The Saint Petersburg International Cultural Forum's exhibition of visual arts was held at Arts Square, a plaza dominated by a statue of Alexander Pushkin. Tourists often gathered there for photos. If the statue had thoughts, it must have been quite smug by now—without moving a muscle, it got to see people from all over the world.
Pushkin lived in the 18th century, so even in this diverging 19th-century parallel world, this great poet still existed. He remained a cornerstone of Bear Country literature.
Chu Zhi, after learning this, felt a bit disappointed. They had Pushkin, but no Yesenin or Tsvetaeva—especially the latter, whom he admired.
Tsvetaeva's poetry had a sharp, satirical twist and constant reversals. She was one of the greatest female poets ever. Honestly, she might be the single most remarkable poet Russia had in the 20th century.
"Like this, then this..." Chu Zhi borrowed pen and paper from the front desk and sketched a simple map. Li Weiwen had poor sense of direction, but he wasn't a fool. He could recognize buildings by their appearance.
Chu Zhi didn't mind drawing the map, but there was no need to escort him all the way—they weren't heading the same way anyway. Goodwill had its limits. He sent the sketch to Li Weiwen and told him to head toward the October Cinema.
The October Cinema chain was well known among anyone who had lived in the Russia. It was the biggest cinema franchise there, boasting massive venues. While the one in Moscow was the largest, the Yefimova Street branch in Saint Petersburg was no slouch either, with seventeen screening halls to choose from.
Chu Zhi picked a film by a renowned Russia director titled Star Thief.
"I always thought I had decent comprehension, but today I realized I'm only good in comparison to the director."
Even with the opening and closing credits trimmed, the 107-minute film ran for about an hour and a half. Chu Zhi was still unsure who the male lead actually was.
The plot was a mess. The male lead's girlfriend suddenly died, and it was hard to tell whether events were flashbacks or happening in real time. Then he started dating someone new. The current girlfriend dug up the ex's corpse, thinking he loved his ex more, so she started doing her makeup to look like the ex.
With plastic surgery and cosmetics, the new girlfriend gradually morphed into the old one, while the corpse continued to rot. That's the story arc—at least according to Chu Zhi's interpretation, since everything was fragmented.
As for the title, Star Thief, Chu Zhi had to applaud the domestic translators. The ex-girlfriend was named Stellachka (Стеллачка), which, according to Chu Zhi's Russian knowledge, meant "little star." The title played on stealing the corpse and referenced the Russia legend of Koschei the Deathless.
"Guess I just don't get art," Chu Zhi muttered. He heard people around him praising the movie. Though he didn't eavesdrop deliberately, bits and pieces filtered through. Apparently, the film was a deep dive into the duality of physical and psychological identity. High-brow stuff.
The forum this year focused on Russia culture, so even the Chinese films shown were related. The second movie, Men of Murmansk, was directed by a Chinese filmmaker and depicted a group of Chinese tourists trekking to Murmansk to see the aurora after six months of preparation.
Murmansk was visa-free for aurora viewing and a paradise for hikers and anglers. The film was based on a true story—a Chinese hiking group saved a dog and two Russians along the way.
"If you calm down to watch, it's quite good. Slow-paced, but always with a hook," Chu Zhi noted. Anyone invited to this forum had to have real skill.
The first day covered ballet, film, and visual arts. The October Cinema closed at 8 p.m. Chu Zhi, uncharacteristically relaxed, watched two movies in the afternoon and one in the evening, totaling three films. On the way, he bumped into Ma Banan, a 28-year-old Chinese dramatic baritone known for Wozzeck.
"Jiu-ge, you been at the cinema all day?" Ma Banan greeted him. Last night, Chu Zhi had drunk him under the table.
Chu Zhi nodded. "The films are so good I couldn't pull myself away."
"The arts exhibit at the plaza was fantastic too. Designers' imaginations are off the charts," Ma Banan added, rubbing his nose.
Ma Banan's name matched his horse-like face perfectly—Chu Zhi always found it easy to come up with rhymes about him.
"Tonight—" Ma Banan was going to invite Chu Zhi for late-night drinks again but remembered tomorrow's performance. He corrected himself, "Tomorrow night. We'll drink on boxes."
The Bear Country was famous for vodka, especially in the cold. But they also drank beer—Baltika, Baltika, and more Baltika.
"You ready for tomorrow's show, Jiu-ge?" Ma Banan asked. "I'm under a lot of pressure. Ruslan and Lyudmila isn't exactly my forte. That knight role is brutal."
That comment was half a vent. The real topic was the second half—his own struggle.
"Who are you performing with?" Chu Zhi asked.
