Chu Zhi's death plunged the world into grief, and it lasted for a whole week. Life usually pushes people forward, so it's rare for anything to hold everyone's attention for so long. People even had to muster courage just to get out of bed in the mornings.
The funeral procession was incredibly grand. Some attendees held positions so high that their names weren't even publicly mentioned. At the very front, carrying Chu Zhi's portrait, was his sworn younger brother, Yuan Lian. Eighty-year-olds Gu Peng and Lin Xia, along with the relatively younger He Haibin and Wilde, supported the casket. Behind them were hundreds of entertainment industry stars who had shown up voluntarily.
If Koguchi Yoshihiro hadn't died three years ago, he would've been climbing over too. In fact, many of the friends who used to call him "Xiao Jiu" had already passed away. Chu Zhi himself had even supported friends like Wang Anyi, Zhang Ning, and Wang Yuan during their own farewells. The death of Su Shangbai last year had left him heartbroken. No matter what, Su Shangbai was his second friend in the parallel world, after his system brother.
In a way, living too long wasn't always a blessing.
"Please don't push, line up in an orderly manner."
"Everyone, please don't crowd."
"The barricades are being knocked over."
Fengdu city was completely paralyzed, crushed under the millions of fans and readers who'd come from all over the world to pay their respects. According to rough estimates, at least a million foreigners showed up that day, not counting the Little Fruits from China.
The numbers were staggering, but anyone who actually saw it wouldn't think they were exaggerated. Fengdu has an old town and a new town, separated by about ten kilometers. Right now, every road for those ten kilometers was packed with people. Driving anywhere in Fengdu was impossible. Traffic cops tried to maintain order, but they were hopelessly outnumbered.
For example, a Little Fruits fan from Tibet traveled over two thousand kilometers just to see his idol one last time.
"Brother Jiu… why did he have to go?" Lao Feng had been pushed so far back he couldn't even see the procession, but he still tiptoed, trying to catch another glimpse.
Lao Feng wasn't that old. He was fifty-two, married, with a happy family.
His full name was Zhang Fengfu. His name comes from the Chu Ci: "The phoenix rests in the cage, while chickens and ducks fly about." The "fu" refers to a birdcage. "Fengfu" symbolizes a phoenix trapped in a cage. Zhang has the meaning of "opening, unfolding," so Zhang Fengfu carries a positive meaning, though it hardly sounded like a typical male name.
Adding to that, his parents, born at the tail end of the 2010s generation, didn't share the old preference for sons. They liked girls, so they always forced their tastes on him, buying him girls' accessories and little dresses.
This led to constant bullying at school, not physical, just social. Whenever kids discussed something, Lao Feng would join in, and everyone would leave him out.
Being excluded mentally made him insecure, and in college, he became even more withdrawn. There was even a period when he didn't dare go outside. When he told his parents, they laughed and said, "You were cute as a kid, what's wrong with wearing girls' clothes?"
He was desperate, completely hopeless. He even thought about suicide—not because life was unbearable, but to punish his parents and prove them wrong.
Yet he didn't do it. Eventually, his story took a predictable turn: he was saved by Brother Jiu. The twist was that he wasn't drawn in by Chu Zhi's songs or stories; he just thought the star was incredibly handsome.
It was around the 2040s, when Chu Zhi was in his early thirties, at the peak of his looks. Warner Group's People magazine once tried to rank the world's top 100 most exquisite faces, but only named 98. The first place was Chu Zhi, and both second and third places were left blank. The editor explained that their judging panel of world-renowned photographers and fashion brand art directors unanimously agreed: if Chu Zhi deserved first, second and third shouldn't exist.
It was the only time People magazine left second and third empty.
Lao Feng wanted to live just to see Chu Zhi a little longer. His sexual orientation was normal; he simply felt that such beauty deserved a few extra glances.
Later, Lao Feng realized that dying to punish his parents was pointless. Dying for others without living for yourself was too big a loss. With this mindset, he slowly started to move forward in life.
"He's so beautiful, he must've suffered a lot in the entertainment industry," Lao Feng said, glancing at the tear-streaked faces of others his age. They probably had their own stories with Chu Zhi. From their eyes, he saw familiar gazes.
"Brother Jiu, you may not know me, but you really, really helped me," someone whispered.
"I hope in your next life, you can be someone who lives for your own happiness."
After the funeral, Lao Feng stayed in Fengdu for two more days—not to enjoy the city or experience his idol's life, but simply because he couldn't get tickets home. Flights and trains, including high-speed rail, were all sold out.
Nearby cities like Rongcheng, Shancheng, and Zhucheng were fully booked. The whole Southwest region's flights were delayed. Everyone knew the more travelers there were, the more likely delays would happen, factoring in air routes and weather changes.
Even Emperor Beast himself probably never imagined his funeral would cause half of China's travel system to go haywire.
In the bigger picture, flight delays were minor. In the next month, news came from China, the US, Japan, and South Korea about elderly people in their seventies and eighties committing suicide.
Luckily, the numbers were small, but it showed that Emperor Beast's decision to live longer was correct. Had he won the Nobel Prize in his twenties and left immediately, who knows how many would have died?
Chu Zhi had put immense effort into nurturing his Little Fruits, and he didn't want this to happen.
He lived fifty extra years to protect them… okay, that sounds fancy, but many people can't even survive that long.
As Lu Xun said, human joys and sorrows aren't shared. Chu Zhi's death made fans heartbroken, but some people were ecstatic, though "ecstatic" still felt too tame.
