Harvey Jordan, head of the World Food Programme, paced back and forth in his office, anxiety wrinkling his brow as he waited for the reply.
"Mr. Jordan, we have an update," a UN senior investigator said over the line. "South African Press doesn't care about anything after the morning of the 18th. Their exact words were, 'Sir, the festival's over, peace is over, our mission is over.'"
"Great," Harvey muttered bitterly. Capitalists could be even more extreme than the UN imagined. He paused to lean against the wall, then gave an order. "Pull up staff. Execute Plan B. If South African Press doesn't care, then even a single oar can't row the boat."
"...I'll take care of it right away," the senior operative replied, voice steady.
Harvey hung up and stared at the cross hanging over his chest, praying. Now he finally understood: Woodstock hadn't delivered peace. It might've done the opposite.
"My God, tell me what to do," he whispered.
But God stayed silent. Harvey was left floundering.
Meanwhile, over a million souls at the festival weren't confused. Their spirits were already soaring.
Santo, one of the first performers, didn't leave the site. He'd parked his luxury RV more than ten miles from the stage. With a balcony on the roof, he lounged there sipping wine, legs crossed, enjoying the festival in private.
And he had staff to attend to him—whatever he wanted or needed, it was delivered instantly. If luxury had a standard, he set it.
Qatari tycoon Ghazi was a bit more discreet. He'd spent a month beforehand building a ten-meter-high glass structure overlooking three stages. Tiny but fully equipped—with a pool and gym inside.
"Oh Maria, why haven't Mr. Akenda and Mr. Chu Zhi hit the stage yet?" Santo sighed over his phone.
"They played Bird Freeze last night around 8 p.m. I expect Akenda and Chu Zhi will follow a similar slot tonight," replied his butler-girl Halfze Maria.
Santo's butler and personal attendant was Japanese, trained in both French and Chinese cuisine.
"I'm getting a little hungry," Santo admitted.
"We have fresh salmon flown in from English waters," Halfze Maria offered.
"Pass. I'm tired of that. What's being served at the grounds tonight?" Santo asked. Before she could answer, he added, "Never mind. The Band is on."
Halfze Maria quietly brought strawberries and stepped away, giving him space to watch the show.
On day three of the festival, the logistics were staggering. The food, drinks, portable restrooms, satellite trucks, stage equipment—all required by tens of thousands—were immense. Luckily, South African Press had invested in Woolworth retail supermarkets. The daily consumption of soft drinks, fruits, fast food, etc. was astronomical. They'd struck gold.
So much so that even Woolworth's biggest distribution warehouses across Africa were running out of stock.
Back to the stage: Santo referred to "the Band" meaning Eagle Band, a German industrial rock group known for synth blasts, pounding rhythms, and politically charged lyrics.
They performed on the "Horn of Somalia" stage—one of the three festival stages named Cape of Good Hope, Horn of Somalia, and Africa's Horn.
Their setlist hit hard:
"Think of what I gave up."
"Family, freedom, love. Have you grown strong?"
"All that sacrifice… is my reward just used shoes?"
Industrial rock blended sampled sounds—steam engines, nail guns, forging machines, electric drills—with harsh guitars and confrontational lyrics. It was not metal, but it carried a similar raw edge.
Santo, who'd been singing along earlier, was now fully absorbed—its loss, pain, rage—the pain was in the distortion and the message.
After five songs, Eagle Band stepped down, replaced by Akenda Bell, one of Santo's most admired singers. Santo didn't even waste a bite of fruit—he listened in rapture.
"On the surface it's calm, but inside I'm burning. I want to turn to ashes and float in the sky with you…"
Akenda opened with his signature song Ashes. Given his star power, he dared to sing an emotional ballad in this harsh festival context—and it triggered a massive singalong.
Woodstock had invited nearly a hundred musicians. Each artist's slot was roughly thirty to forty minutes.
"ABAB, I'll love you forever."
"Ahhhhh, we're still here."
"Forever Akenda."
"High-altitude flight!"
Akenda fans shouted, "High-altitude flight, my heart lives eternal." Some bold Western fans even tossed their bras onto the stage—wild atmosphere indeed.
