The chain reaction caused by Emperor Beast's injury shook the entire entertainment landscape.
The zeroth generation of top stars began when five celebrities returned from Japan and Korea, ushering in the traffic era.
The first generation of top stars, known as "Wu at the head, Chu at the tail, Su soaring in the clouds," included Wu Tang, Chu Zhi, Su Yiwu, Li Xingwei, Shen Yun, and Li Fei. Chu Zhi fell, only to rise again in glory.
The second generation of top stars included Lin Xia, Wu Tang, Su Yiwu, Zhou Guowu, and Li Fei. Zhou Guowu was the first post-90s top star besides the "ascendant Chu Zhi."
The third generation of top stars featured Lin Xia, Xi Yao, Lin Weiran, and Tao Ke, while the older generation of stars fully transformed.
The fourth generation of top stars saw Zhou Yiyu, Lin Weiran, Meng Wuping, and Sun Shi rise, with a badminton youth standing tall at the peak.
This latest classification came from a "Celebrity Market Value Estimation Table" commissioned by Taopiaopiao and created by Kantar. Any artist at the top had both advertising and film/TV value greater than or equal to 50 million RMB.
Of course, in the last column of the table, it clearly stated: [Chu Zhi's advertising and film/TV value cannot be accurately estimated. Rough calculations place it above 100 million USD.]
Kantar was an internationally renowned market research firm. Originally, this survey was meant for internal use at Taopiaopiao, but because a certain Little Fruits was too heartbroken and wanted to take two days off, which got rejected, the file ended up being leaked by mistake.
This made it clear how each generation of top stars rose differently, and honestly, that was reasonable. The entertainment world was always changing. No platform could dictate who the next top star would be. Just look at Weibo, powerful as it was. Every year it handed out the "Annual Most Influential Star" award, but who actually cared? Only the fans of the winners acknowledged it, no one else.
The entertainment industry changed fast. Even someone as popular as Su Yiwu, who once had legions of mom-fans that bought him estates abroad and even noble titles, had fallen far from his peak.
Since Emperor Beast's debut six years ago, the rate of renewal had averaged two years per generation. The unshakable Chu Zhi remained, while the top stars flowed like water.
The unshakable Chu Zhi had been in a coma for seven days—
Roman Observer: [Pope Bergoglio said, "The Lord will protect His people. I'll pray for Mr. Chu Zhi. To commit assassination in the name of the Lord is nothing but borrowing the shell of religion. He has defiled the faith. Life and glory accompany Chu Zhi."]
Trinidad José Franco López stared at his daily must-read paper. Today's headline was "The Pope Talks About the Impact and Consequences of the Assassination Attempt on Chu Zhi."
He was a devout believer and also a fan of Chu Zhi. Chu Zhi spoke Spanish and had the voice closest to God. To José, he was a double idol, a joy greater than the sum of its parts.
"Last time, the Pope only spoke because a reporter brought it up. This time, he gave a full interview just about Mr. Chu Zhi," José muttered.
"Even when the Queen of England died, the Pope only sent a telegram of condolence. It was the bishops in several English cathedrals who called on the faithful to pray. And now, the Pope himself prays for Mr. Chu Zhi…"
He wanted to find the right word for how prestigious that was, but for once, he was at a loss.
Most people called him Trinidad Franco. According to Spanish naming traditions, the second-to-last surname came from the father, the last from the mother, and most children followed the father's surname. To save words, let's just call him José.
As a Spaniard working in Manhattan, it wasn't far for him. After carefully finishing the Roman Observer, José went to Langone Medical Center the next Sunday. He wanted to get closer to his idol and pray for him.
When he arrived, he saw a crowd at the entrance, hugging and crying tears of joy.
As José moved closer, he heard—
"Mr. Chu Zhi finally woke up!"
"I knew Mr. Chu would survive. He's one of a kind in this world!"
"Thank the Lord for giving us back the voice closest to Him."
"The Pope's prayers worked."
"Wuwuwu, Jiu-yé, I knew you'd never leave us behind."
…
"Awake?" José's heart leaped. Mr. Chu Zhi was awake. That was the best news.