From 2027 to 2077, over fifty years, Chu Zhi topped the Forbes celebrity power list and the Fortune celebrity income list 91 times combined. Wilde only topped eight times.
Chu Zhi was like a cloud looming over global singers—from Punjabi to Arab, Bengali to German, Anglo-Saxon—they all felt the shadow above them. Looking up for too long gave neck pain.
In Chinese football circles, there's a saying: "Messi and Ronaldo are leaders, many try to match them; Zidane is the peak, standing alone watching; Pelé is a crow, flying above surveying all; Maradona is god, teasing from the clouds; Ronaldo is an alien, with the planet under his feet."
Written by a Ronaldo fan, it illustrates multiple tiers, and the parallel works for the music industry.
Every few years, a new superstar emerges, while old hot stars fade. The peaks don't vanish. Akenda became the pop king, towering over all. Horman was closest to god… but without a doubt, Chu Zhi was the god of music.
The cloud that had loomed for decades finally dispersed.
Cluny: [When I was five, my dad bought me a phone with Chu Zhi's digital album For the Sake of Dreams. Ever since, I fell in love with music, and I've wanted to share my life with Chu Zhi, if I could.]
Miura Kentai: [Hearing the terrible news, I can hardly believe it. Rong-san was like the North Star, always guiding the lost. Now, I feel completely off balance.]
Airei Pound: [I guess God wanted to listen to pop music.]
Sap: [Humanity has lost the most artistically talented person. His contributions in both poetry and music were beyond extraordinary.]
A few days passed.
Chu Zhi's will was made public. Since Emperor Beast never married and had no relatives nearby, there was no one to inherit his estate. Luckily, the will was very clear.
Counting his assets, the bank held hundreds of millions of dollars in cash. Sounds like a lot, but considering Chu Zhi had been in the entertainment industry for nearly sixty years, it averaged less than $200 million per year.
Clearly, that's impossible. His money-making ability far exceeded two hundred million. After all, everyone knew that since the American version of Masked Singer, Emperor Beast had never had fewer than thirty-five endorsements, so that hundred million already reflected considerable spending.
Oh, I forgot to mention, Chu Zhi donated 100 million yuan annually to Chinese charities and $3 million a year to the UN Refugee Agency. He never stopped while alive. Emperor Beast was absolutely a man standing on the moral high ground in a parallel world.
Most of his wealth came from shares rather than cash: 80% of the Wood Flame brand, 65% of Aiguo Media Group, 15% of Da Bai Sugar, and 90% of Orang Home.
Da Bai Sugar was currently valued at over 40 billion HKD, slightly less than Want Want, but Want Want also produced snacks. Da Bai Sugar was the highest-valued domestic sugar company and sold best in Southeast Asia.
Wood Flame, Aiguo Media Group, and Orang Home weren't publicly listed, but The Wall Street Journal estimated their values at $1.1 billion, $30.1 billion, and $640 million respectively.
Wood Flame was comparable to the Italian luxury brand Furla.SpA, while Aiguo Media's value was based on Warner Music, though much lower. Its worth mainly came from global distribution channels, Asian influence, and revenue from Chu Zhi's song copyrights.
Orang Home was a fan community app with tens of millions of active users worldwide. Its value was compared to Zhihu, but its potential was smaller, even with high fan activity, since the app never prioritized profit.
Excluding Orang Home, the other three companies' annual dividends were substantial.
Fixed assets were relatively minor: two buildings and a floor in Modu, plus the Aiguo Building in Modu. The 25-story building along the Pujiang River was particularly valuable.
And of course, his massive copyrights. He released 14 Chinese albums, 22 foreign albums, 6 EPs, and 41 singles—all for himself. Additionally, he wrote over 150 songs for other artists, which brought some extra money.
His poetry collections and translation works earned much less than music.
According to the will, cash was used to establish foundations for charity, with annual dividends allocated to promote Chinese culture. Two semi-official organizations were set up under his guidance in coordination with the authorities.
Copyright income would fund the "Chu Zhi Award" and the "Huainan Poetry Prize." The former honored outstanding musicians globally, the latter celebrated exceptional poetry collections. Both required foundation management to sustain their funding, similar to how the Nobel Prize functions—small annual prizes that grow steadily under good operation.
Income from fixed assets would support Orang Home, app operations, and events like the Orange Festival. Chu Zhi had told the Little Fruits that as long as he was alive, their traces would remain. He'd always kept this in mind; memory was one of his few strengths.
He wanted the Little Fruits to exist even after his death.
Even without the "main character," the Orange Festival could continue. Fans' nostalgic gatherings were fun enough, especially with free meals, lodging, and souvenirs.
Don't underestimate the value of fixed assets each year—supporting Orang Home required money.
A quick calculation: the Aiguo Building had 320,000 square meters of usable space, with rental prices around 18 yuan per square meter per day. Careful math by graduate-level standards showed the building could generate over 5 million yuan daily, totaling more than 1.8 billion per year. Some floors were used by Aiguo Media, but they still paid rent; separating company accounts avoided chaos, something Emperor Beast would never allow.
"Honestly, I thought once Jiu-yé passed away, the website would collapse. Turns out he planned everything long ago."
"The company vibe is good, and the benefits are great. I really don't want to leave—it's perfect right now."
"Our app's engagement is amazing. If we ran ads, we'd make money easily, right? Any change would be better than now, since we're not profitable."
