As usual, once Che Lun found out Chu Zhi would be performing at the concert, he thought about dragging the production team to film it. They were short on footage anyway. But when he called the organizers—Four Star Co., Ltd., a company partially owned by the Minister of Education and Science's family—he was flatly rejected.
The reason was simple: the broadcast rights had already been acquired by CCTV Music Channel (CCTV-15). Any further questions would have to go through them.
Go through CCTV? Che Lun gritted his teeth and gave up. To put it plainly, iQIYI didn't have the standing to challenge the national broadcaster.
When they landed in Tokyo, Chu Zhi had expected to be greeted by a staff liaison. To his surprise, it was Koguchi Yoshihiro who came in person.
Wasn't he supposed to be overwhelmed with responsibilities as the event's lead artist-organizer? Why did he have time to pick someone up at the airport?
"You must be tired, Chu-san." Koguchi gave him a long, thoughtful look before flashing a polite smile. "Have you had breakfast? Would you like something to eat first?"
Narita Airport wasn't large, but it had Yoshinoya and Sukiya. Chu Zhi politely declined and opted to head straight to the hotel.
True to Four Star's reputation for spending taxpayer money with no restraint, Chu Zhi was checked into Aman Tokyo—one of the most luxurious hotels in the city.
Koguchi saw him to the hotel and left in a hurry, clearly squeezing this visit into a packed schedule.
Chu Zhi's assigned liaison was Reina Miya, a 25-year-old staffer at Four Star. She had joined the company right after university. With her parents gone for three years now, she was the sole provider for her 12-year-old brother and had little time for herself. After being assigned this high-level task, she immediately researched everything she could about her VIP guest.
She had to be meticulous. Four Star paid well, and she didn't want to make the slightest mistake.
In Japanese drama and anime, one often sees "Kabushiki Gaisha," which basically means a stock company. In Japan, shares are called "kabushiki," so a Kabushiki Gaisha is simply a joint-stock corporation.
"What are your thoughts on the recent Hokkaido earthquake?" Chu Zhi asked suddenly.
"Um…" Reina hesitated for a while, then carefully replied, "It's very unfortunate. I heard a number of people died. My deepest condolences."
It was a textbook answer. Maybe she'd grown numb to disasters. Chu Zhi didn't sense any real emotion in her words.
"I see," he nodded.
His rehearsal was scheduled for tomorrow morning, so he used the rest of the day to get familiar with Tokyo's new National Stadium.
That afternoon, Luo Jianhui arrived in Tokyo. He hadn't flown in with Chu Zhi because he hadn't been informed as early. Chu Zhi knew yesterday. Luo had only found out this afternoon.
"I didn't expect the team captain to be here too," Luo said with a rare smile. "Producer Che only told us you had urgent business."
"With you here, Luo-ge, I feel much more confident," Chu Zhi replied.
Even outside the show, he still addressed Luo as "captain," a sign of genuine respect, just like how Zhang Ning always treated Chu Zhi like a younger brother.
Luo didn't say it out loud, but having the captain around did put him at ease.
The two of them strolled around the stadium. It was more sightseeing than anything else, since no real preparations were underway.
The whole concert had been hastily thrown together by the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology in less than five days. Besides the tight timeline, they'd also invited artists from China, South Korea, and Thailand. For Japan's notoriously bureaucratic system, chaos was inevitable.
Take Luo Jianhui, for instance—he wasn't even assigned a local guide.
"The stage manager's still working on the lighting. They say it'll take another 30 minutes," Reina reported after asking around.
The stadium was in disarray. Lighting crews were working on lights, sound crews on speakers. No one was in charge overall. Without Reina there, they'd be completely lost.
"Reina-san, please let the organizer know the scene is too chaotic. We'll return tomorrow for the formal rehearsal," Chu Zhi said. He didn't believe for a second that 30 minutes would be enough to make the place usable. Better to sneak off for some dessert.
In Japanese, "-san" is a gender-neutral honorific for Mr. or Ms., used in formal contexts. Reina nodded and relayed the message.
Chu Zhi and Luo Jianhui left the stadium, unaware they had just been spotted by an old acquaintance.
Sitting less than 50 meters away were four South Korean artists.
"Seon Yun-sunbae, what are you looking at?" the younger idol Kim Yuhak asked curiously.
"It's Chu Zhi," Seon Yun replied, eyes narrowing into slits. He remembered Chu Zhi clearly from his time as a judge on Masked Singer.
