorus. Would've been dragged down too."
That was his inner monologue. Ever since Chu Zhi had turned down their offer to write a trashy pop song, Nan Kui had been holding a grudge. And about the chorus, the truth was they were never invited. The twenty-something stars involved were all big names, either with massive followings or solid skills. Crimson Youth, already fading, had no seat at that table.
Interestingly, none of the twenty-odd stars who sang See You in 2026 spoke up. Without an official stance, they couldn't say a word.
The Expo was supposed to promote economic, cultural, and technological exchange. The stronger the nation, the more often it hosted. The U.S. had already hosted fourteen times, the most in history.
The Bureau International des Expositions (BIE) was in charge of oversight. With plagiarism accusations threatening the Expo's brand, of course they'd call Shanghai's coordinating bureau to demand an explanation.
For Director Zhou of the Shanghai Expo Bureau, this was a nightmare. How had his staff overseeing the City Song Collection been this careless? Forget quality, they hadn't even run plagiarism checks?
How do you even check for plagiarism? He shook his head. That wasn't the point. The point was how to clean this up. Even if they pulled the song now, the damage was already done.
Covering it up at home was easy. Silencing Asia and the rest of the world, impossible. The biggest problem was how to restore face abroad.
Even with years of administrative experience, Director Zhou was stumped.
After a moment's thought, he took action. First, he called the Internet Supervision Office to contain the spread domestically. Then he called Miao Mu himself. His tone was sharp.
Miao Mu flatly denied everything. He insisted, "There are only so many notes. The chorus progression is just 1-5-6-3-4-1-2-5, a super basic chord sequence. Tons of pop songs use it worldwide."
Technically true, but when the similarity's that high, it's bullshit. Zhou wasn't fooled. He ordered him to reach an amicable settlement with Hirokumo Ryōko.
If the original author stepped in and downplayed things, the flames would cool. It wasn't the best fix, but it was something.
Sure enough, the next morning, Miao Mu released a statement.
[Statement
Since the first World's Fair in London in 1851, the Expo has been a global celebration of economics, science, and culture, a platform for all nations to share technology and envision the future.
Winning the bid to host the 49th Expo in 2026 marked the first time a registered Expo was held in a developing country. This reflected international trust and support for China's reform and progress. Don't let ill-intentioned voices mislead public opinion.
Regarding recent rumors online, I clarify here: I've already met with Ms. Hirokumo, and after friendly discussion, we ruled out plagiarism.
Ms. Hirokumo stated: "Although the two songs sound similar, they're fundamentally different works."
Please stop spreading misinformation.]
Wang Yuan muttered after reading it, "Wonder what price he paid for that."
"Money, obviously. Toss her a few million to say one line, what's the problem?" Brother Fei snorted. "If it were me, I'd say it too."
"A good thing turned into this mess," Wang Yuan sighed, scrolling further. Since Miao Mu's comments were closed, netizens took to reposting instead, roasting him relentlessly. Everyone assumed he'd just bought her off.
But like Director Zhou expected, the heat slowly faded.
Especially once news dropped that Chu Zhi's fourth batch of concert tickets was about to go on sale. That hype completely buried the scandal.
Shimen, Longcheng, Luzhou, and Quancheng were the next stops. Stadiums seating 65,000, 65,000, 80,000, and 65,000. Nearly 280,000 tickets.
"This time I'm definitely getting one. The third batch was swarmed by foreign fans, but come on, with over 600,000 tickets already sold, no way they'll sell out instantly again," Zhang Mingyi told himself.
But as soon as the sale opened, one second and they were gone. He even suspected it wasn't truly a full second, just that the system couldn't measure smaller units.
"These four stops… Longcheng should have the least competition," he thought, choosing the one he thought gave him the best shot.
He focused like his life depended on it. Saved the tickets in his app cart, set up one-click payment. At zero hour, he pounced.
Only to howl in despair a moment later.
"Gaiaaaaa!"
The sound was so tragic it could've been a dying cuckoo or a sobbing ape.
"Again! Nothing again! Are these people insane? How many years single, huh?"
"I swear I clicked within a second!"
As the first critic to praise Chu Zhi, he thought of himself as a talent scout. Yet the man had already held five or six concerts, and he hadn't seen a single one. Ridiculous!
