"The endorsement fee is fifteen million US dollars a year, plus a signing bonus of five hundred thousand. It's for endorsing Puma's sports shoes," Niu Jiangxue reported.
By now, Chu Zhi's endorsement contracts were calculated in US dollars. That was eighty million yuan a year, already on par with the top sports superstars in China.
Of course, compared to NBA or top soccer players, it was still far off. But among all artists in Asia, there was no comparison in price.
"As for the Wacken Open Air rock festival," Niu Jiangxue continued, "Puma has three recommendation slots. They said they're willing to give all three to us."
"Hm…" Chu Zhi paused in thought.
What would he even do with three? It would be awkward to give them to Brother Zheng or Brother Xu. Getting in through a sponsor's recommendation was essentially going through the back door.
They would probably not take it kindly. He could already foresee the disapproval. Chu Zhi didn't want Brother Zheng or Brother Xu to go through that. At the same time, he was very aware of how small China's influence was in the Western pop music scene.
"Set yourself another small goal," he thought. "Become a member of the Wacken festival's executive committee… or higher." That way, he could directly recommend Chinese talent. Chu Zhi believed there were many Chinese rock musicians worth showcasing, they just lacked the channels to do so.
"One slot is enough for us," Chu Zhi decided. "Puma is really enthusiastic."
"If I were the brand, I'd be enthusiastic too," Niu Jiangxue replied. "Even if the contract is only for Asian endorsement rights, making a name for yourself at a metal festival is nothing but good for the brand."
Of course, gaining fame always came with the risk of embarrassment. But neither Niu Jiangxue nor Puma thought Chu Zhi would disgrace himself there.
"Brother Fei just reminded me to be careful of Adidas," Niu Jiangxue said. "Adidas won't dare retaliate against you in China because of your influence, but Germany is their home turf. And they're a main sponsor of WOA. It'd be easy for them to make trouble."
Chu Zhi nodded. True enough. Things like giving him a stage location far from the main crowd, or placing him between two top bands to crush his momentum, were all possible.
The WOA organizers would hardly refuse a request from a main sponsor. Since they had thought of this, it was best to have Niu Jiangxue and Puma raise the matter directly.
Both Puma and Adidas were main sponsors, both German brands, both Fortune 500 companies ranked in the four-hundreds. Their influence should be about equal. Let Puma go head-to-head with Adidas.
In other words: Mrs. Puma, you wouldn't want the artist you just signed to be sabotaged by someone else, would you?
Even if absolute strength could make such tricks irrelevant, avoiding problems was always better. The Emperor Beast had always lived by that principle.
"How's it going with your blind date?" Chu Zhi asked once business was done.
"Ugh, it's annoying. The guy's nice enough, but I just don't want to date right now. My career is on the rise, and I don't want to lose focus," Niu Jiangxue replied, sounding tired. "Brother Chu, do you get what I mean?"
"It's not that I want to be some super successful businesswoman," she went on, "I'm not even that kind of person. It's just that I…" She trailed off, unsure how to put it.
"You just don't want to regret it later. Because this success belongs to you," Chu Zhi finished for her.
"Yes, exactly." Niu Jiangxue nodded. Even if her uncle had given her the initial opportunity, being chosen had been her own achievement.
And after more than three years as chief manager, she had been nothing but diligent. She was now a true heavyweight in the industry, and her achievements were well deserved.
"I turned him down, but my parents and relatives still call every now and then," she sighed. "Stuff like 'A woman should put family first,' 'You can't feel happiness without a family,' 'It's fine to have a career, but it shouldn't get in the way of finding a partner.' I feel like I'm being brainwashed."
She probably hadn't vented in a while, because once she started, it was like opening a floodgate. She talked for over twenty minutes.
Chu Zhi mostly listened. He didn't adopt the posture of a "successful person" dispensing life advice. From her words, it was clear she had her own judgment and didn't need it.
"Sorry, Brother Chu. I've been talking for almost half an hour. I must have kept you from reading," Niu Jiangxue apologized.
"What do you mean, 'kept me'? This is trust," Chu Zhi replied. "Do you feel better now?"
