"Each era has its own art. But only a few musicians, like Tchaikovsky, transcend their time to lead an era forward. Tchaikovsky lived through darkness and upheaval, yet his music radiates light. Building upon Glinka's foundation, he ushered in a new era of national music. That's what makes him a great composer," said Yevgeny.
"But most musicians—people like you and me—are bound by our time."
He took a sip of coffee and continued, "That's what's so strange about Katyusha. Both its lyrics and melody surpass the constraints of this era, but not by pushing forward. Instead, it looks backward. It sounds like music from the previous age."
Yevgeny took another sip of his coffee. "That's what's so odd. It doesn't sound like something Mr. Chu Zhi would write. More precisely, it doesn't sound like something anyone from our era could write."
Mikhail paused to consider this. He felt that his own music was three steps ahead of Katyusha, and yet Katyusha remained a classic of the previous era. He couldn't help but ask, "So why is that?"
Yevgeny didn't answer right away. He lifted his cup again, seemingly lost in thought. Why? He was still asking himself the same question.
Then Mikhail spoke again. "Professor, there's something I just remembered. Not sure if it's relevant."
"Go ahead," said Yevgeny, setting down his cup.
"Mr. Chu has severe depression. He even attempted suicide once."
Yevgeny showed no surprise. A touch of madness in artists was nothing new.
Vaslav Nijinsky was institutionalized at twenty-nine for severe mental illness. His artistic career was even shorter than Mozart's, yet in that brief time, he revolutionized ballet. Ask anyone in ballet and they'll know The Rite of Spring or Afternoon of a Faun.
"I only found out by accident," Mikhail added. "Mr. Chu has an intense sense of self-sacrifice. He's the type to risk his life to save others during an earthquake."
Mikhail speculated aloud, "Maybe it's that kind of trait… like those people from the past. Maybe that's why he could empathize enough to write a song like this."
It sounded noble… but also like nonsense. Just sharing traits with people from another era didn't explain the music. Yevgeny immediately dismissed the idea in his heart.
Still, the image of someone sacrificing themselves to save others during a quake planted a different thought in his mind.
What if… what if his mental illness gave him extreme emotional sensitivity?
What if it allowed him to feel others' emotions deeply—to embody them?
Perhaps during the quake, Chu Zhi had empathized so completely with the victims that he rushed in without hesitation. If that theory held up, it would explain how Chu Zhi could write Katyusha.
Maybe Chu Zhi had told the truth during that voice seminar. Maybe he really had heard the story of Katyusha in a small town. And maybe, because of his illness, he had completely immersed himself in it—becoming the girl named Katyusha, becoming the soldier who left.
It all made sense. Of course, it was still only speculation. Yevgeny would need more evidence, but if he could gather enough, he would write a paper on it.
While many musicians were still dissecting Chu Zhi's success, Yevgeny was ready to set the record straight. A well-written paper would be excellent publicity.
The fascination with Chu Zhi's work wasn't limited to his home country. It had spread to Russia as well.
In Japan and Korea, it usually took an entire EP to build a major artist. In Russia, three songs were enough to stir a cultural wave.
"Brother Chu, I know we're on a tight schedule, but the Russian Ministry of Culture is eager for us to release a single version of Katyusha as soon as possible," said Niu Jiangxue over the phone. She sounded rushed, and added, "It's urgent."
"Recording a single is simple," Chu Zhi replied calmly. "There are plenty of studios in Beijing. I can head over after my meeting this afternoon. But have we decided on the release method?"
"We have," Niu Jiangxue answered. "Either through Russian cultural channels—they'll buy out the rights—or through a digital release on Spotify."
In short, either route would bring Chu Zhi a hefty profit.
But after thinking for a moment, Chu Zhi made a decision that shocked her. "I'll gift Katyusha to Russia permanently."
"…Huh?" Niu Jiangxue hesitated, then nodded slowly.
It would be foolish to turn down free money. But the Emperor Beast wasn't a fool—he simply felt this song shouldn't be monetized in Russia. After all, that great red giant had once truly helped many people.
After hanging up, Chu Zhi let out a heavy sigh.
"Katyusha is a requiem for the red giant of this world. From now on, I won't be so generous with my earnings!"
He chuckled. "Ah, why am I so kind?"
The Emperor Beast praised himself and felt genuinely pleased.
You have to be good at recognizing your strengths. Like when you see someone post a donation link and you chip in five, ten, maybe even more—take a moment to give yourself credit. At that moment, you're doing more than many others on this planet.
Not only was Niu Jiangxue swamped, even ad manager Qi Qiu was barely keeping up.
It was just like when Slightly Look Forward to the World launched in Japan. The overnight buzz abroad had the whole team scrambling.
But they couldn't just watch the buzz grow. The team needed to convert that heat into fans, then into a lasting presence. That wasn't something they could do overnight.
Even Chu Zhi himself hadn't expected this. Take away the historical baggage, and Katyusha still hit hard.
