"President Maya, 'Come, Sweet Death' has already broken the company's single record. Should we engrave it onto the Yamaha piano?" Secretary Shibata asked respectfully, waiting for instructions.
Compared to entertainment giants like J-Company and Oscar Productions, Yamaha Music Communications had one unbeatable advantage—its legendary parent company. Setting aside its many other ventures, Yamaha held twenty-three percent of the global instrument market, making it an unrivaled titan.
What the secretary referred to as "engraving on the Yamaha piano" meant that the parent company would officially purchase the song's copyright and include it in the small music booklet bundled with their instruments, complete with sheet music.
"The rules don't say it has to be a Japanese artist. As long as it's a record-breaking single, it qualifies for the honor," President Maya replied.
As he spoke, another thought surfaced. He was friends with the NHK chairman... what if he invited Chu Zhi to perform at the Red and White Song Battle? Would Chu Zhi agree?
When Shibata noticed the president spacing out, he quietly closed the door and left. He'd already gotten the information he needed.
"Chu-san probably wouldn't refuse, right? This would be a great opportunity to draw in more fans.
No wonder Omori Genjin got transferred to the headquarters. Who could resist that kind of influence?
It's a pity it's only a single. If we could somehow persuade Chu-san to release an EP, that'd be incredible," Maya thought.
A hit record meant far more than sales figures to a music company. Of course, a few million copies sold was nothing to scoff at, but the real prize lay in expanding distribution channels. For Yamaha Music, it was excellent business. For the Japanese internet, it was headline news.
Experts who had once urged fans to stay rational now turned to criticism, but once the single's weekly sales actually broke four million, the online mood flipped overnight.
Matsuyama had already been conquered, and now Chu Zhi's single was only six hundred twenty thousand copies away from overtaking "Tokyo Boys" by Setsukawa!
[Are these people insane? Are they seriously about to crown a Chinese artist as the best-selling single in Oricon history? What'll that say about us? Japan's most popular song—written by a Chinese man?]
[I was fine when the tenth best-selling album, "With You," was his. But number one for singles? You've got to be kidding! Do you Heisei brats even know 'Tokyo Boys' was your parents' youth?]
[Stop it right now! You're betraying your own country!]
The debate quickly escalated into one about national pride.
But Japanese Little Fruits thought that dragging ideology and nationalism into showbiz was just ridiculous.
Many of the sharper comments could drive anyone up the wall.
"The highest-grossing Japanese movie is Hollywood's 'Unsinkable,' so what if the top-selling single's written by a Chinese artist? One's our ancient father, the other's our modern one—no difference."
"If you don't want Chu Zhi's fans to take the crown, shouldn't you all start buying 'Tokyo Boys'? It's still available on Sony Music's official site!"
...
Neither side would back down.
The "Attack Matsuyama" continued, completely unaffected.
"Chief Ojima, should we hold back and wait for a better chance?" Kamisaka Midori asked cautiously.
After all, dozens had already withdrawn from the fan association. Midori thought the experts had a point—having a foreigner top the Oricon chart was a bit much.
"Isn't now the best chance we'll ever get?" Ojima Matsushika shot back.
"It's just... the mainstream media's tone—"
Before Midori could finish, Matsushika cut her off. "They're even better liars than tanuki! Even better than Tansaburo the raccoon!"
Tansaburo the tanuki was one of Japan's three famous mythical raccoons, alongside Shibaemon the Tanuki and Yashima's Bald Tanuki—and if you really wanted to, you could count Doraemon too.
"When I was about to die, the one who saved me wasn't some government professor—it was Chu-san," Matsushika said bluntly. "His song didn't just save me, it gave me new life. So yeah, I want him to be number one. Got a problem with that?"
Uh—Midori opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Right, when he'd been heartbroken and suicidal, it was Chu Zhi's songs that helped him crawl out of that pit too. Why did he need someone else to remind him of that?
Matsushika even dipped into his private savings. His mother had always given him generous allowances, though he never saved a single yen before. But ever since he'd started planning to outlive his father, he'd begun to stash money away. Matsushika knew himself well—he was useless at everything except eating—and unless he built a solid savings account, he wouldn't survive after his father was gone.
Under his lead, Chu Zhi's strongest fan club charged ahead.
The "traitor to Japan" rhetoric online did scare off quite a few fans, but it also inspired even more rebels. People who'd never bought a single in their lives started buying.
Because, come on—why should those old Showa fossils control everything, hoard all the national resources, and even tell the younger generation what songs they could buy?
