On her way home, Niu Jiangxue's phone buzzed. The caller ID showed a Paris number.
She answered cautiously.
A man's voice came through, "Miss Nat, sorry to bother you."
"Nat" was her English name. She stayed cautious.
"I'm George Robdrick. I'd like to discuss something with you, it'll only take a few minutes."
That name sounded awfully familiar… She thought about it and then it clicked. He was the former music director of Polydor, now executive vice president of the Grammy committee. He'd worked with Frozenman, Presley, Akenda Bell, and produced more classic records than she could count on both hands. In short, a heavyweight in the international music scene.
Right, it was May. Of course, the Grammys were beginning to form their judging panel.
Every November they announced nominations online, and the awards ceremony came in January the following year.
Her guess was only half right though. Even though the year was barely halfway through, most of the Grammy awards were already decided.
Take two for example: Best Gospel Song and Best Contemporary Christian Music Song. Then there were the big ones—Album of the Year, Song of the Year, Best Pop Solo Performance, Best Pop Vocal Album. No matter how much politics went on behind the scenes, they had to throw out at least a couple of proper awards.
The thought made her laugh. Last year Chu Zhi's All Nations, Vol. 1, which sold 16 million copies, didn't win a real award. Instead he got some ridiculous "Music Care Person of the Year" side prize. Now that his name had blown up in the U.S., they suddenly realized they couldn't keep him off the board?
The committee's real message was clear: as long as Chu Zhi didn't openly reject the awards, everything was negotiable. And why was it possible to "decide" awards before voting even began? The same reason it happened at the Oscars—look at who sat on the committee.
George's voice softened. "This is just my personal opinion, but Mr. Chu doesn't need the Grammys' recognition at all. On the contrary, because of his influence among Christians worldwide, the Grammys need his recognition. The conditions they've offered aren't enough. Miss Nat, you and Mr. Chu should think it over."
The words made sense, but hearing them from George felt strange.
Wasn't he the Grammy vice president? Wasn't he basically tearing down his own platform? Her guard went up immediately. She could tell he had another agenda.
That was why she was only half right. George's call wasn't just about the Grammys…
But enough about him. Something bigger was happening.
"I'm too badass," Chu Zhi muttered to himself.
Why? Because he'd just received an invitation from the State Council to join their Counselor's Office.
The Counselor's Office was one of the five vice-ministerial-level institutions directly under the State Council. To put it simply, its weight was right up there with the National Bureau of Statistics, the National Healthcare Security Administration, the International Development Cooperation Agency, and the Government Offices Administration.
Members fell into two categories: non-Party experts and prominent Party scholars. The office had existed for more than seventy years, and its total number of counselors barely exceeded two hundred. Only about fifty were currently active. Chu Zhi, as an "artist with massive influence both at home and abroad," was the very first figure from the entertainment industry ever invited to join. Literature had only ever produced two counselors.
Counselors were technically just advisors, but if someone already held a position, their rank automatically rose a level.
Take Ge Jian, for example, the executive vice president of Beijing Normal University. Normally that was a bureau-level position. But because he was also a counselor, he was treated as vice-ministerial level, equal to the university's president and Party secretary.
In other words, Chu Zhi's honorary post now carried bureau-level rank, and with this counselor's title, it bumped him up to vice-ministerial level—province top twenty, status-wise.
After the Pope praised his renditions of Amazing Grace and Jesus Loves Me, the government had wanted to give him an honorary upgrade. But the Ministry of Culture and Publicity Department already had their own chief consultants. There was nowhere else to promote him. This solution was the compromise.
Of course, he had to accept formally. That meant heading to Zhongnanhai.
Zhongnanhai was in Xicheng District, Beijing, home to most of China's top institutions. Chu Zhi had known the name since he was little, thanks to a movie called The Bodyguard from Zhongnanhai.
"Careful, don't get cocky," he mumbled.
"I've gotta stay steady. If I don't, I'll ruin myself in the end."
"You're still young, you've got years to fight. Remember the path you set: leader of Gen Z, pillar of Chinese music, Asian star, Asian king, international artist, global superstar, cultural icon. It's not about an era with you in it, it's about the Era of Chu Zhi."
"Look at you, five or six years after crossing over, only now reaching global superstar. And even that came thanks to the Pope. You're still far from being a true icon. What are you getting cocky for? You're embarrassing every transmigrator out there!"
After giving himself a good mental slap, he calmed down. The road ahead was long.
