The reporter from Pravda, representing Russia, snapped out of his trance. For a moment, he didn't know what to say. He glanced at the reporter from Guangming Daily, eyes full of unspoken meaning.
The Chinese reporter understood that look clearly. It seemed to ask, "Is this really the standard of your young singers in China?"
The Guangming reporter wanted to retort but found no words. All that remained was a silent murmur in his heart, "Is that really the Chu Zhi I know? Why are there always people who work quietly in the shadows, only to astonish everyone the moment they take the stage..."
"Opera 2. This jazz piece, the name fits it perfectly. This is, without a doubt, the biggest surprise in jazz I've encountered this year—no, in the past two years." The reporter from The World jumped on the momentum, snapping a few more photos.
Reporters from Japan, South Korea, Vietnam, Cambodia, Singapore, and other countries also took shots in rapid succession. Some began murmuring among themselves. "Why is it called Opera 2? Does that mean there's an Opera 1? Or perhaps it's named after the second act of an opera."
Most operas have three or four acts, and the second act is often where the plot peaks.
"You all probably don't know, but I do," the South Korean reporter chimed in. "Mr. Chu performed 'Opera' in Seoul before. That song was also excellent."
Seeing the others' sudden realization, the Korean journalist felt a strange sense of pride—he knew something they didn't.
Thirty seconds passed before the stunned audience came back to their senses as Chu Zhi walked off the stage. Applause erupted like a wave.
Unlike the reporters who were quicker to recover due to their profession, the audience needed a moment longer.
This applause was not polite encouragement. It was thunderous, far louder than what followed the opera in the first half.
"Now I finally get why, in legends, sailors were so easily enchanted by sirens. If I set this as my daughter's morning alarm, maybe it'd work wonders."
"His voice is tender and ethereal. The high notes don't attack you but instead press in gently, like a divine voice descending from the sky."
"Is it possible that if my phone speaker got wet, I could just play this song and vaporize the water with those high notes?"
"Most high notes are piercing, but his make my soul feel at peace."
"I want to know this singer. I want to buy his album."
The flood of praise continued. This audience had truly recognized the young Chinese singer.
In the front row, Li Weiwen watched Chu Zhi exit the stage. Before the performance, he had worried the young man might crumble under the pressure left by Old Kai's performance.
Instead, the heavier the pressure, the more Chu Zhi shone.
Li Weiwen himself was one of the top lyric tenors in the country. That final gentle "la la la" followed by even higher notes—he could clearly identify the breath control and vocal technique involved.
"It's not just the tone and high range that are impressive. The technique is absolutely refined. This young man is no ordinary talent," Li Weiwen commented.
Dang Kai, whose spotlight had been stolen, felt a bit sour at first, but it passed quickly. The younger generation really was that strong, and raw strength was raw strength—what could you do?
"If all our young singers had Chu Zhi's talent, our arts sector would thrive," Dang Kai said. As the Executive Director of the Chinese Musicians Association and Chair of the Liaoning Music Association, he had helped develop and refine professional teaching programs and materials. Calling him a musical social activist wouldn't be an exaggeration.
"Old Kai, do you even realize how terrifying that statement sounds?" Li Weiwen said.
"Uh..." Dang Kai realized he had gotten a bit carried away, so he amended, "Okay, five. If we had five young singers like Chu Zhi, vocal music would definitely flourish."
"That's an ambitious dream." Li Weiwen shook his head. A singer like Chu Zhi was rare—maybe one in five years.
When Opera 2—regardless of its lyrics or composition—let loose its sky-splitting high notes, flowing like mercury through the Saint Petersburg Philharmonic Concert Hall, all that remained was astonishment.
Even those in the fourth row, like the invited critics from the forum committee, didn't have time to analyze the key or lyrics.
Some have pessimistically claimed that the 21st century isn't the era of art, but of critics. No matter the medium—novels, poetry, music, or film—critics outnumber creators.
Sitting in the fourth row was the burly, red-nosed Russian critic, Gogol Anton Gennady, a top figure among modern critics. Formerly a professor in the Vocal Arts Department at Kazan National Conservatory, his credentials were solid. Nicknamed "Three-Mouthed Gogol" [三张嘴的果戈里], he was widely respected.
"Isn't Chinese new-generation bel canto singer supposed to be that Proulan Knight?" Gogol muttered, puzzled.
He had heard many of the world's top tenors, yet none had a tone as comfortable as this one. It wasn't an exaggeration to say Chu Zhi's high notes passively triggered a "perfect voice" effect. Not even mentioning Farinelli.