It wasn't about the 1,800 yen price tag. They weren't buying the CD—they were buying defiance.
The fight for first place between the top two singles in Oricon history raged on, even spilling over into neighboring countries.
And yes, you guessed it—Sony Music was the one stirring the pot. Their 1970s hit "Tokyo Boys" sold another 240,000 copies in two days thanks to the controversy.
Nationalism was a profitable business.
Emperor Beast, however, rarely dabbled in that kind of "business." He had far more scientific ways of making money. At that moment, he was in a meeting at the Aiguo Company headquarters in Shanghai.
He still felt like he wasn't earning enough. He'd wanted to buy the entire office building outright, but the price was too "beautiful," so he gave up—for now. Sometimes he really envied Sony for being able to sell entire buildings.
Anyway, Aiguo Entertainment had already held three consecutive meetings. Niu Jiangxue, Lao Qian, and Bai Weike proposed several plans, but Chu Zhi's schedule was packed. There were seven or eight events he couldn't miss, so delaying everything by a month and a half was impossible.
"Brother Chu, maybe I should call Director Davis instead," Niu Jiangxue suggested. She was used to doing the unpleasant work of turning people down, and she worried that her artist was too soft-hearted to say no himself.
Soft-hearted—that's what people around him thought. Apparently, Emperor Beast's performance as "modest and shy" was quite convincing.
"The director called me personally, so I should answer him myself," Chu Zhi said. He decided to wait.
"Alright, then let's move to the second agenda," Niu Jiangxue continued. "The trainee our company signed has passed the 'Idol Forward!' audition. The first recording starts next week. Should we make a statement?"
"Our signed trainee?" He looked puzzled, then two memories flashed through his mind.
The first was from when the Scarlet Boys scandal broke—they'd made fans take out loans to buy albums. He'd told Niu Jiangxue then, "We could try training a new idol ourselves. A lot of young fans like fresh faces. I'm an old-timer now, not really what fan circles are after."
The second memory was from last week, when Niu Jiangxue had sent him the profile of the trainee who'd passed all the selection rounds. But that was during the Los Angeles leg of his In Harmony with Chu · World Tour, and he'd been too busy to look. Then, as usual, he'd simply forgotten.
Which was totally normal. Who hasn't opened their phone to do something, only to get distracted by short videos or novels and forget the original task?
As for his comment about not being popular in fan circles, that was pure humblebrag. Chu Zhi was still the undisputed number one in China. But since he was too successful, and many young girls preferred "growth-type" or "rookie" idols, signing a new trainee made sense.
The longer he stayed in the industry, the clearer it became to him—a celebrity with the wrong values could easily mislead young fans. Even mature fans could get swept away by that influence.
Fei Ge fully supported signing new talent, though not for moral reasons—purely from a business perspective. Both the company and Chu Zhi had so many resources and contacts that not using them would be a waste.
Signing a trainee and giving them just a fraction of Chu Zhi's exposure would be enough to make them famous. 'Idol Forward!' was proof—countless agencies were desperate to get their trainees on that show.
"No wonder I kept feeling like I'd forgotten something," he thought. Out loud, he asked, "So, what kind of show is 'Idol Forward!'?"
Niu Jiangxue briefly explained—it was like iQIYI's talent shows, a mix between Super Girl and Idol Producer. It wasn't a group-debut show but still followed the same competitive format. The four mentors were Lin Xia, Gu Peng, Chen Qihua, and Han Lulu.
The trainee representative was Nan Kui.
All of them were both capable and popular. Lin Xia, in particular, hadn't appeared in any music-related programs since switching to acting, so Aiguo Entertainment must've paid her quite a lot.
[Name: Miao ChenGraduated from Shenyang Conservatory of Music, briefly performed in a bar during university...]
His looks had a sort of broken beauty, sharp lines around his nose and jaw that made his face too defined.
"This face kinda looks like Jerry Yan, the actor who played Chen Daoming on Earth," Chu Zhi thought. "When Meteor Gardenwas popular on Earth, I'd just finished the college entrance exam—there's no way I'd forget that."
"Do we have any video of his performance?" he asked.
"His performance is quite unique," Niu Jiangxue said. "Whether it's the VCR he sent or his live audition, both left a deep impression on me."
She projected the interview video onto the big screen for everyone to see.
Miao Chen sang "You Are the Dark," one of rock legend Chen Aigui's songs from before he 'ascended' to divinity.
As the intro played, Chu Zhi paid full attention, secretly impressed by Miao Chen's guts.