"Much better. Just saying it out loud helps," she said. "I won't bother you anymore. I'll hang up."
"Get some rest, Sister Niu." Chu Zhi ended the call. Every household had its own problems. It seemed the life of a solitary man really was worry-free.
Huainan's connections had paid off. His Japanese translation of Selected Plays of Bai Pu had been published.
The book from Japan had Author: Bai Pu (Yuan), Translator: Huainan, and right after the translator credit, it was his own name. It felt satisfying.
"When will I ever get a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry… or a Goncourt Poetry Prize?" The Emperor Beast's urge to show off was getting harder to suppress.
Imagine one day his biography reading "Renowned Singer, Poet, Translator." What a title.
As a child, he had seen the great figures of the Republic of China era, all with multiple accomplishments.
"One of the three great laws of showing off: the more prepared you are, the bigger the show-off. Xiao Chu, you're already a seasoned pretender, so stay calm. Stay cool.
If you announce it now, people will just be mildly surprised. Don't you want to shock the whole world?
Yes, you do. So grow quietly… then amaze everyone." Chu Zhi comforted himself. He was ruthless enough to deceive even himself.
He returned to reading the email from the publisher. First came the sales figures for his new poetry collection, then the sales for the translated work.
Even with an initial run of only ten thousand copies, it would take ages to sell out. Wanderer Publishing had printed it, but sales were modest. That was normal. In the twenty-first century, it wasn't just that Japanese readers had little interest in Chinese plays— even in China, few read them. It was published mainly because of his status as a poet.
Standing up, he stretched. His back ached from sitting too long. Thankfully, the hotel room was spacious enough for him to walk around before settling back to read.
The day after tomorrow was Thursday, the day the Billboard Hot 100 rankings were released. But that wasn't something Chu Zhi needed to worry about.
All he had to do was play his role well. Chu Zhi could already feel the difference between being coached by a famous director and by Brother Liao.
The latter's method was more about quick fixes. For example, if a scene required him to appear deep in thought, the eyes needed to be alive. Deep thought should not look like spacing out.
Liao Dachong wouldn't explain exactly how the eyes should look or what atmosphere to convey.
Instead, he would ask, "Do cows have males? If they do, they can't produce milk. So are they still called cows?"
The Emperor Beast wouldn't realize he'd been distracted until it was too late, falling into thought— exactly the effect the scene required.
Director Wang Anyi was the complete opposite. He would break everything down in detail. Not only must the scene be performed well, but the actor had to understand it.
Of course, Wang Anyi didn't demand absolute obedience. If an actor could argue their point convincingly, he would listen. Chu Zhi had witnessed lead actress Rong Yi debate her fiercely… and win.
No wonder she could be a Best Actress, while Chu Zhi was just the Emperor Beast. In any case, he followed the director's guidance.
"The emotion isn't right, Xiao Chu. Read the script carefully. What do you think Su Shiyi is feeling here?
Anger, fear, and sadness— a sense of betrayal.
Your anger just now was superficial. I couldn't see the fear or sadness.
Understand the logic? If not, wait ten minutes. Once you do, we'll keep filming."
…
At moments like this, the camera crew, lighting, script supervisor, supporting actors, and extras all looked at Chu Zhi.
He had heard stories about actors being pushed to the brink after repeated NGs, and it was no lie. There was weight in the eyes— and no limit to how much could be piled on.
They went again, but still didn't meet Wang Anyi's standards. For another director, the take would have been fine. But Shiyi Lang was her passion project, and her demands were higher.
"The fear is too obvious… or rather, the acting is too obvious," Wang Anyi said. "Su Shiyi has a deep, almost unconscious fear upon realizing that his senior brother doesn't share his dream of performing Farewell My Concubine for life."
"I understand, but I can't get a grasp on the feeling of fear," Chu Zhi admitted.
"Can't grasp it? That's normal," Wang Anyi said. "Xiao Chu, did you ever have something you treasured as a child, and then it was damaged or lost?"
"No," Chu Zhi thought for a moment before answering.
How could he not? Every child had felt that way at some point. Wang Anyi assumed Chu Zhi had simply forgotten, and continued explaining the scene.
