At the Thai Ministry of Culture's Office for Contemporary Arts, a delegation had been selected for cultural exchange. Among them, two young performers stood out, clearly styled in the trendy "K-wave" aesthetic.
If they didn't speak, you'd easily mistake them for Koreans. This was thanks to the Hallyu wave that had swept through Southeast Asia. Even Chu Zhi himself wasn't aware that many entertainment companies in South Korea had begun to mimic his approach…
"OK Band. That's 'OK'—their new single is really catchy!" gasped Ajim, a Thai delegate, as he spotted Kim Ryuhak (Oliver) and Kang Bin (Kayden). He looked like he'd never seen a celebrity in real life.
Blanco eagerly nodded. "I have their signed album. Aside from GZ Group, OK Band might be the most popular boy group right now."
"You didn't even mention Seven-Color Deer," Ajim retorted. "A few days ago, you said you liked Miyeon. And don't forget Lee Yongjun. That deep, mellow voice—South Korea sent quite the lineup this time."
In truth, the most technically skilled among them was Sung Yoon, but he was virtually unknown in Thailand. The two of them had automatically left him out.
"Stop shouting. You two are making a scene."
A voice cut through the room like a whip. Both Ajim and Blanco instantly stiffened, their faces shifting from cheerful to sheepish.
"Sorry, Nai Delong," they said in unison.
In Thai, the name "Delong" conveys refinement. Whether Delong, age 67, actually had such refinement was unclear, but his seniority was unquestioned. He was the head of the Thai delegation.
"Nai" meant "Mr." for men. Married women were referred to as "Nang," and unmarried women as "Nang Sao." For convenience, many used "Khun" instead—much like the Japanese honorific "-san."
Figures like Sung Yoon, Tyrone, and Li Huai all held similar status and age within their respective countries. The outlier was Koguchi Yoshihiro from Japan—clearly a few ranks below.
As the guests from China, Korea, and Thailand arrived, staff gradually guided them to their designated lounges. Thankfully, the event's sponsor, StarFour Corporation, didn't mess things up this time. Rooms were allocated strictly by nationality.
"Nice setup. There's even a live broadcast on the room TV," said Mo Qingqing, noting the small screen on the wall.
Normally, arenas didn't provide real-time stage feeds in backstage lounges. Like during Rock Night events, if guests wanted to check on performances, they had to head to the front.
"I can't take another bite of Japanese food. I've lost five pounds in two days," she sighed.
"First thing I'll do when I get back home is eat five hotpots in a row."
She was from Zigong, a city famous for its fiery cuisine.
Chu Zhi, Mo Qingqing, Li Huai, and Luo Jianhui were casually chatting. Well, three of them were. Luo Jianhui mostly gave quiet "mm"s and nodded occasionally.
Since arriving in Tokyo, Li Huai had been focused on refining his stage performance and hadn't paid much attention to anything else. Listening to Qingqing's banter now, he found it all somewhat alien.
"Hokkaido concert, huh…" he thought. "Thank the heavens I'm Chinese."
Even in such a delicate moment, the Hokkaido benefit concert had managed to stir controversy. Spending over 300 million yen to host the event was one thing, but raising ticket prices to 100,000 yen was outrageous.
Japanese concerts rarely inflated prices like in China. Reserved seats usually cost around 8,000 yen, with premium tickets capping at about 12,000 yen. That's only a few hundred RMB.
Yet the tabloid Bunshun Weekly, known for its relentless exposés, had revealed that of the 60,000 tickets printed for the Hokkaido tour, over 50,000 had been scalped at several times the original price.
The head of StarFour had given numerous official statements, most of which were useless. The only remotely relevant line was, "Scalpers are a normal market phenomenon. We strongly oppose ticket reselling." With eighty percent of tickets ending up in scalpers' hands, no one with half a brain believed that.
Li Huai could accept people making money during national crises. In a big crowd, you'd find all kinds of fools. But this blatant, crude looting of public funds… would it really go unpunished?
As they chatted, audiences who had spent thousands of RMB to buy tickets began filing in. It made sense why they'd picked Tokyo as the venue. Other cities wouldn't have been able to sell out with such high prices.