Everyone knew Chen Aigui's songs were a nightmare to cover. The reason was simple: before he became a devout Daoist, his songs were wild, almost divine insanity. You could say he was God's little lunatic, a thunderbolt in human form. Ordinary people just couldn't capture that manic energy. And after his conversion to Daoism, his songs turned all mystical and cryptic—no easier to sing.
The performance in the video genuinely surprised Chu Zhi. Miao Chen's self-introduction was quiet and polite, his voice soft, but the moment he started singing, he went completely off the rails. The emotion he poured into it bordered on madness.
He was so skinny that when he thrashed his head around like that, Chu Zhi honestly worried his neck might snap.
A few minutes later, the video ended. Chu Zhi agreed with Niu Jiangxue's assessment: Miao Chen's stage presence wasn't perfect, and his singing technique had flaws, but he definitely had that star quality. The contrast between his off-stage gentleness and on-stage frenzy was striking.
"Fans these days love that kind of idol, right?" Chu Zhi said with a smile. "They call it a 'mad beauty,' don't they? Anyway, what's his character like?"
That question mattered. Other companies might not care much, but Aiguo Entertainment absolutely did.
Niu Jiangxue had done a thorough background check. "No issues at all."
"Good," Chu Zhi said. "Then we'll make his contract terms a bit better. For the preliminaries, we should give him something special. I'll write a song for our company's second artist."
"Brother Chu, your schedule's already packed," Niu Jiangxue said. "Wouldn't it be too tiring to write a song on top of everything? I was only planning to have you record a short VCR message."
Aiguo's priorities were clear. Chu Zhi was the company's core, its soul.
"I've only released one album this year, so I've got plenty of songs piled up," he said. "I'll just pick one that fits. It won't take long."
Niu Jiangxue didn't press further. With Chu Zhi's personal backing, Miao Chen's career would be taking off faster than most newcomers could dream of.
"Wuhu, this kid's gonna soar," Wang Yuan laughed. "It's a song by Xiao Jiu after all."
"Dropping a bomb like that right in the prelims—don't you think that's a bit much?"
"Hahaha, how're the other contestants supposed to compete with that?"
"One song from brother Jiu is worth a fortune. Let's just hope this level of investment gets the results it deserves."
…
Chu Zhi had drawn a lot of classic songs from Earth, enough to last years even if he released one album annually. But many didn't suit his voice or image, so giving one away to another artist wasn't a bad idea.
He'd turned down song requests before because, as the Emperor Beast, he'd been overly cautious—wanting to save enough trump cards for himself. Now, with his career solid and his foundation deep, giving Miao Chen a new song was basically sending a signal to the entire industry.
What kind of song should he give him? Something too iconic would make the debut too hard to live up to. After a bit of thought, he found one that fit perfectly.
When the meeting ended, Chu Zhi headed for the road to the Migu Music Awards. On the way, he called Davis. The phone rang for half a minute before being picked up.
The time difference between Australia and China was only three hours, so he wasn't worried about waking him.
"Mr. Davis, how's your health?" Chu Zhi asked first thing.
"Thanks for asking, I still exercise regularly, so no problems there," Davis said. "But there's been a string of unexpected incidents lately, and it's been a headache. Chu, could we push back your filming schedule a bit?"
Chu Zhi paused for a second. "There are a few state-level meetings I need to chair, so…"
A "state-level meeting" meant the schedule was immovable, and "I need to chair it" meant he couldn't skip it. He didn't need to say more—Davis got the message.
"I understand, Chu. Still, thank you for trying. I know how hard it is to rearrange things when you've got a global itinerary."
His voice carried a trace of disappointment, even though he didn't doubt Chu Zhi's reason. Ever since the assassination attempt, China's official stance on Chu Zhi had made it clear how important he was. It made sense they'd want him at such events.
Big-name actors usually signed filming contracts that specified the time frame. For example, if a movie needed four or five months to shoot, they'd sign for six months. It protected the actor from getting tied up indefinitely. Once the term ended, any reshoots depended on whether the actor felt like doing them.
The crew now had to rebuild props, which would take time. Chu Zhi's delay would affect the whole schedule, making it hard to finish filming his scenes within the contract window. It also meant the budget might go over. Davis felt his head swelling just thinking about it.
"I read the Australian Associated Press report," Chu Zhi said, his tone light. "I know your production's hit a snag. After some rearranging, Mr. Davis, I can delay entering the set by two weeks."
Davis froze for a second, then burst out laughing. "Two weeks, that's fine! Chu, thank you so much."
It wasn't the six-week delay he'd hoped for, but two weeks was infinitely better than none.
