The world's richest literary prize is the Nobel Prize in Literature, worth 8 million Swedish kronor—enough to buy two apartments in Mountain City.
China's highest-paying literary prize is the Mao Dun Literature Award, with 500,000 RMB, which could buy a place in Fengdu, a county under Mountain City's jurisdiction. Not bad either.
The American National Book Critics Circle Award comes with a grey envelope containing 50,000 US dollars, enough to buy a house in Huwei Town under Fengdu. Still decent.
Why all the comparisons to housing prices? Because Gao Shi had promised his wife they would buy a home, but he abandoned the plan entirely in order to dig up material on the poet Huainan.
For a man, career must come first.
Besides, a true man can always apologize later. Thanks to that persistence, Gao Shi obtained exclusive material from Huainan's editor, Ono Akio.
After the interview, Gao Shi wrote a several-thousand-word feature. But this was the internet age—if the title was boring, the longer the article, the fewer people would click.
Xiao Rizi Never Tires of Ruining Lives published it with the title:
"A Mysterious Chinese Poet Who Might Become the World's First Modern Poetry Icon" #MysteriousPoet#
He began:
If I tell you there is such a person, you might think I am joking. But listen—
In 2021, he won the Yomiuri Prize for Literature in Japan.
In 2022, he won the Costa Book Award in the UK.
In 2023, he won the American National Book Critics Circle Award.
These three awards had never before been won by a Chinese poet.
He has published five poetry collections, with a global sales volume of three million copies.
American writer and poet Bell Lee Miller commented:
"A beautiful and sincere spirit of poetry, fluttering crystal wings in the realm of imagination—he is the embodiment of creativity itself."
French critic and author Thomas John wrote:
"Huainan is the least selfish person I have ever known. His poetry is his life, and his life is brilliant in all its colors."
Ross Hulke, editor-in-chief of the Chicago Tribune, remarked:
"Though it is a pity I have never met Huainan, his poems are like landscapes reflected in convex glass. In them I see a starry sky, I see nature, I see the soul of poetry."
So, who is he?
Even I don't know. All that is certain is that he is a Chinese poet who calls himself "Huainan." He first published a poetry collection on China Poetry Net in 2019, with poems appearing in October and Stars magazines.
He carries the air of an ancient recluse: never showing his face, never appearing at award ceremonies, even his editor doesn't know his true identity.
Flowers blooming inside the wall, fragrance spreading outside. I must bring this fragrance back to China.
At the end of the article, Gao Shi included two poems from the collection I Am a Willful Child.
"Avoidance"
You refuse to plant flowers/
You said/
I cannot bear to watch them wither little by little.
Yes/
In order to avoid the ending/
You avoided every beginning.
"One Generation"
The dark night gave me dark eyes/
But I use them to search for light.
Gao Shi also posted a nine-grid photo collage and an audio recording. The photos included Ono Akio accepting awards on Huainan's behalf, along with Oricon charts showing the sales of non-fiction publications in Japan. The audio was a phone interview with Ono Akio, which Gao Shi had thoughtfully subtitled with his own translation.
As soon as this post was shared by a major account with hundreds of thousands of followers, fans immediately noticed.
The title, the claims—who would believe it? Only a fool. Yet here were the photos, here was the recording. If this were fake, it would have taken immense effort to stage. Experts among the people soon began fact-checking.
Darkblade Ghost:
"The headline looks like clickbait, the content like marketing fluff—but it's true?! I'm studying in the UK, and I actually bought Huainan's The Collection of Flying Birds and Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night."
Sitting Forgotten Between Worlds:
"If it were posted by another influencer, I would've dismissed it. But I've followed this one for half a year, and his posts are always informative. I live in Tokyo—just a quick search online and I found the publisher 'Ronin Shuppansha' he mentioned. Huainan is one of their star authors. His new book After a Long Silence is still selling hot here in Japan."