Being called heir to the Pop King throne wasn't empty for Akenda. He drove thousands of European girls wild with fandom.
Here's a fun twist: In Western media, the label "Pop King" never seems to go to Chu Zhi—even though that's accurate. Political positioning often outweighs facts.
Akenda and his team weren't dumb. He wrote a new song We Are in Africa just for this festival. The rights and promotion value were huge. They intended to brand it the theme song of this Woodstock revival.
That way, when people talk about the biggest music festival in history, they'd talk about this song—and him. Have you heard that math?
But after he left the stage, Akenda got terrible news.
His agent—nicknamed Longhead for his waist-length brown hair—approached him grimly.
"Bell, we can't leave tonight. The local airports are sold out."
Booking return flights well in advance was part of an agent's job. Akenda's schedule was packed. But earlier that morning, they'd received word: flights canceled due to capacity issues. Airline offered full refund plus a $20 voucher.
"Everything's gone?" Akenda asked. "What about flights in other countries?"
Longhead shook his head. "The only remaining flights are from Conakry—but the route's unsafe."
Conakry is Guinea's capital—reaching it required passing through Burkina Faso and Mali. Too volatile.
"We must leave by tomorrow. Day after that will be too unsafe," Akenda said. "If we can't get tickets, we'll charter a plane."
Day after tomorrow is too late... Longhead didn't ask where the intelligence came from, but the warning was clearly valid. Agents on other nearby flights were now scrambling too.
Meanwhile George Roderick was safe in Madrid, far from the danger. The festival was being controlled remotely by him now.
"If this is too much trouble, sir, we can enact the final plan," George said into his phone. "We'll donate all stage equipment to the Sahel. Any other issues?"
"Your plan solves most problems. Thank you. I'll verify costs immediately," came the voice on the line. The man calling George addressed him as "Chairman"—George was also the current vice president of the Grammy Committee, which gave him leverage to raise and orchestrate the festival's revival.
"Send them to me by tomorrow," George said, then hung up.
The equipment itself was worth a fortune. Three major stages, massive audio systems—they'd used seven-figure budgets just to ship and set up.
And now, because the situation changed, they couldn't evacuate it. Special transport vehicles were blocked, and airlifting would cost too much.
"This is humanity's spectacle, and also my feast," George thought as he watched RTVE (Spanish national TV) broadcast the mass choir shots—thousands upon thousands of people expanding outward, a sea of light and bodies.
No exaggeration: Day one had 600,000 viewers, day two 900,000, day three 1.36 million attendees. A gathering of human scale rarely seen in all history.
This resurgence had been planned for over a year. Even by conservative estimates, George's share would net tens of millions of dollars.
"Ding ding ding" — the hotel room phone rang.
George answered. The voice of the hotel front desk asked politely, "Sir, there are UN staff in the lobby asking to see you. Should I send them up?"
"What's their name?" George frowned.
"Mr. Beckson Cher," the clerk replied.
Beckson from the WFP Executive Office? George thought for a moment, then chose to see him—not just because Beckson was high rank, but because he'd once been governor of South Carolina before assuming his WFP role.
They met in an administrative lounge. Beckson's hair and beard were streaked gray; his forehead showed deep lines like trenches. He wore a blue knit shirt under a rust-colored vest—a typical southern redneck look, but George didn't underestimate him.
"Mr. Roderick, I apologize for the sudden visit," Beckson said bluntly. "There's something I hope you'll do out of due responsibility."
The phrase due responsibility instantly made George Roderick uncomfortable. He pressed down the irritation building in his chest and replied calmly, "Please, go ahead, Mr. Beckson."
"Once Woodstock wraps up tomorrow, I hope you'll ensure that all the sound and lighting equipment on-site is removed immediately," Beckson said, his tone straightforward and firm. "The United Nations doesn't want to see this equipment become the cause of conflict among extremist groups in the Sahel region."
"The festival may not bring peace to Africa, but it mustn't bring war either," Beckson added. "Do you understand, Mr. Roderick?"
The ultimatum in his voice ignited George's anger. "Mr. Beckson, I'm only the organizer," he said sharply. "You should be talking to South African Press or your colleagues at the Refugee Agency about execution."
