Looking back, some of the most iconic moments from Journey Among the Stars were Chu Zhi's street and mountaintop performances. It proved that letting contestants sing outside the studio wasn't just feasible, it created magic.
In sociology, there's a term called "path dependence." Wheels were a perfect example of that—once you build a ladder, people climb. So, let the contestants sing.
"You can call him Belyak," Lin Feifeng said, then motioned for her son, Onegin, to greet everyone. The air felt like Lunar New Year with distant relatives—no one knew who was who, yet greetings were mandatory.
"Don't call me Belyak," Onegin replied firmly.
Lin Feifeng was unfazed. "Belyak suits you. Why not keep it?"
Chu Zhi studied the boy. Onegin had a striking profile—a well-defined nose bridge and deep-set eyes. Mixed-race children often turned out handsome, and with good-looking parents, the odds were even higher.
Onegin had that universal appeal, but even so, no one in the room could surpass Chu Zhi's looks.
Still, Onegin wasn't white-haired. "Belyak" was a Russian nickname, roughly meaning "rabbit," often used for light-haired kids. In Russia, blonde and dark brown were common hair colors, and under sunlight, even pale blond could seem almost white.
But what if the name wasn't about hair color? Maybe it referred to a gentle temperament? Chu Zhi, fluent in Russian, wondered.
"Leader, the task," Cai Jia whispered, just loud enough for Chu Zhi to hear. He blinked at first, then caught on by the second reminder.
"General Petrov, may I ask, what are your musical preferences?" Chu Zhi inquired politely.
"Preferences…" Fyodorov paused, either forgetting his lines or acting the part. After half a minute, he suddenly switched back to Russian. "I prefer songs with meaning, patriotic Russian music."
Thankfully, everyone was wearing Bluetooth earpieces with live translation. Otherwise, that clue might have been missed.
"I really like Hou Yubin's songs. Such a rich baritone," Lin Feifeng added.
Chu Zhi, who was close with "Uncle Dictionary," felt a bit puzzled. Hou Yubin's voice was more of a clear baritone than a low bass. Was she a real fan or just saying that for the task? Either way, it went in the notes.
The final character in the variety show storyline was the general's son, little Lov. Before the boy could speak, Lin Feifeng stepped in again. "Belyak prefers classical music."
"Is that right?" She turned to Onegin for confirmation.
"…Yes," he answered in Russian, brows tight with reluctance. Chu Zhi noted the hesitation. Was this family business? For now, it seemed that classical, Mandarin, and Russian songs were needed. Probably unrelated to the main task.
"Go prepare. Tomorrow, same time, at my residence, we will hold the performance," said Fyodorov, following the script by dismissing the guests.
Lin Feifeng politely stood to escort everyone out. Once the last person left, Fyodorov slumped into a chair, visibly relieved, as if the tension had melted out of his bones.
In Russian households, couples often called each other "charming" or "dear," but Chinese-Russian families had their own rhythm.
"Feng, how did I do just now?" Fyodorov asked eagerly.
"Excellent. If you'd chosen opera over painting, the world might've gained a genius actor," Lin Feifeng praised without holding back.
Their affection surged, and they hugged and kissed like no one else was in the room. Their son, Onegin, seemed used to it. He quietly turned and headed upstairs.
At the top of the staircase, his mother's voice floated up. "Belyak, time to practice piano. No slacking off."
"…Yes."
Onegin's biggest regret in fifteen years was probably what he said at age nine. No one knew what came over him then, but he'd said, "I like the piano." That was the start of the nightmare. From that day on, piano practice became a daily chore. Any love for music vanished under the weight of routine.
A child's interest is rarely deep. Onegin's idea of "liking" was occasional play. His parents' version meant turning him into a concert pianist.
Back at the hotel after visiting the Petrov household, the team regrouped to strategize for the next day's challenge and win the general's support.
They gathered in Chu Zhi's room. As the heart of the group, his room had become the default base. It felt like those popular kids' dorms during middle or high school military training—always full of people.
Min Jeongbae had traded a toy car for a mini blackboard. Russian secondhand shops weren't like Japanese ones. Items didn't sell well, so bartering for practical tools was the way to go.
The blackboard showed a chart Cai Jia had written:
General Petrov: Patriotic Russian songs. Suggested: covers of well-known Russian patriotic pieces.
Madam Petrov: Songs by Hou Yubin. Suggested: just sing Hou Yubin's classics.
Little Lov: Classical music. Suggested: Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky, Rachmaninoff.
"Uncle Hou's songs—Luo, you can handle that, right?" Chu Zhi asked.
"You should sing them, Leader," Luo Jianhui replied. After two live shows, he knew he wasn't as good as Chu Zhi.
