At six in the evening, Los Angeles finally came alive.
People called it the City of Angels, but the neon-drenched streets were anything but heavenly.
The shops lining Figueroa Street usually loved when the Staples Center hosted events. When the Grammys were held there, their business could double in a night.
But tonight, they were all losing money. The streets were flooded with people—more than a hundred thousand had gathered, and none of them looked ready to leave.
Old Tom's foresight deserved some praise. Thanks to his early preparations, the situation hadn't collapsed entirely. Without that, order would've fallen apart the moment things started.
"Mr. Tom, all nearby hospitals have agreed to cooperate," a police officer shouted over the noise. "That includes Dr. Edes's Clinic, California State Public Hospital, Borey Clinic, and Eisner Family Health Hospital!"
"What's that?" Old Tom cupped a hand around his ear.
The officer raised his voice, "Mr. Tom! Dr. Edes's Clinic, California State Public Hospital, Borey Clinic, and others have agreed to help with tonight's operation!"
"I'm sorry, sir, I really can't hear you!" Old Tom yelled back.
"…The hospitals will cooperate with the police!" the officer bellowed at the top of his lungs.
"Good job, sir! Get back to your post!" Old Tom replied.
Their shouting match wasn't an act. The street noise was deafening. Voices of men and women, young and old, blended into one chaotic roar that made eardrums buzz and skulls ache. Even the sound of honking cars was buried beneath it.
For outsiders, it was a headache. But for those trapped inside the frenzy, it was pure fuel.
On the left side of the crowd, a group of over a hundred had formed a circle and started singing Waiting for Love. Their pitch was questionable, but their volume was phenomenal.
🎵"Monday left me broken, Tuesday I was through with hope, Wednesday my arms were open… Saturday I was a wildfire burning mad!"🎵
Whether they were in tune or not didn't matter, as long as they were loud.
Further to the right, another group waited silently. Some had their hoods pulled up, earbuds in, lost in their own world as they waited for the concert to start.
To the far right stood people in formal suits and dresses, as if they were heading to a symphony instead of a pop concert.
The fanbase was… eclectic, to say the least.
At five o'clock, ticket scanning began at all three entrances. By six, the concert officially started. When Chu Zhi stepped onto the stage, the difference between America and China hit him immediately.
Back home, passion felt like a warm tide wrapping around you. Here, it was wild, unrestrained, almost manic.
The Emperor Beast had spent years reading under dim lights, and his eyesight wasn't what it used to be. Even so, he could still make out a fan in the front row clutching his head and screaming so hard that veins popped from his forehead, as if Professor X were frying his brain.
Then came the ear-piercing cries—"Ahhh!" "Chu! Chu! Chu!"
A few seconds later, the fan collapsed.
Chu Zhi couldn't tell if the guy had passed out from lack of oxygen or from excitement so strong it cut off blood flow to the brain. Either way, it was tragic. Imagine spending so much money just to faint before the first song even began.
Maybe the organizers should refund people like that, he thought absently. Then again, maybe not too many would faint… right?
Security staff reacted quickly, forming a human chain to lift the unconscious fan out of the crowd. Stretchers were already stacked at the gates, ready to rush anyone to nearby hospitals.
Chu Zhi had planned to start with a rock number as a warm-up. The moment his hand reached for the mic, the crowd's screams hit a new level. The sound almost tore the roof off the arena. And just like that, another seven or eight fans fainted.
Some women broke into tears. One of them, a young blonde beside Wan Wan, was sobbing uncontrollably—though judging by her expression, it was from joy.
Wan Wan could understand that. Her companion, Robert the Third, however, looked completely lost, like he'd stepped onto another planet.
More and more fans were passing out by the minute.
"…?"
Chu Zhi paused. Maybe refunding tickets wasn't such a bad idea after all. But there was no time to think—he had to sing.
The concert continued. Fans kept getting carried out, both women and men this time.
Outside the arena, things weren't any calmer. The crowd was swelling by the minute.