The only thing that seemed reasonable was the presence of dozens of disaster victims' families seated in the front row. They had been "half-forced" to attend by the Japan Reconstruction Agency.
What did "half-forced" mean? Well, the government offered condolence payments to the bereaved. But if you didn't show up to the concert, getting that money wasn't going to be easy.
At exactly 6 PM, the stadium filled to the brim. In the media zone at the center, four major outlets had assembled.
CCTV from China, KBS from South Korea, NBT from Thailand, and Japan's own TBS were all present. The broadcast lineup was nothing short of grand.
"Not even pretending anymore," muttered You Qian, a CCTV reporter.
"What?" asked Gong Xueyin, a younger reporter on her team.
"I said this whole concert is a blatant PR stunt. Just look at how they suddenly decided to 'support' Hokkaido. Even worse disasters in the past never got this kind of show."
Then he changed the subject. "Make sure to capture more footage of our Chinese performers."
"Of course," Gong Xueyin nodded.
Journalists from every country had similar ideas. Highlighting their own stars was better cultural diplomacy than material aid.
Since 1972, when diplomatic ties between China and Japan resumed, every time Japan suffered an earthquake, China sent supplies. And when China had its own disasters, Japan would reciprocate—grudgingly or not. That was diplomacy. Or, to put it bluntly, seizing the moral high ground.
Sending a cultural delegation was a way of saying, "You won't be getting any material donations this time." These little tug-of-wars between nations were subtle, and You Qian's focus tonight was on Li Huai.
"Let's hope Mr. Li delivers a strong performance. We'd like China to take the lead in this cultural aid initiative."
By 7 PM, night had fallen.
Boom, boom—
The Hokkaido Hope and Recovery Concert opened with fireworks. Due to the concert's somber and uplifting tone, the fireworks weren't too flashy. Most of the patterns were cherry blossoms.
The event's opener was Tokyo Governor Nagano Shintaro. In Japan's system, the Governor of Tokyo held a rank higher than the mayor—since Tokyo Prefecture included not just the city but the surrounding Tama region and island districts.
"To those who lost loved ones in the Ishikari Earthquake, we offer our deepest condolences. We share your sorrow and carry your pain with us," Nagano said. "These tragedies must never be forgotten."
He raised his voice, as though willing strength into his words. "We will spare no effort to rebuild!"
Applause erupted, led by StarFour's staff. Nagano bowed deeply to the families of the victims. Clad in a dark suit, he radiated a sense of duty.
"The governor himself showed up… that's serious weight," You Qian whispered. He kept an eye on Nagano's movements.
Of course, the governor wouldn't stay for the entire concert. As soon as his speech ended, he exited through the south gate. Every second he stayed had been the result of political negotiation.
The first performers were, naturally, Japanese singers. After all, this was their country's tragedy. The two songs they sang had been specially written in this parallel world as tributes to the earthquake victims.
The first row of the audience sat mostly in silence. Fujinuma Yuriko, for instance, had just married her husband before the disaster. If he hadn't rushed back to save her and their daughter, he might have survived.
She still couldn't accept it. Guilt gnawed at her every day. She had thought about dying too, but her daughter was only four.
She had come today for the 500,000 yen condolence payment. She'd been a full-time housewife for three years. Her daughter still needed to attend school. What else could she do?
"Can this end already?" Yuriko murmured, her head bowed.
You need the right mindset to appreciate music. In the depths of grief, songs cannot reach the soul. To Yuriko, the performance just sounded like noise.
Many other families felt the same. Sitting beside her was Inose Hisashi, in his twenties. His brother had gone missing during the quake and was still unaccounted for. Inose had no appetite, no peace of mind, no interest in music.
He only came because the rescue team promised that, after returning to Hokkaido, they would give him answers.
The Japanese performers had set the tone—somber and hopeful. Next up were singers from Thailand.
Music director Watanabe believed that featuring four foreign artists back-to-back would be overwhelming for local audiences, so he staggered the performances.
After the Thai performers came the Korean acts: Lee Yongjun and Sung Yoon.
One was in his prime. The other, half a step from the grave.
