"Go ahead, Xiao Chu," Jiang Xiaogong said.
"Gwen must've gone through some basic training, right?" Chu Zhi asked. "Her movements were really clean and sharp. I, on the other hand, wasn't moving properly, and because of that, I slowed down the whole crew today. So I wanted to ask Uncle Jiang if there's a way to improve in a short time. I'm not asking to be amazing, but at least I don't want to drag everyone down."
Jiang Xiaogong had worked with top-tier stars before, like in Palace Within the Palace. In that film, Meng Wuping used a full-time stunt double, while Lin Xia only did a few scenes herself. For China's biggest celebrity to insist on not using a stunt double at all was already surprising enough. But to see him asking for extra private lessons after work? That really caught him off guard.
Even the stunt actors from the Jiang team stopped eating to glance at Chu Zhi, their surprise written all over their faces.
"It's impossible to improve your action performance drastically in a short time," Jiang Xiaogong said, "but handling this movie more smoothly? That's doable. If you can spare an hour every day, I'll have Xiao Han go over the next day's action scenes with you. Go through them a few times and you'll get the rhythm. That way, we'll avoid all those retakes."
That basically meant working an extra hour every day. But Xiao Han didn't look unhappy at all. This was an opportunity, after all. Just being able to say he'd personally trained Chu Zhi in action scenes would already sound like a lifetime achievement.
"Then I'll be troubling you, Brother Han," Chu Zhi said with a smile. "An extra hour of practice... how about three thousand yuan per session, the same as a performance class?"
Three thousand yuan for sixty minutes? That sounded outrageous. Xiao Han's hands almost shook from the thought alone. He quickly waved them, flustered. "No need, Teacher Chu, it's fine, really! It doesn't take much time anyway!"
"Brother Han, listen to me," Chu Zhi said. "There are two reasons why I insist you take it. First, your time helps me keep up with the filming schedule. The time we save can't be measured by three thousand yuan. Second, training in martial arts choreography isn't any different from studying acting. Since it's a kind of learning, a teacher deserves payment. Three thousand for sixty minutes is the standard for Beijing Film Academy's private tutoring."
"For those two reasons, I won't feel right unless you accept it," he added firmly.
"Well, since he put it that way, Han, you should take it," Jiang Xiaogong said. His opinion of Chu Zhi went up another notch—he could hear the respect in his tone for the stunt profession.
"Then I won't say no," Xiao Han said, grinning ear to ear. What a great deal—he'd get paid and work directly with a superstar.
His fellow team members watched with envy burning in their eyes.
The special lessons started that same night since there were more action scenes scheduled for the next day. Xiao Han didn't drink much at dinner, carefully staying focused for training.
After a short rest, the lesson began.
An hour later, Chu Zhi felt like his bones were about to fall apart. Xiao Han might've overestimated his endurance—or maybe he just felt guilty about charging such a high hourly rate—because he didn't go easy at all, even dragging the session twenty minutes overtime.
By the time Chu Zhi got back to his hotel, it was already ten. Normally, he'd wash up before bed, but this time he fell face-first onto the bed without even changing.
Sleep hit him like a wave.
"I still have work to do... I can't sleep yet..."
He tried to get up, but every bone in his body felt like it had been fried in hot oil, crisp and powerless. He managed to send a quick message to his team before blacking out completely.
The next day, his efficiency visibly improved. Director Davis was thrilled, though he didn't really care how Chu Zhi had managed it.
Gwen, on the other hand, definitely cared. She'd joined the crew three months early for training under Old Master Jiang himself, and it hadn't been easy—splits, drills, endless pain.
And now Chu Zhi caught up with her in just one day. Didn't that make all her suffering look stupid?
"Mr. Zhi, how did you do it?" Gwen asked curiously.
"It's just a few unnoticed strengths," Chu Zhi replied casually.
Unnoticed? More like blinding! Gwen nearly rolled her eyes.
By the third day, he was still exhausted, but at least he managed to take a shower before collapsing.
