"What's this, is Asia not big enough to hold this Buddha anymore? He actually ran off to dominate Europe and America now?" Ōmori Genjin from Japan muttered to himself. Then he thought about it again. Maybe Asia really wasn't big enough to contain Chu Sang anymore.
Setting Chu Zhi aside, was there anyone else who could even compare to him?
Wait, why should he set Chu Zhi aside? Ōmori Genjin pondered. Maybe in his heart, Chu Zhi wasn't a normal human anymore. He was like the anime project Ōmori had worked on before, Hypnosis Mic, a world where rappers fought with microphones. In that setting, singers could overwhelm armies with just their voices. Ōmori honestly felt Chu Zhi probably had some kind of superhuman ability ordinary people didn't.
A side note, both Earth folks and people in parallel worlds shouldn't ever Google that anime. Once you accept that setting, it's addictive.
"Mike Army's comeback album only sold three hundred thousand physical copies. This era really is a nightmare for physical records," Ōmori sighed. The album's quality was good, and digital sales weren't bad either.
He scrolled through Sony Records' market research report. It didn't just cover their own releases but the entire industry. Sony had such a massive research department, there's no way they'd only stare at their own tiny patch of land.
"All Nations, Vol. 1 sold two hundred and ten thousand this week, bringing the total to over seventeen million." Ōmori couldn't figure it out. In this hellish market where physical albums were dying everywhere, why was Chu Zhi the only one thriving? At this pace, give it another four or five years, All Nations, Vol. 1 could cross the twenty million mark.
Twenty million!
Even in the golden age of physical albums, only a handful had ever reached that number.
Regret? Ōmori had plenty. If anyone asked how much, his answer would be "extremely." He should've been more decisive. He should've used Sony's Western market strength to choke off Aiguo Company's distribution channels. If Aiguo couldn't spread its network, then All Nations, Vol. 1 would've been released under Sony. Just imagine how much more money they'd be making right now.
Sony could still pressure Aiguo Company anytime they wanted. After all, Sony was one of the Big Five music giants. But Chu Zhi's wings had fully grown. Religion was something even Sony Records didn't want to touch.
"This whole thing has something to do with me too," Ōmori suddenly realized.
Not long after, Shukan Bunshun's official site published an interview titled: "The Angel on Earth, Chu Zhi, and His Closest Work Partner Ōmori Genjin: On What Makes Him Different From Other Artists."
[Reporter: Minister Ōmori, what's the most striking impression Chu San left on you?
Ōmori Genjin: Discipline. Chu San's self-discipline is the most shocking I've ever seen among artists. It's like getting hit head-on by a heavy Isuzu truck. It feels like he wants to seize every single second of time in his hands.
Reporter: You're the head of Sony International's Copyright Department, you've handled countless records. The American magazine Global Rhythm wrote, "Among singers under 40, there's no one in the world who can match his (Chu Zhi's) performance skills." Do you agree?
Ōmori Genjin: I subscribe to Global Rhythm. I read that issue yesterday. The review was written by the chief editor, Mr. Madon Connor. Personally, I don't agree with him. Chu San's singing shouldn't be limited to 'under 40.' Music director Matsuki-san, during EP recordings, privately called him a "singing demon." I'll name a few songs: Opera 1, Opera 2, Left Hand Points to the Moon, Dedication, She Taught Me How to Yodel. Globally, there are very few artists who can perform these flawlessly in terms of technique. So I believe Chu San is at the very forefront of singers worldwide.
Reporter: Chu San is an outstanding artist, but he's not even thirty yet, and the world's full of great talents. Don't you think your evaluation is too high?
Ōmori Genjin: Mozart composed trios, minuets, and piano pieces at six years old. At fifteen, he was already famous across Europe and appointed court musician in Salzburg. The Marriage of Figaro, a world-famous opera, was written at age thirty. In his short thirty-five-year life, Mozart composed hundreds of works: operas, symphonies, concertos, sonatas, solo pieces. Ordinary geniuses find inspiration in life, but a Mozart-level genius is life's inspiration itself. There's no doubt Chu San is a Mozart-type genius.…]
The claim that Chu Zhi was one of the best pop singers in the world came from Japan, then spread with his fame across the globe.
Fans and casual listeners alike mostly agreed. Chu Zhi's reputation wasn't built on hype but on real, solid achievements.
Ōmori's interview—charitably speaking, it was riding the wave. Less charitably, it was blatant clout-chasing.
For the average Japanese Ragdoll fan or casual reader, the interview just inspired pride and awe. But for one man, it was a devastating blow. Yes, you've guessed it—the king of face-fans, Koguchi Yoshihiro.