"I don't care. Over forty concerts worldwide, over two million seats total. One of them has to be mine!"
And so the cycle repeated. First rounds, Chinese Little Fruits cried. This time, foreign Little Fruits cried.
Overseas fans were at a disadvantage with payments, so of those 280,000 tickets, over 90 percent went to domestic fans.
On the 4th, Toutiao interviewed Maya Sakatsu, Vice President of Yamaha Music Publishing. Toutiao had recently partnered with Yamaha, securing all their song rights for China. Of course, they wanted to celebrate that cooperation.
Maya Sakatsu proudly shared Yamaha's legacy, both in music and in instruments and motorcycles.
"Rest assured, President Maya. Granting your company's rights to us was the right choice," the reporter said with a smile. "At least we won't see another suspected plagiarism mess."
At the word plagiarism, Maya Sakatsu's ears perked up. After all, Hirokumo Ryōko was under their label.
"Could you update me on that incident's outcome?" he asked.
The reporter frowned but answered, "After Miao Mu claimed to have settled things with Ms. Hirokumo, the Expo quietly pulled the song and replaced it with another."
"Excuse me, but what settlement are you referring to?" Maya Sakatsu asked in confusion.
"She released a statement saying the two songs weren't really related," the reporter explained.
A statement? When? His head filled with question marks. "Excuse me, I need to make a call."
He stepped aside to confirm, leaving the reporter guessing. Had Hirokumo agreed privately without telling the company? Possible. The "ever-youthful" Hirokumo Ryōko was known for her fiery temper.
A few minutes later, Maya Sakatsu returned with news that left the reporter stunned.
The next headline on Toutiao blew up the internet:
"Why Does Miao Mu Keep Lying?"
The article said: "Mr. Maya Sakatsu, Vice President of Yamaha Music Publishing, confirmed with Ms. Hirokumo Ryōko that no one from China ever contacted her by phone, email, or otherwise. He expressed confusion over Miao Mu's statement."
Video evidence came with it.
Good lord.
Netizens had assumed he'd bribed her into silence. But this, this was next-level shameless.
He'd made it all up.
The plagiarism scandal exploded online once again.
—
Tokyo, Roppongi, Asahi TV's new headquarters.
November 3rd, afternoon, during a Music Station taping.
Person: Gu Nanxi.
Music Station was Japan's iconic music show, later imported to Hong Kong and Taiwan as Japanese Music Live. For many born in the 80s and 90s, it was their first exposure to J-pop.
Gu Nanxi had struggled in mainland China, so her agency sent her to Japan to try her luck.
"With the mainland golden years over, Hong Kong singer identity doesn't mean much. At least in Japan you might scrape by," her agent had told her.
She still remembered it, and her sharp tongue couldn't help but mutter now: "If Li Peici hadn't completely flopped here, I might've believed the company really could open a new market."
Her agency, Media Asia, was a giant in Hong Kong entertainment, with partnerships in Japan, Korea, and Southeast Asia. But strong-arming a foreign market was another matter.
Li Peici was their top diva back home, yet in Japan she didn't even cause a ripple.
No surprise. Japan lacked food, veggies, and resources, but idols? They had plenty.
"Another few years and I can retire comfortably," Gu Nanxi whispered. Thanks to I Really Am a Singer, she'd revived her career in China for a while, cashed in on variety shows, and saved a tidy sum.
"The couch is too stiff."
Her back ached as she stretched. Compared to Mango TV's rest lounges, Asahi TV's greenroom was tiny and cramped.
A knock at the door. She straightened up and said, "Come in," in Japanese.
"Sorry to disturb, here's the guest list, Ms. Gu Nanxi," a staffer said, handing her a sheet.
"Thank you," she replied, and the staffer left.
Scanning the lineup, she muttered, "FlyB & Firebird, plus Hirokumo Ryōko. This episode's stacked."
Hirokumo Ryōko had once been one of Japan's Four Divas, with countless hits to her name. FlyB & Firebird were a hot rock band, rivals in sales even with Koguchi Yoshihiro.
Then she spotted a familiar name among the overseas guests—
Chu Zhi.
"Jiu-yé's here too?" she whispered in surprise.