Hmm?
When Chu Zhi received the email, the first thing he did was look up the [American Book Critics Association Award]. He needed to know what kind of prize it was, and whether it was worth breaking his cover to personally accept it.
He had heard of the American National Book Award, but that one was limited to American citizens. After checking, Chu Zhi concluded that the Critics Association Award was on about the same level as the Costa Book Award.
That settled it. No need to go.
Chu Zhi replied to the email to ask whether the rules required the recipient to attend the ceremony in person.
Ono Akio quickly sent a reply, another long-winded message. It was not so much rambling as it was utterly lacking in brevity.
Chu Zhi took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to complain, and forced himself to read through it carefully.
The email had over a thousand words. Stripped of its opening and closing pleasantries, the whole middle part could be summed up in one sentence: "There's no such requirement, but attending would raise the prestige of the poetry collection."
Chu Zhi responded curtly: "The value of a poetry collection does not come from awards but from what the work itself contains. The Association awarded me only because After Long Silence qualified. Please help me accept it on my behalf. I will not appear in person."
Seeing how firm Chu Zhi's stance was, Ono Akio had nothing left to persuade him with. He could only switch the subject to ask about the poet's current progress.
The quick replies proved Chu Zhi was sitting at his computer. It was half past midnight in China, which meant it was half past one in Japan. So, at the end of the email exchange, Chu Zhi casually added: "Go to bed early. Staying up too late is bad for your health. Take care of yourself."
Ono Akio froze for a moment. Such words were usually what an editor said to an author, not the other way around. He lifted his fingers off the keyboard, sighed, and admitted the poet had a point. But no matter how right it was, he still hadn't completed the task given by his chief editor.
Not wanting to disturb his mother who was asleep in the other room, he stepped onto the cramped balcony and smoked a cigarette. By the time he lay down on the tatami mat, it was already past two o'clock.
The next morning at five-thirty, his alarm rang. He got up, rushed through his wash-up, made rice balls for his mother and left them in the fridge, then headed out at six-twenty. It took two hours of commuting by bike and train before he arrived at work to clock in at eight-forty.
First thing in the morning, the chief editor summoned him and scolded him mercilessly for failing to secure the poet's attendance.
Everyone knew Japanese bosses could be vicious when scolding. "Why don't you just die?" "You can't even handle something this small, why are you still alive?" "If I were you, I'd commit seppuku."
The words cut deeper than knives.
That entire morning, Ono Akio's head buzzed in a fog. He had been surviving on four hours of sleep a night for two weeks.
At noon, he wolfed down two rice balls and a cola from the convenience store downstairs. Just as he planned to nap on a bench, he got a call from a neighbor: his mother had slipped and fallen at home and had been taken to the hospital.
He repeatedly thanked the caller.
When he hung up, he felt as if his spine had been removed. His body was hollow, limp.
"So tired. Every day was exhausting."
The daily commute was already extreme, sometimes even forcing him to jog through subway corridors. Yet despite all that, both career and family were a mess. He felt no will to live.
There was a reason Japan had over thirty-five thousand suicides last year. People needed something to keep them standing.
Meanwhile, in the back of the nanny van, Chu Zhi was also mulling over something related to suicide.
While enjoying a massage from Ma Weihao, Emperor Beast was lost in his own theater of thoughts.
"No large-scale suicides in Annam. Good. That's good."
For the past three days, he had been monitoring the news from there. The first time he unleashed his 100% Voice of Despair before a public audience, he had been afraid of causing real incidents.
Chu Zhi later evaluated the effect. At full strength, his voice buff struck directly at the soul. Even the hardest heart would weep. Even if someone had no concept of family, they would still feel the singer's grief.
Luckily, the emotion fueling it had been longing for his mother. If it had been something bottomless like in Under the Sea, it could easily have pushed people toward suicide.
If he added wine to the mix, seven parts drunk and then sang at 100%, the result would be terrifying.
And if he combined that with his passive skill [Crowd Freak], the effect would be comparable to carrying SCP-035's "Mask of Grief," capable of triggering mass suicides.
If such a containment foundation existed in this world, Chu Zhi would surely have been classified and locked away.
Since that was the case, the Emperor Beast had a plan. He wanted to make his Japanese album into a milestone of music history. After all, Izumi Sakai's Makenaide ("Don't Give In") was hailed as Japan's "second national anthem."