He received his counselor ID and certificate, met a handful of high-ranking officials, then went to the office at No. 11 Dongdajie, Qianmen.
Inside were over a dozen counselors, mostly heavyweight scholars. Professor Shi specialized in big data mining, virtual economy, and cross-disciplinary management. He was an academician of the Third World Academy of Sciences and the International Eurasian Academy of Sciences, and he also headed two research institutes at the Chinese Academy of Sciences.
Compared to them, Chu Zhi stuck out like a sore thumb. Most counselors were over fifty, already established in their fields, and entertainment was the least of their concerns. Finance was way more complicated.
Still, it wasn't that they were out of touch. When he introduced himself, they all recognized him. One professor even asked him to sign an autograph for his grandson.
The Counselor's Office was a quiet place. After greeting the director and making his rounds, he slipped out.
"The youngest counselor in China's history. The government made the right call," Professor Li sighed. "Kids chase stars like crazy these days."
He wasn't just anyone. He was the former dean of Tsinghua University's School of Economics and Management, poached by the Central Bank to join the Monetary Policy Committee, and a recipient of the Sun Yefang Prize in Economics.
Professor Shi smiled. "Our generation's efforts were so the next could follow their hearts. The fact that more young people idolize entertainers just shows our nation's strength has grown."
"As long as it's the right idols," Professor Li added. He remembered his recent trip to Venezuela, where he'd attended a global financial meeting called Save Bolívar.
Venezuela had rich oil reserves but crushing poverty. Its currency, the Bolívar, had collapsed. Citizens were desperate. Many young girls turned to beauty pageants as their only way out. Families spent everything on plastic surgery. Some girls as young as four or five skipped school to study modeling. Without money, many turned to back-alley doctors, injecting crude oil as filler. One infection ruined them for life.
"What kind of life is that…" Professor Li sighed.
"You sure know a lot about pop culture," Professor Shi teased.
"My grandson's obsessed with stars," Professor Li admitted. "His parents are always busy, and so am I. He lives with my in-laws now. Sorry, old age makes me ramble."
"Every family has its struggles," Professor Shi said kindly. "But having someone like Chu Zhi in the entertainment circle is a blessing."
Thanks to repeated features in People's Daily, Chu Zhi's image among these scholars was positive.
At 7 p.m., Professor Li left early for once and went home to his apartment inside the Fourth Ring.
Both his son and daughter-in-law worked at the North Vehicle Research Institute under China North Industries Group. His son was a researcher, his daughter-in-law a deputy researcher, both busier than him.
Funny thing was, he was a humanities giant, but his son had chosen science. Becoming a senior researcher there was no small feat.
"I've got a gift for you, Xiao Yi," he told his fifteen-year-old grandson when he walked in. "You'll love it, but I bet you can't guess what it is."
"Skateboard?" Li Yi frowned. He'd been eyeing a Yueqida practice board for months, priced over six grand. But his grandpa hadn't carried anything in with him.
"Nope, better than a skateboard."
Yeah, right. He literally dreamed of skateboards. What gift could top that?
"Ta-da!" Professor Li pulled out a notebook like a kid showing off.
Li Yi accepted it with a blank face. A used notebook? He flipped through—just some scribbles.
Was this about to turn into a study lesson? He wasn't into learning. If not for wanting to collect Orange Home stars, he wouldn't have worked so hard for his exams last year.
Books weren't nearly as fun as skateboards.
"Turn to the last page. The rest is nothing," his grandpa said.
He flipped it, still confused, then froze.
[Wishing Li Yi success in his studies — Chu Zhi]
"Brother Jiu's autograph?!" he blurted out.
Professor Li blinked. "This scribble's his? I can barely read it."
"Of course it is! Look, Jiu-yé's name has such artistic flair. It's beautiful, how could you not tell?" Li Yi's face lit up. This was a personalized autograph!
"Better than a skateboard?" Professor Li grinned.
"No question. I could save up for a skateboard, but this? You can't buy it with money!"
"Where'd you get it?"
"Ran into him today. He was registering at the office. When I found out he was your idol, I asked him to sign."
"Registering?!" Li Yi's eyes popped. If not for the autograph in his hand, he'd think his grandpa was joking.
"Chu Zhi's a newly appointed counselor for the State Council," Professor Li explained. "He joined the office today, as an advisor for the entertainment industry."
Li Yi knew exactly who his grandpa was, but now Brother Jiu was also a counselor? And under thirty? That was insane.
