The Southern King was busy today. Ronin Publishing had just reissued Huainan's poetry collections—two trilogies titled Huai Trilogy and Nan Trilogy.
The Huai Trilogy included I'm a Wayward Child, 巡回 (Touring), and Collection of Flying Birds.
Their special guest for today's launch was a popular emotional blogger who was huge on the Japanese internet. She promoted the books as "romantic works loved by women," quoting a few lines: "Dusk is my hometown, you're the girl quietly growing in that hometown, you grow in gentle affection without a sound, and you walk right into my heart." Her pitch was simple—"If you don't know how to confess your feelings, gifting the Huai Trilogy is a great choice."
They marketed the collection as a kind of love bible and even invited a celebrity couple—famous for being the picture of affection—to promote the idea.
"Famous for their affection" was the key phrase. Whether they were actually in love behind the scenes was anyone's guess, but they sure kept up appearances in public.
Riding on Huainan's fame, Wanderer Publishing had also signed several bestselling authors. They were capable and ambitious, clearly intending to make Huainan their banner name. The Nan Trilogy included Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, After Eternal Silence, and The Great Riddle. The publisher even invited several Japanese authors to co-sign their recommendations.
"The Nan Trilogy represents the highest standard of modern poetry. There's no doubt about it." — Uemura Wataru
"If you want to appreciate the beauty of modern poetry, I wouldn't recommend this set. But if you want to explore the deeper meaning of poetry, then buy it." — Isaka Kotarou
"After reading this collection, I'm grateful I got to see it. I was deeply moved." — Ishida Kazuyoshi
Offline promotions were pushed to the max.
Each set sold for 9,400 yen, which wasn't cheap. But surprisingly, sales were great. The target audience was clear.
The Huai Trilogy appealed to students with crushes, singles, and introverts. The Nan Trilogy was aimed at people who thought of themselves as "cultured." When they read the descriptions, they couldn't help but think, That's totally me!
So they bought it, tore off the plastic wrap, flipped through a few pages, and placed it somewhere visible—without realizing they'd already bought the original editions years ago. The new packaging fooled them completely.
Sales were astonishing. Over 300,000 sets sold within two weeks, putting both trilogies in the top five bestsellers worldwide. For physical books, that was nothing short of a miracle.
"Ono-san, you should talk to Huainan about releasing another one or two poetry collections," the chief editor said.
"No one can control what a poet wants," Ono Akio replied.
"Of course," the editor said. "Poets have their own ideas. But if Huainan ever wants to publish again, our company will fully support it."
Did you notice? Ever since Ono Akio's fame skyrocketed, he'd grown bolder, while the chief editor had become more polite. Even his senior colleagues no longer dared to talk down to him.
Later that day, he had an interview with Literary World. After a brief chat with the editor, he left the office early.
Among Japan's five major literary magazines—Shincho, Literary World, Gunzo, Subaru, and Bungei—the only one he hadn't appeared in was Shincho. The rest had all featured him.
No surprise there. Huainan was a global sensation, and since no one could contact the poet directly, the only choice was to talk to the person closest to his work—his editor.
It was like trying to reach one of the authors of Death Note but only managing to get their editor instead.
This time, the interview focused on "speculation about Huainan's identity," conducted by Kohara Tetsuyuki, the chief editor of Cultural Commentary Press.
The Kohara family was one of Japan's most famous academic dynasties, and Kohara himself was a literary critic with global influence.
Out of respect for him, Ono Akio shared an important clue:
"I can reveal one thing—Huainan is very young. Most people assume a poet capable of writing such masterpieces must be around fifty or sixty, but Huainan's under forty. He's also still single."
That was huge news.
Seven poetry collections, all of them famous across Asia, and three recognized worldwide. A true modern master. To think he was under forty shocked everyone.
Since the source was Huainan's own editor, the information spread quickly and was considered highly credible. The literary world erupted in speculation once again.