There's a saying: "Wild punches can knock out a master." Meaning, no amount of technique can overcome the decline of the body. Singing was the same. As you age, even if your skills improve, your physical condition inevitably declines.
Back in 2004, Jay Chou sported white hair. By 2007, it was purple. Fans always debated which era marked his peak. In 2004, at twenty-five, his body was at its prime. By 2007, though slightly past his physical peak at twenty-eight, his vocal technique had fully matured. But in both cases, it all started with his physical condition.
Sung Yoon, however, was an exception. His vocal prowess seemed blessed by nature, and he had taken excellent care of his body. He could still perform songs like I Heard You're Far Away without dropping a single note.
This song was deeply revered in South Korea. It was the kind performed during national memorials. Sung Yoon's rendition was tender and hauntingly beautiful.
The moment he finished, the crowd erupted in applause. A resounding success.
He let out a breath of relief. Perfect delivery.
"Sung Yoon-sunbae's voice was incredible," said Lee Yongjun. "It reminded me of a viola. So rich and delicate. Performing after you... I felt completely outclassed."
"You're still young, Yongjun. You have room to grow. The future of Korean pop lies with your generation," Sung Yoon replied with a smile. Smart kid. Knew how to flatter.
"The future lies with us? Then why won't you retire already?" Lee Yongjun thought bitterly, though his face remained lit with the glow of a junior receiving praise.
"The next artist composed a brand-new song specifically for the Hokkaido Hope and Recovery Concert," announced the emcee.
"Please welcome, from China—Chu Zhi."
On their way back to the dressing room, Sung Yoon and Lee Yongjun heard the introduction.
"Why is that jinxed guy performing after me?" Sung Yoon frowned. He remembered Chu Zhi well from Masked Singer and his uncanny ability to twist narratives and hit impossibly high notes.
"Good," Lee Yongjun grinned to himself. Money well spent.
Although the running order had shifted due to the staggered international lineup, the bribed staff at StarFour still remembered to place Sung Yoon and Chu Zhi back-to-back.
They returned to the lounge with mixed thoughts. Kim Ryuhak and Kang Bin rose to congratulate them.
"Sung Yoon-sunbae is still the crown prince of pop," said Kang Bin. "Your soft mixed voice felt like a boat gently rocking across the waves. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful!"
"I've heard many renditions of I Heard You're Far Away, but yours truly moved me," added Kim Ryuhak.
"I simply tried my best. The future of the music industry rests with you," Sung Yoon replied, basking in the compliments. For a moment, he forgot the unease Chu Zhi's name brought.
In the Thai lounge
Blanco and Ajim exchanged looks. They hadn't expected the old Korean guy they'd overlooked to be that good.
"Anyone singing after him is out of luck. The emotional impact will be blunted," said Ajim.
"That would be the Chinese artist, Chu Zhi. Like smashing an egg against a rock," Blanco muttered.
All eyes shifted to the stage. In the press zone, even CCTV's reporter You Qian focused in.
"By right, it should be Li Huai performing next, not Chu Zhi. What's going on with the running order?" he whispered, sensing something shady.
Onstage, Chu Zhi exchanged a few words with host Hiura. Since his song was the only original piece of the night, the host had more questions.
"The title's a bit unsettling," Hiura said. "Why did you write this song, Chu-san?"
"Because I've been through things. I wanted to create something for those tormented by suffering—the families devastated by this disaster."
"I hope the audience can feel its strength. The title is I Once Thought About Ending It All."
Chu Zhi knew how the press worked. If you tried to dodge questions, they would dig deeper. Better to say just enough and stop.
"Let's give the stage to Chu-san," Hiura stepped away.
Nobody really believed the line about helping survivors through music. Every performer had said something similar.
Yuriko Fujinuma even scoffed. "Foreigners? What do they know?"
Click.
Click.
Unlike the previous performances, brightly lit with stage effects, Chu Zhi's began with a series of crisp switch-offs. One by one, the lights dimmed.
Eventually, all ambient lighting vanished. Only a single spotlight remained, not on the singer, but a few paces in front of him.
It was past 8 PM in October. The sky was already pitch black. To the audience, Chu Zhi was completely obscured.