For context, Western vocal theory doesn't distinguish between true and falsetto voice. What's referred to as true voice in China equals chest voice in the West. Falsetto is the term for high male vocals. For women, it's head voice and whistle register.
"Was that chest voice or falsetto? That high note was earth-shattering," a red-brown-haired reporter nearby whispered.
Gogol happened to be seated on the aisle and heard the remark. As a Russian music critic, he felt obligated to educate.
He turned his head, though his thick, short neck made even that motion seem strained—as if not even fate could grip his throat.
"From the vocal cord vibration, that high note was clearly falsetto. The cords weren't fully closed, with edge vibrations and distinct overtones from head resonance. The sound was delicate and light."
The reporter hadn't expected a lecture but, recognizing the man, listened intently.
Gogol continued, "What makes Mr. Chu's falsetto special isn't just pitch. The final note only reached C5, which a trained tenor can surpass. What was shocking was the texture of his voice—it was like a knight's lance. Not piercing, but charging full force, immense and impactful."
Critics are critics for a reason. The red-haired reporter was floored and finally understood what made it so powerful.
"Many will attempt to cover Opera 2, but I believe no one will surpass the original. In fact, I doubt the young Chinese singer even used his full strength," Gogol concluded, then went quiet as the next performer took the stage.
Full strength? Of course not. Chu Zhi hadn't even had a drink backstage. He had considered trying "Water of Life," but it wasn't available.
He didn't use "Voice of Despair" or "Angel's Gospel" either. He really was too kind.
Back in the dressing room, Chu Zhi quickly changed out of his performance outfit. The black waist-length military tuxedo, plain white shirt, and intricately patterned sash looked great but weren't comfortable.
"It looked good, but it really wasn't suited for singing," Chu Zhi said.
A few minutes later, dressed in a sharp suit, he returned to the audience. The attitudes of the veteran vocalists around him had clearly shifted.
Previously: "A promising young man."
Now: "An exceptional vocal genius."
The third performer was a singer from Singapore. At this point, Kobayashi, the iQIYI cameraman, had enough footage for the Journey Among the Stars program. He wasn't even filming anymore. After all, the show wasn't a music competition.
"Jiuye, what were you thinking? You totally stole the spotlight. What about the other singers?" Kobayashi muttered, clearly pleased despite himself.
Last time, footage of earthquake relief had earned him a seven-figure bonus. With Jiuye around, he could make serious cash.
Kobayashi was a die-hard Little Fruits fan. Anyone badmouthing Chu Zhi was attacking his livelihood.
The vocal showcase continued for another two hours and forty minutes, featuring veteran performers from various countries. Each performance was stellar, but Chu Zhi was the undisputed MVP.
There's no number one in literature, no number two in martial arts—but in art, the emotional impact can vary greatly. Think of the first time Opera 2 appeared on Earth. Chu Zhi had surpassed even 18-year-old Vitas.
The showcase at the Philharmonic Hall ended around 7:30 PM. The audience exited in an orderly fashion. Reporters from all over the world rushed to interview the artists who had caught their attention. Chu Zhi instantly became the hottest star.
"Mr. Chu Zhi, when did you compose Opera 2?"
"What inspired this work?"
"You've written songs in Japanese and Russian. Will you consider composing in Korean as well?"
...
Chu Zhi, experienced in handling the press, picked a few questions to answer amid the noisy chaos.
"The idea came from a painting by Viktor, a Russian artist who blends childhood whimsy, folklore, and fantasy. One painting showed a mermaid leaving the sea. I imagined how lonely she must feel, entering the human world with no kindred spirit." He said it smoothly, mostly making it up.
To the Korean reporter, he replied casually, "If the opportunity comes, I'll consider it."
It took a full thirty minutes before Chu Zhi could leave the hall. He checked his phone and saw Ma Ban'an had sent a location for the celebratory dinner.
As he walked down the street, a soft female voice reached his ears, "Jiuye, Jiuye, I'm your biggest fan."
Despite her best efforts to hide it, her excitement was obvious.
It was An Jiu, a fan of ten years. Even with a cap and scarf covering most of her face, she recognized her idol instantly.
Chu Zhi didn't deny it, turned around, and greeted her. Seeing how thrilled she was, he asked if she wanted a signature, a photo, or both.
"Jiuye, I'm an uploader on Bilibili. I originally wanted to film the vocal showcase for the cultural forum, but they didn't allow recording," An Jiu said. "Can I... get your autograph? On my Bilibili username?"
Chu Zhi had thought she wanted an interview.
Truthfully, she had wanted one, but summoning the courage just to approach him had already taken everything she had. So she changed her mind last second.