"And as for your claim that this could bring disaster to Africa, I can't agree with that," George continued. "Buy a newspaper—say, the ABCé Journal—and you'll see it's full of headlines like 'The Stars Shine Bright, Bringing Hope to Africa.'"
"That coverage represents what the UN, the participating celebrities, and even the United States want to see," George said coolly. "If that's what you came here for, I'm afraid you'll leave disappointed."
Beckson's face tightened. George had just pushed every bit of responsibility away. Containing his anger, Beckson said, "Then authorize us to handle it. We'll hire people to pack it all up."
"That's very considerate of you, Mr. Beckson," George replied with false courtesy. "You've worked hard for Africa's peace, but I'm afraid I can't give you that authorization. When the time's right, I'll move the equipment myself. The UN doesn't need any unnecessary trouble."
He had no idea how much it would cost to ship everything back, but anything that made him spend extra money was an enemy. Still, there was no way he'd hand the disposal rights to the UN. What if the situation wasn't that bad and he could reclaim the gear later?
Beckson wanted to smash his fist into that smug, apologetic face. George, meanwhile, wore that very face like armor.
Their talk ended in failure.
Enough of unpleasant politics. Back at the festival grounds, joy and noise reigned.
The current performer, Rena, was on stage. Unlike Akenda Bell's emotional performance earlier, the crowd's roars this time were deep, rough, and full of masculine excitement.
"My turn next," Chu Zhi said with a lazy stretch. His five-song set was ready—two new tracks, three classics. There was no need for titles like King Ning. Concerts were meant to be wild, not solemn.
And honestly, this was just another show, just bigger and in a stranger place. Nothing more. Over the past two days, the pattern had been clear: metal bands played metal, ballads stayed soft, and maybe one or two peace anthems were tossed in for show.
The Emperor Beast realized he'd been overthinking it. He decided to swap one of his new songs, Earth.Song, for something else. In this environment, that one just wouldn't dominate the stage.
If that's how it is, don't blame me for not playing nice.
"Rena's voice is lovely," he muttered. "That lazy, detached tone—perfect."
He hated it when people said someone's success was all thanks to natural talent. Good genes only set your lower limit. The upper limit? That's all hard work. Like Rena, who used her voice to the fullest and flaunted her charm effortlessly in a sleek, body-hugging gown.
Beautiful.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for these wonderful forty minutes," she said sweetly. "I hope this becomes a happy memory for you. Goodbye." Rena swayed offstage with the same elegance she sang with.
"I'd divorce my wife for you!"
"You're my goddess forever!"
"Encore! Encore!"
"Rena, I can't live without you!"
Shouts in English, French, German, Chinese, and even Japanese filled the air. With over a million people gathered, you could hear even the rarest language somewhere in the crowd.
Chu Zhi wasn't just a performer, he was also a spectator. After seven or eight hours of live music, his ears were buzzing. Thankfully, Rena's pop-jazz style had soothed the noise a little.
But the moment he stepped backstage, something inside him surged. Surrounded by a million people, his madman god trait was fully triggered. Every sense sharpened to its peak, and he felt like he could control every muscle in his body.
Since he'd swapped in a harder song, he brought his black thermos up with him. He'd need a sip from the Wine Immortal to hit his top form.
The moment he walked on stage, the entire atmosphere flipped. Those who'd just been crying out "Rena, I can't live without you!" were now screaming, "Chu Zhi! Chu Zhi, my only faith!"
"Chu Zhi!"
"Jiu-yé, I've waited two days for you!"
"Ahhhh!"
"Look at me, Jiu-yé, look at me!"
The roaring waves of sound boiled like lava. The ground itself seemed to tremble.
And not just inside the venue—outside, tens of thousands without tickets had gathered, climbing onto cars and rooftops, some using binoculars.
Qatari tycoon Ghazi nearly fell off his ten-meter-high glass pavilion from sheer excitement. "Brother Jiu's on stage! Everything before this is just warm-up! My sister's gonna be so jealous she missed this!"
Santo, watching from his luxury RV, saw Chu Zhi step into the light and shot up so fast he overturned the entire fruit tray.
Every camera turned his way: CCTV, ABC, BBC, France 2, RT, NTV, SBS, Canale 5, RTL 4.
