Washington, D.C. was the capital of the United States. Just from the name you knew it honored the country's founding father, the one who supposedly chopped down a cherry tree as a child, and also that stubborn explorer who insisted the Americas were part of China.
The World Bank headquarters, Capitol Hill, IMF headquarters, Lincoln Memorial—all those landmarks stood here. Chu Zhi's destination was the White House, the building Hollywood loved blowing up on screen.
At Baltimore International Airport, a White House butler came to meet him. For safety, the driver and vehicle had been arranged by the logistics department.
"Pretty formal," Chu Zhi muttered, noting the man's crisp suit, radiating ceremony.
"Mr. Chu Zhi, hello. I'm your assistant for this trip, Morgan. If there's anything I can help with, please let me know at any time."
The butler was staff from the White House's Office of the Chief of Protocol. The director of that office, also called the Chief of Protocol, was one of the few posts that didn't change with each president. There had been forty-seven U.S. presidents, but you could count the Chief Protocol Officers on ten fingers. It was that stable.
From there, the process for the Can You Feel the Love Tonight concert was clear. The First Lady Tracy drafted the event, the Social Secretary arranged the details, and the Office of Protocol received and hosted the invited guests.
On the ride, Chu Zhi noticed Morgan looked like he had something to say. He broke the silence. "Is something troubling you, Mr. Morgan?"
"Mr. Chu Zhi, I know this is bold, but… are you a believer?" Morgan asked.
"I'm not," Chu Zhi answered.
In religious circles there was already a consensus: even though the Chinese singer Chu Zhi wasn't a churchgoer, he still carried the Lord's glory. The Pope himself had recognized him as the singer most capable of spreading the gospel.
"My mother and Mr. Donald both told me you carry part of the Lord's glory, that you're the reincarnation of an angel. Is that true?" Morgan pressed. "Mr. Donald is the bishop of St. John's Cathedral."
Anyone working at the political core of a nation usually had solid education. Zhongnanhai, Bellevue Palace, Blue House, Buckingham Palace—same deal. Morgan was in his forties, well-spoken, clearly educated. Yet here he was, seriously asking such an absurd question.
No, that wasn't right. Chu Zhi realized the problem was with his own thinking. This wasn't about education. Morgan was a believer, and religion's influence in America was far greater than he'd imagined. Add to that the religious halo around him and his massive fame, and no wonder rumors grew.
"Part of the Lord's glory, angel reborn… I've heard it plenty of times," Chu Zhi said. "But do you know why I've never responded, Mr. Morgan?"
Morgan shook his head. "Please tell me."
"I respect every religion, as long as it guides people to goodness. So we should also respect atheists," Chu Zhi said. "Your question's a little much for someone who doesn't believe."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Chu Zhi." Morgan quickly apologized.
They entered the White House, the heart of American power. Neoclassical style, reshaped and expanded countless times, formed its current look.
The White House had over a hundred guest rooms. In special times, even staff could live inside.
After settling him in a guest room, Morgan said, "If you need anything, just let me know." Only after confirming everything was fine did he leave.
Even though Chu Zhi had denied being an angel reborn, Morgan still believed it. First, he'd heard Amazing Grace and Jesus Loves Me in full and felt like God's hand brushed his soul. Second, his mother, the bishop, and priests all said so. Third, the Chinese singer's appearance itself screamed "angelic."
"If I were a director, I'd cast him as the savior," Morgan thought. "If there's really a messiah, he should look like this."
It was his first time staying in the White House. Chu Zhi glanced around. The decorative fireplace and walls painted deep red caught his eyes immediately. Still, he preferred the style of the Diaoyutai State Guesthouse back home.
Or maybe it was just that the Emperor Beast didn't feel safe here.
"The paintings are pricey, but aside from that, it's not too different from a luxury hotel," Chu Zhi thought. He wanted to explore, but when he looked out the window and saw the Secret Service guards, he gave up. The strict security only made the place feel suffocating.
No wonder. Nearly three thousand agents guarded the White House, with inner and outer rings, plus Andrews Air Force Base and Washington Army Base north and south as shields.