[Ono-san, my work Ash Palace took ten years to refine. I sincerely hope it'll earn your approval. I'm willing to revise anything you suggest.]
[Please, Ono-san, guide my writing.]
[I won't…]
He had three or four unread emails like that. Ono Akio had become Japan's most sought-after poetry editor. Every young writer dreamed of catching his attention.
Three months ago, he'd edited a debut poetry collection that carried a single line on the cover: "Personally recommended by Huainan's editor, Ono Akio. A stunning debut by a genius poet." That sentence alone sold sixty thousand copies.
At this point, Ono Akio was a big name in modern Japanese poetry.
"Modern poetry isn't just about spacing out the lines," he muttered.
After checking the latest submissions and finding nothing that impressed him, he idly browsed the internet and saw that news from Los Angeles had dominated every major headline.
"The Greatest Concert of the 21st Century—Over 300,000 People Attended!" screamed the front page of Yahoo Japan, quoting The Wall Street Journal.
Kyodo News reported: "In Harmony with Chu · World Tour: Los Angeles Stop. Due to singer Chu Zhi's immense popularity, over three thousand police officers were deployed by the city to maintain order."
No photos had been released yet, but even thinking about the massive crowd was dizzying. For anyone with trypophobia, it would've been a nightmare.
Reuters wrote: "Hundreds Fainted. What's Chu Zhi's Secret Charm?!"
Wolff News Agency reported: "He wrote a song live on stage to satisfy fan requests? A German song with Soviet flair?"
TASS wrote: "Chu Zhi can compose songs with the old Soviet style in any language."
Xin Xia News Agency said: "The Chinese superstar's performance in the U.S. ended successfully, drawing hundreds of thousands of fans."
...
"Good thing I managed to get a ticket for the Tokyo stop," Ono Akio sighed in relief. He only had two idols in his life: Huainan and Chu Zhi. Of course, he'd gladly spend money for them.
As for asking Huainan about his next poetry collection, he didn't. He remembered clearly that after Mr. Cogito, Huainan had said he wanted to take a break.
He didn't want to disturb the poet's rest.
Was Chu Zhi resting, though? Not really. Even after hours of performing, both physically and mentally exhausted, his discipline never slipped. After all, today's work had to be done today.
The Emperor Beast had lived and struggled on Earth for many years in his previous life. He knew one thing well: there were countless people smarter than him, but talent and brilliance were often wasted by laziness and lack of discipline.
His phone buzzed on the table.
"Hmm? Xiao Bai's calling," he said after glancing at the screen. Xiao Bai was an exception—no matter how busy he was, he always picked up.
Su Shangbai hadn't called as often lately. Supporting and investing in Chu Zhi had been part of his own dream, something like a "raise your star" game.
In such games, the early stages required a lot of effort. Later, things ran on their own. Chu Zhi, though, was already at the peak—higher than ninety-nine percent of all stars. Still, he felt there was more room to climb. After all, the "Era of Chu Zhi" had only just begun.
They knew each other well enough to skip greetings.
"Brother Jiu, do you still have any concert tickets left?" Su Shangbai asked.
"Which show and how many?"
"Ho Chi Minh City Stadium, just one. I'll go alone."
Da Bai Sugar Industry's operations were mainly in Southeast Asia, where labor was cheaper, so attending a concert in Vietnam was easier for him.
"Hold on."
Chu Zhi contacted the event company. It's common knowledge that large concerts use professional firms to handle ticketing and logistics.
"Should I book it under this phone number? Send me your ID too," he said.
"Thanks, really." Su Shangbai had tried buying tickets himself but failed several times before giving up.
"No need to be polite. Between the two of us, saying 'thanks' would be too formal," Chu Zhi said. "If you really want to thank me, then handle the New Year's dinner when I'm back."
"Deal," Su Shangbai said easily, then added, "Brother Jiu, once your concert's over, leave the U.S. as soon as you can."