"You don't get it. Orang Home doesn't even feature Jiu-yé's Wood Flame brand. Think he left that out?"
"Celebrities like Jiu-yé are truly one of a kind. Unfortunately, there'll never be another."
Employees whispered quietly, morale was low. Any company related to Chu Zhi was like this. Luckily, Aiguo Group wasn't publicly listed, so stock fluctuations didn't add pressure.
Everyone felt uneasy because their guiding pillar was gone.
"Xiao Zhuzi, you were the last to see Jiu-yé. Did he leave any words?" Li Dan asked.
Li Dan, in his fifties, was CEO of Aiguo Records. He grew up listening to Jiu-yé and became a professional singer himself. Unfortunately, his bands failed repeatedly. Joining Aiguo Group allowed him to be closer to his idol. Over twenty years of hard work brought him to a top executive position.
Even as a high-level executive, Li Dan respected Xiao Zhuzi, Jiu-yé's personal assistant. There was a connection: Xiao Zhuzi's mother, Xiao Zhuzi, retired over twenty years ago and passed the role to her daughter.
"Jiu-yé…" Xiao Zhuzi's tears fell uncontrollably, her voice choked.
Li Dan felt sad too, unsure what to say to comfort her.
Publicly, it was reported Chu Zhi died of sudden cardiac arrest. In truth, he was taken to the hospital and resuscitated briefly. Anyone familiar with medicine knew about the "golden four minutes" for cardiac arrest—beyond that, survival without serious complications was nearly impossible. Chu Zhi had passed that threshold.
After a minute or two, her sobs eased, and Xiao Zhuzi spoke: "Jiu-yé woke up, knew his time was near, and comforted me, telling me not to cry."
"He said, 'I hope everyone remembers me as still handsome, not old and ugly.' In my heart, Jiu-yé will always be young." Tears streamed again.
She added, "His final words were, 'Don't be sad. I can finally go home.'"
"I can finally go home…" Li Dan exhaled, the sadness heavy in his chest.
"Thank you," Li Dan said, leaving the group. He came specifically to see Xiao Zhuzi about this.
From a godlike perspective, Emperor Beast had some minor regrets—so many character coins he hadn't used in blind boxes.
The living had to move forward. People began organizing his works.
Chu Zhi's posthumous works were extensive, reflecting a lifetime of travel and creation. They were mainly divided into three types.
Film:The Scent of a Woman, his first movie in over forty years. Most of the shooting was done, but a few reshoots remained. Universal Pictures and Aiguo Group were working to fill gaps through editing.
Poetry:I've Gained Too Much, his 27th poetry collection. As a diligent worker, he also had over twenty translation works. Even the triennial Aurora Outstanding Literature Translation Award nominated him in the "non-fiction" category, almost winning the top prize.
Chu Zhi knew his translation skills were at best international-level, and his poetry achievements were tied to fame rather than reaching global elite standards.
Album:All Nations, Vol. 4, fifteen songs recorded in ten languages: Chinese, English, Spanish, Arabic, French, German, Japanese, Korean, Russian, Portuguese. Only MV post-production, cover art, and fonts remained.
The Scent of a Woman was scheduled for Christmas 2077.
As for the poetry collection and album, release timing caused debate among Aiguo's executives. Some wanted to heed fan demands online for All Nations, Vol. 4, others worried about the appearance of exploiting Chu Zhi's death.
After several meetings, Liang's faction, supported by Niu Jiangxue, won. They finalized the cover and MV, scheduling All Nations, Vol. 4 for release on June 20.
With just two weeks left, fans couldn't wait. They flooded the company's official accounts with comments.
Now, a brief note on the state of physical albums fifty years later.
Chu Zhi's early career was the "Black Iron Era" of physical albums. Now it was the "Plastic Waste Era." Truly pathetic—compared to the 2020s, the industry had shrunk by three-fifths. South Korea fared worse, shrinking by nine-tenths.
Buying a physical album now was purely for collecting. CD, vinyl, or USB versions made no difference.
IFPI (International Federation of the Phonographic Industry) and RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America) lowered gold, platinum, and diamond certifications, introducing digital standards.
RIAA: Digital album sales of $500,000 = gold, $5 million = platinum, $40 million = diamond.
IFPI: Digital album sales of $200,000 = gold, $1 million = platinum, $5 million = diamond.
Digital album pricing varied wildly, from a few bucks to $20–$30, so sales revenue was the main metric, not quantity.
Three years ago, Chu Zhi released his album Sting, which sold just over eight million copies worldwide. Compared to the second-best-selling album of that year at fourteen thousand copies, it clearly wasn't in the same league. Even Emperor Beast couldn't stop the relentless march of time—physical albums were in decline, no matter how legendary the artist.
But you couldn't call Chu Zhi outdated. The digital version of Sting raked in $440 million globally, topping the historical charts. Even with Chinese platforms offering free streams, the earnings were comparable to physical album sales like Is It Peace?, which sold over sixty million copies worldwide. Digital costs were low, but the profits were still huge.
Two weeks flew by, and when Chu Zhi's posthumous work All Nations, Vol. 4 dropped, the frenzy nearly caught Aiguo Media Group off guard.
"Buy one for my dad, I'll get one too. Jiu-yé's my dad's idol, and he was part of my youth," one fan posted.
"I grew up listening to Jiu-yé, and I've never bought a physical album before, but I want one to collect," another said.