More and more guests arrived, singers from all over the world, since Tracy's concert was about to start. Officially, it was framed as "unearthing and showcasing love in music," so the First Lady invited outstanding young singers worldwide.
In reality, the president, Steele, had run on the slogan "Make America Great Again, return to the 80s, become the beacon of world culture." To Chu Zhi, it felt like a vanity project.
After resting two hours, Morgan came to inform him it was time. On the way over, Chu Zhi ran into a familiar face.
The singer invited from Japan was Koguchi Yoshihiro. Made sense. Higuchi Hanato was already too old. Every singer here was under forty-five.
"Mr. Chu, your performance in Unsinkable was incredible," Koguchi said warmly. "I went to the cinema three times and watched it four times."
So what, one time was sneaky? Chu Zhi didn't ask. Instead he turned the topic to Koguchi's recent work.
South Korea's representative was Won Heung, a solo singer who'd debuted around the same time as GZ boy group. In a market dominated by idol groups, carving out a solo career proved real strength.
When he saw Chu Zhi, he politely came over. Even though he was four years older, he kept calling him "senior."
"Senior Chu Zhi, you're my role model. Not long ago, I tried singing a bit of Opera 2 live, and that's when I realized how insane your vocals really are. You're like a monster. I don't know if I'll ever get the chance, but I'd love to collaborate with you."
There were plenty of world-class singers present, but Chu Zhi still shone the brightest. The aftershocks of his Titanic-like success were still there.
Just listen to the whispers around him—
"Is that Chu Zhi? He looks exactly like in the movie, maybe even better looking."
"No wonder my niece likes him."
"Hope he sings a gospel this year."
"I've been his fan for ten years, I liked him from way back."
The South Lawn was filled with two thousand people: teachers, LGBTQ+ advocates, activists, America's middle class. Seventy percent of the chatter was about Chu Zhi.
The atmosphere was harmonious. Tracy, as host, showed her charm, chatting and laughing with the singers like an approachable leader. Reporters from The New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Washington Post, and Chicago Daily News were all present. The coverage would be huge.
When it was time, Tracy stepped onto the temporary stage, and all eyes turned to her.
Bang!
The gunshot shattered the harmony.
The crowd froze for a heartbeat, then chaos exploded. Screams tore through the night as people scattered.
An assassin?!
Secret Service agents in plain clothes moved instantly. In the sea of panic, they locked onto the shooter—Robert, a vice professor from New York Institute of Technology, one of the invited audience.
In less than ten seconds, two agents disarmed Robert and pinned him to the grass.
Was the danger over? Reporters were ecstatic, cameras rolling like vultures spotting carrion.
The Secret Service team leader and several members shielded the president and First Lady. A hundred more agents swarmed in to lock down the scene.
President Steele's face was dark, anger brimming in his eyes. Sure, guns were legal in America, but bringing one into the White House was unthinkable. If the target was him, it would've been disastrous. Even if not, even if a guest singer was assassinated, what face would America have left?
This had to be a conspiracy. Security was too strict. Someone inside must've colluded. And whoever it was, they weren't low-level. The thought weighed heavily on Steele.
"This Chinese man blasphemes the Lord. He mustn't live, he can't live!" Robert struggled, shouting.
"Let me go, he's a heretic!"
"You should be arresting him! I was obeying God's will!"
His words dripped with hatred toward Chu Zhi, sharp as blades.
The target was him.
"Yikes. Did I just get shot?I'm just a singer. Why the hell am I getting assassinated at the White House? Am I about to die like a dog?"
It didn't even hurt that much. If he hadn't looked down and seen blood spreading across his abdomen, he might not have realized he'd been hit.
At the moment of the shot, it only felt like a pebble striking him. That's why his brain spun with so many thoughts. His head buzzed as he vaguely heard someone calling for the White House medical unit.
Thirty seconds later, the Emperor Beast finally felt the searing burn in his abdomen, followed by crushing pain.
"System bro, activate Sick Leave Man, simulate pain loss syndrome."
"Bro, my oddity, the Heavenly Salamander, should work here, right?"
Those were his last thoughts before consciousness slipped away.