A soft prelude played. The mood seemed calm. No one suspected what was about to happen.
🎵 I once thought about ending it all,Because a black-tailed gull cried at the docks,Rising and falling with the waves,Pecking at memories as it flew into the distance. 🎵
Despair poured from both voice and lyric. It instantly seized the crowd's attention.
Seventy thousand spectators.
Families in the front row.
Artists from Thailand, Korea, and Japan.
No one could look away.
His voice was quiet, but every syllable ached.
🎵 I once thought about ending it all,Because on my birthday, the apricot blossoms bloomed,And if I napped under that sunlight,Could I become a carcass for worms, buried in the earth?
Mint candy. The lighthouse at the port. A rusted arch bridge. An abandoned bicycle.
Standing before the heater in a wooden train station,Yet having nowhere I wanted to go. 🎵
Each line pulsed with death. Even the image of blooming apricots—normally beautiful—was steeped in sorrow.
Yuriko Fujinuma, who hadn't paid attention before, now felt her heart caught in the grip of his voice. Every line clenched like a fist. It hurt.
So much it made her want to cry. She couldn't stop thinking of her husband, and how he always forgot to water their flowers.
Most of the bereaved families in the front row were already crying. Not because of the song itself, but because it brought to life the loved ones they had lost or never found.
🎵 Today feels like yesterday. If I want tomorrow to change,Then something must change today. I know that. I really do. But still—
I once thought about ending it all,Because there was nothing left in my heart.
The reason I cried from emptiness,Must be that I longed to feel whole again. 🎵
Chu Zhi remained cloaked in darkness, unreachable by the light.
His voice wasn't loud or theatrical. Yet it radiated crushing despair.
And everyone felt it.
Japan had one of the highest suicide rates in the world. It also ranked among the lowest in happiness. Ask ten people, and nine would admit to having suicidal thoughts at some point.
Just like in the lyrics, they tried every day to change. But they couldn't.
🎵 I once thought about ending it all,Because my shoelaces came undone,And I was never good at tying things together,Not even bonds with others.
I once thought about ending it all,Because the younger me kept staring back.Now I kneel beside the bed,Apologizing to the me from that day. 🎵
Chu Zhi pushed his despair to ninety percent. It felt like the final words of someone terminally ill. Calm. Soft. Yet brimming with emotion.
The audience couldn't hear any sobs, but the lyrics and melody tore through hearts. Even the camera operators from Tokyo Broadcasting were visibly shaken.
You Qian and Gong Xueyin from CCTV, though they didn't understand the lyrics, felt an unbearable sorrow. As if they were drowning in it.
🎵 The glow of the computer screen. The noise from the room upstairs. The ring of the internal phone line.
A boy in a birdcage, ears covered, battling invisible enemies.He was Don Quixote in a three-mat room,And his ending was nothing but shame. 🎵
Koguchi Yoshihiro, who had initially just been admiring Chu Zhi's good looks, now wore a pained expression.
"This song isn't just for the victims of the Ishikari quake," he whispered. "It's for survivors of every disaster. For anyone who has ever carried pain."
"And for those who've thought about dying. Including himself." Yoshihiro blamed himself. It had to be those late-night conversations that inspired Chu Zhi to write this.
Onstage, Chu Zhi took a step forward. Out of the shadows.
The despair lifted. A new message emerged.
🎵 I once thought about ending it all,Because people said I was cold.
The reason I cried from the need to be loved,Was because I had tasted warmth.
I once thought about ending it all,Because your smile was just that bright. 🎵
Twenty percent angelic voice.
Thirty percent.
Forty.
Chu Zhi began to escalate the emotion in his performance, not in a sudden freefall kind of way, but with each lyric lifting the mood by ten percent. Two more spotlights lit up on stage, and the darkness gradually gave way to light.
It was like the sky clearing after a long storm.
The deeper the gloom in the first half, the brighter the sunlight in the second. All seventy thousand audience members felt it, a driving force that pulled them forward.
🎵 The reason I kept thinking of dying must be because I lived too earnestly.
There was a time I thought of ending it all.
Because I hadn't met you yet. But someone like you exists in this world, and I began to like the world just a little more.