Wait… He hesitated. "Grandpa, am I even allowed to know this?"
"Why not? The Counselor's Office has an official website. The list of counselors is public. The State Council even puts out announcements for new appointments. Nothing secret here."
Relieved, he still wondered why no one had talked about it. The only counselor from the entertainment industry? That was definitely headline-worthy.
"You're thinking about posting the news, aren't you?" Professor Li asked, seeing right through him.
"Uh, no." He shook his head fast.
"Good. If it were worth promoting, Chu Zhi's company would've done it already. If they've stayed quiet, there's a reason."
That made sense. Still, Li Yi thought Brother Jiu was the coolest. Probably the most amazing post-'90s artist in the world.
"Is he handsome in person? Handsomer than in photos?" He pulled out his phone. His lock screen was Chu Zhi, though his home screen was a photo of a classmate—he couldn't show that.
"Better looking in person. This photo's got bad lighting. His skin's much better in real life. Handsome young man, that's the best way to put it."
Li Yi's jaw dropped. So that explained why fans always said Brother Jiu didn't photograph well. Turned out it was true.
Time slipped by quietly. The official site of the State Council of Cultural Affairs actually published the news that Chu Zhi had joined the Advisory Office. But nobody really paid attention. Ordinary people liked gossip about politics, not official announcements.
Since the netizens weren't interested, no self-media outlet bothered to report it. Instead, one piece of news about Chu Zhi exploded across the entire internet.
It was about the monthly sales tally for Besieged on All Sides. On Taobao, 770,000 copies. JD, 680,000. Pinduoduo, 1.01 million. Dangdang, 210,000. Then came Amazon, normally the underdog buddy of Dangdang, suddenly flipping the table in the last stretch of the month. Out of nowhere, it crushed even Pinduoduo, hitting a jaw-dropping 1.46 million copies.
Amazon's sudden rise wasn't because its market share in China had magically ballooned. It was because fans in Japan, Korea, Indonesia, Malaysia, and other countries heard their idol had a new album and flocked to Amazon to buy it.
This was his sixth Chinese album since debut (counting the two from his predecessor). Aiguo never even planned to sell in other countries, so outside China, there weren't any sales channels at all. Promotion? Basically zero. Under those conditions, Asian fans only had one simple, accessible way left—Amazon.
So of that 1.46 million, at least 80 percent came from foreign Little Fruits.
77 + 68 + 101 + 21 + 146… a math problem so difficult it obviously required artificial intelligence. Time to open the calculator. The answer: 4.13 million. Add in smaller channels like NetEase Cloud Music, or little mini-programs like Sound Library, that piled on another 500,000-plus.
Which meant, in the end, Besieged on All Sides sold 4.68 million copies in a single month.
Forget just the Chinese music scene. Even people inside Aiguo were dizzy, like motion-sick tourists in Shancheng after two hours in a taxi—completely woozy.
Niu Jiangxue had only wanted to build a foundation, aiming for a million sales just to shake up the industry.
Fei Ge was a little more grounded. He figured the boss, with more than double Lin Xia's fanbase, might sell 800,000 or 900,000, enough to double Lin Xia's record.
Lao Qian's head was in the clouds. He was sure they'd break two million easy.
Others like Qi Qiu, Wang Yuan, and Xu Kaixian all guessed around a million or so.
Now? They were all shell-shocked. Someone even joked, "If All Nations, Vol. 1, which sold 16 million copies its first month, had been released physically in China, wouldn't it have broken 20 million?"
Too bad "what if" doesn't count.
They really should've held a victory banquet. Too bad the man of the hour had already flown abroad, leaving Aiguo's celebration a little hollow. Still, Niu Niu approved a budget of 110,000 yuan, about 3,000 per person, so even the most ordinary staff felt the joy.
And to top it off, April's paycheck came with a bonus worth two extra months' salary.
Now that was what you call generosity!
The Emperor Beast never bought into "wolf pack culture." His management philosophy had always been, "Pay enough for the job, and if you want the horse to run, you better feed it grass." Of course, he liked to sprinkle in some "small tricks" too.
Like this time. Even though Chu Zhi couldn't attend the banquet, he still posted a commendation letter on the company forum: 'Together, we've created a record in the history of Chinese music.' In the letter, he just "casually" mentioned that the two-month bonus was his decision. If people work hard, they deserve to know their efforts were seen.
The bonus alone was several million. But honestly? It wasn't a loss at all.