"Come on, Luo. Don't push everything on me," Chu Zhi said. "I remember you covered Uncle Hou's hit, 'Riding a Camel.' You're perfect for Madam Petrov's performance. No slacking."
More stage time meant more screen time. Zhang Ning and Min Jeongbae both saw through it—Chu Zhi was giving up the spotlight to let others shine. Cai Jia wasn't thinking that deeply, but she chimed in anyway. "Yeah, Luo, don't dump everything on Leader."
"I'll give it my best," Luo Jianhui nodded, feeling the unspoken support.
"As for Russian patriotic songs…" Chu Zhi turned to Aurora and Mikhail.
He could sing in Russian, but patriotic songs were tricky. If he had to sing one, it'd be "My Motherland and I."
"I can sing 'Ode to Glory' or 'For You, My Motherland,'" said Mikhail. "If I take the task, I'm confident."
Aurora stayed silent. The only Russian song she knew was the national anthem, "O Russia, Our Sacred Homeland."
"Then the job's yours," Chu Zhi said. "Sing your best piece and wow us."
Mikhail looked determined, like it was a mission he'd gladly accept.
That just left classical music.
"Don't look at me. I took piano lessons at eleven but haven't touched it in over ten years. No way," Zhang Ning said, waving his hands.
"I don't even know how many keys a piano has," Min Jeongbae added.
"I know. It's eighty-eight," Cai Jia said with a proud grin.
Chu Zhi spoke up. "I can play a little," which was modest. He was proficient in violin and piano.
"I studied piano and viola. Should be fine," Aurora said.
Wow, viola? There's an old joke: "A kind horse gets ridden, and a kind person plays the viola." Aurora must be truly kind.
"In that case, can you play 'The Nutcracker Suite'?" Chu Zhi asked, referring to Tchaikovsky's famous ballet.
Tchaikovsky was the most well-known Russian composer. Even those unfamiliar with classical music had likely heard his work. In sheer volume of lasting compositions, he could rival Beethoven.
"Of course," Aurora nodded.
"Then let's do a piano duet—'Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,'" Chu Zhi said. "Is that alright?"
"...Yes," Aurora replied. "But we'll need to rehearse."
"Of course. I already asked—the hotel has a music hall," Chu Zhi said. "We can rehearse there."
Meanwhile, behind the scenes, the production team scrambled. Wheels arranged for a piano to be rented and delivered to Lin Feifeng's home. Even if Onegin already practiced, no household kept two pianos. A proper stage had to be prepared.
"The plan's great, but plans never keep up with change, old buddy," Wheels said with a grin.
Up to now, it seemed iQIYI was doing most of the heavy lifting in their collaboration with THT, but the truth was, THT had been saving its firepower. A surprise was coming the next day.
While Chu Zhi's team worked tirelessly in Russia, they had no idea that Chinese pop fan circles were in chaos.
At 3:30 a.m. Beijing time, most people were asleep. But for those pulling all-nighters, a trending post had lit up social media:
#ChuZhiRecommendsSoda#
[lol, double win! My two fave singers are Jiu-ge and Beisheng!]
[If Gu Beisheng and Chu Zhi fell into a river at the same time, who would you save?]
[Whoa, what a death trap question, haha.]
[Got hooked. "Soda" is actually pretty good. Jiu-ge has great taste!]
[If Jiu-ge likes a singer, they're definitely good. No debate.]
Thousands of comments poured in between 3:30 and 5:30, humanity's sleepiest hours.
Some fans focused on odd things. For instance, GymGarfield posted:
[Still awake at 3:30? Jiu-ge's health is worrying.]
True, that mattered. Why was he still awake?
[Please take care of yourself, Jiu-ge]
[Sleep early, even if I know depression causes insomnia. Please try]
[Love yourself, please]
[I want to tell Jiu-ge to rest, but I realized I haven't been resting either]
Concern snowballed in the replies.
In 2020, Weibo didn't show location tags. In two years, that feature would eliminate such misunderstandings. One glance would show that Chu Zhi was in Russia.
Among those "immortals cultivating through the night" was Zhou Yuyi, who had just played badminton with Chu Zhi. Because he had Chu Zhi on special follow, he witnessed firsthand what it meant to be a top-tier celebrity.
Gu Beisheng's new album Passerby/Passing Through had just launched, with its lead track barely making the top ten across platforms. But the moment Chu Zhi recommended "Soda," it shot into the top three like a rocket.
"When will I be this famous? Wait—no, I'd be happy with half," Zhou Yuyi sighed with envy.
Then he thought, "Right, right. I just need to play more games with the boss. Maybe he'll toss me a viral hit one day."
"At the very least… maybe repost one of my songs…" Then he remembered—his debut album wasn't even out yet. He had no signature track.