"The All Nations series is loved worldwide. Some countries even use his songs in music textbooks. I saw a ten-year-old girl performing Das.beste (The Most Beautiful Encounter) on YouTube just the other day."
"If you love music, you'll love Chu Zhi's songs. His style changes so much. My whole family loves his heavy metal rock, even my dad and grandpa. I want to buy five albums."
"I've been searching everywhere for a record store, thankfully Amazon still delivers."
…
The first print of one million copies sold out instantly. At the same time, pre-orders across global retailers and Aiguo's official site totaled over 47,203,429 copies.
Read that number carefully—47,203,429. No extra digits added! Aiguo, the platforms, and the record association all knew Jiu-yé's posthumous album would perform spectacularly, but even they hadn't imagined numbers like this. All three checked the pre-order data independently and confirmed it was correct.
And that wasn't even the full story. So many orders overloaded the systems, leaving thousands of fans unable to complete purchases on release day. The next day, over twenty million more copies were ordered. All Nations, Vol. 4 instantly shattered the physical sales record set decades ago by Is It Peace?.
People in the entertainment industry and outside it were stunned. Who'd have thought the "waste-plastic era" could still see such sales? They'd seriously underestimated Chu Zhi's decades-long place in people's hearts.
Frankly, even in chaotic Africa last year, folks there might not know who the American president was, but they'd definitely recognize Chu Zhi.
Here's a story from 2057: a YouTube adventure vlogger went to war-torn Congo. He filmed shocking scenes—boy scouts under ten, houses pocked with shell marks. And when the rebels "performed," they played No.More.Trouble in the background, classic reggae from Chu Zhi's albums.
Bullets flew alongside the music from dark gun barrels, claiming lives in rhythm with the beat.
It's normal for Africans to like reggae, but here's the catch: No.More.Trouble is anti-war music. Using it as a soundtrack for violence created a striking, gruesome contrast.
At the time, Western and European internet forums buzzed with discussions. Not to dwell on Congo's chaos, but this shows even rebels subconsciously chose Chu Zhi's music—his influence was that massive.
Latin America and Africa were the largest markets for pirated copies of his albums, though a fair number of legitimate copies sold too. But the ratio? Not even 99:1.
"No one can stay at the top of the world music scene for thirty years unless it's Chu Zhi," said the president of the Latin American Artists Association.
It wasn't just physical sales—digital versions didn't lag either.
All Nations, Vol. 4's digital version was priced globally at $4, covering over a dozen songs, two photos, a short behind-the-scenes video, and a unique digital code. Chinese platforms still offered free streaming, and clips and photos quickly spread online, yet many Chinese Little Fruits bought it anyway—for the digital code or just to support their idol.
By the 20th and 21st, total digital sales had surpassed $50 million. Both physical and digital numbers were insane. The entertainment industry's taxes were high, but Chu Zhi made sure his company paid them properly. "Pay your taxes, no flashy tricks," he'd said. No wonder, over twenty years ago, when Aiguo Media considered relocating to the mountain city, local officials repeatedly persuaded them to stay. The "Annual Outstanding Contribution Award" for taxes over one billion yuan? Aiguo Media earned it multiple times.
Despite booming sales, Aiguo didn't even push extra promotion. With "Chu Zhi's posthumous work" as a built-in draw, no amount of advertising—even in the billions—could match the hype.
By July 20th, All Nations, Vol. 4 had sold 104 million physical copies.
The parallel world had close to 9.4 billion people. The UN's estimate of over ten billion in the 2080s seemed mild. Quick math: roughly one in ten people bought the album.
Digital sales hit $610 million. There's no doubt—many fans bought multiple copies, both digital and physical.
A single album breaking a hundred million? Outrageously absurd.
IFPI chairman Regut commented on the insane numbers: "The last era was called Chu Zhi, the one before that was Chu Zhi, and even earlier it was still Chu Zhi. His departure took three eras' memories and the last shred of dignity from physical albums."
Regut had a good eye. After All Nations, Vol. 4, no album in the parallel world ever exceeded fifty thousand physical sales again. Chu Zhi truly carried away the last of the industry's pride.
Thus, in the Guinness World Records, Chu Zhi earned yet another title: "Best-Selling Album."
And if you wanted to list them all, Chu Zhi's records are endless—most fan support, largest concert attendance, and so on. We'll spare a thousand words here.
"Excuse me, is Shui Tianping Cemetery this way?" asked an elderly foreign man in halting Chinese.
The man looked frail, his face lined with deep wrinkles that could trap a swarm of flies. He wobbled as he walked, and even a slight breeze might knock him over. Despite being Caucasian, pedestrians could easily tell he was over eighty.
The local, Big Eyes, immediately pointed. "Cemetery's just up ahead."
Shui Tianping Cemetery was ordinary, but after Chu Zhi was buried there over two months ago, people from all over kept coming to pay respects.
"Thanks," the foreigner said, stepping carefully in the indicated direction, supported by a younger companion.
Big Eyes, a true Fengdu native, had seen many foreigners over the past two months, but someone this old was rare. Flying over age eighty required tons of medical paperwork.
"He's definitely here to mourn Jiu-yé. Chu-yé was really popular with foreigners," Big Eyes said, glancing around. The past two months had made Fengdu much more commercially active. So many visitors needed food, lodging, and transport.
"I also heard Fengdu is planning a seventh airport. Jiu-yé's death basically revived this struggling city—who would've expected that?" Big Eyes sighed.
