Song: "The Internationale"
Performer: Azazel
The moment Azazel's name card popped up in the corner of the screen, everyone watching froze in disbelief. Rayne paid close attention to the people around him. His buddy Gibran, who usually had a face full of wrinkles, now had his mouth hanging open in an "O" shape and his eyes bulging wide like another "o." His whole face looked like one of those stress-balls made of crystal slime, stretched and distorted by shock, so much so that even the wrinkles smoothed out.
And Gibran wasn't even the most dramatic. Plenty of the gathered believers were clutching their chests, staring at Azazel on the screen like their hearts were about to leap out. For the first time in their lives, they desperately prayed that this was just clickbait, that the song title wasn't real.
But their prayers were in vain.
From the speakers came the unmistakable opening of The Internationale.
🎵 "Arise, ye prisoners of starvation, arise ye wretched of the earth. For justice thunders condemnation, a better world's in birth…" 🎵
The song didn't just silence millions across North America, it ignited the fighting spirit in many.
With the sound of the honey badger woven into the performance, the air was thick with raw defiance. Even someone like Rayne, who'd always accepted life's unfairness with quiet resignation, felt waves of emotions surge inside him. For hotheaded crowds who already thought fate had cheated them, the effect was explosive.
"Let's go! We're marching on the White House! No, we're liberating the White House!" The one shouting was Qian, leader of the redneck militia [MineGun], who'd just organized a march of thousands the week before.
That last protest was against the state raising health insurance premiums. Cops had clashed with them, people got hurt, and in the end nothing changed. Qian was frustrated then, but after just a few minutes of The Internationale, he felt powerful again, like he could take on the world.
The term "redneck" had started as an insult, meaning "white trash" or "violent hick," but thanks to years of political spin, it had shifted into something neutral or even proud. Members of groups like his even wore red bandanas to show their identity.
"We've gotta fight for what we deserve." Qian's eyes burned with resolve. He didn't care about communism, he only believed in the guns in his hands and the actions he led himself.
And it wasn't just [MineGun] that was set on fire. Organization after organization felt the same spark.
Take Nevada Rose, for example. Any seasoned driver in America knew Nevada was one of the rare states where prostitution was legal. The "roses" were the sex workers there, and their group was demanding the government step in to regulate oil prices. Rising fuel costs meant fewer truckers stopping by, which was devastating for their trade. Red-light districts were collapsing.
The honey badger's roar had become the voice of rebellion, and even Chu Zhi, the self-proclaimed Emperor Beast, hadn't expected it to work this well…
Back in the church, Azazel was eliminated after singing The Internationale. Before, no one believed a singer who'd crushed the stage in earlier rounds could possibly be knocked out. Now, they understood why.
It was simple. Even though the audience were devout, they were still Americans. In a Cold War of ideologies, singing The Internationale on American soil was an automatic death sentence. But if Azazel was eliminated, would he reveal his face? That thought had every viewer leaning in closer. Countless music critics wracked their brains, desperate to guess who he really was.
What came next was best described by a line from a famous balladeer's song: "One wave hasn't died before the next crashes in, one hasn't passed before another has already gone."
In front of everyone's eyes, the mask came off.
And under it was a refined, striking face… an Asian face.
Azazel was Chinese!
The impact was even greater than hearing The Internationale. Exclamation marks alone couldn't express the shock that thundered through the church.
"Oh Lord, are you not protecting America anymore? What did I just see tonight?"
"He looks like a Chinese singer."
"That can't be right, someone closest to the Lord couldn't possibly be Chinese."
"Pastor Bronson, what's going on? Didn't you say Azazel had to be a righteous man?"
"Were you lying to us?"
The questions poured in, and for once, Bronson, always quick on his tongue, had no answer.
In scripture, a "righteous man" meant someone living with the justice of God, someone completely devoted to the Lord. The real question burning in the believers' hearts was: how could a Chinese man possibly be one?
Gibran suddenly leapt to his feet, shouting, "There's no way Azazel's Chinese! This has to be a conspiracy by the producers! They planted a Chinese singer to impersonate him. I've got proof! This so-called Chinese singer worked with Fox on a film, invested hundreds of millions, it's called Unsinkable, and they're already promoting it everywhere.
Everyone knows Hollywood hardly ever puts Chinese actors in lead roles. Audiences don't buy it, and eight times out of ten, it loses money. So Fox killed off the real Azazel and swapped him with this imposter!" The more he spoke, the more convinced he was.
The crowd actually nodded. It made sense—being replaced would explain why tonight's performance was so completely different.