"Wait. Waking up after seven days…" suddenly José thought of how the Lord created the world in seven days. Today was Sunday.
"In the early morning of the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw the stone had been rolled away." José silently recited from the Gospel of John, which described Jesus's resurrection on a Sunday.
"Is this just coincidence?" His heart trembled.
Coincidence or not, he wasn't the only one who noticed. Many believers saw the parallel, and it only deepened their conviction that Chu Zhi bore the glory of the Lord.
The cheers outside carried into the hospital. After waking, Chu Zhi underwent a round of tests. Once doctors confirmed there was no problem, they let family in to visit, though only a few at a time.
"How're you feeling, Jiu-yé?" Lao Qian asked.
"A bit tired. I think I'll have to take a long vacation this time," he replied.
"This time, you don't have a choice but to rest," Lao Qian said. "Didn't you always want to take a proper trip? Here's your chance."
"Brother Qian, do me a favor. I've been unconscious for seven days, and I know a lot of friends have been worried, not to mention the fans. Help me post an announcement to ease their minds."
Lao Qian never thought he'd want to cry over another man. Fresh out of death's door, and the first thing Chu Zhi thought of was reassuring others.
"Alright, I'll get on it right away." Lao Qian took a deep breath and left.
The assassination attempt had shocked the world. The entire entertainment industry shuddered three times over. Chu Zhi's overwhelming influence made his global fanbase surge, and the reason was simple: "This star is incredible."
Now that his condition was stable, sentencing could move forward.
American law, inherited from Britain's common law, was complicated but essentially designed to protect human rights. Before conviction, suspects could usually post bail to avoid detention.
Robert was indeed a fanatical believer, but he was also a university associate professor who understood American law well. He even hired a bail bondsman. In America, there were agents for everything. A bail bondsman basically vouched that the accused wouldn't run or reoffend.
But the New York Supreme Court rejected the bail request. Not because the bail bondsman was incompetent, but because the court stated: "The risk of reoffending is enormous."
After the shooting, Robert was interrogated under federal control. He had no idea just how huge the uproar had become.
Ten days after the shooting, his trial began. Anyone familiar with America knew that from arrest to trial usually dragged on for months. For it to happen this fast meant the overwhelming global pressure had forced their hand. Even Steel, whose "dao heart" was said to be unshakable, was tormented by repeated protests.
With evidence and witnesses ironclad, and Robert himself pleading guilty, he was convicted of attempted murder, endangering public safety, and endangering national security. Together, the sentences added up to 32 years.
"Endangering national security" and "endangering public safety" were like two bricks. Authorities could throw them at anyone they disliked.
When Robert heard his crimes and sentence, his brows furrowed. Not because 32 years was too long. On the contrary, it was too short. "Attempted murder" meant that inferior race was still alive. That was what he couldn't accept. He submitted to trial out of respect for the law, but deep down, he never thought he was wrong. He even believed he was a righteous man who sacrificed himself for his country and his church.
As the judge's gavel fell and Robert was escorted out, he passed reporters waiting with cameras and microphones. Suddenly, he shouted: "This Chinese man will destroy our country sooner or later! I obeyed the will of the Lord and our leader. My attempt to assassinate him was a glorious act, more righteous than the Aileen operation!
He's not a follower of the Lord. His voice is corrupting our souls. He must die! You may not understand me, but my sacrifice will be remembered forever in the history of the Holy Temple of Divine Light!"
After shouting, Robert looked every bit the martyr as federal agents shoved him into the car, his eyes shining with pride.
The convoy drove between Queens and the Bronx, heading for Rikers Island. It was the most dangerous prison in New York, maybe even the entire United States. Some inmates would rather die than return there.
Robert entered the prison and went through the routine: strip search, blasted with a high-pressure hose for "disinfection," issued personal items, and assigned to a cell.
The guards were rough, but he'd already steeled himself. The body didn't matter. The spirit did. He was convinced he'd carried out God's glory, and after death his soul would be led by divine light into the holy temple. nHe was placed in a two-man cell, upper bunk. His cellmate was a bald, broad-shouldered Black man.