It took a total of sixteen retakes before the scene finally passed. The moment the scene was approved, even the Emperor Beast, could not help letting out a breath of relief.
When it was not his turn to act, Chu Zhi still didn't idle around. He stayed on set and kept observing.
"When playing scenes of emotional outburst, both Sister Rong and Brother You share a common trait: their facial expressions remain subtle, but they use body movement to drive their gaze, creating a striking visual contrast."
To do his job better, Chu Zhi often watched other actors in the crew and recorded his own understanding of their performances in his phone's memo app.
But sometimes, those notes got overturned. Just like now—Chu Zhi crossed out what he had written before and replaced it with: "Not simply small expressions, but in emotional outburst scenes, the facial control is more detailed, with dialogue serving the emotion."
"Being an actor is really hard…
Much harder than acting in everyday life," Chu Zhi muttered to himself.
Today's shoot at Ditan Park wrapped up, and they needed to clear the location. The next scene would be filmed in the gymnasium at the Beifarm Campus.
The actors headed back to the hotel first, while the production team remained behind to coordinate the move.
Assistant director Zhao Yusheng, holding a cup of milk tea bought by Chu Zhi's assistant, Xiao Zhu, turned to ask, "Old Wang, do you think our Xiao Jiu can keep going down the path of an actor?"
Every big director had their own team. Zhao Yusheng had worked with Director Wang Anyi for more than a decade, and they were old friends. When not in the middle of shooting, their conversations were casual.
"What do you think?" Wang Anyi liked to answer questions with questions. Coupled with her naturally fierce appearance, it was no wonder she didn't have many friends.
"Xiao Jiu's not bad. Dedicated and responsible. I'd say Heaven's been generous to him," Zhao Yusheng said. "If I had that face—tsk, tsk—I don't know if my kidneys could handle it."
"No real talent," Wang Anyi countered. "Xiao Chu doesn't have that natural spark. He meets the standards for being an actor, and under my direction, he can deliver wonderful performances. But that's about it."
And it was true—Wang Anyi only worked with the very best actors in the world.
"Besides, for an actor, having a face that's too beautiful isn't necessarily a good thing," Wang Anyi added.
On that point, Zhao Yusheng understood. Exceptional looks could narrow the range of roles.
"In terms of script comprehension, Xiao Chu ranks the lowest among the main cast," Wang Anyi said.
"A fine young man, yet somehow when you talk about him, not a single strength comes out," Zhao Yusheng grumbled, chewing a tapioca pearl from his drink.
He admired Chu Zhi—not just because of the milk tea. As a fellow native of Shancheng, he felt a kinship. You could tell from his own name.
"Xiao Chu does have something most people don't—an extremely strong mental resilience. To NG that many times, with hundreds of crew members waiting, even veteran actors struggle with that pressure," Wang Anyi said. "But Xiao Chu always adjusts himself quickly. That's not easy."
The art director suddenly chimed in, "Is there a chance it's because he NGs so much every day he's gotten used to it?"
"Used to it? Getting beaten every day hurts just as much on the hundredth day as on the first," Zhao Yusheng shot back, rolling his eyes.
"Kidding, kidding. I also think Teacher Chu is very professional," the art director said. "When it comes to filming, he never refuses."
The next day, the Shiyi Lang crew moved to a new location. On Thursday, Billboard magazine released its Hot 100 Singles chart, with "Sugar" landing at number three.
It didn't debut at number one, but this was already the best achievement ever for a Chinese singer in the United States in the twenty-first century.
Though it still trailed the four-week number-one record held by the GZ boy group, hitting number three on the first try left many astonished.
Second week: "Sugar" climbed to number two.
Third week: "Sugar" stayed at number three.
Fourth week: "Sugar" slipped to number fourteen.
Fifth week: "Sugar" dropped to number forty-five.
The song stayed on the chart for nine consecutive weeks. Even though it fell to ninety-fourth place in the ninth week's Thursday update, that meant it had lived on Billboard for more than two months—an impressive lifespan.
Perhaps this had something to do with the YouTube MV driving traffic. Two months after its release, A Special MV had racked up over five hundred million views.