"Oh dear God, please grant me and the boss—"
Zhou Yuyi had meant to say "grant us the same creative talent," but the words stalled in his throat. Online, people were already analyzing why Chu Zhi hadn't shown such powerful song-writing skills before his comeback.
Part of it was the restrictions from his previous agency. The other part... well, Chu Zhi had been through too much. He had something to say now. To put it bluntly, he had nearly died once. And the world was just too beautiful—Zhou Yuyi had no desire to leave it early.
"No more talking. Back to binging," Zhou Yuyi muttered, eyes glued to his screen. He wasn't sleeping because he was completely absorbed in a show. He never watched hyped dramas right away. He'd wait until the full series dropped, then binge the whole thing in one sleepless night.
Sleep schedule? Bed at five, up at six.
In the ICU but still scrolling on his phone? That would be Zhou Yuyi.
Chu Zhi, on the other hand, actually maintained a strict sleep schedule: four hours of deep sleep per night, like clockwork.
Location: Vafkona Street, St. Petersburg
Time: 9:00 a.m. sharp
Characters: Team Meida Heroes, Aurora, and Mikhail
Their van rolled slowly into Vafkona Street, still five kilometers away from General Petrov's home. Traffic was sluggish. Up ahead, a few burly men suddenly blocked the road.
"??" Cai Jia and the others jolted in surprise.
Just as everyone tensed up, a steady male voice spoke out—first in Mandarin, then in Russian.
"Don't panic. Look behind them. There's a cameraman. They're from THT TV. Probably shooting a segment."
It was Chu Zhi, staying calm despite the intimidating presence. He'd noticed their usual cameraman, Kobayashi, trailing behind without the slightest hint of panic. That clue had kept him grounded.
Aurora nodded toward the distance. "That is the THT logo."
"Scared the hell out of me. What kind of segment needs this kind of setup?" Zhang Ning frowned.
"We are the Tov Knights. We are under orders to monitor your meeting with General Petrov," the lead enforcer declared.
He stood at least 1.9 meters tall, dressed in a black suit and a camel-colored trench coat, looking more like mafia than security. His hairstyle—a vivid rooster crest—stood out even more. The others had buzz cuts.
Cai Jia blinked. Tov Knights... what kind of NPC faction were they supposed to be? She wanted to ask but worried that if they were enemies, revealing her knowledge could break the plot or even cause the main mission to fail.
"Please exit your vehicle. You'll take our transport to the general's residence," the rooster-haired man ordered.
No real reason to resist—after all, the destination was the same. Chu Zhi kept his attention on the situation as they boarded the large transport van.
During the ride, Cai Jia subtly probed for information. She pieced together that the Tov Knights were part of the show's storyline: a righteous force investigating a suspected conspiracy. The Meida Heroes weren't the only group operating in St. Petersburg. The Tov Knights had taken notice, hence the surveillance.
Not bad at all. Had the scriptwriters been replaced? This plotline felt far more coherent than the "Chrysanthemum Thieves" arc back in Japan.
Once they arrived at General Petrov's house, Chu Zhi could instantly feel the benefits of choosing the Lin-Feifeng household. The basement had been converted into a professional-grade karaoke lounge. Apparently, Lin Feifeng and Fyodorov liked to sing occasionally, so they'd built one during renovations.
"Tov Knights, why have you appeared now?"
"Because justice demands it."
"But I, General Petrov, stand for justice. Do you understand?"
"Music carries both righteousness and corruption. We, the Tov Knights, must verify it."
This exchange between Rooster-head and Fyodorov felt a lot like an unskippable pre-battle cutscene from a game.
They went back and forth with theatrical lines, but the only part that stuck with Chu Zhi was when Rooster-head declared: "We will select the finest musical act to represent justice at the 11-7 Forum."
A forum? On November 7? In St. Petersburg, that could only mean one thing: the International Cultural Forum.
Drama, ballet, opera, classical music, musicians, scholars, and international delegates—all would gather in St. Petersburg on that date. The opening ceremony alone would be hosted by the Russian Deputy Prime Minister. Maybe not a global event, but it carried real weight in Eastern Europe and Asia.
Chu Zhi quickly looked it up on his phone. There was no way iQIYI alone could have secured this kind of access.
Impossible, he told himself. No offense to iQIYI, but these forums were strictly by invitation. Without one, entry was out of the question. Unless…
THT TV. They were not only one of the main organizers but also the primary broadcaster of the forum. Giving a guest slot to a contestant? Totally doable.
"I need to lock in the Russian song spot," Chu Zhi thought. "It's a huge opportunity." Still, he knew such a valuable slot would likely go to a native Russian singer.
He didn't dwell on it. He had thought this was just a light entertainment show. Clearly, the stakes were higher.