After a week, the Emperor Beast finally got used to the pace. He even picked up his daily study routine again—after six straight days without reading or translating, the longest break he'd taken since crossing over.
The action scenes took two whole months to finish, which meant Xiao Han earned nearly two hundred thousand yuan, almost a full year's salary for a stunt double.
"Mr. Zhi, no special training tonight, right? From tomorrow, it's all dialogue scenes." Gwen had tried to invite him to dinner several times, but never succeeded.
It wasn't anything romantic. She just wanted to be friends. Rupert often brought snacks for everyone on set, and she wanted to be just as friendly.
"Sorry, I already made plans," Chu Zhi said. "I've got to head to a studio about twenty kilometers away to record for my new album. I'm hoping to finish most of it in the next few months. But when we get a break, dinner's on me."
The crew would be taking a few days off soon anyway, since Australia's Good Friday and Easter were coming up. April was full of holidays there.
"Mr. Zhi, your schedule's insane," Gwen said. "You just finished months of action scenes, and now you're recording songs right after shooting ends at six?"
"I've got too much to do," he said with a faint smile. "So I have to save every bit of time I can."
Gwen could only sigh. No wonder there was such a huge gap between them. She could barely stay awake after shooting, let alone do more work.
There was good news and bad news—so which to hear first?
Let's start with the good.
The good news was that the filming schedule was moving much faster than expected, especially with help from the Sydney City Council, who persuaded the Allianz Security Center to rent their location to the crew without any restrictions.
The bad news? The Matrix went over budget again.
Last time was because of that massive fire—an accident. This time, it was because Director Davis kept pushing for perfection.
After discussions, Aiguo and Warner each invested more: thirty and thirty-five million USD respectively. That brought total production costs to 280 million dollars—Warner at 150 million, Aiguo 90 million, Village Roadshow 20 million, and Digital Domain 20 million.
Technically, that meant Chu Zhi had joined the project with his own funding.
Including promotion, The Matrix would need to gross over 900 million to break even—ranking in the year's top five box office hits. The pressure on Davis was unimaginable.
And that pressure started to show. He was constantly on edge, shouting whenever someone made a mistake. He was a bit gentler with Chu Zhi but still strict.
"Tell me why you acted like that! Where's your head at?"
"Morpheus wouldn't show that kind of fear. Don't talk to me about emotional transitions—I'm talking about character consistency!"
"Mr. Jiang! The movements need to be bigger! Much bigger than you planned!"
"Props team! Why's that background so out of place?"
Props, set, and costume all fell under the same department, though for films like Unsinkable, costumes would be handled by styling instead.
Chu Zhi understood. Imagine facing producers' endless nagging every day, trying to balance progress and quality. It was normal for someone under that kind of pressure to snap. But venting anger at others wasn't ideal—it left the entire crew walking on eggshells. Under that tense atmosphere, even the lighting technician and several extras quit.
After three more months of high pressure—six in total—the filming finally wrapped up. The crew held a closing ceremony, where Davis got drunk out of his mind.
In early August, Chu Zhi left the set. He still had to handle the soundtrack, but since post-production would take time, his schedule wasn't too tight.
During filming, he'd already used his short breaks to record Is It Peace?, and now he only needed to shoot the MV.
These days, music videos had to be uploaded to YouTube—views meant popularity, after all. It was a hassle, but a necessary one.
Chu Zhi now held the record for the most-viewed Chinese-language MV and the most-viewed English-language MV—specifically that one where he sang Sugar while crashing a wedding.
A true king of popularity doesn't have weak spots in any field.
Back in China, the Emperor Beast's first stop was a hotpot restaurant—he'd been craving it for months.
That night, he received devastating news: Director Yang Xiuyun had suffered a stroke after a fall and was now paralyzed on one side.
He'd met Director Yang through Director Wang Anyi, who had introduced him to nearly everyone in the film industry.
Yang Xiuyun was an incredible director. Though not a household name, his contributions to China's commercial film development were immense. At sixty-five, he was still active on the frontlines, so the stroke hit him especially hard.