Following his gaze, Kim Ryuhak, Lee Yongjun, and Kang Bin spotted a strikingly handsome Chinese man.
"That's the 'Demon King' Chu Zhi?" Kim Ryuhak had heard of the nickname.
The others recalled too—those days in the café, when their territory had been dominated by a foreign artist.
Though Chu Zhi's fan presence had declined recently in Korea, he was still ranked in the top ten of their artist cafés.
"A cancer in the history of Masked Singer," Seon Yun commented coldly.
The memory of Chu Zhi's performance—and that smug face—instantly triggered resentment in all three.
When someone you dislike is that flawless, it just makes you hate them more.
Later, the Korean group began their first stage warm-up. Japan's concerts typically had two rounds of rehearsal: initial stage familiarity, followed by full dress.
Three hours later, as the Koreans wrapped up their warm-up, Seon Yun prepared to leave. But the others suddenly claimed they had stomachaches.
"That's very rude," he scolded, though he added, "I'll wait in the car for ten minutes."
"Thank you, sunbae," the trio said in unison.
They didn't actually have stomach issues. They went behind Seon Yun's back to bribe the organizers and reshuffle the performance order.
Originally, the Chinese group was supposed to be followed by the Thai performers. Now it was changed to:
[Luo Jianhui, Li Huai, Mo Qingqing, Chu Zhi, Seon Yun, Lee Yongjun, Kang Bin, Kim Ryuhak …]
Simple but effective. They wanted to close the concert with a bang and make the audience feel the contrast. All seventy thousand people would know the difference.
Seon Yun was a decorated artist who had won gold at a tri-national music competition involving China, Korea, and Japan. How could some young Chinese singer measure up?
Kim Ryuhak and Kang Bin were a popular duo in Japan, and Lee Yongjun had been a solo star for over a decade. Between them, they had massive recognition.
If nothing else, this would at least wipe the smug look off Chu Zhi's face.
"A cancer should be cut out," Kim Ryuhak muttered.
"I can't wait to see the show," Kang Bin added, his signature phrase.
Lee Yongjun suggested keeping this a surprise from Seon Yun. It would be more satisfying that way.
Meanwhile, Chu Zhi and Luo Jianhui had returned to Aman Tokyo. The last two members of the Chinese delegation—Mo Qingqing and Li Huai—arrived late that night.
The Ministry of Culture had officially dispatched them. Even at 60, Li Huai looked travel-worn. He was a national-level singer, the senior of the team. Luo Jianhui represented the middle generation, and Mo Qingqing and Chu Zhi were the young faces. The Korean and Thai teams had similar setups.
"I hope to learn a lot from you, Teacher Li," Chu Zhi said sincerely.
"Teacher Li," Luo Jianhui greeted with deference.
It wasn't just about Li Huai's thousand-plus hit songs. He had spent most of his earnings building the Huai'an Music Training Center, which had nurtured a generation of Chinese music talents.
Even now, his work was frequently licensed for film and TV. He earned plenty in royalties, but he still lived simply, pouring everything back into education.
"Learn from me?" Li Huai chuckled. "I should be learning from you. I've heard your singing, Chu. Impressive. That 'New Drunken Concubine' piece—lyrics could be sharper, but your vocal technique is something I've never heard before."
"You flatter me, Teacher Li." Chu Zhi had genuine respect for someone who had given so much to Chinese music. The older man's suit was worn and dated.
"It's no flattery. Old Hou said you were self-taught. If that's true, your skills are near flawless."
He must mean Hou Yubin. Judging by this, Hou had probably recommended Chu Zhi to everyone he knew.
"Can we still rehearse tonight?" Li Huai asked after a bit of small talk.
"I'll check. It's late, so the stadium might be empty," Chu Zhi replied, dialing Reina. She picked up within three rings.
He got straight to the point, and her answer was firm. "I'm sorry, Chu-san. All stadium staff left by 7 p.m. It's now 8:30. We would need to file extensive paperwork, and even then, there's no guarantee it will be approved."
"If you insist, I will do my utmost to make it happen," she added quickly.
"No need for now, Reina-san. Thank you," Chu Zhi replied and hung up.
"Teacher Li, we can't rehearse tonight," he said. With his fluent Japanese, he clearly understood what Reina's phrasing really meant: absolutely not.
Even though the conversation was in Japanese, the tone made Li Huai understand the gist. He frowned slightly in thought.
