Chu Zhi had spent a few days in Lagos and was starting to get a feel for this African city. Prices here were wild—two extremes that didn't make much sense. Local "products" were dirt cheap. For just a few hundred yuan, you could hire a driver who'd not only take you anywhere but would also, if told, beat someone up for you.
But the moment something was imported, it turned into gold. Even Coca-Cola was ridiculously expensive. There were two reasons for that: locals were obsessed with foreign brands, and Lagos, being a massive city with tens of millions of residents, had a solid foundation for import inflation.
"I've got nothing much going on for the next couple of days," Chu Zhi said. "Bamboo, if you want to go shopping, go ahead. You can buy some local specialties or souvenirs too."
Whenever he went abroad, he always tried to give his assistant a half-day or a full day off to explore. If the schedule was too tight, though, well—there wasn't much he could do.
Xiao Zhuzi chuckled twice. She was normally pretty frugal, but she could never resist collecting souvenirs from every country they visited. Nigerian butterfly paintings were especially famous, portraits pieced together from butterfly wings of all colors.
"Be careful," Chu Zhi reminded her.
Staying in central Lagos was still fairly safe, but once you drifted toward the suburbs, it got sketchy. As for leaving the city... best not to.
"I got it, I got it!" she said in a singsong tone before dashing off.
The Emperor Beast's suite was a two-bedroom family unit with a living room, bigger than a regular one thanks to a children's room.
For safety reasons, Huang Yinguo took the master bedroom, Xu Xiang stayed in the second, and Chu Zhi ended up in the kids' room.
He stared at the 1.6-by-1.8-meter bed for a few seconds, silent.
"It's fine, it's small but cute," he muttered, convincing himself in seconds.
If he slept diagonally, he could stretch his legs. If not, curling up like a shrimp worked too. That's what it meant to be flexible. As far as he was concerned, when traveling abroad, safety came first—everything else came after.
Once he settled in, he checked his email. The festival committee had sent over the performance lineup. He was scheduled to perform on the night of the 17th.
The same night also featured Akenda and the sexy diva Raina. It was smart programming, really—packing the final night with top-tier artists. The first two nights weren't empty either, with acts like Artic Bird and old man JT holding down the main stage.
Still, to avoid any mishaps, all artists, even those performing later, had to arrive early. Chu Zhi was one of them, along with Seven Men Band.
"You actually have time to eat with me today? That's rarer than catching a tuna in a lake," Horman joked.
Leighton leaned back, thoughtful. "You know, prostitution's illegal here, so all that industry's underground and forced. Hygiene's terrible, and there are so many underage girls and boys involved. Most of them are Nigerians."
"...What?" Horman blinked, confused for a moment before catching on.
He knew his friend too well. Leighton always claimed his countless girlfriends were for 'cultural research,' learning about local customs wherever he went.
So basically, Leighton meant there weren't any decent girlfriends to 'study' here, which was why he had time to grab a meal.
What a load of shit.
Horman sighed internally. "Chu Zhi's in Lagos too. Aren't you gonna meet your idol?"
"..."
Leighton suddenly found his pasta tasteless. Ever since the Masked Singer incident with Azazel, he'd turned into a hardcore Little Fruit. Hell, he was too embarrassed to badmouth China anymore.
What a tragic conversion.
"Don't disturb my idol's rest," Leighton said quickly, trying to brush it off.
It wasn't strange that Chu Zhi got invited. Even Leighton had to admit that the man had an insane global fanbase. It would've been weird not to invite him to a worldwide music festival.
But he did wonder why everyone chose different cities. Raina was staying in Abuja, the capital, and the Phoenix Band was in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.
Meanwhile, one of the richest singers in Europe, Santi—the kind who'd inherit billions if he ever stopped singing—had flown in a luxury RV and parked it twenty kilometers from the venue. The Sahel region spanned so many countries that guests and fans had plenty of options for where to stay.
"Guess you need good rest to perform well," Leighton added.
"Bullshit! So I don't need rest?" Horman snapped, annoyed at the hypocrisy.
Leighton just looked at him blankly. "What?"
Horman groaned. "I give up. Let the world burn."
The Trattoria Italiana was run by a British owner who'd hired a Chinese chef. It had become a must-visit spot for both locals and Western tourists.
Originally, they'd planned to stroll around after dinner, but Leighton lost all interest. When he returned to George Hotel, he bumped into Marden, the bassist from his band, who was heading out. They exchanged a glance, didn't say a word, and both walked off in different directions.