"You don't need to thank me," Chu Zhi said. "You're forgetting I'm part of the cast too. If the crew's in trouble, it's my responsibility as well. And if you need extra investment and Warner Bros. won't budge, just let me know."
"Now that's a real actor," Davis thought. His decision to invite Chu Zhi—after three personal visits—was absolutely right.
"Sorry if I sound naggy," Chu Zhi added before hanging up, "but please take care of yourself, Mr. Davis. The Matrix crew still needs you at the helm."
After that, he called Che Lun, who was now the acting CEO of iQIYI, meaning his words carried a lot of weight. Chu Zhi wasn't asking for any special treatment for his company's artist, just that Miao Chen wouldn't be suppressed in the edit or given less screen time. He'd seen enough of those shady tricks in variety shows.
At Egret Island, iQIYI's Idol Forward was filming at Gulangyu Island.
The chief producer really had skills, managing to partner with local authorities to rent out a section of the famous tourist spot—practically for free. The city wasn't dumb either. As long as the show gained traction, fans would flock there to check in, boosting tourism.
On set, fifty trainees were competing for the top three spots.
Of course, it wasn't that only the top three could debut. Even the one in dead last could sign with an agency. But higher rankings meant better resources, more endorsements, and naturally, more public attention.
Most of the trainees looked at one another with thinly veiled wariness. Every gaze screamed "rival."
Some were tightly wound, while others were laid-back. One of the latter was Mao Ye from Banana Entertainment, who scanned the crowd for someone approachable.
He spotted a gentle-looking guy who seemed easy to talk to, so Mao Ye walked right up to him with a grin.
"What agency are you with, brother?" the guy asked.
"Me?" Miao Chen replied. "Aiguo Media."
Mao Ye's eyes went wide. "Wait, Aiguo? As in Jiu-yé's company? That legendary Jiu-yé?"
The name alone made the seven or eight trainees nearby all turn their heads at once.
Miao Chen nodded. Yep, that Jiu-yé.
"Holy shit, bro, don't tell me you're the one Jiu-yé personally summoned!" Mao Ye gave him a once-over, looking him up and down as if trying to figure out whether this trainee had four legs or eight arms—anything special enough to get Aiguo to sign him.
"Uh…" Miao Chen wasn't exactly shy, but he wasn't great with people either. Being stared at like a zoo animal made him feel awkward as hell.
Two months ago, Aiguo Media—a company known for never signing outside artists—suddenly announced they were recruiting a single trainee. The news didn't trend, but its shockwave through the industry was like a ten-magnitude earthquake.
It was said tens of thousands applied, and the one chosen was literally one in ten thousand.
"Bro, you've gotta look out for me," Mao Ye said. "If Aiguo's artist covers me, that's basically Jiu-yé covering me. Damn, doesn't that make me invincible?"
Miao Chen didn't like this overly familiar guy. He wasn't sure if Mao Ye was doing it on purpose, but his loud voice made everyone else look over warily. He could tell this guy wasn't sincere either—he hadn't even introduced himself before running his mouth.
He answered half-heartedly, not really engaging.
Just the name of the company alone was enough to make him a target. No wonder the boss was seen as a legend in the Chinese entertainment industry.
Getting perks came with pressure, and Miao Chen had already braced himself for that. He stared straight ahead, his eyes firm.
The sea breeze blew across his face, messing up his already messy hair until a few strands poked his eyes.
Then a cheerful electronic voice rang out. "Hello, dream chasers! I'm your strongest assistant on the road to your dreams, Ace. If you have any questions, just say, 'Little Ace, I have a question!'"
The voice came from a smart robot rolling toward them. The show I'm a Singer-Songwriter had used one too, and this one came from the same tech company, Baidu. Since Baidu was iQIYI's biggest shareholder, it wasn't just a sponsor—it was basically the money boss.
"Little Ace, I have a question, are you a guy or a girl?"
"Little Ace, how do I win the championship?"
One after another, playful voices piped up, mostly from attention-seekers hoping to get screen time.
"There are too many questions, Little Ace can't respond to them all!" the robot replied unhelpfully before continuing, "From now on, please find your dream dormitory. The earlier you arrive, the more choices you'll have for your room."
The moment it finished, the crowd exploded. The scene looked like the end of the last class before lunch, when students stampede toward the cafeteria.
But wait—how did they all know the dorms were north? What if they ran the wrong way?
Luckily, they didn't. After seven or eight minutes of running, the crowd finally reached the remodeled dorms.