But that conspiracy theory collapsed instantly when Chu Zhi opened his mouth again.
This time, he sang Amazing Grace.
🎵 "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me…" 🎵
The angelic voice washed over the hall, silencing every doubt.
Just one lyric, and believers fell quiet.
Gibran's chest loosened, as if the crushing guilt he'd carried for years had finally been lifted. In his youth, he'd abandoned his wife and children, and he'd lived with that shame ever since. Now, for the first time, he felt forgiven.
That was the power of Christianity. The Lord's grace could pardon any sin. And who hadn't made mistakes that tormented them in their life?
It wasn't just Gibran. Rayne saw many close their eyes, their faces softening in relief, as if they'd been saved.
Rayne wasn't a believer, so he stayed detached, but even he had to admit Chu Zhi's voice was nothing short of a spiritual cleansing.
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
Why did it stop? Was there more?
The audience was left hanging, restless and unsatisfied.
Pastor Bronson quickly stepped up. With his usual eloquence, he declared, "I believe Mr. Chu Zhi is a faithful believer. Yes, he's Chinese, and yes, he sang The Internationale, but one's political stance and one's faith are two different things. The Lord wouldn't reject a communist Chinese man any more than He'd reject any sinner among us. I still believe Mr. Chu Zhi is a righteous man!"
The logic was smooth, the delivery firm. The crowd nodded, convinced. Chu Zhi sang The Internationale because of his nationality, but that didn't change the fact that his voice was closest to God. His Amazing Grace wasn't fake.
He'd written Jesus Loves Me, and countless churches had adopted it.
He'd brought joy with his yodeling song.
All of it was true.
"I must apologize to Mr. Chu Zhi." Gibran lowered his head. "That conspiracy theory I spouted just now was ridiculous. To make up for it, I'll buy two of his albums tomorrow."
"I've heard over twenty versions of Amazing Grace, even from pop divas, but none compare to this man's a cappella."
"Can Mr. Chu Zhi please release a full version of Amazing Grace?"
Voices rose one after another, almost all apologizing. They apologized to Chu Zhi, and to Bronson, too, since many had doubted him earlier.
Rayne watched it all, his mind turning. "Doesn't scripture say, 'The wicked will not go unpunished, but the offspring of the righteous will be delivered'? Would God really forgive them this easily?"
He imagined a pastor telling his stepmother, "The Lord will forgive your sins." He'd kick that pastor on the spot. Forgive her? Why the hell should she be forgiven?
When The Masked Singer ended, Bronson launched into his sermon, weaving Chu Zhi's performance into his preaching. By the time Rayne and Gibran left the church, it was already ten at night.
Rayne pulled out his phone, seeing a string of missed calls, all from his father. When he called back, his father immediately began scolding him. Rayne was used to it; that had been their way of "communicating" since childhood. No matter what Rayne said, his father always opened with a barrage of accusations.
"Our family's been faithful for three generations, and your stepmother Marison is a believer too. If you'd just become a servant of the Lord with us, you wouldn't be like this now, neither man nor woman."
He'd heard this insult countless times before, but tonight, the words lit a fire inside him. He wanted to shout the truth—that it was Marison who'd ruined his life—but he swallowed it back down.
Telling his father now would only lead to disbelief, arguments, and chaos in the family. All reasons stacked into one conclusion: "It's not worth it." But the anger didn't fade. He hung up, his mood ruined.
"Rayne, watch out." Gibran tugged his arm.
Up ahead, a group was marching in the streets even this late at night. Pedestrians quickly stepped aside.
"What's this?" Rayne asked.
Gibran glanced at his phone, where news updates were flooding in. "It's another protest against rising healthcare costs. If my info's right, there are over a dozen protests breaking out nationwide tonight, all sparked by what just aired on The Masked Singer."
On social feeds, posts exploded:
[We'll reclaim the fruits of our labor, break free from these chains. Why won't they pay me overtime while squeezing me dry?]
[I'm about to be homeless. I lost my lawsuit. The company spent hundreds of thousands on lawyers but refused to give me thirty thousand in severance.]
[If we don't unite, we have no tomorrow.]
[Happiness is ours to build. This country is full of discrimination and unfairness.]
"Incredible. One song caused this many protests?" Gibran's face was pale. "I thought the communist party here was tiny, barely worth mentioning. How's it suddenly this powerful?"
Rayne stayed calmer. "Mr. Chu Zhi's voice carries rebellion. Maybe it's tied to how his people once suffered so much fighting fascism. But these protests don't have anything to do with party politics here. These problems already existed. His song lit the match, and now others are pouring gasoline on the fire. It's only gonna get worse."