Chu Zhi had requested to be buried here near his grandfather. The original owner's grandfather rested here, and this was Chu Zhi's closest relative. Emperor Beast hadn't forgotten.
Looking over the cemetery, Big Eyes saw countless graves. Unlike stereotypes, most people visiting were calm, not weeping.
Some graves were piled with flowers, cigarettes, and alcohol. Fans knew their idol loved smoke and drink. Every day, thousands still came from all over the world. Future anniversaries would see fans traveling thousands of miles just to pay tribute. The government even considered this when approving the new airport—Fengdu's local tax revenue couldn't normally justify it.
"Grandfather, it's here," Bailey said, easily spotting it. The photo on the gravestone showed a man barely ten years younger than his grandfather, but he looked like he belonged two generations earlier. Bailey noted that in the black-and-white photo, the man was far more handsome than his father.
"No wonder people joked Chu Zhi was a vampire," Bailey mused, but his thought was cut off by a stream of curses.
"Fuck, I told you to drink less and smoke less, and you wouldn't listen, shit! You idiot, still working ten-hour days at this age, don't you know how to rest or take vacations?"
Hearing familiar words, Bailey knew immediately who it was—Horman, now ninety years old.
Horman was basically an "immortal old man." His friends, like Leighton and the others, had already gone to heaven, and all the stars his age were gone too. He never expected that younger Chinese people would pass him by.
"Don't be too sad, Grandpa, take care of yourself," Bailey said, trying to comfort him.
"Fuck, who's sad? I'm not sad at all." Horman said, but the excitement got the better of him, and he started coughing nonstop.
Well, that backfired. Bailey just stood there, too nervous to say anything.
"You're so amazing, why didn't you live to eighty?"
"So many Western singers probably wished you'd die sooner. Even if you were incredible, being in the same era with you would just make them invisible."
"And now they really got what they wanted."
"You still look so young, though."
Horman muttered on and on in a small voice for a good half hour. He only left with Bailey's help because a line had formed of people waiting to pay their respects and lay flowers.
The next day, he left Fengdu and flew back to Los Angeles.
A week later, Horman passed away at his villa. Nobody knew if it was just old age, the toll of the twenty-plus hour flights between China and America, or if Chu Zhi's death had left him emotionally drained.
Meanwhile, Chu Zhi's poetry collection I've Gained Too Much was only written in Chinese, published by Modo Publishing. The French, German, Russian, Japanese, English, and other editions came later because renowned translators from around the world voluntarily signed up to translate it. Translating the works of a great poet like Huainan wasn't about fame or profit—it was purely respect.
Think about it: someone you grew up reading in school suddenly gives you the chance to translate their work. How would you feel?
After two or three months, all thirty-one language editions of I've Gained Too Much were finished and released at the same time.
In the age of smart phones, physical music albums had disappeared, but nobody expected physical books to see a resurgence instead.
Of course, this didn't mean more people were reading. It just meant more people were buying.
In the first week, the thirty-one language editions sold over eight million copies globally.
With over twenty poetry collections, Chu Zhi achieved the record for the poet with the most cumulative poetry sales.
[Everywhere there's ignorance / The gods neither exist in the mortal world / Nor rise from the atoms of darkness to shout: "I am, I exist!"
Abandon love, abandon god / May I no longer burn with desire, nor be crushed by the eternal way of things / May I end well, living like a statue!]
At a poetry recital in Berlin, an Austrian poet read from Chu Zhi's newest collection.
When the reading ended, the Austrian poet said, "Mr. Chu Zhi's collection seems like it's thanking the world, but the content is so torn, especially the poem I read."
It was clear the Austrian poet was part of the Sad School of Southern Studies, interpreting Chu Zhi's inner world as filled with doubt and chaos. His questioning of the gods expressed the confusion of his later years.
Once I've Gained Too Much was published, scholars in the Sad School immediately analyzed it and even started preparing a book.
"Chu Zhi must have suffered greatly in his later years. He became a light for so many, yet no one was ever his light," said Biso.
To be honest, Biso was a little excited. Because of Chu Zhi's posthumous work, the Sad School would dominate over other schools. Clearly, Biso studied Chu Zhi without being a fan. That made sense—admiration is the farthest distance from understanding.
All great artists have dedicated scholarly schools, like Van Gogh, Conan Doyle, Hugo, and so on. There are more scholars of Shakespeare than anyone else. The number of Chu Zhi researchers far surpasses other poets and writers in this parallel world.
The reason is simple: Chu Zhi was too legendary and famous. In plain terms, he was worth studying. Studying him brought fame, and fame meant money.
Of course, rivalries between scholarly schools didn't affect ordinary people.
"Grandpa, I got it. I bought Mr. Chu Zhi's final poetry collection I've Gained Too Much."
"Good, put it aside."
Sun Yaoxiang, now an assistant professor, hesitated. He wanted to say more, knowing his grandfather—a fan of Chu Zhi and once Huainan's editor—had lost two idols at once. Most people couldn't survive that shock.
But his grandfather, praised by the Asahi Shimbun as a "faithful chronicler of Japan's people," was always learned and serious. Yaoxiang was close to his grandmother but dared not speak loudly in front of his grandfather.
"Yaoxiang, anything else?" his grandfather asked.
"N-no, nothing," Yaoxiang replied, quickly closing the Japanese-style room door.
Silence fell in the room, so still it felt like even breathing had stopped.
Time passed in the sales of the poetry collection, and before long, it was the end of '77.