The building had originally been a hotel, now redecorated with iQIYI and Idol Forward! logos. All the furniture inside had been replaced too.
As soon as the fifty trainees saw Lin Feifei standing at the entrance, they screamed like they'd just found Flower-Fruit Mountain.
"Ahhhh!" "It's Teacher Lin Xia!"
"Lin Xia! Lin Xia! Sweet as summer!"
A chaotic mix of voices rose, but thankfully everyone restrained themselves from rushing in for hugs.
"Seeing you all running here," Lin Xia said with a bright smile, "it feels like I'm looking at fifty boys chasing their dreams." He paused. "I say feels like because I'm not sure how much you're really willing to give up for your dreams."
Whoever wrote this script clearly didn't care about cringe, but Lin Feifei was a professional. He'd taken the paycheck, so he gave it his all.
"Can you give everything for your dreams?" he shouted.
"Yes!" all fifty answered in unison.
"Can you?" he called again. "Your voices don't even echo in this empty field!"
Wait... can open fields even echo?
"YES!" the fifty trainees roared again, louder this time.
"Excellent," Lin Xia said. "Tomorrow, you'll have your first stage performance. Pick a song you're good at and perform it for the mentors. Based on your performance, we'll score you, and those who rank high will receive a special reward."
The "royal trainees" among them already knew what that meant—the reward was the chance to perform as a guest at one of the mentors' concerts.
"Alright, now go choose your beds for the next three months," Lin Xia said before turning to leave.
Several trainees, including Miao Chen, quickly realized that his line basically made the earlier "first come, first served" rule meaningless.
As the variety show officially started filming, the fierce Setogawa–Matsuyama campaign finally came to an end after thirty long days. The resulting social buzz could've fueled at least a dozen SCI-level research papers.
Global Single Sales Chart – Top 50
"Tokyo Yarou" – Miyauchi Setsugawa – 5,076.1k – Released: July 18, 1975
"Come, Sweet Death" – Chu Zhi – 4,824.8k – Released: November 6, 2026
"Otoko no Kata" (A Man's Shoulder) – Matsuyama Kouseihei – 3,499.2k – Released: April 26, 1973
"Konpeki no Sora" (Azure Sky) – Katamari Duo – 2,854.7k – Released: January 13, 2003
The rest aren't listed—go look them up yourself in that parallel world. Writing them all would be rude.
Listing the top four alone already shows the huge gap, and that Chu Zhi still hadn't reached the top.
If it weren't for his reputation in Japan as "the circuit breaker of human suicides" and "the angelic voice that saved millions," the chaos stirred up by the Little Fruits there would've completely wrecked his public image. Thankfully, the foundation he'd built as the Emperor Beast in Japan was strong enough to survive this storm.
Meanwhile, overseas, something connected to Chu Zhi was unfolding—or at least, it didn't seem connected on the surface.
"Miss Ryan, do you have anything left to say?" The man with the spiky hair looked pained, but his words came sharp and cold.
"Final words, you mean?" Ryan lit a slim cigarette and glanced around. The balcony, the door, the windows—all blocked by members of The Save Hope Organization's action squad. No escape.
"If possible, we'd prefer an explanation over last words," Spiky Hair said. "Why did you leak our plan to the police?"
The group's scheme to use Chu Zhi's death to trigger a new Cold War had been stopped by Ryan, costing him his position as deputy leader.
A month later, the organization launched another operation under the codename Bloodlight. Ryan couldn't stop it this time, so she'd done the only thing left—she'd warned the police. The mission failed again.
Now, this was punishment day.
"Our efforts were for the people who refuse to give up on life."
"Our protests were to change what the public so desperately wanted changed."
"Our existence will one day make America freer and better."
She recited the organization's founding creed. Some of the squad members looked ashamed, others expressionless, some angry.
"If possible, let those three sentences be my last words," Ryan said, grinding the cigarette into the ashtray. Her hands were shaking. She was terrified.
Spiky Hair wanted to curse at her. If Chu Zhi were an idol, at least dying for fans made some sense—but this guy? Why die for strangers? Shouldn't people protect themselves first?
Even at the brink of death, she didn't say a word about herself.
"Is there anyone you want to leave a message for?" Spiky Hair asked.
Leave a message... Ryan immediately thought of her father. She wanted to tell him the truth—that she hadn't run away as a kid because she was rebellious, but because her stepmother had assaulted her. She wanted to ask why her father had never cared. Her lips trembled, but she shook her head instead.
Bang!
As Spiky Hair pulled the trigger, the only thought in his mind was: Goodbye, deputy leader.