The challenger wore a blue suit—a pale, dreamy shade reminiscent of the moment when "clouds part after rain, and crows take flight as the window brightens at dawn." In ancient China, this color was called "Dongfang Jibai" (The East Brightens).
Under the stage lights, the light-colored fabric made his frame appear slender, yet his broad shoulders and long legs made him a natural clothes hanger. His face looked as if it had been meticulously carved by a master artisan—sharp eyebrows, starry eyes, and jade-like features. His thin lips were pressed together, giving him the fragile beauty of a priceless painting.
"If this face were in Japan, he'd undoubtedly top Hirunandesu!'s [ヒルナンデス!] annual ranking of 'Male Celebrities You'd Want to Date in a Yukata,'" remarked Koguchi Yoshihiro. "His looks appeal to everyone, men and women alike."
Japanese dramas often featured male leads in yukata, strolling hand-in-hand with their love interests at summer festivals—a romantic cliché. The variety show Hirunandesu! capitalized on this fantasy with its yearly poll. Despite his fame, Koguchi Yoshihiro had never made the list—a tragic fact that brought tears to those who knew.
"What a handsome young man," Hou Yubin commented, reeling off classical compliments: "Elegant as a jade tree, as fair as Lord Xu of the North City, rivaling Pan An in beauty."
The other contestants also noticed his striking looks, but they were more preoccupied with Chu Zhi's tarnished reputation. Their expressions twisted in silent bewilderment. "What was the production team thinking? Trying to stir controversy?" But even that was a lost cause—Chu Zhi had no controversy left, only public disdain.
"Chu Zhi? The name rings a bell, but I don't know his work," Hou Yubin asked Zheng Yingying. "Yingying, how's his skill?"
Zheng Yingying hesitated. Industry insiders saw things differently—scandals like being a kept man weren't unheard of—but the online vitriol had soured everyone's perception. Still, she couldn't outright trash him on camera. "He's… decent," she said diplomatically.
"Decent? If he's 'decent,' then the world has no such thing as noise pollution," Lin Xia thought, recalling Chu Zhi's bizarre, psychedelic arrangements, slurred enunciation, and breathy vocals—music only fans (and maybe not even dogs) could endure.
His sentiment was shared by the others. Though none of them were A-listers—some were even riding the coattails of a single hit—they all looked down on Chu Zhi. One particularly plain-faced singer muttered under his breath, "This isn't a Mr. World pageant. What good are looks here?"
"This is a music competition. We should focus on the songs," Hou Yubin said tactfully. At his age, he knew how to read between the lines—phrases like "decent" were just polite euphemisms for not good.
Modern youngsters, for instance, could be described with words like "hardworking" or "ambitious," but string them together into "burning the midnight oil," and suddenly it had nothing to do with today's trendsetters.
On stage, Chu Zhi took a deep breath and introduced his song. "Hello everyone, I'm Chu Zhi. The song I'll be performing today is an original piece called The Wind Blows Through the Wheat."
"If only I were nearsighted and couldn't see the audience's expressions," he mused ruefully.
But his vision was sharp. He could clearly make out the disdain on the face of a woman in the front row.
"If I choke now, there's no future. Treat them like employees at a year-end review. Even if I die of nerves, I'll die after finishing the song."
His mind raced with self-pep talks. His fists clenched unconsciously—even with his "socially fearless" persona, performing live for hundreds for the first time was nerve-wracking.
Thankfully, though his heart pounded like a stormy sea, his face remained calm. He signaled the band, and the prelude began—a lighthearted blend of piano and Irish harp, pulling the audience into a gentle, babbling-brook melody.
I Am a Singer had a controversial nickname: I Am a Loudmouth. The show was notorious for favoring high notes—slow, lyrical ballads, no matter how well-performed, usually scored lower. Based on the intro, this sounded like something you'd hear at a gala.
"Under the distant azure sky,
Golden wheat fields ripple and sway.
That's where you and I once loved,
Where our memories stay.
When the breeze carries harvest's scent,
Brushing softly 'gainst my face…"
Chu Zhi poured every technique he'd practiced into the delivery—starting soft on distant, swelling on ripple, and stretching sway to mimic the undulating wheat. The system's gift package included Li Jian's rendition of this song, and Chu Zhi had rehearsed it relentlessly.
"This is a quiet, beautiful piece. An original, too—according to the credits, he wrote and composed it himself. Quite talented," Hou Yubin remarked.
"Quite talented" was high praise for The Wind Blows Through the Wheat. The live audience seemed to agree—their murmurs and jeers gradually faded as they listened.
"The man might be rotten, but the song's innocent." That seemed to be the prevailing mood.
But this alone wouldn't be enough to turn the tide. Chu Zhi had a trump card—one he hadn't even revealed during band rehearsals.
"Your tender words come back to me,
Dampening my eyes with tears…
Mmmm… mmmm… mmmm…
La la la… la la la…"
Remember the reward from his beginner's gift pack?
[Perfect Vocals (Non-Lyrical)]—under the right conditions, it allowed him to produce a heavenly voice.
And what was a heavenly voice? "A sound so divine, it belongs in the heavens—rarely heard in the mortal world."
The humming in The Wind Blows Through the Wheat perfectly fit the "non-lyrical" condition. It was Chu Zhi's ace. His voice seemed to evolve instantly into its ultimate form—warm, tender, and intoxicating.
The audience was transported to golden wheat fields, where a gentle breeze carried the scent of ripe grain. Country cats and dogs chased each other through the stalks. It was idyllic, soul-stirring—the kind of song that made you never want to leave.
One of music's highest callings was to let listeners luxuriate in sound. The Wind Blows Through the Wheat achieved this effortlessly. Both the audience and the contestants backstage were spellbound.
"We once sang in the fields,
Dreaming of winter's yield,
Yet never saw the autumn sun
Light up this golden shield.
Let our old vows take flight,
On the west wind's embrace,
Like your soft flowing hair,
That perfumed my dreamspace…"
Even Chu Zhi was mesmerized by his own humming in the earpiece. The "perfect vocals" lived up to their name—like eating a mythical renshenguo fruit, it elevated the song's essence to new heights.
A cool summer morning breeze.
Crystal-clear forest springs.
The misty clouds of Mount Hua.
The crimson glow of dusk.
All were serene, beautiful, and utterly irresistible.
"Mmmm… mmmm… mmmm…
La la la… la la la…"
The song featured four rounds of humming. Even by the fourth repetition, not a single soul grew tired of it. Each note still struck deep, resonating with something primal.
As the four-minute performance ended, the venue remained silent—no applause, just lingering in the afterglow.
It felt like…
The door is low, but the sun is bright.
Grass seeds form in silence,
Leaves tremble in the wind.
We stand here, wordless,
And that alone is beautiful.
After a long pause…
"Thank you to the band for your accompaniment," Chu Zhi said, acknowledging each musician by name—pianist, harpist, violinist—as a sign of respect.
Then, facing the audience: "Thank you for listening quietly. Truly, thank you."
Only after this second thanks did the spell break. Since surprise guests' votes were tallied last, Chu Zhi exited the stage first.
Then came the applause—a roaring wave, the instinctive response to something extraordinary.