"All big shots from Bear Country. Except for me, everyone's a star," Ma Banan sighed.
"You know, I've walked many roads and met many people," Chu Zhi lowered his voice, and Ma Banan listened intently, expecting some profound insight.
"I've also joined many chat groups, and I learned something. Anyone who says 'everyone's a big shot except me' is usually a big shot themselves." Chu Zhi gave him a knowing look.
"I'm not being humble, I swear to the light!" Ma Banan protested. "This opera gathers the top baritones and basses in Asia. I'm just cannon fodder. I swear I'll collapse."
"Speaking of which, Jiu-ge, a lot of vocal legends are showing up too. Singers from all over the world."
"You know what that means?" Chu Zhi said. "Comrades in misery."
That line lightened Ma Banan's mood. He had been partly showing off, partly venting. After all, performing with such talents was an honor. Now he had flexed and relaxed. Talking to Chu Zhi really helped.
Back in his room, Chu Zhi reviewed the vocal performance list. Some names weren't that famous, but everyone invited was a powerhouse.
So was Chu Zhi nervous?
Of course not!
He had only two personality coins left, so he traded them along with a song voucher to unlock "Опера.№2" (Opera No. 2), the iconic piece by Vitas, which he composed at age 18 and rode to stardom.
While some foreign songs became famous in China but were unknown abroad, Opera No. 2 was not one of them. It had won over 150 awards in the Bear Country. Even pirated CDs of it came in more than 2,000 variations.
People in the Bear Country didn't just pirate the song. They named games, films, even glassware after it. Some companies claimed their products could withstand Vitas's high notes.
Yes, Vitas had other hits like "Dedication," "Star," and "Cry of the Crane," but Opera No. 2 was on another level—a cultural juggernaut across Europe. This was his chance. Chu Zhi felt he had to show off.
He checked his achievements: Face King, King of the World, Charity King, Carb Lover, Born on Earth Wanting to Be Immortal, Smoke Emperor, Alcohol Immortal. That made seven.
Feeling anxious with his low coin count, he needed to unlock one more fast.
"I must do something that betrays my ancestors," he muttered.
He started chain-smoking to speed toward the 2,500-cigarette milestone. It sounded like a lot, but one pack had 20 sticks. Just a hundred packs. For many smokers, that was nothing.
The next day, the weather was cold but clear. No snow, and not cold enough to kill anyone—except maybe stray cats and dogs.
Themes of the day: Literature, Ballet, Opera, and Vocal Arts.
The Saint Petersburg International Cultural Forum would last four days, its many exhibitions giving the local tourism industry a major boost.
Countless tourists showed up, including Xiaohongshu influencers, Douyin streamers, and Bilibili creators.
"Haha, guys, look how cool the literature exhibition is. Forget ballet and opera. The Philharmonic Hall costs money!" said Bilibili content creator An Jiu, a student studying abroad in the Bear Country. She usually posted snippets of student life to earn pocket money. With an event this big, of course she had to join.
The literature exhibition took place at [Subscription Bookstore], a three-story building with archways, stonework, and huge glass windows—beautiful on the outside too.
Writers shared anecdotes on the third floor (invite only), cultural documentaries played on the second, and the first floor sold themed books. Entry was free if you didn't buy anything.
"I'm just a broke student. Philharmonic tickets cost fifteen thousand rubles. My budget can't handle that."
"Fifteen thousand rubles is like fifteen hundred yuan. That feeds me for half a month."
She wasn't pretending to be poor. Studying in Germany, France, Britain, or the U.S. required a different financial bracket than studying in Russia. Her family wasn't rich but definitely decent—they wired her about 80,000 yuan a year for tuition and housing.
But a year at Saint Petersburg State University cost around 90,000. She had to earn her own spending and airfare.
"Don't just say making art costs money. Appreciating art costs money too. Yesterday I showed you the plaza exhibit for free."
"Want to chip in so I can take you all to see something amazing? I'm game!"
As she spoke, gifts poured in—three Guardian Wings, two Explorer Voyages, plus Love Letters, Pixel Rocks, and Cheers. An Explorer Voyage alone was worth over 2,000 yuan. Even with Bilibili taking a 50% cut, she had enough for a ticket and more.
Then came the comments: "Boss, you're being scammed!" "Isn't freeloading fun enough?!"
She rushed to No. 40, Nevsky Avenue—the Saint Petersburg Philharmonic Hall. Ticket in hand, phone at the ready, she was about to go in when the guard hit her with a nightmare announcement:
No filming allowed in the concert hall.
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Song Title: Опера.№2 (Opera No. 2) Original Artist: Витас (Vitas)