No more words were needed. Chu Zhi headed to the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. As a special cultural advisor, he had to earn his paycheck: meetings, reports, the works.
Good thing the Emperor Beast excelled at writing reports—especially vague ones. The kind that said nothing and everything all at once.
The meeting, unsurprisingly, was a debrief on the just-concluded St. Petersburg Cultural Forum.
To be fair, the forum did deserve a proper summary. But to Chu Zhi, the meeting dragged on forever. It felt like downloading something through Baidu Cloud.
There were many special advisors at the ministry, but when it came to cultural exchange, only two stood out: Chu Zhi, and another author whose work had been translated into Japanese, Korean, Russian, English, and Thai.
As soon as the meeting ended, Chu Zhi remembered the thing Niu Jiangxue had called about—recording the song.
Recording quality depends heavily on studio equipment. Chu Zhi didn't waste time hunting. He just called Zheng Huoge.
"Now that you're in Beijing, you finally remember to call me?" said Zheng Huo cheerfully. "Old Xu's been trying to treat you to dinner for ages. Got time tonight? No? Then late-night supper. Eleven, midnight, whatever works."
"I wouldn't dream of being polite to you, Zheng Huoge. Dinner, I really can't. I've got to record a song, then attend an event to perform Far Away, so I'll probably be done around eleven," said Chu Zhi.
"Eleven? Perfect," said Zheng Huo. "I'll find a good spot and call up Old Xu. It's been a while."
"You're the local. I'll go with the flow," said Chu Zhi.
They chatted on the way to the studio. The place had birthed many rock albums. It looked rundown, but the gear inside was top-tier. The owner was half an industry insider, known as Xiao Long.
"Why don't you renovate the studio? Isn't the old look bad for business?" Chu Zhi asked.
"Exactly!" said Long. "The gear here is top-class, but plenty of other studios in Beijing have good equipment too. What sets mine apart is this contrast—top-notch gear in a shabby setting. People remember that."
"Plus, I can always say I spent all the money on gear and couldn't afford renovations. Makes an even deeper impression!"
Every mouse finds its own path, every snake its own trail. Everyone who makes it has their own way. Chu Zhi gave a thumbs up. He understood the owner was laying his cards on the table to build a connection.
This version of the song didn't need to be better than the live one, but it couldn't fall short either. He layered on The Voice of Despair, The Voice of the First Emperor, and The Accidental Immortal of Wine.
One take. Just one.
Chu Zhi recorded a single vocal track and completed the song.
His progress as a vocalist showed clearly here. During his first album, he couldn't believe anyone could finish in one take. Now he was that person.
"Your singing's incredible. So much emotion," Zheng Huo couldn't help but applaud. Then he sighed. Why not release a rock album? China's rock scene had been stagnant for too long.
"I'll head out now. I'll contact you after the rest of the schedule," Chu Zhi said.
Singing old songs brought in some small cash. Performing them on shows added even more. It was all about accumulating small gains.
Just as expected, everything wrapped up around 11:15. Then he met with a few veteran rockers for a late dinner.
As November rolled in...
"Jiu-yé, I found it! The Vietnamese mystery!" Lao Qian ran up, visibly excited.
What mystery? Chu Zhi blinked, confused, then recalled. Right—how his fanbase in Vietnam had suddenly exploded, with spending power rivaling fans in Japan and Korea.
He listened closely.
"It's because of the plastic surgery industry," said Lao Qian. "Jiu-yé, your face has broken Vietnam's entire aesthetic standard."
Still not getting it, Chu Zhi motioned for him to explain.
"Your features are just right. Now the whole Vietnamese cosmetic surgery scene uses your face as a template," Lao Qian explained. "And the industry there's booming."
That sounded far-fetched. Chu Zhi didn't believe such a massive trend could stem from plastic surgery alone. His fanbase had surged just in the past month or two.
"The real shift started six months ago when the cosmetic industry underwent a huge restructuring. And... Jiu-yé, you know what? It's not just men—they're using your features for female procedures too.
Once the investors saw profit, they hyped it even more. After months of buildup, it exploded recently. In Vietnam, you're now called The Pinnacle of Beauty."
"..."
Who could have guessed? Reality truly outdid fiction. But Chu Zhi still couldn't understand why women would want his features.
"Jiu-yé, in Vietnam you're bigger than Baicao Garden or even Romance of the Three Kingdoms. You're like a myth. That big," said Lao Qian. "Now do you get it?"
Referencing two classical novels was all it took. Chu Zhi finally grasped how absurd the situation had become.
===
千里之外" (Far Away)
Qiān lǐ zhī wài
Original Artist: 周杰伦 (Jay Chou)
Referenced Figures:
Tchaikovsky – Russian composer
Glinka – Founder of Russian national music
Vaslav Nijinsky – Influential ballet dancer and choreographer
Mozart – Classical composer
The Rite of Spring, Afternoon of a Faun – Iconic ballets