"I'll be back in China tomorrow."
Su Shangbai was busy, and though Chu Zhi wanted to chat more, he heard the background noise of machinery—probably the factory—so he hung up.
"Busy? Well, being busy isn't a bad thing."
"Let's get to work. It's not even two yet, still a long way till sunrise."
"We'll stop the French translation here. What matters now is picking songs for the international album. We've only released a Chinese album this year, which is way too lazy."
Most singers would've been considered hardworking if they released one album a year, but Chu Zhi—yeah, he was just plain lazy.
He started working again, head down and focused. Outside, the night was quiet… or at least it should've been. Wait, was that firelight? Huh? What's going on?
Having played Emperor Beast on stage, Chu Zhi knew better than to let curiosity kill the cat, so he quietly pulled the curtains shut.
Tonight, Los Angeles wasn't peaceful. The Save Hope Organization had just finished a protest demanding better pay for blue-collar workers.
The streets were noisy, and so was the English-speaking internet. News about the Los Angeles concert had exploded everywhere, dominating headlines worldwide.
Even The Wall Street Journal's estimates were way too conservative. According to Doctor Fei's quick calculations, about 350,000 people showed up on Figueroa Street last night. Six thousand were inside the venue, which meant nearly 300,000 fans had gathered outside.
A scene like that wasn't unheard of in history. Back in the '90s, during the reign of the last pop king, Presley's Berlin concert drew over half a million people, and the city had to seal off an entire district. A dozen people were injured from the crowd crush.
But that was the '90s. People weren't glued to their phones back then, and mass gatherings were still possible. These days… look at Akenda Bell, hailed as America's next pop king. Even at his peak, he only pulled in about 200,000 people.
From any angle, Chu Zhi's Los Angeles stop shaking the entire world wasn't surprising at all.
"Tonight, the brightest star in Los Angeles is Chu Zhi." — Los Angeles Morning Post
"The man who saved physical albums has once again saved the live performance industry." — New York Times
"He's the man with the most fans in the world." — Bild
"Chu Zhi proved two things." — The Sun
And the news just kept coming, flooding every feed.
Wait—two things? Which two?
"Chu Zhi has set an incredible record. He's the only singer in Forbes' Global Top 10 Highest-Earning Singers list who doesn't endorse a luxury brand. He's proven that luxury endorsements aren't a requirement to become a top artist.
The second thing: Chu Zhi is also the only celebrity in Forbes' Global Top 20 who completely failed with his self-founded brand. Reportedly, his label 'Muzhire' has already replaced two design directors, yet still hasn't managed to release a single product on the market.
He's proven that fame doesn't guarantee business success, even if you're as popular as Chu Zhi."
Sarcastic much? The Sun really couldn't help itself. They mocked Chu Zhi and luxury brands in the same breath. No wonder the paper had been voted one of the most disliked publications in the world—it had earned that title.
Oh, right. Chu Zhi hadn't forgotten about that fan who fainted during the concert. He'd been thinking about it since that night.
"Please take care of it, Sister Niu," he said before hanging up.
That was what a world-class idol looked like. Niu Jiangxue couldn't even count how many times she'd sighed in admiration. When it came to caring for fans, Chu Zhi truly paid attention to every single detail.
Niu Jiangxue quickly arranged things, though since she was in China, she left the on-site coordination to Aiguo's US branch.
As mentioned before, Chu Zhi's overseas branches all ran as real operations. Most of them ran at a loss, but they were handy for handling cross-border matters like this.
"There are only a little over ten concerts left," Niu Jiangxue said, frowning a little. "Next month, you'll be joining The Matrix production team."
She was worried. Warner's recent sci-fi films had all flopped, and the market wasn't looking good for traditional science fiction. Some sociologists even coined a term for it: 'Sci-Fi Fatigue'—a phenomenon where moviegoers subconsciously avoided sci-fi titles when buying tickets.