"West China Hospital…"
In Chu Zhi's impression, Director Yang had always been a kind and gentle senior. He opened WeChat and saw that the director's son was using his father's account to explain the situation.
Countless people were leaving messages of concern below.
Wang Anyi: [What happened? We were just in a meeting two weeks ago and he was fine.]
Ge Zongfeng: [What did the doctors say? Wishing him well.]...
Unlike QQ Space, WeChat Moments only shows comments from mutual friends. Which meant, everyone who left a comment was also a mutual friend of Chu Zhi's.
The family was clearly busy, so he didn't want to add to the chaos. He simply wrote a short message: Wishing a speedy recovery.
"There's a flower worth picking, you must pick it now. Don't wait till there are no flowers left and you can only snap the empty branch," Chu Zhi murmured softly.
Was he really picking flowers while they were still in bloom? he asked himself.
Was he truly working hard, or just making himself look like he was working hard? After a bit of self-reflection, he came to the conclusion—he really was working hard.
He still had to shoot the MV for Is There a God?
He still had to record the Concert Singles Collection, which didn't need MVs, thankfully.
Then there was The Four Classics, both its recording and its MVs waiting for him.
One task after another, all lined up. Every single one of them could bring tangible benefits.
During rare breaks, he also finished organizing the blind box prize—a selected works collection of Thomas Eliot. He removed poems that didn't fit and compiled the rest into a single book titled The Way the World Ends.
Maybe one day he'd write it out in five languages: English, Japanese, French, Spanish, and Chinese. As for Russian or Arabic—possible, but not worth it. The returns would be too small. It'd be better to let others handle the German, Italian, and similar editions. After all, Huainan's literary reputation was already shining internationally.
"There's still a bit too much going on. When can I finally retire?" Chu Zhi stretched lazily.
[With your savings and song royalties, you could retire right now,] said the System.
"Brother System, you don't get it. People who keep shouting about retirement are usually the ones who wanna keep going the most," he replied with a laugh.
[Human behavior often contradicts their words,] the System commented.
"Exactly. Humans are awful like that. They say they don't want something, but their bodies always betray them."
[So, does that mean you're gonna go for it again?]
"…" Chu Zhi thought for a moment, then said, "Brother System, it's been ages since I've drawn a special prize. Shouldn't we, you know, arrange something?"
Now it was the System's turn to go silent.
Later, Chu Zhi checked on the progress of Liao Dachong's film Cloud Dream. He sent him a message: I'm really looking forward to the screening. If possible, could you save me a seat? I can't wait to see the final cut.
If it turned out well, he'd even help promote it. That was all he had in mind.
It was almost three in the morning. Time to sleep.
Chu Zhi glanced at the clock and set down his phone. The device was nearly two years old and had been dropped once, so it lagged a little. He decided he'd stop by the store tomorrow to grab a new one.
Early birds get the worm, but early worms get eaten by the bird. He was neither a worm nor a bird, just a hardworking soul catching an early flight.
"Xiao Zhuzi, take a nap. We'll reach Pudong Airport in half an hour," Chu Zhi told his assistant, who was nodding off beside him.
After five years of working together, they knew each other well. Xiao Zhuzi understood he wasn't joking, so she quickly closed her eyes for a short nap.
Ordinary people still needed time to readjust after coming back from overseas.
Three hours later, their plane landed at the Capital Airport. There, Chu Zhi met Zheng Huo. Since retiring, the older man had aged noticeably. His hair was grayer, and he didn't bother dyeing it, leaving it to fade naturally.
"It's good to stay busy, but don't forget to take care of yourself," Zheng said, referring to how Chu Zhi had been working nonstop since the start of the year.
In the entertainment circle, the seniors who treated Chu Zhi the best were Zhang Ning, Wang Anyi, and Zheng Huo, so he held deep respect for all three.