Seven Men Band had been together for over a decade, and the members' conflicts ran deep. Still, disbanding wasn't on the table—at least, not yet.
Craving a bit of peace, Leighton switched on the hotel TV. It was showing Today News, Nigeria's biggest local media outlet, doing a feature on the festival stage.
The camera swept across endless desert and rocky plains, showing an outdoor stage built right in the middle of nowhere. Giant sound systems towered over fenced-in areas where only ticket holders could enter.
Meanwhile, emaciated refugees watched from afar. They'd never seen anything like it. In a region plagued by drought and sandstorms, millions had lost their homes.
Leighton suddenly felt restless. He turned off the TV with a snap.
His peace didn't last long. His manager soon texted to remind him about an upcoming Rolling Stone interview, arranged by IMG, their agency.
Even top international bands like theirs couldn't turn down management's plans.
There were two different "Rolling Stones." One was a weekly magazine from Rolling Stone Music that had once snarked about Chu Zhi's fame being "80% looks." The other—the real Rolling Stone Magazine—was a semi-monthly publication founded in San Francisco, born during the golden age of rock.
Back then, as rock exploded across the West, Rolling Stone rose alongside it, becoming one of the world's most authoritative music magazines.
How authoritative? They published iconic lists like The 200 Greatest Singers of All Time, 50 Moments That Changed Rock, and The 100 Greatest Guitarists. Fans treated those rankings like gospel.
In Japan, Higuchi Hanato owed part of his legendary status to being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame—and being listed among Rolling Stone's Top 100 Guitarists.
The interview took place in George Hotel's conference room. The interviewer was Barnes, the magazine's deputy editor. Even the arrogant bassist Marden showed him proper respect and greeted him politely.
"Seven Men Band ranked 39th in last year's list of The 50 Greatest Rock Bands of 2025. What are your thoughts on that?" Barnes asked.
He was in his sixties, his face flushed like a man who'd been drinking, though he hadn't touched a drop. His speech was slow and deliberate.
"Thank you to the critics for the recognition. We'll keep creating even better music," Leighton said.
Guitarist Dimitro added, "And thanks to our fans. Their support keeps us going."
Barnes's questions soon took a sharp turn. "Your band's style is mostly black metal and death metal, yet your latest album leans into Brit rock. Was that a publicity move? Did you deliberately release a soulless record just to expand your fanbase?"
"And your lyrics—so many of them glorify war and death. Are you performing at Woodstock to witness war or to promote peace?"
Seriously?
Their entire identity was built on black and death metal. Of course the lyrics were dark! These questions were clearly meant to provoke.
Leighton froze for a moment, unsure how to respond, but Dimitro saved the day. "Our music explores certain themes, but that doesn't mean we worship them. We use war and death as mirrors to wake people up, to make listeners face reality."
Barnes jotted down every word. To him, a good interview needed some offense to dig out real substance.
The members of Seven Men Band were Leighton as lead vocalist, Dimitro on guitar, Marden on bass, Downing on keyboard and rhythm guitar, and Hopski on drums.
Usually, Leighton and Dimitro handled the talking. Marden used to be chatty too, until his sharp tongue caused too many PR disasters. Now he stayed quiet, while Downing and Hopski were basically mascots—happy to make music and stay out of trouble.
Oh, and a fun fact: Leighton had once lost a bet about, well, size, and shaved his head bald in humiliation. Thankfully, his hair had grown back by now.
"We're looking forward to your performance," Barnes said as the hour-and-a-half interview wrapped up. "This'll be the biggest global music event in history. ABC, BBC, Canal+, CCTV—every major network will be broadcasting live."
"Wait, it's live?" Leighton blinked. He hadn't heard that before.
Live-streaming a festival like this was definitely unusual.
"More than fifty TV stations will broadcast it in real time. The global audience might exceed a billion," Barnes said, sounding solemn. "Whatever the reason for Woodstock's return, it's already become a worldwide phenomenon."
The South African press really had beast-like tenacity. Negotiating over fifty live-broadcast deals? Even if each one cost just under ten million, fifty-seven of them added up to serious money.
No wonder there was so much infighting in the organizing committee.
"Mr. Barnes, do you have time tonight?" Leighton asked casually.
"Tonight? Sorry, I've got a mountain of work. No time," Barnes replied, turning him down.
Leighton sighed. He'd wanted to treat him to dinner, hoping that when the band's next album came out, Rolling Stone might be kinder in their review.
After that, the deputy editor and photographer packed up and left the conference room.
"Do you think Mr. Barnes tied his necktie too tight? His face was turning red."Marden almost burst out laughing, but his expression said he was suffering just to hold it in.