But according to the information he had from the system, that status came not only from the song's quality but also from the social context. In 1991, Japan's bubble economy collapsed, and companies went bankrupt one after another. Makenaide, released in 1993, became a salve for a disheartened society.
Chu Zhi was confident he could recreate that impact in the parallel world of 2023. Japan's economy had never truly recovered since the 1990s. The Lost Decade had stretched into twenty years, then thirty, and likely soon forty.
And this time, he had a secret weapon.
"Jiu-yé, we've arrived."
Old Qian's voice interrupted Chu Zhi's thoughts. The Emperor Beast opened his eyes, removed his U-shaped pillow, and looked out the car window. Their destination was Menglong Recording Studio, the same place where he had worked seamlessly with boss Li Menglong on his previous English album.
They had booked in advance, so Chu Zhi headed upstairs directly.
"There's something Sister Niu needs your stance on. The song Gp.M.Trong.M has been widely pirated online in Annam…" Old Qian, as always, only spoke half the sentence.
Back in his student days, Chu Zhi had a saying: "Speak half a sentence, it's like mixing arsenic in rice."
Luckily, he was smart enough to fill in the rest. He replied, "I'll record it today first, then move on to the Japanese album."
Katyusha could be gifted to Russia. But Gp.M.Trong.M had to be sold to Annam.
"I'll tell Sister Niu," said Old Qian. His own opinion was also to charge for it, but he worried Jiu-yé might decide to give it away. To avoid conflict, he left it at that.
Li Menglong had already tuned the equipment to perfection.
After a few minutes of chatting, they got to work.
Chu Zhi had set himself a deadline: finish the Japanese album by August. With only two and a half months left, plus the need to shoot several MVs, the schedule was tight.
Adding to the pressure, Yamato Masahito had suggested holding a "Beautiful Girl Audition" for MV heroines. Chu Zhi immediately thought of Pocari Sweat, the Japanese drink known for tasting like sweat water but whose commercials featured stunningly beautiful girls.
Since it would help album sales, Chu Zhi and his team decided to go along with it.
But first, he had to focus on recording. He opened with Mother in My Dreams, again using his 100% Voice of Despair. This time, knowing what to expect, he managed the emotional toll much better. At least he did not blank out all night like in Hanoi.
After half an hour of adjustment, he was ready to go again.
"Angel's Gospel at 100%. I want to see what it can do. Maybe it can make me a god among men."
His secret weapon was to record Makenaide with his 100% Angel's Gospel. Before starting, he took a sip of Wuliangye liquor.
Makenaide was a high-quality song, a typical Japanese pop ballad. Released as a single, it had sold 1.645 million copies. A song truly worth its fame.
With Wine Immortal and Angel's Gospel both activated, the Emperor Beast himself was swept away. He could have passed in one take, but he was so exhilarated he recorded it twice.
"Mr. Chu, you really don't suffer from dissociative disorders or something like that? The emotional difference is just too extreme," Li Menglong asked, his gaze sharp. As his wife and daughter were fans, he had a personal stake in watching carefully.
"At first, your voice was like a trembling little bird in its nest. Its mother had been shot by hunters, and without the ability to feed itself, it could only cry in despair. That was the feeling I got from your first Vietnamese song.
But the second track—just listening gave me an injection of energy. Even without understanding the lyrics, I was encouraged."
Chu Zhi did not answer. Li Menglong had planned to bring it up later over dinner, since bluntly asking about someone's mental health out of nowhere was jarring.
But plans never kept up with change. As soon as Chu Zhi finished the second recording, his phone rang.
The caller was Li Tedian, a name both familiar and distant—the director who had earned Chu Zhi's trust while filming his documentary and had since directed two of his album MVs.
Chu Zhi had gained good MVs, and Li Tedian had earned good money. A fair trade.
The line connected, and before Chu Zhi could speak, a desperate plea spilled out.
"Brother Jiu, I really have no other way. Please help me."
"I'm begging you. Please, I can't think of any other solution."
"Don't panic. I'm right here, I can hear you clearly. Director Li, calm down a little and tell me what happened," said Chu Zhi.
His steady tone gave Li Tedian a sliver of reassurance. Before making the call, he had been completely adrift.