An album sold for over 80 yuan. The included photocards cost about 15 yuan to produce. Add in design and packaging, and the factory cost capped at 20. Subtract the distributor's cut, and the company cleared about 50 yuan per album.
Now do the math. Over 4 million albums. Even after taxes, that was nearly 200 million yuan in profit. In just one month.
China News Network: ["4.68 Million Physical Album Sales Strongly Rebuke Jezall's Remarks" — Chu Zhi's new album Besieged on All Sides, released mid-April, sold 4.684 million copies in China according to IFPI statistics. Warner Records CEO Jezall had claimed in Rolling Stone magazine that 'Chinese people have weak copyright awareness, always wanting freebies. The best proof is that their physical books and albums don't even reach one-tenth of Japan's sales.' His remarks have sparked heated debate.]
The CEO's comments were ridiculous. He was clearly pointing at Japan, the so-called "physical media island," which still led the world in physical sales. Only South Korea, which built its entertainment industry into a national pillar, could even compete.
As for "liking freebies"… come on, who in the world doesn't like freebies?
Using Chu Zhi as a counterexample wasn't really convincing either. Everyone knew he was way beyond the norm. Comparing him to regular stars was pointless.
Was copyright awareness in China weak? Somewhat. But it was complicated, tied to national conditions, management, and education. And the younger generations—post-90s, 95s, 00s—were improving fast. Progress didn't come from nowhere.
The rebuttal felt a little forced. Still, official media making a blunder or two wasn't anything shocking. Nobody's perfect.
Meanwhile, Lin Xia leaned back, smug. "Retiring from the music scene was the smartest damn move I ever made. If I don't release albums, the market won't have any of mine!" He was glad he'd focused fully on acting. No way was he gonna fight in Chu Zhi's lane.
To be fair, Lin Xia had done well, building a loyal fanbase with singing before transitioning to TV dramas and movies.
Then there was Zhou Yiyu, laughing like a madman. "Hahaha, hehehe, hohoho, I'm not crazy, the stats must be wrong! Four-point-six million Diamond Albums? Fake, fake, all fake!" He'd once been proud of his few hundred thousand in sales, thinking he was "saving physical albums." Now it just felt like a joke.
"Yiyu, calm down. Nobody in the country can compare to Chu Zhi. All we need is to make sure you're second place. That's good enough," his agent Zhan Ge said.
Zhou Yiyu froze. Right. One rung below wasn't bad at all.
Lin Xia and Zhou Yiyu's reactions alone showed how hard Chu Zhi's success had rocked the industry. Plenty of singers were questioning their life choices.
Music journals were churning out headlines:
4.6 Million Sales, Are Physical Albums Reviving in China? — Music Research Daily
Chu Zhi Creates Another Miracle — Entertainment Weekly
Can His Myth Be Replicated?! — NetEase Music Live
And critics had their say too.
"This has to be fake. How could China produce an album that sells over four million copies? I don't believe it!" said Gu Duofu, a well-known domestic music critic.
Funny thing was, he'd always been a Chu Zhi stan online. He fully acknowledged his talent and popularity. He could even believe Chu Zhi's digital albums were number one in the world. But physical sales? That was history's wheel moving forward. Who could turn it back?
"Even in the golden age of physical albums more than a decade ago, breaking four million in a month was nearly impossible." Gu Duofu knew the market better than anyone—he studied it for a living.
Nowadays, casual listeners never bought physical albums. Only hardcore fans did. For 4.6 million sales, that meant 30–40 million fans? Impossible. He hadn't even bought one himself.
The more he understood, the more shocking it was. He double-checked through all his industry connections. The IFPI data was correct. The Diamond certification was real. No loopholes. It went against market laws. And yet Chu Zhi had done it. Gu Duofu muttered to himself, "It's unscientific. I need to figure out why."
After pulling an all-nighter, his "groundbreaking" conclusion was: Chu Zhi's myth can't be replicated. A whole night's work, and he'd reached what everyone already knew.
Meanwhile, another internet-famous critic, Zuo Yang Feixing, dropped a viral article: Is Besieged on All Sides Any Good?
["Jazz, rap, rock, folk, soul—I've never seen an album with so many styles. Besieged on All Sides really does come at you from all directions. There's no single theme, it feels more like a compilation album from a record label.
But the intro says these were just Chinese songs Chu Zhi wrote as he pleased. Jealous of his god-tier talent yet? Especially the rock tracks Sunflower and Blue Lotus, both are strong contenders for Song of the Year.