"To ensure fairness, we, the Tov Knights, will livestream to ten randomly selected citizens who will vote on your performances," Rooster-head continued. His men began setting up a projector. Soon, ten strangers appeared onscreen, all residents of St. Petersburg, ranging from their twenties to early thirties. Nine Russians, one Chinese.
Hardly surprising. This was Russia, after all.
"Let the performance begin," Fyodorov announced.
"I'll perform 'Ode to Glory.' I arranged a new version," Mikhail said.
Chu Zhi transferred the track from his phone. He was the only one allowed to carry one.
Originally a soaring segment in Glinka's opera Ivan Susanin, "Ode to Glory" was adapted into one of Russia's most widely sung patriotic songs—second only to the national anthem.
Mikhail's version didn't butcher the original. He added harmonies in a few spots and intensified the orchestral backing in the chorus.
"This Russian song has my full endorsement," Fyodorov said with exaggerated clarity, reminding everyone of his role.
Mikhail let out a quiet sigh of relief. Even if he'd appeared confident, the pressure was real. Chu Zhi, in particular, had placed great trust in him—helping fine-tune the instruments during rehearsal, making it clear how much he cared.
That trust weighed on him. Why did he feel so determined not to disappoint this young Chinese man?
Mikhail shook off the thought. If not for him, the team might have failed this task.
The ten civilian judges cast their votes. Seven gave positive scores.
"I don't like this type of song. My grandpa played it nonstop when I was a kid."
"No specific reason, but for songs like this, I want a tank-like voice. His was too soft."
"No vote. It didn't leave an impression."
The feedback was strict but not unfair.
Next up was Luo Jianhui, who took Chu Zhi's advice and sang Hou Yubin's signature piece, "Riding a Camel." Like Mikhail, he had lightly reworked the arrangement without changing its core.
Over-arranging wasn't innovation. Sometimes, it just showed disrespect to the original.
Luo Jianhui wasn't as seasoned as Hou Yubin, but he was a powerhouse vocalist. He captured the song's desolate, windswept feel.
"Beautiful. Really well done," Lin Feifeng said. "I approve."
"Clap clap clap." Mikhail was the first to applaud. Talent deserved respect, even if he didn't understand Mandarin. Musical skill spoke for itself.
"I did it, Leader," Luo Jianhui said under his breath.
"Of course. I never doubted you," Chu Zhi replied.
Luo Jianhui smiled.
The judges gave five out of ten. The comments from the rest were:
"Not my style."
"Just didn't connect with it."
"Hou Yubin's version was better, so no vote."
"I love Chinese songs, which is why I won't vote."
"The singer's voice was good, but I'd vote for a different song."
Music tastes were subjective. No big deal. Still, Chu Zhi found one comment odd. Why would someone say they loved Chinese music... and then not vote?
The final act: Chu Zhi and Aurora performing a two-piano rendition of "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy."
He had low expectations. Mikhail had probably already secured the forum slot. Unless something drastic happened, that position was his.
Classical music had fewer fans. If Chu Zhi had drawn something flashy—Chopin, Liszt—he could have shown off. But this piece only required piano teacher-level skill.
Still, they began.
"Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" followed an ABA structure. The key to playing it well was precision. Chu Zhi's fingers moved like a puppeteer, every keystroke distinct, almost jerky, just as it should be.
In the B section, the tempo picked up. Here, Chu Zhi's technique clearly outshone Aurora's. Her transitions faltered slightly. Thankfully, Chu Zhi's dazzling piano run at the end of B masked the issues, pulling the audience back into the magic. The return to the A theme, now an octave higher, painted the image of the Sugar Plum Fairy reappearing.
The performance had been for Onegin, but the ones leaning forward, visibly engrossed, were Lin Feifeng and Fyodorov.
Chu Zhi and Aurora complemented each other well. More precisely, he covered her flaws smoothly.
Aurora, who took pride in everything she did, was quietly upset.
"Both of you performed better than many," Lin Feifeng said. Though she addressed them both, her eyes were on Chu Zhi.
"I…" Lin Feifeng had intended to say she was satisfied, but then remembered the show's rules. She turned instead to her son. "Belyak, did you enjoy it?"
Again with the "Belyak." When close friends visited, the nickname was fine. But during a public show? Did they want the whole school to hear?
Onegin hated the name. He had told them so many times. No one ever listened. They claimed he was obedient, so "Belyak" fit him.
"I didn't like it. I'm not happy at all!" Onegin snapped. He turned to his mother. "Just because I study classical music, does that mean it has to be my favorite?"
The entire room fell silent. Chu Zhi's team, the production crew, even the Tov Knights—all stared in shock. This wasn't in the script.
Not even Lin Feifeng and Fyodorov had expected their son to raise his voice.