"This isn't good. We don't have enough manpower," Old Tom muttered, scanning the street. Every inch of Figueroa was packed with people.
Nearly a quarter of Los Angeles's entire police force was deployed to maintain order, yet Old Tom still felt understaffed.
"This Chinese guy has some kind of devilish charm," he muttered, drawing a cross over his chest before calling the city hall for reinforcements. The military units already stationed nearby couldn't be moved.
Don't get the wrong idea—those troops were there for two reasons. First, with crowds this large, there was always the risk of extremists targeting Chu Zhi. Second, the city hall had received rumors that some organization was planning to cause chaos tonight.
The Los Angeles city government was baffled when Old Tom's report came in. The city had over ten thousand active police officers. And you're telling me you can't handle a concert with two thousand extra support staff?
Vice-Governor Woody, a man who was surprisingly popular among voters, was ready to chew Old Tom out—until he heard what came next.
"There are around one hundred and fifty thousand people on Figueroa right now," Old Tom said. "Shops have shut down, the sidewalks are flooded, and the crowd keeps growing. We estimate it'll exceed two hundred thousand soon. Please dispatch more units immediately."
Woody froze.
Over two hundred thousand people?
He cursed under his breath. "Damn that Chinese star…"
To be honest, Woody had opposed approving the Staples Center application from the start. In his mind, Chinese celebrities were like "beautiful disasters"—nothing but trouble followed wherever they went.
He ordered reinforcements right away. Not because he cared about those people's lives, but because a stampede would ruin his career.
"We, the United States of America, have fallen so low we worship a star from an inferior race."
"America's fallen."
"His music's trash."
"I'll never listen to that lowborn crap."
Woody's muttered grumbling made it clear he was a real racist. He'd once called jazz "music for savages" on live television.
And no, "Woody" wasn't his real name. It was a nickname, taken from the cartoon Woody Woodpecker. In the show, the bird had one talent—pecking through metal sheets with its beak.
Locals thought the comparison fit him perfectly: no real ability, just a big mouth.
City Hall was in chaos, and Woody was pacing restlessly in his office. Anyone reporting to him that night got caught in the storm—not through yelling, since he prided himself on being a "civilized politician," but through the kind of cold, sharp criticism that ruined morale.
He'd planned to leave at six, but he stayed till seven-thirty, convinced he'd done everything humanly possible to ensure order. If anything went wrong now, it'd be the field officers' fault.
When his driver finally dropped him home, he sank onto the couch. The housekeeper, Mrs. Angie, brought him coffee as usual.
He sipped it, crossed his legs, unfolded his newspaper, and waited for dinner.
"Has Havas come home yet?" he asked.
"No, sir," said Mrs. Angie. "Miss Havas went to a concert with her friends. She said she'd be back late tonight."
"Oh." He turned another page of the paper.
Wait—concert?
He looked up. "What concert?"
"Mr. Chu Zhi's, sir. The Chinese star. Miss Havas mentioned her whole school tried for tickets, but only five people got them."
"What?!" Woody's eyes bulged. His daughter? At that concert?!
Los Angeles was burning that night, hotter than Tokyo ever got.
As time passed, the soldiers stationed nearby never needed to intervene, but the city hall's intel hadn't been wrong—someone really had planned to make trouble.
The group was called the Save Hope Organization. Their goal was to "restore the glory of America," bringing it back to the hopeful days of the 80s and 90s, when it was the so-called "beacon of humanity." They claimed to fight racial division and capitalist oppression.
The ideals sounded noble enough. But with shadowy backers funding them, their mission had long since gone astray.
Their plan tonight was simple: assassinate Chu Zhi at his concert. Even if they failed, chaos and casualties would do. A successful hit, however, could spark an international conflict.
China–US relations were already fragile. If Chu Zhi, the pride of China, were killed on American soil, it'd ignite like dry tinder.
They believed America needed a new Cold War to regain its dominance. In their logic, China could replace the old Soviet Union as the new rival. With their "superior" strength, America would win again.