"You're saying someone's using Mr. Chu Zhi's song for their own schemes?" Gibran asked, shocked.
"Will Mr. Chu Zhi be alright? What if they ban him from America, or pull all his music?" Half of Amazing Grace had already turned Gibran into a fan, so his voice trembled with worry. Mostly, he was scared he'd never hear that song again when he needed it most.
"No one knows where this is heading. But it's not some scheme—it's real injustice that was already here. Mr. Chu Zhi just gave it a voice." Rayne lit a cigarette. "But if there's ever a march for gender minorities, I'll be there."
That very night, protests multiplied faster than even Fox's top brass had feared.
News alerts hit phones across the country:
"Thirty injured in Highland Park, Illinois as [Yearning for Equality] protest turns violent tonight."
"Massive demonstrations erupt in California. Government cavalry clashed with protesters."
"These are real people, all hurt." Kisingle, head of Fox's publicity department, felt a pang of pity.
But only for a few minutes. Soon he was drafting the next campaign plan, binding every protest headline with The Internationale broadcast. As a true capitalist, pity was fine—but profit always came first.
In America, Chu Zhi had shaken the world.
The top three headlines nationwide were:
"Protests erupt across multiple states."
"Angel Azazel sings The Internationale."
"Azazel revealed as Chu Zhi."
One plus one plus one didn't equal three. It was bigger than three. Every grad student knew that. Chu Zhi had become a national obsession.
"What the hell?" Leighton, lead singer of a seven-member group, had been so drained from six fan meetings earlier that day he'd gone to bed early. He woke up to find the world flipped upside down.
"Azazel's that Chinese guy?!" Leighton shut off his phone and buried his head back in the pillow, hoping a reboot would fix things. But when he turned it back on, the news hadn't changed.
He even logged into BMI to check for himself.
America's four big copyright agencies—ASCAP, BMI, SESAC, and SoundExchange—had already switched the data from locked to public overnight.
Jesus Loves Me and She Taught Me How to Yodel were both listed under:
Composer: Chu Zhi
Lyricist: Chu Zhi
Performer: Chu Zhi
Language: English
Record Label: Aiguo Entertainment (China)
Details showed the genre, mixing, arrangements, and more.
In China, lyrics were prioritized. In the West, the composition mattered more. None of it mattered to Leighton.
What mattered was…
He prayed things wouldn't spiral further out of control. But when he opened Twitter, the comments under his latest posts hit like knives:
[Mr. Leighton, you must really love Mr. Chu Zhi. When the whole world didn't know who Azazel was, you publicly showed support.]
[That's the mark of a true fan!]
[Unbelievable. Leighton, you like this Chinese singer so much?]
[You're acting like a crazed fanboy.]
His arms went limp, phone slipping. Things had already gone the worst possible way. He collapsed back into bed, muttering, "I'm done. Why the hell is that Chinese guy everywhere? Even under my blanket, all I see is him."
He wasn't the only one suffering. Madson had gone to bed early with no schedule. When he woke and saw the truth about Azazel, he downed three glasses of water and two salads just to steady himself.
He dug deeper into Chu Zhi's background and discovered something unnerving. Before his second appearance on The Masked Singer, there was no record of him ever performing yodeling, no training, nothing. Yet he'd sung a yodel so flawless, Madson couldn't even dream of matching it.
It felt impossible.
He gulped down another glass of water, miserable enough to skip his morning workout.
Headlines blared everywhere:
"Azazel Revealed: Chu Zhi" — Chicago Tribune
"Witness the Birth of the World's Most Famous Chinese Star" — Los Angeles Times
"Angel or Temptation? Chu Zhi's Voice Sparks Protests Nationwide" — New York Times
"Is He Really the Closest Man to God?" — Wall Street Journal
Newspapers filled with his name, not just in entertainment sections but in society news.
Religious outlets praised him the loudest:
"In the 18th century, John Newton wrote the hymn Amazing Grace. He transformed from a violent sailor and slave trader into a pastor and leader of the abolition movement. Newton was a figure the political and religious history of England couldn't exist without. For over three centuries, countless artists sang Amazing Grace. But on April 12, 2025, a new, perfect version was born. 'Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me…' It was as if thousands of believers sang through Chu Zhi's throat." — Christian Times
The Christian Post, Gospel Herald, Catholic National Chronicle, and others echoed the same praise.
With one original song, Jesus Loves Me, and half a cover of Amazing Grace, Chu Zhi had carved an unforgettable place in the hearts of believers worldwide.