Because someone like you exists in this world, I started to look forward to it.🎵
The final lyric came gently, fading from a strong mix to a subtle one, the shift so seamless it went unnoticed. The words "like this world" and "look forward to this world" warmed the heart.
At the end, Chu Zhi pulled the angelic resonance to 80 percent. From lifeless despair to the stirrings of hope, it felt like a full lifetime had passed within one song.
Though the performance ended, the melody lingered, echoing across the stadium like a haunting refrain.
In today's world, who doesn't have their moments of silent sorrow? Especially in Japan, where many in the crowd were shut-ins or isolated youth.
When the lyrics sang—🎵 The boy in the birdcage plugs his ears, battling unseen enemies. He's a Don Quixote in a three-mat room, and his end is utterly tragic. 🎵—it felt like the song was singing their lives. The sense of identification was overwhelming.
As the last note faded and the accompaniment cut out, the sound of sniffles and sobs became unmistakably clear. Only then did the audience begin to stir from their trance.
"I only came to a concert. Why did it pierce me to the core?"
"I never thought the best performance tonight would come from a Chinese artist."
"The song 'There Was a Time I Thought of Ending It All'... he must have endured deep pain himself."
"It reminded me of when I lost my job and thought about dying. If this song had existed then..."
"This might not be the most fitting song for a memorial concert about the Hokkaido earthquake, but maybe it's helping even more people."
Whispers and murmurs filled the seats.
"Keep living," Chu Zhi said softly into the mic after a pause.
As he stepped off the stage, the crowd erupted into thunderous applause, louder than for any performer before him. This was the peak of the night.
Every camera from all four countries focused on him. Even the media teams, who had planned to highlight their own stars, couldn't ignore what had just unfolded.
The Tokyo TV crew had started filming seriously halfway through his performance, switching to dual-camera coverage.
"No wonder Koguchi-san insisted on inviting Chu-san," one of them muttered.
"This will cause a stir back home. No song has ever given me such power before," the reporter thought, knowing well that the current stadium atmosphere mirrored what the broadcast would convey.
Tokyo TV might not have the resources of Fuji, NHK, or Asahi, but with Nikkei backing them, their reach was nothing to scoff at. And this Hokkaido concert, originally set up to showcase post-disaster resilience, would air at 8 PM sharp the following evening, once subtitles were added.
"What kind of singer can move an entire stadium to tears?" The CCTV reporter You Qian kept filming Chu Zhi, even as the host introduced the next act.
"This cultural exchange has been a resounding success," You Qian said.
Gong Xueyin nodded in agreement. China, South Korea, and Thailand had all sent artists on humanitarian grounds. Moral presence mattered on the world stage, and an original song that moved a whole nation was a solid victory.
It would air prominently on CCTV Channel 15.
Backstage, Chu Zhi massaged his brow, the fatigue finally setting in.
"Using two skills in one song... yeah, that takes a toll."
He considered having some sake. If he triggered his Drunken Immortal state, maybe it wouldn't be this exhausting. Too bad sake tasted awful.
"Kitty with a frog on its head, top-tier!" Mo Qingqing cheered, cheeks still streaked with tears.
"Jiu-ge, your vocals were incredible. Full of emotion and technique. You didn't just sing the lyrics, you expressed everything between them."
As one of his closest fans, she knew the real story behind the song. Her praise came out like rapid fire, trying to cheer him up.
"Powerful." Luo Jianhui had thought Koguchi Yoshihiro's earlier performance was the highlight. But this... this was next level.
He knew he couldn't compare. Not just because of technique, but because of the sheer emotional force Chu Zhi injected into every word.
Unbeknownst to him, that wasn't even Chu Zhi's peak. He hadn't activated his Drunken Immortal form, still saving a third of his energy.
"If you have time, come teach a few lessons at our training center," Li Huai suggested.
"I'm mostly self-taught. It'd be a bit unorthodox," Chu Zhi replied.
The mood in the Chinese team's greenroom was relaxed, but the others weren't doing so well.
"How can a Chinese singer be this good?" muttered Blanco, stunned. He was still figuring out how to breathe silently and bridge his head voice.