That theory sounded a bit mystical, but Niu Jiangxue still felt uneasy. She checked domestic reviews, something that was usually Wang Yuan's job, but since Wang Yuan wasn't feeling well today, she took it on herself.
"Even a concert can set Twitter and Facebook on fire. That's our Ragdoll for you. Too bad Tokyo's concert is still two weeks away. The crowd there will probably be even bigger, maybe even pass a million!"
"I feel like we Little Fruits in China haven't been fed enough. Why's he gone abroad again? I still couldn't get a ticket for the China concert, sob sob."
"Isn't Los Angeles called America's Little Mumbai? Why not just perform in the real Mumbai then?"
"Every concert is full of surprises. He's already dropped three new songs this tour. Miss one, and you're missing history."
"His singing technique's insane! I went to the concert because of a friend, but by the end, I'd become his fan. Don't ask how I, not being a fan, managed to get a ticket. Let's just say knowledge got me one."
Those were just random comments from fans all over the world, and any smart reader could probably guess which country each came from.
Location: Los Angeles
Scene: Hospital
"Excuse me, miss, why am I in the hospital?" Kendall Jenner woke up in a daze. The surroundings looked unfamiliar, and seeing a nurse nearby, she quickly asked.
The nurse smiled. "Miss Jenner, you're at Dr. Eds' Clinic. You fainted from excitement during the concert and were brought here."
Too excited…?
The concert!
Kendall sat up straight in bed, panicked. "Wait—has the concert ended? I mean, what time is it now?"
The nurse looked to be in her forties, so Kendall assumed she wasn't into pop culture and changed her question.
"It's three-thirty in the morning. You've been unconscious for over six hours," the nurse said. "If you mean Chu Zhi's Los Angeles concert, yes, it's over."
Don't be fooled by her age—the nurse was an internet regular. Even people who didn't chase idols had heard of Chu Zhi's legendary concerts.
Kendall froze. Completely. She'd resisted buying a new handbag just to afford that ticket, and now she'd missed the entire show.
Eight hundred and ninety-nine dollars gone. She hadn't even heard a single song. The regret was written all over her face.
"Please calm down, Miss Jenner." The nurse tried to soothe her, worried she might faint again. She also quietly thought it was a bit of a waste.
That day alone, the clinic had received seventy-four cases of fans fainting from excitement. Most woke up after anywhere from fifteen minutes to a few hours. The nurse had learned from other patients that Chu Zhi's concert tickets ranged from $899 to $118, with an average price of $350—definitely not cheap.
"Please rest well," the nurse said before leaving.
How could she rest? Kendall felt useless. How could she have fainted like that? Had she never seen a man before?
...Well, Chu Zhi wasn't like other men. Two little versions of herself were arguing in her head.
Unable to shake the frustration, Kendall grabbed her phone to rant to her best friend. She couldn't keep her emotions bottled up or she'd explode.
She turned on her phone and immediately saw a long list of missed calls—from friends, family, and a few unknown numbers. Oh right, she hadn't even told her family she was okay.
"Wait, what's this number?" she muttered, spotting a strange one that had called several times in a row. Maybe one of her friends had changed numbers?
Her question was answered when she saw a message from that same number.
[Dear Miss Kendall Jenner,
I'm Mark, a staff member from Aiguo Media's US branch. Thank you for supporting our artist, Chu Zhi. We noticed you purchased a ticket for the "In Harmony with Chu · World Tour, Los Angeles Stop" through Ticketmaster but couldn't attend due to health reasons.
You may apply for a partial refund through the Orange Grove official website. Once approved, we'll refund 90% of your ticket price (minus a 10% platform fee). We hope you recover soon.
For further inquiries, please call or email our support team.]
"Refund?" Kendall blinked in disbelief. "Wait, seriously?"
It felt like the heavens had just dropped her a pizza.
Could this really be true? Or was it some kind of scam?