Inside the cabin on the return flight, Leng He, Yang Ziquan, and Zhou Yuyi happened to be on the same plane as Chu Zhi. First class had eight seats, and the three of them occupied half of them.
"Teacher Chu, what are you doing?" As the plane climbed, Leng He noticed Chu Zhi casually lowering his tray table, then pulling out a book and pen from his backpack.
"Nothing much. Just passing the time—reading and practicing French," Chu Zhi replied.
He was still working on translating Selected Plays of Bai Pu into French. Compared with Japanese and English, French demanded far stricter consistency and nuance, so every word had to be weighed with care.
"French?" Yang Ziquan's eyes flickered. Even though she had been caught up in the entertainment world lately, she had not completely abandoned her French studies. She stole a glance, curious to see what he was copying down. She could not stare too openly, so she was not sure exactly what it was.
This man felt like a monster. Based on fame and schedule alone, Yang Ziquan knew very clearly that Chu Zhi's calendar had to be far busier than hers.
Yet somehow he still managed to release two albums a year, compose his own songs, steadily improve his vocal skills, and even keep up with learning French. It was terrifying.
"Uh…" Leng He asked, "Isn't flying tiring? Teacher Chu, shouldn't you rest a bit?"
"I can't really sit idle, so I want to make good use of the time," Chu Zhi said. "You should rest, though. I just can't keep still."
Rest was definitely needed. Zhou Yuyi had just performed at a music festival the night before, then gone out singing karaoke with friends in Tokyo. Today he was barely awake.
Leng He had planned to nap as well, but seeing someone as accomplished as Chu Zhi still working so diligently instantly killed his drowsiness. He pulled out a book he had just bought, I Am a Willful Child, to enrich himself.
"Heaven offers you a path yet you don't take it, and instead you sail your bitter little boat into the endless sea of study," Zhou Yuyi muttered after glancing over, unable to resist commenting.
Wait—that sounded a little strange. But… it did kind of make sense. He frowned, not entirely sure.
Chu Zhi noticed the book in Leng He's hands and said, "You like poetry collections?"
"Not really. I'm not that into modern poetry. It's just that this author has gotten really popular overseas lately, so I picked it up to see what the fuss was about," Leng He explained.
"Oh." Chu Zhi had half-expected some praise and lost interest when none came. He turned back to his translation project.
Although the Emperor Beast had already left Japan, his influence remained.
In Tokyo's most bustling Ginza district, massive billboards hung over the skyscrapers—Shinbashi Enbujō, Ginza Mitsukoshi, Matsuya, Marui—all displaying advertisements for his new album. Bookstores that sold CDs had long since swapped out their displays for Chu Zhi posters. The spectacle was grand.
Sony Music, a giant in the entertainment world, had joined forces with Chu Zhi. It was like Gaia stepping onto the earth—enough to make the ground tremble.
Of course, entertainment media outlets would never let such a big story slip by. They had dispatched their best reporters.
From Weekly Bunshun came journalist Takeuchi Kadonoe, infamous for once staking out for two days straight without even using the restroom to catch actor Komaki Daisuke's extramarital affair. That scoop had blown up Japan's tabloid world.
Komaki Daisuke was the young actor friend of Takeuchi Kadoine, notorious for cheating with not just one person but an entire married couple.
In fan jargon, wakate meant "young actor under thirty," while haiyū meant "male actor," and jōyū meant "actress."
"News on Chu-san is too easy. Do I even need to investigate?" Takeuchi muttered. It wasn't that he thought the story was small. Quite the opposite—it was huge. Writing the piece would be child's play. Pick any angle and it would work.
Sure enough, the moment he reached Shibuya's Center Street, he was struck by the scene.
The broad avenue was completely jam-packed with people, spilling over onto the sidewalks. And this was still early in the morning.
"Hi, are you also here to buy Brother Jiu's album? Let's go together."
"My legs aren't too good. I might slow you down."
"That's fine. With me here, we'll definitely both get copies."
Fortunately, the sea of fans remained surprisingly harmonious.
"Damn it, you're blocking traffic," Takeuchi cursed inwardly. Out loud, he said nothing—there were too many fans around.
Shibuya's Center Street had once been the area with the highest concentration of record stores. Even in this iron age of physical CDs, it remained a sacred place for enthusiasts who loved the real thing.
"This scene… it reminds me of the eighties and nineties," fifty-year-old Takeuchi thought wistfully. Back then, during Japan's economic boom and the golden era of physical albums, Center Street had been exactly this lively.
Nowadays, with most families under financial strain and this being just a normal weekday, such a crowd was nothing short of astonishing.
"All right, my headline will be: [One Man's Strength Revives the Lost Golden Age of Records]." He considered it for a moment. Passable, but perhaps lacking punch.