Chang'an Stranger:
"I can't confirm all the other awards, but the Yomiuri Prize is real. Founded by Yomiuri Shimbun, its official website lists the winner: Huainan, for I Am a Willful Child. That's confirmed."
Poetry was long in decline. Even the largest poetry-related accounts in China barely had fifty thousand followers, with many inactive for months or drawing only single-digit comments. No one tagged them anymore.
But now a mega-influencer had tagged them, so when the staff managing those accounts logged in, they were floored.
This was incredible. China Poetry Net was supposed to be just another cultural promotion website, long overlooked. Who could have thought it would give rise to a world-class poet?
The site's senior poets were relics of the 1980s—the golden era of Chinese poetry. As for internet-era poets? Hardly anyone broke into the mainstream.
A modern poet truly crossing over into the global stage?
Unbelievable. Yet the mounting evidence made it clear: such a poet really existed.
This was neither science nor mysticism.
Forget the rest—just the fact that Huainan's poetry collections were being sold in libraries across more than a dozen countries already placed him above ninety-nine percent of poets worldwide. The high praise from international critics sealed the case.
Director Qiu of China Poetry Net was so excited he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
China Poetry Net was fully funded by the state, and its daily traffic was pitiful. Advertising revenue? Impossible. But now, suddenly, here was a legitimate success story.
Qiu immediately pulled Huainan's account records. To his annoyance, it was registered with an email.
Fine—what about withdrawals? Poetry Net's small honorarium required binding a bank card. Yet Huainan's account balance of more than three thousand yuan had never been withdrawn.
Three thousand yuan! Why wouldn't he take it out? Did he look down on the money?
"Three million books sold worldwide, with high overseas royalties… yes, it's possible he doesn't care about such a sum. Or maybe…" Qiu thought of another possibility. "Maybe he deliberately avoided linking a bank card to protect his identity."
That made sense. If someone wanted, they could still track him by following the email trail to the registered phone number. But Qiu didn't have that kind of power.
"Be content," Qiu muttered to himself.
China Poetry Net might have little traffic, but Qiu could find people who did. After all, Huainan had debuted here—that was credit enough, and it had to be promoted.
He reported upward to the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, piling on the bureaucratic phrases: "China Poetry Net's vibrant atmosphere… strong support for Huainan's Collection of Flying Birds…" In truth, that collection's recognition as "Today's Best" had only been possible because Qiu had stubbornly pushed for it. Now he bragged about it to the skies.
The department leadership contacted a professor at the local Foreign Languages University: none other than Xiao Yue, the sharp-tongued father we've met before.
They asked him to review the Japanese edition of The Collection of Flying Birds, to see whether the poems originally published on China Poetry Net were truly included. After a full afternoon of careful comparison, Xiao Yue confirmed: it was exactly as the influencer had said.
"If these Japanese poems were translated by the poet himself, then his mastery of Japanese is extraordinary," Xiao Yue remarked. "It achieves fidelity, expressiveness, and elegance. Many poets know foreign languages, but to translate one's own poetry into Japanese, French, and English, each with such beauty—I have never seen this before. I am very curious about his identity."
"Since the poet has hidden it, we must not expose it," Director Li replied.
Xiao Yue's curiosity only grew. For someone to reach this level in three languages—it could be passion, but more likely a professional background. Either the poet was a language scholar like himself, or a career translator. Xiao Yue was certain of his reasoning.
After Xiao Yue left, Director Li pulled up Huainan's records.
The site director might not have the power, but as a bureau chief, such investigations were trivial. In any country, unless someone lived entirely off the grid, anyone who left an online trace could easily be identified by the authorities.
The purpose wasn't idle curiosity. If China Poetry Net had unexpectedly nurtured a world-renowned poet, that was political achievement—every little success mattered.
But first, they had to make sure. If this mysterious poet turned out to have anti-China ties, it would be a disaster. A leader could never be careless.
Director Li opened the registration records. An email, a phone number—and then a name he recognized.
Registered Name: Chu Zhi
With ID photo attached.