The buzz kept Chu Zhi's popularity alive. The most obvious proof was his newly registered Facebook account, which had already gained over nine million followers.
For other celebrities—no, not even other small-time stars—this was a bragging point. Even the top five biggest names, Wu Tang, Zhou Guowu, Lin Xia, Li Feifei, and Su Yiwu, couldn't help but envy it.
Chu Zhi, however, only posted a lukewarm update: "My new single "Sugar" has done decently overseas."
"Best ranking number two, three weeks in the top three, and that's just 'decent'?"
"Classic Chu Zhi. Humble-bragging again."
"Songs in Korean, Japanese, Russian, and English—all good. What kind of monster have I become a fan of?"
"Looks like Jiu-yé's lost weight. Is he sick?"
See more comments in the app…
On the surface, fans were celebrating. Behind the scenes, some were scrutinizing Chu Zhi's accomplishments.
These included, but were not limited to: Bilingual Classics Exchange Project, Global Enrollment of Confucius Institutes, Shanghai Film Festival Internationalization, Opera House Cultural Exchange, and thirty-five other projects.
It might sound exaggerated to have so many deputy-national-level officials involved in cultural export programs, but for any country, spreading culture abroad was a major matter.
The Minister of Culture and Tourism took out a form and handed it to those present. The title read—Overview of Chu Zhi's Followers Across All Platforms.
Weibo: 34.63 million
Douyin: 41.57 million
Bilibili: 8.61 million
YouTube: 11.87 million
Instagram: 48.54 million
Twitter: 25.47 million
Facebook: 9.42 million…
The detailed report included each platform's activity index, influence metrics, and how many times he had trended. Even accounting for overlap and inflated numbers, roughly seventy percent of the data was real.
A daunting figure. The slightly plump department head set the report down.
"Hollywood has always had the ability to create cultural icons. Right now, Advisor Chu feels like Asia's cultural icon."
He addressed Chu Zhi as "Advisor." Even though Chu Zhi was still young and had a long career ahead, his current achievements were already one of the boldest strokes in the history of Asian entertainment.
Everyone present knew—if Chu Zhi were not politically reliable and personally upright, his influence would be dangerous.
"Details on positive publicity for Advisor Chu are on page five," the minister continued.
"In public, Advisor Chu defends our country—even at personal cost. He's handled matters in the entertainment industry that the authorities couldn't easily intervene in."
In such situations, official media involvement would be unnecessary, let alone government action. But young idols had teenage fans, and careless remarks could have a bad influence.
One time, when a young idol implied that the United States and Japan were safer, Chu Zhi had replied: "If you think the U.S. and Japan are safe, I can't help you with the U.S., but for Japan, I can have a friend arrange your citizenship transfer. I know the head of Japan's naturalization department."
The idol had planned to respond—but after seeing who wrote it, he went silent. He backed down. From then on, he never dared post similar comments on Weibo.
"If every celebrity were like Advisor Chu, managing the entertainment industry wouldn't be such a headache," a senior from the State Administration said.
Regulate too strictly, and you get criticized. Be too lax, and all sorts of monsters come crawling out.
Even in the 1970s, Warhol had said, "In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." But in today's internet age, where anything and anyone could gain fame, it was a little terrifying.
Japanese netizen: If I had the money, I'd go to China. I want to see what kind of country could have someone like Ragdoll.
Japanese netizen: I admit, it's silly to like a country because of a celebrity, but Ragdoll's songs have given me so much strength.
Japanese netizen: Because Chu-san learned Chinese, which is very hard, my dream is to understand all the Chinese songs he writes.
South Korean netizen: Professor Baek's presence made me choose China over Japan as my first travel destination.
And there were many more such comments—the results were immediate.
"Advisor Chu has made outstanding contributions to the global spread of our culture. I think we should invite him to be the representative of the entertainment industry at the National Day parade," the minister proposed.
Everyone agreed. They even planned to raise Chu Zhi's honorary deputy-division position to deputy-bureau level, putting him on par with directors of the Ministry of Culture's Arts Division and International Cooperation Division.
It was essentially the highest rank an honorary role could reach.