"It's already late, Teacher Li. Rest for tonight. We can rehearse first thing tomorrow," Luo Jianhui said.
"Guess we'll have to," Li Huai nodded.
Chu Zhi was a little curious. Li Huai took rehearsals seriously, but wasn't this a bit much? Then again, it wasn't his place to pry.
"Brother Jiu, I'm Little Fruits! I preset a goal in my dreamscape," Mo Qingqing finally spoke up. She was so excited to meet her idol that she almost called him "Nine-ye," but with a respected elder present, she changed it.
"What goal?" Chu Zhi asked.
"That my songs will be played on loop in salons, KTVs, and boutiques everywhere," she said earnestly.
A surprisingly down-to-earth dream. After seeing the official list, Chu Zhi had looked into Mo Qingqing. She had won the Golden Disc Award three times and held the Pop Female Artist title. Her music sparked extreme reactions—some hailed her as the future queen of pop, others thought she was unbearable to listen to.
"A bold goal." Chu Zhi nodded.
"It's really hard to achieve. I don't know if I'll earn a star in Orange Orchard," Mo Qingqing admitted. "One time, I went to get my hair done without makeup, just wearing a mask. I finally heard one of my songs playing at the salon... then the owner cut it off immediately."
"I asked, 'This song sounds pretty good. Why'd you change it?'" Mo Qingqing paused dramatically, the kind of person who liked leaving cliffhangers mid-sentence.
Luo Jianhui couldn't help asking, "And then?"
"The owner said the singer sounded like a mother baboon, really awful." Mo Qingqing burst out laughing at her own story.
Luo Jianhui stared at her, puzzled. "What's so funny about that?" If it had been him, he would've taken it hard. Just hearing the word "baboon" made him cringe.
"Maybe they meant your voice has powerful, primal resonance," Chu Zhi offered dryly.
"Exactly! I thought so too." Mo Qingqing grinned.
Chu Zhi admired her attitude. Criticism is inevitable. If you can't change people's opinions, might as well laugh with them.
"You two keep chatting. I'll leave you be." Li Huai, ever the thoughtful elder, stood up. He knew his presence might make younger folks more reserved, so he excused himself and returned to his room.
The remaining three chatted for a while longer, eventually heading out for a late-night snack around 10 p.m.
Mo Qingqing wasn't just excited about meeting her idol Chu Zhi—she made sure her fellow "little fruits" (her fandom) knew about it. That night, after adding Chu Zhi as a friend on WeChat, she immediately bragged to her friends.
[Ahhh! I actually met Jiuye! Quick, bestie, send me all your contact lists. I'll love you forever!]
True influence works in layers. Like Teresa Teng, even many famous stars were once just fans.
A new day dawned under overcast skies. The noisy traffic and chaotic streets matched the gloomy atmosphere.
The Chinese team was the first to arrive at the New National Stadium. The stage and sound equipment were installed the previous day, but lighting, audience seating, and the media section were still incomplete. True to form, StarFourStar Corporation was dragging its feet.
During rehearsals, Chu Zhi finally understood why Li Huai had seemed so anxious the day before—there was simply too much to do.
Li Huai was working on blending a traditional Okinawan folk tune, "Island Song," with his own piece, "Heaven and Earth Clash." On top of that, he planned to rewrite the lyrics to better fit the spirit of the memorial concert.
Chu Zhi had never taken this concert very seriously. Even the Japanese locals—like Rena Miya—seemed indifferent. But watching the furrows deepen on Li Huai's forehead as he worked, Chu Zhi was taken aback by the man's sincerity.
This kind of musical fusion wasn't easy. Li Huai and the concert's music director, Watanabe, had discussed multiple arrangements but couldn't find one that satisfied both sides.
Meanwhile, Mo Qingqing and Luo Jianhui had finished their stage practice. Chu Zhi didn't rush to rehearse. Instead, he stuck around to help with the arrangement.
"Island Song is a traditional folk melody from Okinawa," Chu Zhi explained. "Its original scale comes from the Ryukyu region and uses instruments like the sanshin and taiko drums. It's tough to mesh with your piece's composition."
"I rushed it," Li Huai admitted. "I wanted to include a Japanese folk song to give the victims something familiar, something comforting."
Chu Zhi didn't say it out loud, but his thoughts were blunt: "it wasn't their country that got hit—why should we care how they feel?"
What he said instead was, "You're someone who feels the weight of others' pain."