The End of War's Sorrow with its gothic arrangement? A new dark anthem, right up there with Chapter Seven of the Night.
Having You All My Life and Those Flowers? Two of the best folk tracks in recent years, guaranteed to be sung over and over.
One word for this album: 'treasure.' Also, everyone better go listen. Don't make me get on my knees to beg you!!"]
Calling it a "compilation album" wasn't even an insult. Fans were celebrating, and Besieged on All Sides was a universal hit.
As for Chu Zhi, he was already in the nanny van on his way to Philadelphia International Airport. Being a star meant getting used to life as a frequent flyer, especially when you were the Emperor Beast.
"System bro, I just remembered something important. Real important."
When the plane lifted off, he called out inwardly.
[Please speak.] The system chimed in.
"Last year and this year, I never got the 'Apprentice Magician' rewards, did I?"
['Apprentice Magician' is an active achievement. If the host doesn't claim it, it won't be counted.]
"Oh really? So you're saying you didn't just forget to give it, and now you're covering with an excuse?" He squinted suspiciously.
[The system doesn't lie to the host.]
"Fine, fine, I'll believe you. We're brothers, after all—different fathers, different mothers, but brothers. And as the big bro, I have to trust my little bro. Anyway, I'm claiming the Apprentice Magician achievement coins now."
Twenty-six and still single? Reward: 7 coins.
Twenty-seven and still single? Reward: 8 coins.
Fifteen coins instantly dropped in. Balance: 59 coins.
"Honestly, with this many coins, if I don't roll at least twice, won't I look stingy?" He immediately spun the gacha.
[World's Best Phone Case]
[Title: Rain God]
[Title: King of Serenity]
[Song Voucher ×2]
[German Mastery]
[Special Prize: Walter Laird's Talent]
Special prize again, and once again he had no idea who that was. Too many geniuses in the music world.
He checked the pool details. Walter Laird, hailed as the God of Latin Dance. He'd literally written the textbooks for modern Latin.
Impressive, no doubt. But Chu Zhi wasn't interested. Maybe it was bias, but dancing felt like a wall he couldn't cross.
"Not this one, system bro."
Of course, Murphy's Law said the more you didn't want something, the more likely it was to happen. All up to the system now.
"World's Best Phone Case? These blind boxes are getting weirder."
Apparently, it fit any phone, transformed to suit it, and guaranteed no screen cracks no matter how far it fell.
Black tech. Amazing. If it ever got mass produced, the phone repair industry would be doomed.
"German Mastery again? Boring. I'd rather have a dialect skill."
Then came the titles.
Rain God's passive ability: anywhere he went, 90 percent chance of heavy rain.
"Ninety percent?! That's basically a weather weapon. And this is just miracle-grade? Shouldn't it be at least epic?"
The second title was even crazier: King of Serenity.
He only knew the "Ning Wang" from the esports scene because his stylist Uncle Chen once taught him League of Legends. But this title used the "ning" for serenity.
Once activated, any song he sang would bring peace of mind.
"Wait, doesn't that overlap with Angel's Gospel?" he asked the system.
[Different emphasis. King of Serenity can calm even those raging with anger, even violent intent.]
"So basically, if you broadcast it, both sides of a battle could put down their weapons?"
[Correct.]
That was no joke. This wasn't just an epic skill, it was borderline supernatural. Add Angel's Gospel on top… what, give everyone a mic and achieve world peace?
"Alright then. Let's see what else I roll."
He opened another blind box. [Title: King of Serenity].
"No way, really?"
Stopping wars was just a joke, not a mission. But still, the title's power was clear.
The skill didn't cancel the highs of rock or the energy of rap. It was only triggered when anger or grief pushed someone past the threshold, when every outside sound became unbearable noise. King of Serenity flipped that into calm and safety.
"Amazing skill. Useless for now, though." He closed his eyes to rest. After all, once he landed in China, he still had to show up at the Unsinkable premiere.
===
"夜的第七章" "Yè de dì qī zhāng" (Night's Chapter Seven)
Original Singer: 周杰伦 (Jay Chou)
"止战之殇" "Zhǐ zhàn zhī shāng" (The Scar of the Ceasefire)
Original Singer: 周杰伦 (Jay Chou)
"向阳花""Xiàngyáng huā" (Sunflower)
Original Singer: 谢天笑 (Xie Tianxiao)