Just one look at the guy's rough hands and intimidating figure made Robert sneer inside. Sharing space with such a lowly race disgusted him, though he consoled himself with the thought that Africans were still a notch above the Chinese. Barely. Out of forced politeness, he gave a half-hearted introduction, since they'd be stuck together for decades.
The man sat on the lower bunk, staring at him with dark, unblinking eyes that carried a heavy pressure. His reply was cold and simple. "Gro."
Gardener. Robert repeated the meaning of the name in his head. Typical. Black people always had names like Michael or Matthew. Uneducated.
Since the guy wasn't friendly, Robert didn't bother either. He lay down, thinking that right now, church members must be cheering his righteous act. Surely they were. The leader would be reading his letter aloud to the congregation.
Lights out at Rikers was at 8 p.m. Afterward, the place went pitch black except for a faint glow near the corridor. The sound of leather boots echoed from the hallway as guards patrolled. Any noise brought them running with batons.
Robert was drifting toward sleep when he heard movement below. Suddenly his blanket was yanked up, smothering his face with the coarse fabric. A heavy blow crashed down through the covers.
Agonizing pain shot through him, ripping a scream from his throat.
"Stop it! Gro, what are you doing?!"
There were only two men in the cell. Of course he knew exactly who it was.
"Help! Somebody, help me!"
His cries were swallowed by the jeers, whistles, and shouts of nearby inmates. The whole block had erupted.
Minutes dragged by. He thought surely the guards would come storming in. But it wasn't until he nearly passed out from the beating that he finally heard footsteps. At once, the fists stopped.
A guard banged his stun baton against the iron door with a clang. "Why are you yelling, 0474, 8741? What's all the shouting for?"
Robert scrambled to complain. "Officer, please move me to another cell, that bastard attacked me in the dark!"
The guard turned to Gro. "Is that true, 0474?"
From below came a calm reply. "No, sir. I didn't do anything. I think 8741 just isn't used to the place."
The guard nodded, surprisingly gentle. "8741's our prison librarian and a Christian. We all know he doesn't use violence. Get along, both of you. And if you shout again, you're going to solitary."
Without waiting for Robert's answer, the guard walked away.
What? He's a Christian? Robert froze. Didn't anyone realize he'd just done something monumental for the faith?
"Why? Why are you doing this? I'm also—"
"A believer?" Gro cut him off coldly. "The man who attacked Chu Zhi has no right to call himself that."
Their voices were low, but Robert's fury blazed. How could anyone question his faith? And what was this about Chu Zhi? Why should that man be respected?
"You've been deceived by a Chinese. His voice is Satan's voice."
"Your so-called Temple of Divine Light was already torn down by the FBI," Gro shot back. He was serving fifty-eight years for murder, no chance of release, so he'd embraced Catholicism inside.
And Chu Zhi's Amazing Grace was his favorite song. One of the few tracks the prison even allowed to be played. Beating someone for insulting his idol? Perfectly justified.
Cell assignments weren't random.
The warden had arranged it personally. He wasn't a Chu Zhi fan or even religious, but as a decorated veteran with strong national pride, he considered Robert's assassination attempt an act of betrayal against America itself.
"The Temple's so-called leader already said you're no believer. You're just a delusional maniac. Even the Pope said your actions stained religion. You're nothing but a traitor," Gro's voice was ice.
"You're spouting nonsense!" Robert roared, completely losing control. But deep inside, he clung to the belief that he was right. This Black man was lying.
The noise brought guards again. Without listening to excuses, they dragged Robert to solitary.
The "black room" had no light, no sound. No one wanted to end up there. But the warden wanted to crush his spirit. Outside the door, he ordered a constant loop of the Temple leader's interviews, all denying Robert.
"Robert might be a professor, but he's a delusional madman. Everyone in the church knows it."
"Chu Zhi is a singer I admire. There's no way I'd let Robert do such a thing."
"Everything he says is just an excuse. Don't believe him. He's dangerous."
…
The voice was one Robert knew all too well. At first, he told himself it was fake, synthesized. But the repetition, hour after hour, chipped away at his certainty.
Locked in the dark, hearing only those words, he began to unravel. He hammered the door, frantic.
His torment was only beginning. Guards, inmates, even the warden all wanted to make sure Robert "enjoyed" his stay.