"Rolling Stone didn't even give us a good review, so why should we bother being polite?" Marden said.
"He just called our album half-assed. Why can't we just punch him in the face?" Dimitri said. "Now he's pretending to be friendly after the fact."
"Heh, I'd do it if you guys let me," Marden replied.
Musicians really shouldn't bicker with each other, but they always did. They hadn't even rested for five minutes before they had to face another interview—this time with Q Magazine from the UK.
You might wonder why a seven-member band was this busy even though they weren't exactly the hottest thing anymore. But in truth, even the number one artist in America, Arkenda Bell, was just as swamped. From yesterday to today, it was already his fifth interview.
Any entertainment magazine with half a reputation had sent someone flying in to grab a share of the global attention surrounding Woodstock's revival.
The Rolling Stone crew rushed out right after their interview because they had someone even bigger to talk to.
"Mr. Chu Zhi, you've been ranked twenty-seventh among the 'Top 200 Greatest Singers of All Time,' and four of your songs made it into the 'Top 500 Greatest Songs in History.' Your song Jesus Loves Me even ranked sixth. What do you think of these evaluations?" Barnes asked.
What did he think? Maybe after a hundred years, when he was long gone, that twenty-seven might rise to seven. But first place? Not a chance. The world's still biased about race and nationality, and prejudice doesn't vanish that easily.
"It's always a blessing when more people love your music. That's something every singer hopes for," Chu Zhi replied, sounding like he answered and didn't at the same time.
"And what are your expectations for this music festival? From what I know, both Glastonbury and South by Southwest have invited you before, but your response was, 'Unless necessary, I won't attend any more music festivals.'" Barnes asked again.
Chu Zhi paused for a few seconds, then said sincerely, "I hope the Woodstock Music Festival can truly bring peace, even if it's just for a moment."
Dream on, Barnes thought. As one of the most connected figures in the industry, he knew exactly what was happening behind the scenes. The UN had brought in the World Food Programme and the Refugee Agency because they'd made an agreement: twenty percent of the festival's profit would be donated to starving populations in the Sahel region.
Then Wall Street got involved, bought up tickets, and claimed that after deducting "operational costs," only twenty million dollars remained. According to the original deal, only four million would be donated.
Four million? That was basically tossing crumbs at beggars. Meanwhile, the UN had mobilized thousands of staff, even if most were on temporary contracts. That meant a loss.
The result? Bureaucratic squabbling and mass withdrawals of UN personnel.
Still… when Barnes looked into Chu Zhi's eyes, he saw something glowing. Could this man really be that naïve?
But thinking of Chu Zhi's life story, and those two songs that felt like they could cleanse a soul, Barnes started to believe he just might be.
A true idealist. Rare in this world. Barnes almost felt ashamed of himself. Still, he smiled and replied, "God bless. The world will find peace."
Chu Zhi nodded, looking genuinely satisfied with his answer.
Was he really an idealist? That had to be the joke of the year. The only reason he'd agreed to perform was because he was worried that if he turned down the invitation, the organizers wouldn't invite any other Chinese artists again.
"According to reports, Mr. Chu, you're preparing a new album. Is that true? Can you share anything about it?" Barnes asked.
Oh? Where'd that come from? The new album Is It Peace? hadn't even begun its promo phase. Could the leak have come from the recording studio in Australia? Rolling Stone's reach was pretty long, after all.
"After what I went through last year, my mindset changed quite a bit," Chu Zhi said. "That's when I started planning. The recording's finished now. It's an anti-war album."
Idealist confirmed, Barnes thought as he nodded and moved on to the next question. Compared to his sharp tone when interviewing the seven-member band earlier, he sounded much gentler now. In his mind, interviews should be comfortable for both sides.
"Do you have time tonight, Mr. Chu?" Barnes asked at the end.
"Sorry, Mr. Barnes, I already have plans," Chu Zhi said politely.
"That's unfortunate. I'd have loved to talk more in private if you ever get the chance," Barnes said.
"Next time, for sure," Chu Zhi replied.
Barnes's double standard wasn't about popularity. As an established international music critic, he believed no singer was above criticism. His courtesy toward Chu Zhi came down to one simple thing: power.
And Chu Zhi's refusal wasn't an excuse. He'd already promised to have dinner with George Roderick, one of the organizers behind the revived Woodstock Music Festival.
To be precise, George had come up with the idea and convinced Michael Lang to help organize it. The guest list was mostly people George had personally called. He'd also arranged the connections between South African media groups and the UN.