A question mark appeared in Director Li's mind. He rarely felt uncertainty, but when he did, it was never because of himself. It was because the matter itself was strange.
"Huainan is Consultant Chu?" Director Li muttered. He called to verify the authenticity of the email.
The confirmation came back positive.
Director Li, though a man used to storms, was left utterly stunned.
He was utterly shocked. It was as if someone had just told him that "Chuan Bao" was actually a Party member.
The Asian Pop King, hailed as the only king of pop in the 21st century across Asia, was actually a great poet?!
"Come to think of it, doesn't that make perfect sense?
All of Consultant Chu Zhi's lyrics are written by himself. At least from the lyrics, you can tell he has a deep command of classical culture. As for modern culture, Consultant Chu Zhi reads an immense amount, so his knowledge is vast.
Not to mention, Consultant Chu Zhi has written songs in English, Japanese, Russian, and Korean. Even recently, he composed a song in Vietnamese. He's clearly gifted in languages, so if he also knows French, isn't that entirely reasonable?"
Director Li felt his reasoning was sound. It could not have made more sense.
He also recalled seeing reports about Huainan, saying the central motif of Huainan's poetry was "life and death." That aligned perfectly, didn't it?
"It also explains why Huainan never shows up to receive awards or appear in public—because he's a celebrity by profession." Director Li, who was twenty years older than Chu Zhi, suddenly found himself feeling a rare respect for the younger man.
As for the entertainment world, he had no particular feelings. At his age and in his profession, he had no interest in celebrities. But to write poetry from scratch and earn international acclaim? That was truly impressive.
Director Li thought to himself: "But since Consultant Chu Zhi clearly doesn't want his identity exposed, I won't meddle. Still, I'll have to report this to my superiors."
So that very evening, two official media accounts reposted Gao Shi's article.
China News Network: [[#EastWestAsk#·Figure: Huainan]The mysterious Chinese poet—why do his poems thrive overseas, and what did he do right?]
Renren: [[#MysteriousChinesePoet#]#WhoIsTheMysteriousPoet# "Golden mountain towers stand solemn, drums and bells resound in Huainan." In the Song Dynasty, poet Su Shi traveled to Huainan and wrote verses that have been passed down for centuries. In a strange twist of fate, today's "Huainan" has once again become a poet.]
Why not mention the China Poetry Network? Because first, the news had to reach a wide audience to spark heated discussion. Only then would the merit be greater.
Of course, reposts from official accounts did not guarantee a hit. With ten or twenty updates a day covering livelihood, arts, politics, and more, it was uncertain.
But with a combined following of over a hundred million fans and the added attention from countless self-media accounts and newspapers, the foundation was set.
Gao Shi had expected only a small buzz, but with this push, the news instantly became a trending event. Even his own account gained over a hundred thousand followers in a single day.
"I always preferred classical poetry. I thought modern poems lacked beauty, but from the two excerpts, Huainan's verses feel both romantic and philosophical. I think I like it."
"So the line [Live as brilliantly as summer flowers, die as quietly as autumn leaves] came from Huainan's Stray Birds. A few years ago, I even used that as my status."
"More than his poetry, I think the most incredible thing about Huainan is his talent for languages. He wrote the Japanese, English, and French versions all by himself."
"I can't find a Chinese edition of his poetry collections. They're famous abroad, but not published here. What absurd realism."
"And what are the journalists doing? They still haven't uncovered his identity—what's the point?"
...
On the frontlines of the internet, Chu Zhi was among the first to see the news. He was shaken.
"This is too dangerous. I almost couldn't keep up the act." Chu Zhi took a gulp of water to steady himself. Why was he being subjected to such ghost stories at night?
Once he calmed down and reviewed the situation carefully, he realized that without deeper official backing, journalists and self-media wouldn't be able to find his true identity.
"I was scared half to death. I deserve a late-night snack. Twelve pounds of crayfish, perfectly reasonable. Twelve pounds might be a bit much. Maybe ten pounds instead. Fine, let's go with ten. I'll listen to myself on this one."