Before, he'd promised Zheng they'd do a duet of Fake Monk. The moment Zheng Huo started singing the line, "I don't want to believe there really are demons, and I don't want to stand against anyone," that rough, raspy tone carried a trace of restrained fury—it was perfect.
Overall, the duet turned out amazing.
"Xiao Chu, you're born for rock music. Your voice carries both conviction and rebellion," Zheng Huo praised. "I normally can't hit those notes, but singing with you pushed me higher. Honestly, it's my best performance in years."
That "conviction" probably came from his 10% Emperor Qin resonance, and the "rebellion" from the 50% honey badger spirit. Still, since Chu Zhi had already sung The Internationale, he figured true rock spirit was fighting for the Internationale ideal.
"I'll handle post-production," Zheng Huo said. "Feels like I've just fulfilled a long-held wish."
After business was done, Chu Zhi stayed for dinner at his home. His son, Zheng Lao, was also there.
His wife, Jia Xue, was a model, but a great cook too. The classic "career woman outside, gentle chef at home" type—and the best person Chu Zhi had ever seen prepare Bishan rabbit.
"Xiao Chu, I swear I'm only eating this well because of you. Usually, getting Xue to cook is like climbing a mountain," Zheng Huo said with a laugh. "She keeps saying kitchen work ruins her skin. And this rascal here—ever since he graduated, I've got no clue what nonsense he's doing with that metaverse stuff."
"You big mouth," Jia Xue said, setting a piece of Dongpo pork in his bowl to stop him from talking.
"Old man, that's where you're wrong. The metaverse's the industry of the future," Zheng Lao said heatedly. "One day, you and Mom might be depending on me!"
"But right now, you're depending on us," Zheng Huo shot back with a smirk.
Jia Xue was Zheng's second wife, but the three of them got along surprisingly well.
"Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west, don't look down on a poor young man!" Zheng Lao declared dramatically.
"You should focus on something real. I told you to start a band in college, but no, you had to go get a software engineering master's from Carnegie Mellon instead. What a waste," Zheng Huo grumbled.
Well damn, Chu Zhi thought, that's a whole new definition of wasting potential. Carnegie Mellon's computer science program was literally world-class.
"Now I don't even have a successor," Zheng lamented.
Ah, family harmony really was something best admired in other people's homes. Chu Zhi listened to their cheerful bickering with an amused smile.
"What's so great about being your successor anyway?" Zheng Lao muttered. "If I'm gonna succeed someone, I'd rather be brother Jiu's successor."
"Hey!" Zheng Huo barked, pretending to be angry. He was one of the pioneers of Chinese rock, a respected figure in the music world. Sure, he wasn't as influential as Chu Zhi, but he was still a big deal. How did his own kid manage to make him sound so small?
Truth be told, Zheng Huo had invited Chu Zhi not just out of affection, but also because both his wife and son were huge fans. Yep, even Zheng Lao was a male mama fan.
The Emperor Beast was happily devouring his meal while the others repeated the same old concerns as always, things like, "You shouldn't rely on takeout all the time, it's bad for your health," and "You look skinnier again, your diet must be all over the place."
Even though Chu Zhi couldn't leave Beijing yet, he didn't have time to wander around the Forty-Nine Cities either. Before coming, he'd already taken on a job—composing the soundtrack for CCTV's new drama Dynasty. It was the network's anniversary production.
The concept of an "anniversary drama" actually came from Hong Kong's TVB, referring to the show broadcast in the same month as the station's founding. Over time, it became the network's most important yearly project.
The main production team of Dynasty was downright extravagant. The director was a legend who hadn't had a single flop in his thirty-one-year career. The cast included two Best Actor awardees, one Best Actress, and even the supporting roles were filled with veteran actors. On top of that, they'd spent a fortune hiring Chu Zhi for the score. That said everything.
He had a good relationship with CCTV, but his fee wasn't discounted. It was charged at market rate. After all, CCTV was rich, there was no need to cut corners.
The Complete Anthology of Music Scores contained far too many famous works. Even though the Emperor Beast hadn't cared much about the entertainment industry in his past life, most of the pieces still sounded familiar.