According to Director Li, he had begged and pleaded his way to securing Huayi Film's investment—thirteen million yuan—for his new film.
This would be Li Tedian's first narrative feature after years of working in documentaries. But right from the start, Huayi shoved in an actor.
The young actor's name was Yao Mingyu. He had appeared in several idol dramas, but his fame was not particularly high.
Having an actor forced in as the male lead was already frustrating, but Li Tedian thought that with his own direction and careful editing, he could still salvage something.
After only a week of filming, however, Li Tedian realized he had been too naive. A director can only train an actor if he can command authority. But he could not control Yao Mingyu at all.
Just earlier, there had been a crying scene. According to the script, the male lead was supposed to break down and sob uncontrollably. Instead, Yao Mingyu justified his choice by saying:
"Crying loudly is the lowest form of acting. A step above is silent crying. Even higher is crying while smiling. So I'll just shed tears quietly."
Li Tedian nearly lost his mind. He had never heard of such absurd categories.
Silent crying could indeed be harder than wailing, since it required expressing deep sorrow with restraint. But only if the actor could actually act it. Yao Mingyu's lifeless eyes looked like someone who had overindulged, and he just dripped eye drops to mimic tears.
When Li Tedian voiced his concerns to the producer, the producer simply said: "I think Teacher Yao Mingyu is right."
That was when he understood. With Yao Mingyu's backing and the investor's protection, he had no control over the actor at all.
Chu Zhi refrained from commenting. What he wanted to know was: what exactly was Director Li asking of him?
If the request was for him to invest ten million yuan and kick Huayi out, that would go far beyond friendship. Chu Zhi would not agree to that.
After circling around the issue, Li Tedian finally spoke his request: "We're filming at Luwan High School. Brother Jiu, are you in Shanghai? If so, could you spare a little time to visit the set? I know you're busy every day, but this script took me over three years to write. I don't want all that effort to be wasted."
A set visit? Chu Zhi understood now. Director Li wanted him to show up and lend credibility, to back him up in front of the crew.
"Director Li, back in Italy at the film festival, you said you'd treat me to dinner. Don't tell me that was just empty words," Chu Zhi suddenly said.
"Eh?" The sudden change of topic caught Li Tedian off guard. He instinctively replied, "Of course, Brother Jiu. What would you like to eat?"
"Sichuan cuisine. Let's do it tonight. And call the main cast along," said Chu Zhi.
It clicked for Li Tedian. Overjoyed, he realized Brother Jiu had agreed. "Thank you, Brother Jiu. Thank you. I'll arrange it immediately. Is seven o'clock fine?"
"No problem," Chu Zhi replied.
Only after a few more rounds of gratitude did Li Tedian hang up to make arrangements.
"Without connections, you can't survive in the entertainment industry. Even if he got Huayi Brothers to invest, proving his talent is recognized, it's still meaningless," Chu Zhi thought. "As an actor, isn't acting well in a film the best way to boost one's career?"
What puzzled him further was why Huayi would invest more than ten million, yet leave the production unmanaged, letting actors override the director. The chances of success were slim.
Unless the director was Lu Chuan or the actor was Jiang Wen, things rarely worked out this way.
After puzzling over it and finding no answer, Chu Zhi simply stopped thinking about it. Perhaps it was just one of those "special atmospheres" in the industry.
Meanwhile, Yao Mingyu remained confident.
At Luwan High School, the playground had been cordoned off, and the school warehouse converted into a temporary filming base. Rest tents for the actors were set up nearby.
"This director knows nothing about acting, yet he wants to teach me?" Yao Mingyu scoffed. He had, after all, seven or eight dramas under his belt.
"Still, openly clashing with the director isn't good," his agent cautioned. "If word spreads, it could harm your image. Don't forget, Director Li has won awards, even the Venice Film Festival Horizon Award for Best Documentary."
"You said it yourself. Documentary. We're shooting people now, not animals," Yao Mingyu retorted.
To him, documentaries were no more than wildlife films. Love might be irrational, but dislike always had reasons. Yao Mingyu had wanted a supporting role in a big production, but the company gave the resource to a newer actor. As "compensation," they let him star in a low-budget film.
People like him never blamed themselves.