Reaching an agreement with himself, Chu Zhi opened the food delivery app and spotted a discount: "Buy six pounds, get three free. Buy eight pounds, get four free." He decisively chose the latter.
If Chu Zhi had logged into his China Poetry Network account, which he hadn't touched in over a year, he would have seen more than a dozen urgent messages waiting in the inbox.
Station master Qiu was both suffering and delighted. Delighted because the website's daily traffic had suddenly soared—after all, in this internet age, plenty of people enjoyed writing poetry. Just look at Douban.
The suffering part was—"Come Home Often, Come Home Often…"
His ringtone began to blare. Qiu had set it to that song because he liked it, and now the sound made him flinch.
He didn't recognize the incoming number, but answered anyway: "Brother, I really don't have Huainan's contact information. My inbox is exploding with private messages, and I can't respond to any of them."
"..."
There was silence for several seconds, then a young, tender voice said, "Grandpa, cough cough."
His dear grandson? Qiu cleared his throat awkwardly and looked again. No, this wasn't his grandson's number.
"Grandpa, I'm calling from Dad's phone. Mine ran out of battery. We'll be coming home for dinner on Sunday."
Hearing that, Qiu was instantly overjoyed. He no longer cared about being bombarded with calls.
Meanwhile, domestic publishers were racking their brains to track down Huainan. They wanted to release Chinese editions of his five poetry collections.
If they didn't seize the momentum, they'd miss their chance. Most book sales came from impulse purchases—"Oh, this book won an award, I should read it"—though in reality, most copies ended up as decoration.
Plenty of analysts and online sleuths speculated about Huainan's identity, but not one linked him to Chu Zhi. Which made sense. The two were as unrelated as cows and horses.
The hype around the mysterious poet Huainan lasted for three days. On Zhihu, posts listed several big names, but all were denied one by one.
Professor Xiao Yue, came the closest. But not because he guessed Chu Zhi. Instead, he read through all five collections and concluded: "These five collections read as if five different people wrote them. The motifs align, but the styles differ. This flavor feels familiar. Where have I seen this before?
Wait—that silly girl's idol, Chu Zhi. His albums are just like this. Each song in an album clings to the theme, but they don't always mesh smoothly." Xiao Yue thought about it. He had believed such a peculiar genius could only exist once. But apparently, another appeared in a different field.
"Seems I wasn't lacking in talent. I was lacking in experience." Xiao Yue dropped the thought. After asking around, no one he knew had the answer either.
But the heat only lasted those three days.
On the internet, people joked that fish had a seven-second memory. In reality, the internet age barely had a seven-day memory. That much wasn't just chicken soup.
Time rolled into July. The Japanese-language album Because You Are Here was finished, with ten songs already recorded and entering post-production. The Emperor Beast boarded a flight from Shanghai to Tokyo.
Since his endorsements covered the entire Asian region, Chu Zhi often flew to Japan and Korea. He was well-practiced in the routine.
On planes, he either napped or worked. This time, he was busy preparing.
"Let's try out this new skill, the Voice of Seduction. Wonder how it will sound."
He was heading to Japan as a judge for the final round of a music video casting competition. Of course, Chu Zhi also had to perform one song himself, so this was a test run.
At the 4th Orange Festival, he had planned to use the Voice of Seduction to sing Explosive and Combustible...
Every year he had to surprise the Little Fruits who won the lottery. Honestly, hosting the Orange Festival required even more scheming from the Emperor Beast than releasing an album.
Otherwise, why would fans say, "Chu Zhi is iron, but top idols are like flowing water"?
===
Explosive and Combustible (易燃易爆炸, Yì Rán Yì Bào Zhà), original singer: Hua Zhou 华晨宇 (Hua Chenyu).
--
If you haven't noticed, I change Enchanting Voice to Voice of Seduction, and Mad something to Crowd Freak.