From that collection, it was clear that Japanese composers were indeed strong. This time, Memory of the Forbidden City by Shinsia was used, along with masterpieces like The Forbidden City by Hu Weili, The Grand Ceremony of Etiquette by Tang Jianping, and Impression of National Music · Grand Composition by Jiang Ying. Altogether, the soundtrack would include over twenty pieces, covering everything from the main theme to subtle transitional motifs.
"Brother Chu, the package from the company's here. I left it on the living room table," Xiao Zhuzi said.
They were temporarily staying in a Beijing hotel, and writing the soundtrack for a full drama wasn't something that could be finished in just a few days.
"Got it," he replied.
Back in his room, he opened the package. Inside was a wax-sealed envelope. The Emperor Beast had once seen people on Bilibili make incredibly fancy wax seals, but he'd never tried it himself.
"It's the invitation."
It was an official letter from the Woodstock Music Festival Committee. The format looked surprisingly formal.
The Woodstock Music Festival in the Sahel region was set to completely replicate the timing of the first-ever event. It would officially begin on August 15 at 5:07 p.m. and last until the morning of August 18.
With only a few days left before the festival started, Chu Zhi wanted to make sure everything was safe before flying to Lagos, the capital of Nigeria. He asked his Zhongnanhai bodyguard, Xu Xiang, to check on the country's recent security status.
It might have sounded unnecessary, but as Chu Zhi joked, "If South African Press is involved, it's basically the same as Wall Street being involved. And if Wall Street's in, that means the U.S. will make sure things run smoothly."
It wasn't strange at all. The U.S. had a strong presence in the Sahel region. The underground oil reserves there totaled several billion tons, not to mention massive natural gas fields and rich deposits of iron, manganese, copper, lead, titanium, and uranium.
Middle Eastern tycoons wore white cloths on their heads and ruled the world with oil money because they had resources. Africa, meanwhile, was in chaos for the exact same reason.
"Still, better safe than sorry. I'd rather stay alive," Chu Zhi said, deciding to play it cautious.
That night, Xu Xiang submitted a detailed risk assessment. The situation was more complicated than expected.
Hardware-wise, the festival's location was in the middle of the Sahel, close to the grasslands. The outdoor venue was already set up with three massive steel stages and a huge open space capable of holding hundreds of thousands of people. The facilities were top-notch.
Software-wise, meaning the audience, things looked even stronger. A festival's fame depended on who it could attract, and Woodstock was, without question, the most iconic name in the world.
The lineup included Chu Zhi himself, global pop star Akenda Bell, Seven Men Band, Phoenix, Reina Jackson, the genius female singer Anna Goran, and others. Whether they were international superstars or national treasures in their own countries, every single one had an army of fans. To the public, it was a musical feast of epic proportions.
According to Xin Xia News and Reuters, over two million people were expected to attend—an insane number. For comparison, the world's biggest outdoor metal festival, Wacken Open Air, drew around five hundred thousand at most. The difference was almost sixfold.
The number wasn't exaggerated either. Airline data backed it up. Direct flights to the Sahel were rare, but airports in nearby countries were already running beyond capacity.
Some events were destined to shake the world from the moment they were announced, like the Beijing Bird's Nest Olympics or the Tokyo Olympics.
Media outlets from multiple countries had already sent reporters three days early, determined to get firsthand coverage.
New York Times: "Woodstock Returns Online, Saving the World Through Music."
Bild: "Rediscovering World Peace: Stars Gather on the Sudan Grasslands."
The Times: "After 27 Years, Woodstock Is Back."
Al-Ahram: "The Grandest Event in African Music History—Can It Bring Brief Peace to a Land of Chaos?"
The festival hadn't even started yet, and discussions online were already explosive.
All of this was easy enough for the public to find, but Xu Xiang's report contained much more.
Behind the scenes, the festival's three main organizers were a mess: South African Press as the financiers, the UN Refugee Agency and the World Food Programme as operational partners, and two individual coordinators, George Robdrick and Mike Long.