The Fragrance of Women released for the Christmas season, and Chu Zhi's portrayal of the "old bastard" reminded the world of the allure of older men. Even though he was technically past "uncle age" when he played Emperor Beast, his looks nailed it. The "old bastard" tango in the movie showed pure charisma, earning him the title of "world's hottest uncle" from teenage girls.
Chu Zhi's composition A Step Away became a tango classic almost instantly, and the scene went down in parallel world cinema history as the most iconic dance moment.
The film raked in 810 million USD globally, the second-highest Chinese box office in '77. First place went to Wilde's Special Ops Investigation 3: Must Arrive, which grossed 1.3 billion USD worldwide.
As an investor, Aiguo Media made a fortune.
"I can understand why Mr. Chu Zhi rarely acted and focused on music. He really didn't have much talent for acting. Even his peak role in Shiyi Lang was just average," said film critic Jack.
Jack was a fan of Chu Zhi, so he understood and agreed with his idol's clear career choices.
Jack often saw people in The Matrix comment sections claiming Chu Zhi's absence from film was a loss for cinema. Those comments made him laugh.
"I didn't want to watch it, but…"
He hesitated because he didn't want to tarnish his idol's sacred image. To his harsh eye, Chu Zhi's acting in The Matrix wasn't up to standard.
What changed Jack's mind was a tweet from another film critic: "Go see it now, this movie can completely change how you see Chu Zhi."
Even though the deceased was a legend, even though Chu Zhi deserved respect, Jack felt you shouldn't post content that misleads fans.
Without popcorn in hand, Jack headed to the theater. In this era, most films were full 5D experiences, or even more immersive viewing pods. The Fragrance of Women was set in 20th-century America, so there was no need to pay extra for the pod. He just entered the theater.
The opening scene was ordinary: middle schooler Charlie accidentally witnessed a classmate's prank, and the school forced him to reveal the prank's mastermind, or face expulsion. Charlie was caught in a dilemma, and just then he got a weekend part-time job…
"The way they planted the 'save the cat' moment is brilliant," Jack muttered. "He doesn't want to betray his friends, he hides their prank. This 'saving the cat' moment isn't purely good, but it successfully builds his character. Charlie's naive, loyal, smart, and poor all at once."
It took over ten minutes before the main male lead, the "rogue lawyer" played by Chu Zhi, appeared.
"Those eyes?" Jack's jaw dropped. You could instantly tell he was blind, just like that.
The details were impeccable, like pouring and drinking wine, he instinctively used his fingers to gauge depth.
"When did Chu Zhi get this good at acting?" Jack couldn't believe it.
The two and a half hour movie never felt long. At least, Jack never felt the urge to leave for the restroom.
"Chu Zhi has two god-tier performances here. First, portraying a blind man, and second, the later scenes where he's fallen and wants to die."
According to the story, the rogue lawyer had once been brilliant, even taking down a high-ranking official. But in old age, he became blind, struggled with pride, and had poor family relationships. He became a complete wreck. It was better to be dead than alive, and the sense of loneliness hit hard for Jack.
"This is Oscar-level acting!"
Jack wasn't wrong. The following year, in '78, Chu Zhi won Best Actor at the Oscars for The Fragrance of Women.
The chair of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences said, "We never imagined Chu Zhi's acting would be this good. His portrayal of a blind man is so convincing that real blind people would see a peer. Through subtle tactile and olfactory actions, he not only created a believable blind character but instantly conveyed self-doubt and pride. Much of the film's box office and critical success comes from Chu Zhi's brilliant performance."
The subtext was clear: the Academy was fair, not just awarding him because it was his final work. Chu Zhi became a double winner of both the Oscar and Golden Globe.
It was a pity Chu Zhi had been cremated and couldn't accept the award in person. Executives from Aiguo Media accepted it on his behalf.
You could bet that if Chu Zhi had been on medical leave as a real blind person, he wouldn't have pulled it off.
The film succeeded in both box office and critical acclaim, and the crew shared stories in interviews.
Makeup artist Thompson recalled, "It was amazing. Chu Zhi was in his seventies, playing a lawyer who's supposed to be in his fifties. Yet they had to make him look older because he still looked too young."
Director Old Arthur said, "I expected Chu Zhi to be… intimidating. Excuse my word, but in my mind, he was the closest person to a god. Yet he turned out to be humble and kind."
The young actor playing Charlie said, "Chu Zhi's self-discipline is a model for me. No matter how tough filming got, he still found time to read and study. I once saw his notebook filled with notes."
And with that, Chu Zhi's posthumous work had been fully handled.
Chu Zhi then talked about his successor. Over four to five years, Wilde starred in seven or eight films, each grossing over 500 million globally. He became the dream of countless girls, his social media following surpassing a hundred million.
But a flaw showed: the elf had terrible acting. More precisely, he thought acting was fake, so he didn't bother.
Manager Wanwan gave Wilde two options: either take a break to study with a good acting teacher or rely on his looks, which still guaranteed box office success.
"Which option has more followers?" Wilde asked.
That stumped Wanwan. Wilde's face was worth a fortune. Plus, the public already liked him because he didn't use doubles and was excellent in action scenes, unlike those slow-motion young actors.
"Relying on looks will get more fans," Wanwan quickly decided, knowing how elves think.
"But some people like skill. Like Tuan Hefeng, the swordsmanship instructor, one of the best in the Elf Empire. He's got followers."
Wilde's smile widened, pride shining in his eyes, but he still added humbly, "Single-handed swordsmanship, one of the best."