Insane as it sounded, at least it was a plan. Compared to other extremist groups, these guys were almost… organized.
"Ryan, do you know what you're doing?" the team leader, a man with spiked hair, asked coldly. "You're betraying the organization."
"We can't do this," Ryan said firmly. "If our country's future truly requires sacrifice, then we should be the ones to make it—not force others to die for us. That kind of thinking's wrong. We can only choose to give our own lives."
"Do you realize what this'll cost you?" Spikes asked.
"Mr. Chu Zhi's a good person. Good people deserve to live in peace, not become sacrifices," Ryan replied.
Spikes stared at her for a long moment, then sighed and raised his hands in surrender. "You're the commander. Whatever you say."
Ryan was biologically male but identified as female. Her childhood was hell—abused by a stepmother, later infected with HIV and imprisoned by her boyfriend. It was Chu Zhi's song Jesus Loves Me that led her to religion, and his performance of The Internationale that inspired her to stop being a victim. That's why she'd joined the Save Hope Organization in the first place—to fight oppression.
Now, she realized killing Chu Zhi would betray everything she believed in.
In just over a year, through sheer ability and a bit of gender advantage, Ryan had climbed to become the organization's third-in-command.
The hierarchy went like this: President, Vice President, Recruitment Captain, Action Commander, then the various squad leaders.
Technically, the Recruitment Captain was only responsible for bringing in new members, so it was mostly a title. By rank, Ryan had no real authority over the Action Commander, Spikes, let alone the power to stop an entire operation.
The only reason Spikes obeyed was out of respect. He was a blatant homophobe, but when it came to Ryan, his admiration was genuine.
After everything she'd been through, after being broken and scarred, she still stayed kind. To Spikes, that kind of strength was something close to holy.
"Be careful from now on," Spikes warned again, stepping in to stop the attack on Chu Zhi. It wouldn't be easy next time. Ryan might face retaliation for this.
The Emperor Beast, of course, had no idea a fan he'd never even met had just saved his life. After three hours of singing, the concert had finally reached the encore.
Even overseas, his concerts always followed the same pattern. Lights dimmed and flashed, locking onto one lucky fan in the audience.
"This gentleman, what song would you like to hear?" Chu Zhi asked with a smile.
"I love all of your songs, Mr. Chu," said a burly man in the crowd, his voice thick with a Russian accent. "But I hope tonight you'll sing something that isn't in Russian, yet still has the spirit of Russia."
Because of his towering build and bear-like frame, fans affectionately dubbed him the "Russian Strongman."
His accent was heavy, but for Chu Zhi, who spoke fluent English and Russian, communication wasn't an issue. After thinking for a moment, he said seriously, "I don't think I've released any songs that match your description."
The man instantly looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Mr. Chu, that was too much to ask."
Chu Zhi didn't notice that about ten meters away stood someone he knew.
"That fan's request is impossible," Aurora muttered. "How can it be Russian-style but not in Russian? That's the kind of absurd demand only a client from hell would make."
Her tone carried a hint of irritation.
"Lora, you need to have faith in Mr. Chu," said Vadim, her father. "He's not a normal human."
He was right. The familiar face was indeed Aurora, and sitting beside her was her father, one of Russia's most influential figures. Vadim had already found concrete proof that Chu Zhi wasn't an ordinary person. No one else could sing and jump around for four hours straight while keeping a steady heartbeat.
"Tonight, there are three things that matter most," Chu Zhi said lightly. "First, the fans' happiness. Second, world peace. And third, that the sun still rises tomorrow."
"So then…"
He trailed off for a moment, calling silently to his old companion—the system. And like a true brother from another mother, the system never let him down. That was why he dared to say something like that in the first place.
"The instruments on site aren't perfect," he said, "but they'll do."
He turned on the guitar's distortion effect, tuned the acoustic bass, and combined the bar piano with the digital grand. The key piece, though, was the accordion.