His peer had just moved a stadium to tears. Blanco wiped away one himself.
Ajim was speechless. He had thought Seong Yoon's performance was impressive. Now, he wasn't so sure who was unlucky anymore.
"What do you think, Naderon?" Ajim asked, trying to bridge the gap by fishing for criticism.
"Best performance so far," Naderon said after a pause.
"No technical flaws?"
Naderon's mouth twitched. It wasn't about flaws. The techniques Chu Zhi used—backhead resonance, harmonics, breath control—were textbook perfection.
In the Korean greenroom, the mood was even worse.
They watched the replay in silence. Kim Ryuhak, Lee Yongjun, and Kang Bin had nothing to say.
After Chu Zhi's performance, who even remembered Seong Yoon's?
Just like Lee Yongjun's had been overshadowed by Seong Yoon earlier, now it was Seong Yoon's turn to be forgotten.
"Damn it," Seong Yoon cursed under his breath. Chu Zhi's skill had grown even stronger, impossibly so.
There was no public vote at the concert, so technically, it didn't matter. But Seong Yoon's pride couldn't handle being outshone by someone younger.
Why was Chu Zhi placed right after him? He began blaming the organizers.
Meanwhile, Kim, Lee, and Kang had already agreed silently to never mention the bribes they paid to rearrange the schedule.
In the Japanese greenroom, Koguchi Yoshihiro led the discussion, praising the song with sincere admiration.
It was a case of "after the sea, no other water compares." When Thai singer Ajim went on next, the audience was still caught in Chu Zhi's world.
It was rough. His voice drifted through a crowd that wasn't listening.
Seong Yoon, watching Ajim flop, felt oddly comforted.
The concert featured twenty singers in total: eight Japanese, four each from China, South Korea, and Thailand. It ran for a full two hours, tightly scheduled.
Around 9 PM, over seventy thousand people exited the New International Arena in orderly fashion, straining local traffic.
But the guests had already left, so the chaos didn't affect Chu Zhi or the others.
"I feel more drained than after my own fan meeting," Mo Qingqing said, catching her breath in the van.
"The whole concert had a heavy atmosphere," she added. "Especially after Jiu-ge sang. I could barely breathe."
"There was a memorial aspect throughout," Li Huai replied. "And emotions like grief are contagious. Feeling overwhelmed is normal."
"Well, I really didn't like it," Mo Qingqing muttered.
"I saw the CCTV crew. Do you think this will make the news?"
"That's CCTV Channel 15. Not the news division," Li Huai said. Maybe he was just getting old, but he enjoyed explaining things.
Mo Qingqing brightened. "Still exciting."
If tonight's performances were ranked, Chu Zhi's was clearly number one. The second spot was a toss-up between Koguchi Yoshihiro and Li Huai. Both had incorporated elements of folk music and showed real sincerity.
As a senior artist and organizer, Koguchi had booked a high-end restaurant to host all the performers. The gesture came at the suggestion of the Ministry of Education and Culture.
If it were just up to him, he'd have only invited Chu Zhi, maybe the rest of the Chinese delegation.
Because it was an official event, the dinner had to feel prestigious. An evolved form of kaiseki cuisine, each dish more delicate than the last.
High EQ: "refined." Low EQ: "fussy."
Mo Qingqing barely ate. Her eyes were red, likely dreaming of spicy hot pot.
The one who adapted best was Luo Jianhui. Chu Zhi liked to call him the "silent foodie." He ate enough for four.
He was low-profile, but always eating. Just last week, he finished a leftover two-tier birthday cake no one else wanted. Not a crumb of frosting left.
Even on this trip, while everyone noticed how much Chu Zhi ate, Luo quietly matched him bite for bite.
"Chu-san is releasing a Japanese EP, right? He already has three songs. One more, and we can release a full disc," Koguchi said after the banquet, more eager than the artist himself.
"We have to strike while the iron is hot. The buzz is real. Sales will follow."
===
I add this note few days from when I write it. If I remember correctly the song he sing is "Lullaby" from Russia. Forgive me if I'm wrong, and please put the correct title in the comment' section. I will change it. Thanks~