"Acting is like swordsmanship. Fans love skillful actors. In single-handed swordsmanship, are there fake moves?" Wanwan pressed on.
"Fake moves?" Wilde was momentarily confused.
"Moves that look like an attack to the left but actually strike right, a kind of feint," Wanwan explained.
"That's not a fake move? We have deceptive stances too." Wilde got excited. He gestured as if holding an invisible sword, continuing, "Blade down, my chest and center seem exposed. When the opponent attacks, I flick the tip and counter instantly."
"Exactly, that's also a kind of deception," Wanwan pounded her fist in her palm. "In acting, the biggest enemy is not syncing with your role. You have to defeat it with skill. On the continent of Artem, the seven best swordsmen are called Sword Saints. Here, the best actors are called Best Actor."
"Best Actor will be loved by more people," Wanwan continued persuasively. "Jiu-yé is a Best Actor. Don't you want to try?"
"Best Actor and Sword Saint are basically the same, the pinnacle in their field," she coaxed.
"The pinnacle…" Wilde's heart stirred.
If the instructor's title was 'Tuan,' and gods' title was 'Qi,' then Sword Saints were called 'Hong.' Wilde felt proud. If Best Actor was like a Sword Saint, becoming one meant he was practically a Hong Hefeng!
So, after seven years of debut, Wilde announced he'd temporarily audit classes at Central Academy of Drama to hone his acting, for about three years.
Usually, a star disappearing for three years means fading fame, but Wanwan wasn't worried. As she'd said before, Wilde's looks and skill never went out of style, and with Aiguo Media backing him, what was there to fear?
Wilde's temporary absence cut Aiguo Media's revenue a bit, but it wasn't a big problem. Their business was extensive: making films, producing variety shows with Mango TV and iQIYI, training elite trainees, releasing albums, acting as distributors, and more.
Especially when it came to trainees, the Aiguo group's trainees were just way better than the other young idols.
Every generation has its stars, each dominating their era for hundreds of years. Chu Zhi lived to seventy-eight and had a fifty-nine-year career. You could say he'd shaped the music scene for a century, and his influence wouldn't fade for a long time.
"Talking about Jiu-yé, look at these three words in the English-Chinese dictionary," Aiguo trainee Zhang Yu muttered quietly while studying English.
"What three words?" Even when whispered, another trainee, Xiao Shuai, nearby heard him.
Zhang Yu quickly flipped through the pages marked with a bookmark and pointed out the three words—
[chuzhi n. Person's name; [noun] Star adj. Shining; smart; like Chu Zhi;]
[Chinese.rose [Medical] Moonrose; [Person's name] Chinese Rose / Chu Zhi]
[hasunan Entry from: Hanshan (寒山) and Huainan (淮南) n. Outstanding Chinese poet]
"Jiu-yé is really something, even Moonrose ends up being used as a personal name in most of Europe and America," Xiao Shuai said. "Jiu-yé just died four or five years ago, and already I see all these anti-intellectual comments, saying his global influence is blown out of proportion. Are these people serious?"
"???" Zhang Yu was stunned. "I'm speechless."
The dead are remembered, sure, but they're also open to criticism—or even exploitation.
"'Chu Zhi' represents Chinese pride. I'm not trying to ride the fame wave," someone said.
"I named my fast-food chain 'Chu Zhi Fast Food' because I want it to be a proud domestic brand. Kick McDonald's aside, serve the dishes right."
"I mean, think of it like Mapo Tofu, Song Sao Fish Soup, Dongpo Pork… The names come from the founders, not some fame-grabbing. I respect Jiu-yé just like I respect Li Bai."
That was the defense by Mr. Li, owner of the Chu Zhi Fast Food chain. Whether or not he studied broadcasting, he spoke clearly and formally, and the video made a small stir online.
Aiguo Media sued Yangcheng Wupin Tianyi Food Company, the parent company of Chu Zhi Fast Food.
[That actually makes sense. If it weren't for your trademark and Jiu-yé's silhouette, I almost believed you.]
[Does 'Chu Zhi' really represent Chinese pride? Isn't it more like 'handsome' in Chinese? I, Chun Cheng Chu Zhi, have something to say!]
[What if the owner meant it in English? Oh right, in English it can mean 'smart'.]
[I know in Japanese, Chu Zhi has the meaning of 'talent god'. Originally it was Sugawara no Michizane, god of learning and calligraphy, but Chu Zhi took over in usage.]
[Studying in Dubai, the pronunciation of Chu Zhi can symbolize kindness and peace in Arabic.]
[Wow, is that Rich Brother studying in Dubai? Hungry, look at me.]
[What? Studying in Dubai doesn't make you Rich Brother. I studied in Africa, does that make me Poor Brother?]
The thread went off-topic quickly, but among hundreds of comments, people noticed something striking.
Dictionaries like Merriam-Webster, Daijisen, Littré French Dictionary, Oxford, Langenscheidt German Dictionary, and other authoritative sources worldwide all have entries for Chu Zhi. In some countries, the word didn't exist initially but was added in later editions.
After all, except for Latin, all living languages evolve over time, adding words and redefining meanings.
Time passed. Twenty years after Chu Zhi's death, Aiguo Media wasn't fading—it just shifted its focus slightly from music to film. Wilde lived up to Chu Zhi's trust. He wasn't skilled at like Emperor Beast emotionally and sometimes said the wrong thing under reporters' prodding, but his looks were incredible, and physically he was strong too. Combining this with the global reach of the Aiguo group, even Wilde's occasional slip-ups gave fans a pure "dumb beauty" vibe, full of clear-eyed innocence and reckless naivety.