After all, back at the Orange Festival, he'd once composed Annie's Wonderland live on stage. He was more than ready for this.
Performing a brand-new song mid-concert was already rare. Writing one on the spot to fulfill a fan's wish? That was unheard of.
The male fans were losing their minds. "Holy shit, this is so punk, it's insane!"
The female fans, on the other hand, were swooning. "He's writing a song for a fan? That's so romantic!"
As for the Russian Strongman himself, he was overwhelmed, thinking, "Why me? What did I do to deserve this?"
Tens of thousands of people went quiet all at once, afraid to disturb their idol while he wrote.
"Alright then," Chu Zhi said. "I think Moskau should fit this gentleman's request."
🎵"Moskau"🎵 was a legendary song by the German band Dschinghis Khan, celebrating the glory of the old Soviet Union. It had once gone viral across America. To many, it sounded ridiculous, almost like a parody, but it was a real song that existed.
Back on Earth, everyone who'd grown up in the 80s or 90s had heard it at least once. Its meme-worthy Chinese parody lyrics—"Screwdriver, screwdriver, wake up at night to nail the floor, drill into the snow when it's hot, ho-ho-ho-ho-hey"—were practically internet folklore.
On stage, the familiar Russian melody mixed with a disco beat. Normally, it'd sound cheesy, but in that electrified concert hall, the rhythm came alive, igniting the crowd.
🎵"Moskau, fremd und geheimnisvoll…"🎵
🎵"Türme aus rotem Gold…"🎵
Chu Zhi didn't speak fluent German, but the song didn't need perfect pronunciation. Its tone alone was enough to stir excitement in every Russian heart.
🎵"Moscow, strange and full of mystery, your towers built from red gold, cold as ice."🎵
🎵"Moscow, those who truly know you, know that deep in your heart, a blazing fire still burns…"🎵
That, right there, was what unrestrained genius looked like.
The Russian Strongman was thrilled, and so were the other Russian fans. Even if they didn't understand the German lyrics, the melody spoke for itself.
🎵"Moscow, Moscow, let's dance on the tables till they break, hey hey hey hey ha!"🎵
🎵"Moscow, gateway to the past, mirror of the Tsar's age, red as blood."🎵
🎵"Moscow, the one who truly knows your soul, loves you like…"🎵
So corny it looped back around to being stylish.
Vadim, surprisingly, loved it. His massive frame swayed clumsily to the beat, and Aurora was terrified he'd throw his back out.
While Chu Zhi's "big stage" concerts dominated the West, his "small stage" persona, Huainan, wasn't doing badly either.
The poetry collection Mr. Cogito had brought its author, Huainan, huge acclaim. Across Europe and America, he'd won nearly every major literary award short of the Nobel Prize itself.
He'd even taken home the Governor General's Literary Award and the Casa de las Américas Prize. Meanwhile, the Japanese poet Ono Akio, who acted as Huainan's public persona, had earned a strange nickname from the press—the Southern King.
The name came from a Sankei Shimbun article that called him "The modern poetry machine, Huainan's emotionless alter ego, the award-collecting robot, Ono Akio."
Now, Ono Akio spent most of his days flying between countries, attending endless award ceremonies. It was exhausting, sure, but it had its perks.
Fame meant money. And money meant he could finally hire a caretaker for his mother.
For years, his mother had refused to use a cane. He'd always thought it was pride or stubbornness, but today, he finally understood—it wasn't that she wanted him strong. She wanted him weak.
It sounded absurd, but parents didn't always want their children to succeed. Some wanted them to stay small, easy to keep close, to rely on them forever.
His mother wasn't struggling financially. What she wanted was emotional dependence.
This time, she'd been strongly against his literary career. She'd even begged him to give up his position as Huainan's editor, saying he was too busy.
For once, Ono Akio stood his ground. They'd argued for hours.
And in the end, it had been the right decision.
He became the Southern King—and with the money and success that came with it, he could finally take care of his mother without resentment.