"Why'd he have to say that? Why did Ōmori-san say that!" Koguchi Yoshihiro glared at the phrase "closest work partner." The words felt like needles in his eyes.
Shameless bastard! Everyone in Japan knew he was Chu Zhi's closest partner.
And songs like Left Hand Points to the Moon and Opera 1? Those were resources Koguchi Yoshihiro had dug up from who-knows-where.
Just look at his Twitter feed—sixty percent of his posts were Chu Zhi-related.
"Koguchi-san, it's time for you to go on stage," host Kosodei Kei reminded him.
"Something urgent came up, I need to return this call immediately. Please wait a moment," he replied.
A dying camel's still bigger than a horse. And bad press never erased solid results. Koguchi Yoshihiro was back at the peak of the celebrity pyramid. Which meant Kosodei Kei, host of Human Observation, couldn't afford to offend him and could only watch helplessly as he left.
The moment he stepped away, Koguchi Yoshihiro called Ōmori. Don't think he was overreacting. For a face-fan, appearances were no small matter!
What happened next? Two former face-fans turned big shots started quarreling. But before getting to that, let's talk about the "Masked Singer Incident" and the "Papal Recommendation" that rocked Asia. Many Asian countries had always been America-worshipping. What Chu Zhi did in the U.S. was like a god descending.
"Asia's pride, Brother Jiu's fame shakes Europe and America. Third Brother sends congratulations."
That was the front-page headline of India's hugely circulated Sun Eye Daily.
Yonhap News in South Korea: "The most successful post-90s artist, Chu Zhi becomes the first Asian star to appear on Time Magazine (U.S. edition). JYP's 'Chu Zhi star-making' model achieves early success, Three Chu boy band releases new single."
Thailand Post: "King Vajiralongkorn expresses admiration for Chu Zhi, calling him his favorite singer, and hopes to invite him to dinner."
The entire Asian entertainment scene was shaken.
In Japan and Korea, Chu Zhi's two EPs, After the Clouds Clear and A Little Expectation for the World, suddenly went from crawling sales to skyrocketing numbers. At the peak of the buzz, they sold 160,000 and 197,000 copies in three days.
Meanwhile in Indonesia, Singapore, and Vietnam, thanks to Aiguo Company's distribution, Little Fruits Are Sweet gained over 800,000 new sales.
The direct financial gain was tens of millions. With fame rising, money was just falling from the sky.
Meanwhile, over in Hollywood—
"Thinking about what I once told Mr. Chu Zhi, I can only laugh at my own shortsightedness," Norman Conk chuckled, literally mocking himself.
"What did you say?" Cameron asked, then seemed to realize. "Wait, I think I said something similar."
Then both men spoke in unison:
"If he focused on film scoring, he'd definitely become a master."
"His musical talent's extraordinary. If he went into scoring, he'd achieve even greater success."
They laughed at each other. Chu Zhi's two scoring jobs had impressed them so much that they made those remarks.
But after the third episode aired, even the Pope praised him. Their earlier judgments now felt embarrassingly short-sighted. Sure, becoming a film score master was impressive. Sometimes a movie's success did depend on its score. But no matter what, a score alone could never create this kind of global heat.
"When's Grand Canyon West releasing?" Cameron asked curiously.
"It's tentatively scheduled for year's end," Norman Conk replied. "How much box office do you expect Unsinkable to make?"
"It needs at least 800 million worldwide to break even," Cameron muttered. "Ideally, I'm hoping for a billion."
A billion dollars would rank in the top 50 of all time, no easy feat for a commercial blockbuster. Norman Conk could feel the weight on his friend's shoulders.
But if they pulled it off, Cameron would rocket to new heights.
"Should've released it in April," Cameron sighed regretfully. With Chu Zhi's worldwide hype, timing the release would've meant tens of millions more at the box office.
"Who could've predicted this?" Norman Conk shifted the topic. "Star Wars remake's in prep. Tuna's the director. I recommended Mr. Chu Zhi for the score."
Quick explainer: Tuna was their nickname for director Tuni, since Tuni and "tunny" (tuna) sound similar in English. Norman Conk and Cameron were close friends with him.
Also, Star Wars was America's most iconic sci-fi film series, born in the 80s, basically their version of Journey to the West. Disney was rebooting it, and even though filming hadn't started, Hollywood was buzzing.
But recommending Chu Zhi overlooked one big issue—he had zero free time.
His popularity kept climbing. Saturday rolled around again.
With Azazel eliminated, the fourth episode's ratings were cut in half. No matter how much promotion they tried, they couldn't save it.
The hype plummeted, but compared to other shows airing at the same time, it was still outstanding.
Meanwhile, Penguin Video spent "a bajillion" to buy the Chinese streaming rights for the American version of Masked Singer.