From the start, he found the production had nothing—no big names (besides himself), an unknown director, and a boring script. It only deepened his resentment.
"Yeah, I read the script too. It's flat. Maybe the director's too used to shooting documentaries," his agent said. "Flat doesn't sell. You can't fight against the box office."
Suddenly, there was a knock. The agent opened the door, exchanged a few words, and shut it again.
"Director Li is inviting us to dinner tonight," he said succinctly.
"Dinner to apologize?" Yao Mingyu thought. If the director was sincere, he would be generous enough to forgive.
After all, in his mind, every conflict was the director's fault.
Dinner was at seven, but Yao Mingyu deliberately arrived at seven-twenty, to show his importance. To him, being late was no big deal.
Led by a waiter to the private dining room, he casually said, "Sorry, traffic was bad."
Scanning the room, he saw all the main cast present. Quite sincere, he thought.
But then—wait. What was he doing here?
"Come, Mingyu, sit," said Li Tedian, waving him over. Once Yao Mingyu sat down, dazed, Li Tedian smiled and said, "I don't need to introduce this guest, right? He's my favorite singer."
"Hello, Brother Jiu. I'm Yao Mingyu, just a small actor," Yao Mingyu introduced himself quickly.
"Director Li already told me about you," Chu Zhi said. "You're a talented actor. I'm really looking forward to his first feature film. How long until it wraps?"
"About half a year," Li Tedian estimated.
"So it'll be a while," Chu Zhi said with mild disappointment.
The dishes were served—spicy Sichuan classics like duck blood in chili broth, chicken with pork intestines, fish head with chopped peppers, and stir-fried rabbit with green chilies.
No one touched their chopsticks until Chu Zhi moved first. Only then did the rest start eating.
The atmosphere was strange. No one, not even Yao Mingyu, had expected Chu Zhi to show up. He was Asia's superstar, an idol among idols.
With some wine, the tension eased. Casually, Yao Mingyu asked, "Brother Jiu, how did you and Director Li meet?"
"At the Venice Film Festival," Chu Zhi explained. "Director Li won, and I loved his cinematic language. I begged and pleaded until he agreed to direct two of my MVs."
What? This documentary director was that amazing? Enough for even Chu Zhi to hold him in such esteem?
Yao Mingyu was stunned, regretting his arrogance over the past week. Damn it, it was all his agent's fault, for not giving him enough information.
Chu Zhi's words sparked hope in everyone else too. Maybe this film really had potential.
After several rounds of wine, emboldened, Yao Mingyu raised his glass and said to Li Tedian, "Director Li, I've been a little reckless lately. Please forgive me. I'll punish myself with this drink. Don't hold it against me."
"What punishment? We're all here for the film," Li Tedian replied.
Thanks to Chu Zhi's presence, Li Tedian's authority had been restored. He had wanted Chu Zhi to "back him up," but Chu Zhi had gone beyond that, elevating his standing entirely. Li Tedian could not thank him enough.
Filming continued the next day, so dinner ended by nine. But Chu Zhi hadn't eaten his fill. Back home, he opened his food delivery app.
An hour and a half later.
"A smoke after a feast is better than a god's blessing." Chu Zhi felt the saying described him perfectly at that moment.
Because his system notified him: [High-carb binge day *1200] and [Smoking *12000] had both been achieved, earning him 22 personality coins. With his finances tight lately, this sudden windfall gave him confidence.
"Should I draw a lottery? No, not today. Doesn't feel lucky. Better to wait. Just 29 more coins, and I'll have 50 for a ten-pull. That guarantees at least one rare prize."
Early to bed, early to rise, good for health. And sometimes, waking early meant witnessing history.
"China should not manipulate the emotions of foreign leaders to achieve shady political goals. Such behavior is disgusting," declared U.S. Secretary of State Benjamin at a White House press briefing.
The context: unless a major crisis erupted—like conflict between Russia and Ukraine—most U.S. natural gas exports to Asia went to China.
But now, China had signed a deal with Qatar. When asked whether this meant losing the Chinese market, Benjamin gave the usual evasive answer before adding his pointed remark.
In truth, the U.S. Secretary of State would never speak so casually. His real aim was to send Qatar a warning: cooperate with China if you want, but don't go too far.
The journalists present smelled blood, like vultures circling carrion. They knew there was big news.