An unconventional "representing the nation" opportunity. Chu Zhi took the form, which surveyed his representative works and preferred musical styles.
"The China-Japan-Korea performance's shift toward younger artists..." Yuan He's expression twisted as he stared at the form. He couldn't hold back: "In 2013, Seoul hosted, so Korea swept the top three. In 2017, Kyoto hosted, and a Japanese artist took first. Now that it's Shanghai's turn, shouldn't we win first place?"
"Teacher Qi Dake and Teacher Gu Peng are solid choices. Teacher Gu has participated multiple times in Seoul's international cultural exchanges—his skills are recognized."
Damn, why call me out?! Gu Peng's heart raced like a student unexpectedly summoned by a teacher.
Yuan He continued, "And Teacher Qi Dake's contemporary vocal techniques are among the best of the younger generation. But why invite Chu Zhi? No offense, but this event has a competitive element."
He didn't even bother addressing Chu Zhi as "Teacher."
"Director Jiang, I agree with Yuan He. Japan and Korea's young singers are quite strong. I do like some of Teacher Chu Zhi's songs," Wang Dong chimed in. "His music is very popular, but this event prioritizes vocal ability."
Though couched in politeness, their words dripped with condescension.
"The China-Japan-Korea performance requires both skill and learning opportunities," Director Jiang said. "Teacher Chu Zhi has great potential and can learn from the others."
"Moreover, Teacher Chu Zhi's fan management and positive influence make him an exemplary young artist," he added. Chu Zhi was assigned by higher-ups—even the Ministry of Culture couldn't override this.
Yuan He instantly understood: A backdoor entry. The real competition would fall on them—mainly him—while Chu Zhi was here for a gilded resume. His disdain deepened. Trash.
Not everyone in the industry kept up with pop idols. Had they seen Chu Zhi's MBC performance—showcasing world-class vocals and earth-shattering high notes—their tune might differ.
But none had.
(Even in Chu Zhi's original world, where Lu Han was the top star, Wu Jing admitted on camera he didn't recognize EXO—let alone Lu Han. The algorithm era means people inhabit parallel informational universes.)
Thus, while Korea hailed Chu Zhi as a "Demon King vocalist," domestically:
Qi Dake saw him as a decent idol.
Gu Peng found him easygoing.
Yuan He and Wang Dong dismissed him as a privileged pretty face.
Having aired their grievances, Yuan and Wang backed off. Director Jiang smiled, distributing pens.
Qi Dake, usually outgoing, stayed quiet. He liked Chu Zhi—the kid had taste and seemed like good company. But he also agreed with Yuan and Wang's harsh-but-fair point: this stage demanded skill. Losing to Japan and Korea would be humiliating.
Torn, he stewed in conflicted silence.
"Chu Zhi's patience is unreal. If someone talked down to me like that, I'd freeze them out!" Gu Peng fumed internally. Regardless of skill, that was rude.
Had he not hit his social quota, he'd have spoken up. Instead, he wrestled with the form's trick question: [Familiar with any Japanese/Korean singers?]
How do I answer if I don't know any? He eyed Director Jiang, waiting for a chance to "casually" ask.
—A survival guide for the socially anxious.
Once forms were submitted, the Federation (true to bureaucratic form) didn't offer lunch. Director Jiang politely saw them out.
"Don't take Yuan He and Wang Dong to heart," Qi Dake consoled Chu Zhi. "You're young—no need to compare yourself to veterans."
"I'm not bothered. Their criticism comes from wanting China to perform well," Chu Zhi said. "At its core, it's patriotism."
Qi Dake studied Chu Zhi's expression—zero artifice. Damn, this kid's perspective is... He竖起大拇指 (thumbs-upped): "Next-level maturity. I've got a schedule now, but let's exchange contacts. I'll treat you to a proper meal soon."
"Meeting you today was the highlight," Chu Zhi said, pulling out his phone.
They swapped WeChat and numbers. Qi Dake's warmth stemmed less from Chu Zhi's "maturity" and more from how his words dissolved Qi's inner conflict.
Nearby, hidden by a tree 30 meters away, Gu Peng lurked. He too wanted Chu Zhi's contact but had been pipped by Qi Dake. Now, he ambled over "by chance."
"Add me on WeChat?" Gu Peng mumbled.
"Sure." Chu Zhi scanned his QR without missing a beat. "I've got schedules too—let's chat online, Third Brother."
"Y-yeah, online's good." Gu Peng nodded vigorously.
Each retreated to their vans.
Once inside, Chu Zhi messaged both:
To Gu Peng: [Meeting you today was serendipity. I've dabbled in poetry too.]
To Qi Dake: [Travel safe, Dake.]
A glance at Chu Zhi's WeChat would reveal frequent exchanges with numerous artists—birthday wishes, wellness check-ins. He'd even pinned Su Shangbai's chat (previously buried) for easy access.
This was networking mastery. Take Li Fei—after one meeting, he now treated Chu Zhi like a lifelong confidant, sharing every life update.
After a few more texts with Gu Peng (who, freed from face-to-face pressure, waxed lyrical about poetry), Chu Zhi set his phone down.
He briefed his team on the Federation of Literary and Art Circles drama, stoking their curiosity.
"The China-Japan-Korea performance could be a golden opportunity if played right," Niu Jiangxue mused. Things just got interesting.