Every outlet tuned in: The New York Times, The Times, Bild, The Sun, People's Daily, Chosun News, Asahi Shimbun, Le Monde, Süddeutsche Zeitung, Marca, Folha de S.Paulo.
Every artist—Eagle Band, Seven Men Band, Rena, Akenda Bell, Horman—was watching.
The spotlight of the entire planet focused on him.
The roar of the crowd carried for more than a dozen miles. Normally, concert soundwaves reach maybe two kilometers. This defied reason, but then again, there was no city noise in the Sahel to block it.
It was a miracle.
Over ten miles away, at the UN's last temporary command post, even the guards outside could hear the screams.
"Who's on stage?" asked Shuiyu, one of the hired staff, startled that he could hear the audience from so far.
"Either Akenda or Chu Zhi," replied Scorpion, a veteran worker. "Only those two can stir up that kind of madness."
"Oh? Chu Zhi? I really like that Chinese singer," Shuiyu said.
"My grandma's Catholic," Scorpion answered flatly.
"I get it," Shuiyu said with a nod.
Inside the tent, most of the UNHCR and WFP staff—everyone except Beckson—were still gathered, discussing next steps. But outside, Chu Zhi's concert was reaching its peak.
He opened with three classics perfectly suited for the atmosphere: Despacito, Thriller, and The Nights.
As Despacito played, Chu Zhi twisted his waist in rhythm. The crowd followed every move, and even older fans started dancing until their backs ached.
"Ohhh, this song's perfect for me!"
Santo, known among fans as "Booty Santo" because of his famously big hips, wiggled gleefully along. Right there and then, he swore he'd find a way to buy the rights to cover the song.
"Too bad Chu can't dance," he muttered. "If he could, this song would've been an absolute killer."
The Nights lit up the stage with electric beats, Thriller brought back disco-funk nostalgia—both tracks had the crowd losing their minds.
Then Chu Zhi quieted the stage with a soulful new song, What's Going On, from one of the Rolling Stone's top five greatest albums.
It was a heavy track, full of meaning.
The audience didn't know its history. They didn't connect it to Vietnam veterans. To them, it was just a protest song, a call for peace.
Chu Zhi's voice was flawless. The way he breathed the word war across five notes made it sound effortless, so smooth the audience barely noticed the high notes—only the sudden sting of the word itself.
Then came the butterfly resonance. His voice surrounded them like a living thing, echoing from every direction. The Emperor Beast added the Angel's Gospel buff, his divine aura surging through the music.
After all, soul music was born from rhythm and gospel. When it came to gospel, Chu Zhi had no equal.
The effect was stunning. Even people who didn't care for soul music felt something stir deep inside them. Some teared up without knowing why.
"My God, war's terrifying."
"Let there never be war again."
"Those who start wars are sinners."
"The world isn't peaceful, Africa still suffers."
Moments ago, they'd been screaming their heads off. Now, a million people listened in perfect silence. Only a few singers alive could command that.
The crowd's reaction said it all. What's Going On crushed Akenda Bell's We Are in Africa.
"If Mozart was the unmatched genius of the classical age," said Rolling Stone's deputy editor, Barnes, "then Chu Zhi is the creative genius of modern pop. Jazz, funk, rock, soul—he bends them all to his will."
Barnes was stunned. Soul music had always been dominated by Black artists. Even white singers struggled to break in, let alone an Asian one. And yet here was a Chinese man singing real soul.
"Incredible," Barnes murmured. "But idealists always fall first." He sighed. "I just hope he's ready for the truth."
As the fourth song ended, Chu Zhi stepped up for his final piece—a new one. The song to blow the roof off.
Dangerous
A New Jack Swing track, one of Michael Jackson's masterpieces. Last time, he'd released All Nations, Vol. 1 and performed Thriller. This time, he wanted to bring it full circle—with choreography.
Chu Zhi couldn't dance, not really. But he'd studied MJ's moves and had some help: the Madman God in full gear, and the Wine Immortal at seven-tenths drunk.
Song and dance, soul and rhythm.
The Emperor Beast's true form was about to take the stage.
===
What's Going On by Marvin Gaye
Dangerous by Michael Jackson