The dinner itself wasn't anything special. They just chatted aimlessly over food, and by the end, Chu Zhi was sure George was an old schemer. The man talked about faith and peace, but the scale in his heart tipped entirely toward money.
With so many forces pulling in different directions, the fact that Woodstock could even take place was a miracle. Every artist performing there needed serious stage control—after all, the crowd numbered in the tens of thousands.
"The God of the Crowd, huh? Anyone who shines in a setting like this will truly be immortal," Chu Zhi muttered. He didn't attend in person. Instead, he stayed in his hotel room, watching the live broadcast. The sea of people was terrifying.
He tried switching channels, but no matter where he turned, every station was either broadcasting the festival or discussing it. It felt like the entire world had only one topic left.
The last time the media coverage had been this overwhelming was when Russia attacked Ukraine.
He switched to a local channel, VON—Voice of Nigeria.
That morning, an extremist group had attacked a Nigerian city. It wasn't Lagos, but Karale, a city near the Benin border—barely two hundred kilometers from the festival site.
On one side, there was extreme prosperity, an influx of wealthy tourists, and a temporary bubble of economic boom. On the other, chaos, hundreds injured, and dozens dead. Even the Emperor Beast himself couldn't help but sigh sincerely.
Outside of VON, no major global outlet reported it. Anyone not in the region—or even there but not paying attention to local news—wouldn't know the attack happened at all.
Instead, with fifty-seven TV channels broadcasting live, Woodstock became the center of global conversation. The media competed to outdo one another.
"The festival's insane! Too bad I couldn't get vacation days."
"There are people everywhere! I heard each of the three stages got over seven hundred thousand visitors on opening day. Even watching the stream, you can feel the crowd's pressure."
"My heart's pounding, oh my God!"
"Finally, the Westerners did something decent for once."
"Honestly, even if it's political theater, this many tourists are boosting the local economy. I kinda respect that."
...
Woodstock's second day was just as crazy, maybe even more. It became a magnet for celebrities trying to grab the spotlight, like the closing ceremony of a global sports event.
Meanwhile, in N'Djamena, the capital of Chad, things were more modest. The city looked like Shenzhen in the early 2000s—developing but not fully modern. Still, why weren't stars going to Lagos, which was far more advanced? Simple: every hotel there was booked solid. Without a reservation, you couldn't even get a couch.
"Brother Zhan, have you figured something out?" Zhou Yiyu asked. "How are we supposed to get in and ride the wave?"
The Sahel region was a stretch of sand and grass, but right now, all she could see were tourists. There wasn't a single quiet spot to film a 'casual' clip.
How do you ride the hype? Take a few photos near the Woodstock stage, then post a soft article like 'Zhou Yiyu Attends Woodstock to Support World Peace.'
"Should we contact Jiu-yé? He's a guest performer and has a special access pass. Bringing two people near the stage wouldn't be an issue," Zhan suggested.
Their company, Sun River Entertainment, worked closely with Aiguo Media, so asking Chu Zhi for a favor wasn't unrealistic.
"No, no, no." Zhou Yiyu waved her hand. "We can't bother brother Jiu. Think of something else, Brother Zhan."
"Well, there is one way, but it's a hassle…"
"Then do it," Zhou Yiyu said before he could finish. "I don't mind hassle. If there's no problem, we'll make one and solve it!"
Of course she'd say that. Zhan smiled inwardly. If he'd mentioned the complicated plan first, she would've quit on the spot.
Now that Zhou Yiyu was a top-tier idol, she had her own ideas, and as her veteran agent, Zhan had learned exactly how to handle her.
"Here's the plan…" he said. It was simple. There were plenty of refugees in Chad. Find two, give them some food and money, and take a few photos.
Then post a "fan-caught" article: 'She's so kind! After watching Woodstock, Zhou Yiyu went out of her way to help local refugees.'Best to frame it in third-person, as if someone had snapped the pictures by accident.
They acted right away. Zhou Yiyu even donated half a million yuan for the cause. To her credit, she didn't stage fake handovers or demand her money back off-camera.
Say what you will about China's entertainment industry, but publicity stunts like this happen everywhere. Western singers, actors, and YouTubers were all there too. For them, Woodstock was a goldmine of traffic. Even if it meant stripping down, they'd jump right in.
"The only thing that can bring peace to the world besides nukes is music!" — BBC
"The Woodstock Music Festival is a symbol of peace and freedom." — ABC
On the festival's second day, over nine hundred thousand people filled the venue—far beyond what Reuters or Xinhua had predicted.