"I'm really not," Li Huai said, shaking his head. "When I first heard about the disaster in Ishikari, I actually felt a little glad. I thought, 'Serves them right. Let those war-mongering bastards sink into the ocean.'"
"…And then?" Chu Zhi waited for the follow-up.
"A coincidence changed my view," Li Huai said. "One of my students at the music center has a girlfriend from Hokkaido. She's a sweet girl, normal, nothing like the stereotypes. Her uncle went missing during the quake. She cried her heart out."
Li Huai continued, "I don't think one good person can redeem a country's past. I still boycott their products. Just recently, I scolded my grandson for asking to buy a Japanese game console."
"But for this Hokkaido concert tour, I want to contribute something real to the victims." He sighed. "I'm old and long-winded now. It probably sounded contradictory. It's fine if you don't follow my meaning."
"I think I get it," Chu Zhi replied. "You don't forgive what their country did. But as a fellow human, you're moved by how fragile life is."
"Haha! Yes, yes, that's exactly it!" Li Huai nodded.
"Let's give it one more shot," he said, getting to his feet. "If we still can't get the songs to blend, we'll just open with Island Song as a prelude."
Watching the older man walk away, Chu Zhi rubbed his temples. Maybe it was the effect of transmigration. Maybe that was why he never felt connected to this world. Why he could look at its ordinary lives and feel so indifferent.
"I've only been in this world for a year. It makes sense I don't feel at home here. But that's no excuse to be numb to human lives."
Thinking it through, Chu Zhi found the root cause. He lacked the usual "transmigration talents" that other protagonists had in books and dramas. They adapted instantly. He hadn't.
Looking back, his interests in the real world were badminton and Go—one physical, one mental. But here, he hadn't touched either. Despite being a busy idol, Chu Zhi's strict time management left him with plenty of free time. But he'd never thought to pick those hobbies back up.
Why? Because this world still felt foreign. Because it wasn't Earth. Because he was the only Earthling here. Because he hadn't grown up on this soil.
"Phew. Thank you, Li Huai-sensei. Without you, I wouldn't have realized this."
"System bro," Chu Zhi asked silently, "can you search for songs best suited for post-earthquake memorials?"
"Hitotsu"
"Even If Our Hands Are Empty"
"Blossom"
"GASSHOW"
"Headlight"
"The Wind is Blowing"
"Abyss of Night"
"Don't Give Up"
"Okay, okay, slow down! Way too many," Chu Zhi said internally. "Of course. The culture of mono no aware thrives in Japan. A land constantly at the mercy of nature is bound to produce this kind of music."
With so many earthquakes, it was only natural for this world—or any parallel one—to have countless songs inspired by disaster.
"Can I listen to them first?" Chu Zhi asked. Then added, "And bro, don't you dare bring up 'personality coins.' It ruins the mood."
[One coin per preview.]
Even though he had eighteen personality coins, spending even one still hurt.
"I treat you like a brother, and you're charging me." Chu Zhi sighed and handed one over.
Chu Zhi was quietly grateful to the system. Without its free search function, he'd be completely lost in the music scene. In his past life, he barely paid attention to the industry. Truthfully, he owed the system a thank you—but that didn't mean he wasn't going to grumble about it anyway.
"Captain, are you alright? Feeling unwell?" Luo Jianhui came over, concerned after seeing Chu Zhi zoning out.
"Wooden block, seriously. Who didn't know that Brother Jiu had depression? Obviously, he was spacing out from that." Standing nearby, Mo Qingqing mentally stamped Luo with the nickname: "Woodhead."
"I'm fine, just lost in thought," Chu Zhi replied.
Luo Jianhui wasn't good with words, so he only managed another line of concern. "Just make sure to rest up."
Chu Zhi let Rena Miya know he'd be pushing his rehearsal slot later, citing unresolved issues with his setlist. If it had been anyone else, that wouldn't fly—but for Chu Zhi, Koguchi Yoshihiro had left specific instructions to treat him with extra care.
After all, Koguchi was the artistic director of the agency, and that meant serious clout.
"Brother Jiu, want to grab something to eat? Ginza's got some amazing food," Mo Qingqing asked eagerly.
"Next time. I've got something to take care of," Chu Zhi said.
Hearing that, Mo Qingqing quickly responded, "Business first, business first. Important things are worth repeating."
The "business" was listening to over thirty earthquake-themed songs listed by the system, one by one.