Within five or six years of debut, he became one of the most bankable actors worldwide. After three years of study, his acting was no longer a weak point. With Special Operations Investigation Team and Sword King, supported by Aiguo's global power, Wilde became the new pillar of the group.
Unlike most elves who love peace, Wilde was reckless. Once, while filming in America, he confronted someone wielding a gun for free purchases. He charged with his sword. If the other guy hadn't been scared stiff and fumbled his gun, he'd have lost an eye. Wanwan worried, thinking of how Chu Zhi always had professional bodyguards. She tried finding the same company, but realized these guards were legendary Zhongnanhai protectors.
She gave up. There was no application process; they were officially appointed.
"Being a star is basically being a national treasure. Only Jiu-yé achieved that," Wanwan said, feeling Chu Zhi's enduring impact again.
Reluctantly, she settled for hiring a domestic security company.
Back on track, Wilde was reckless but trustworthy. Like most elves, he didn't care about money, so even with Sony, Warner, Disney waving cash, he never considered leaving Aiguo Media. He hadn't even started his own studio.
Thirty years after Chu Zhi's death—
"Finally… I finally got a ticket, hahaha I'm so excited," Xiao Maozi cheered.
"Got a ticket for what?" their roommate asked, guessing, "A museum visit?"
Even with iris-scanning phones, visiting museums or universities still required online reservations.
"To Jiu-yé's former residence," Xiao Maozi answered.
"What?!"
The roommate, a tall girl at 1.81 meters, jumped so high her head almost touched the ceiling. Their dorm had four people, all bunked.
"Are you talking about the Starry Karaoke Room?" the tall roommate asked.
"Yes, yes, finally got a spot, next Friday," Xiao Maozi said excitedly.
That pulled the other two roommates' attention too. Starry Karaoke was a must-see, even if you weren't part of Little Fruits; visiting and taking photos was amazing.
"Only 500 people can visit the Starry Karaoke Room each day. It's almost impossible to book. They don't open more slots," one said.
"I tried over ten times, never got a slot. Those who did must've used hacks."
"How'd you get it? If you know a way, grab some for us too."
Three questions at once.
To look good in public, Xiao Maozi suffered in private. She spent several nights pulling all-nighters just to secure this reservation.
"Haha, here's a secret, I have a Star Club account. My grandma passed it to my mom, then my mom to me," she said, changing the topic since she couldn't buy another ticket.
It worked. Everyone's attention shifted to the Star Club account.
"Is it worth tens of thousands now?" "Pretty much, especially after Sina reclaimed many accounts. I saw tons of complaints online." "Ah, envy!"
Saying Sina reclaimed accounts was exaggerated. It wouldn't benefit their business. Only account circulation and trading helped Weibo's market value.
Back to Chu Zhi's former home, where dreams began. The karaoke room held over thirty million IDs. Now it was a tourist spot, but being inside a villa district, only hundreds could visit daily.
In 2131, entering the twenty-second century, over fifty years after Chu Zhi's death.
August 21, a major event in the film world. Thanks to technology, the first "Real Film" released.
Real Film? Actors lay in performance pods, acting subconsciously. The benefit was natural acting, no awkward expressions, no deadpan faces. The downside? Subconscious can't be fully controlled. Even with a script template, completing a whole film perfectly was tough.
For example, without the elf layer, Wilde's subconscious would be super reckless. A Real Film asking him to play a patient, calculating role? Impossible.
"Real" had two meanings: acting realism and subconscious realism.
Its release faced full opposition from the traditional film industry. If you can't control it, isn't it cheating? Isn't acting lost? Supporters responded:
Subconscious can be trained. Templates exist. Want bravery? Immerse actors in "war templates." It still counts as acting practice, with a max and min performance limit.
Opponents argued harder: subconscious change equals personality change. But traditional method shows deep immersion can also alter character, so the argument was weakened.
Despite debates, the first Real Film began, adapting Yunmeng.
Why Yunmeng? First, low-risk trial. Investment came from the Huaxia Culture Promotion Center, famous in Asia, built using Chu Zhi's legacy to promote Chinese culture.
Yunmeng by Liao Dachong featured Chu Zhi cameoing as Niu Wang. The film went viral worldwide, winning global Best Art Direction awards.
Second, for cultural export, it had to be Yunmeng. Story was adjusted slightly to fit the template.
…
In short, Chu Zhi's new era had arrived.
o: Goodbye.
===
[chuzhi]
n. A person's name; [noun] a superstar.
adj. Shining; brilliant; intelligent; (slang) to be like Chu Zhi.
Explanation: His name became a slang adjective meaning "exceptionally bright and talented."
[Chinese.rose]
[Medical] A type of rose (Rosa chinensis).
[Name] The "Chinese Rose"; (figuratively) Chu Zhi.
Explanation: In the story, his Chinese fanbase is called "Little Fruits." His global fanbase, by extension, is called the "Moonrose." Thus, the term becomes a direct reference to him.
[hasunan]
Word Origin: A portmanteau of "Hanshan" (a famous Tang dynasty poet) and "Huainan" (a region in China & his pen name).
n. An outstanding Chinese poet.
Explanation: This word is created to honor his status as a great poet, comparing him to classical Chinese literary masters.
--
There's one more chapter as always