The fights, as usual, were over money. Unlike the first Woodstock, which was free, this one charged an entrance fee—300 U.S. dollars per ticket.
Anyone willing to travel all the way to the Sahel for a concert wouldn't find the price unreasonable, considering the lineup.
But when you multiply that by the estimated number of attendees, it was a staggering amount of cash. And those fans would also spend money on food, drinks, and everything else. Even though the theme was "peace," all the invited artists had accepted reduced pay. Chu Zhi himself was earning only one-tenth of his usual rate.
So how would the profit be divided? That was where the conflict erupted. Mike Long, unhappy with his tiny cut, quit the committee and even prohibited the use of the name "Woodstock."
Mike Long was one of the original three founders of Woodstock, and the only one still alive, so he had the right to revoke the name.
The UN Refugee Agency and the World Food Programme also withdrew many of their people. Civil wars were still raging in Ethiopia, Mali, Burkina Faso, Chad, and several other countries. While they agreed not to let the conflict spill into the festival region out of respect for South African Press, they weren't about to ignore the wars back home.
When the talks fell apart, the two UN organizations pulled out partially.
"World peace, huh? Guess it's not as important as dividing profits," Chu Zhi sighed. Then he asked seriously, "Brother Xu, tell me honestly, is it still safe? If the committee's already in chaos, is it safe for me to go?"
If Xu Xiang said even once that it wasn't, Chu Zhi would immediately find an excuse to stay home. Smart men didn't stand under crumbling walls.
"It's safe," Xu Xiang answered. "Even though the UN pulled people out, many high-ranking officials are still involved. And I checked through my contacts, South African Press hired the French army for security. Nobody's gonna mess with their money-making plans."
"Through your contacts…" Chu Zhi thought silently. "So even France's getting involved now?"
Since South African Press was so determined, Chu Zhi had full faith in the capitalists' desire for profit.
"But," Xu Xiang hesitated.
"Please, Brother Xu, go ahead." Chu Zhi looked ready to listen carefully.
"At this rate, the festival's reputation probably won't be great," Xu Xiang said. Normally, as a Zhongnanhai bodyguard, his rule was to speak as little as possible beyond security-related matters.
But after working with Chu Zhi for a year, he'd come to respect his self-discipline and charisma. That made him willing to bend the rules a little.
"In all likelihood, there'll be a scene where tens of thousands of fans are cheering for peace, while just a few dozen kilometers away, people are starving and dying from war."
That was a hellish kind of contrast.
"I'll seriously think about your advice," Chu Zhi said sincerely.
After a long night of reflection, he decided to go anyway. If there wasn't any real danger to his life, then fine.
Even if the festival was messy behind the scenes, its message was still good. And as the most popular global star at the moment, he couldn't afford to draw criticism by refusing to attend.
If the Woodstock revival failed, the only ones truly affected would be the brand and the organizers. The performers, after all, were just "invited guests."
Day by day, time passed. Two days later, Chu Zhi, Xiao Zhuzi, and his two bodyguards flew from Beijing to Dubai on China Southern Airlines, then transferred to a Qatar Airways flight bound for Lagos.
Lagos, the former capital of Nigeria, was the largest city in Africa, far better than Chu Zhi had imagined.
According to the Global Cities Lab's rankings, Lagos was about on par with Jiaozhou in China and Hamburg in Germany. Of course, rankings were just rankings—Chinese cities were almost always rated too low in Western lists anyway.
They checked into the Sheraton Hotel near Murtala Muhammed Airport. When traveling abroad, sticking to international chains was usually the safer bet.
===
Original Song Title: "假行僧" (Jiǎ Xíngsēng)
Artist: 崔健 (Cuī Jiàn)
Note: This is a foundational and iconic Chinese rock song from 1989, written and performed by the "Godfather of Chinese Rock," Cui Jian. It is known for its rebellious spirit and distinctive, raw sound.