After an entire afternoon, he narrowed his favorites down to two: Don't Give Up and Even If Our Hands Hold Nothing. The former was even dubbed Japan's "second national anthem."
Only three songs had ever earned that title. All were deeply familiar to the public.
But something about singing "Don't Give Up" as a Chinese artist to a Japanese audience rubbed him the wrong way.
So that left one real option.
Chu Zhi activated the grand prize lottery, hoping to draw a voucher for that specific track. The album it belonged to only had two songs. Spending a full album coupon would be a total waste.
"System, initiate a draw," Chu Zhi whispered inwardly, praying for a miracle.
[Tap Dance Mastery]
[Title: King of Overachievers]
[Special Item: Meow-Meow Woof-Woof Capsule]
[Bonus Pack: 'Katyusha']
[Bonus Pack: 'Bohemian Rhapsody']
[Album: 'JJ Land 6']
This prize pool felt a bit underwhelming. Sure, the foreign tracks were classics—one a Russian folk song, the other a Queen masterpiece—but they weren't what he needed.
Still, the "King of Overachievers" title was right on brand. Chu Zhi checked the details. While covertly outperforming others, stamina and learning efficiency increased by 50 percent. A legendary title. Not bad.
The Meow-Meow Woof-Woof Capsule? Apparently, taking it boosted your affinity with cats and dogs.
"I'll take this one," Chu Zhi chose a box on instinct.
Result: [Album: 'JJ Land 6']
Oh. One of JJ Lin's most divine albums. Songs like Little Dimples, Not Trendy Unless You Spend,Drunken Concubine—all absolute classics.
"A great reward, really. Just not the one I was hoping for."
Chu Zhi was about to draw again when his phone rang. Koguchi Yoshihiro was calling. He paused his lottery, took the call. There was some polite back-and-forth before Koguchi got to the point.
"Chu-san, it would be best if your song for the performance isn't too energetic or rock-based," he said, clearly referencing Chu Zhi's previous guest performance of Butter-Fly.
"Understood," Chu Zhi nodded.
Huh—no questions? Koguchi was briefly thrown off. Even though Chu Zhi didn't ask, he explained anyway.
"Because we've invited survivors and bereaved families of the Ishikari earthquake to attend the concert. Playing something too cheerful wouldn't be appropriate."
Of course it wouldn't. But... inviting people who've lost loved ones to an arena concert? That felt off too.
Chu Zhi had long given up trying to make sense of how some Japanese decisions were made.
"Wouldn't inviting them possibly cause secondary trauma?" he asked, after a moment's thought.
"Rebuilding after an earthquake can restore infrastructure," Koguchi replied slowly, "but emotional wounds... they don't heal so easily."
He continued, "During the Honshu earthquake a few years ago, over 500 lives were lost. Even though the government gave condolence money and the Reconstruction Agency did their part, out of the 500 families, more than a hundred developed severe depression.
Of those visited later by the agency, twenty-four people committed suicide in the following five years. Dozens more attempted it but were stopped by friends or family.
When I first saw the numbers, I was angry. I thought they were cowards. If you survive a disaster, shouldn't you live even harder for those who didn't make it?
But then I read deeper—how does a wife live after losing the husband she shared 40 years with? How do parents move on after burying their 24-year-old child?"
He paused, then said with quiet conviction, "That's why I'm so passionate about this Hokkaido concert. I don't know what the higher-ups are thinking, but within my ability, I want to give those families a reason to keep going. Not just for this earthquake, but for all the ones before."
Chu Zhi had always seen Koguchi as a convenient fixer, but this conversation shifted his view. So the pretty-face agency man had a backbone too.
Looking deeper, Chu Zhi thought, earthquakes with a magnitude over 5 happen three times every two years in Japan. Deaths and disappearances are common. Once every decade, a level 7 quake shakes everything apart.
The pressure on survivors must be enormous.
He took a breath. This concert needed to be taken seriously.
"I'll hang up here. Please take care of yourself, Chu-san," Koguchi said before ending the call.
Chu Zhi searched terms like "earthquake survivor families" online, but found few real discussions.
It wasn't that these stories didn't exist. They were buried, locked in the heart, unspeakable. After all, if someone could even say they were sad out loud, it meant they had a place to let it out.
"Once, I too wanted to give up on everything... that might actually be the right song," Chu Zhi muttered.
===
Li Huai's character is based on the real-life composer Gu Jianfen, who founded China's first music training center. She mentored legends like Liu Huan and Sun Nan.