Other options came to mind as he glanced up at the giant banners:
[Five Thousand Years of Chinese Beauty—Chu Zhi's Japanese Album With You Goes on Sale Today]
[Chu Zhi's First Japanese Studio Album With You Shakes Hokkaido, Honshu, Shikoku, and Kyushu!]
Squeezing through the mass of bodies, Takeuchi finally reached the entrance of Tsutaya, the colossal nine-story flagship bookstore and music retailer. Even here, the crowd made it nearly impossible to move.
At 8:40, when most stores began opening their doors, the sound of rolling shutters echoed like a signal. The crowd surged forward like a flood breaking through a dam.
"Judging by just this turnout, Chu-san's Japanese album will sell at least three hundred thousand copies," Takeuchi thought, slipping away to the third floor to take photos.
Tsutaya's layout was simple: floors 1–2 sold CDs and DVDs, floors 3–5 rented them, 6–7 housed a café and bookstore, and the top floors were adults-only sales and offices. The fans were all packed into the lower levels, but from upstairs Takeuchi had a perfect view.
Five cash registers had been set up, with two dedicated solely to Chu Zhi's new album With You. They didn't even bother placing them on shelves—albums were sold straight from boxes.
Unlike South Korea, where purchases were limited to a few per person, Japan—the "last bastion of physical media"—had no restrictions. Many fans bought seven or eight copies at once. One even tried to buy twenty.
"Sir, do you really want twenty? We only have two thousand copies in stock today, and there are many others waiting…" the cashier began.
The fan, dressed head to toe in Anta sportswear, silently pulled thirteen Fukuzawa Yukichi bills (ten-thousand-yen notes) from his wallet, along with some change. The message was clear: less talking, more selling.
Sony had produced Chu Zhi's Japanese album with exquisite care, pricing it at 6,500 yen—about 320 RMB. Chu Zhi himself received a 38 percent cut (Sony took 30 percent). That meant each CD earned the Emperor Beast about 120 RMB.
"What do you need twenty for? Don't you know you're making things harder for others?""There are so many people behind you in line.""You're being selfish!"
Complaints erupted immediately. At an average of five albums per person, just four hundred people could wipe out Tsutaya's supply. And the line clearly stretched far beyond four hundred.
"I'm helping my friends buy. I've got five of them. And besides, accusing me without knowing the truth—aren't you the ones causing trouble?" the Anta-clad fan shot back.
At least he wasn't Ojima Matsushika. If it had been Ojima, the purchase would have started at fifty copies, and the uproar would have been even greater.
Watching from upstairs, Takeuchi chuckled. Before sales began, fellow fans were all comrades. Once the doors opened, it became a battle of sharp tongues.
Cashier, grab album, take money. Open new box when stock runs out.
Fan, accept album, hand over cash.
The process was smooth and fast. Which was why Tsutaya's two thousand copies were soon gone. Fans who had waited in line for hours but walked away empty-handed were furious.
"No more? Why didn't you tell me when I first lined up? You wasted my whole morning.""If you're out, restock from another branch. I've already waited five or six hours—what's another one?""I want my album."
Anger spread like wildfire.
The staff could no longer control the crowd. Even regular customers who had come for books turned away, afraid of the chaos.
The manager finally stepped out. "We sincerely apologize. Our store did not prepare enough copies. We are very sorry for the inconvenience."
He bowed at ninety degrees, along with several employees, then shifted tactics.
"However, there are still dedicated record shops like HMV&Books Shibuya and Tower Records nearby. They may still have stock. If you urgently need the album, you could try there. As for us, new shipments won't arrive until tomorrow."
Tsutaya was Japan's largest music and video retail chain, dwarfing even Tower Records and HMV, which only sold music. Which meant those smaller stores definitely had less stock.
If Tsutaya was already sold out, there was no way the others had much left. Takeuchi immediately realized the manager's cunning.
Sure enough, though fans continued to curse under their breath, they rushed out the doors, scrambling toward the other stores.
There was a commotion downstairs. Takeuchi Kadoine rushed down in a flurry, eager to see what was going on.
The eight-story Tower Records stood in Shibuya with its bright yellow sign and bold red letters, a landmark on Center Street. But today, it wasn't the sign drawing attention. Instead, it was a scuffle right outside the entrance.
"That's mine!"
"What do you mean yours? I don't see your name on it!"
"Stop fighting, stop fighting! What if you damage the standee?!"
Men and women were tangled together in the fight, while the crowd gathered, restless and excited.
A reporter's instinct is to cut through chaos quickly.
Takeuchi Kadoine slipped into the crowd and pieced together the situation within moments: some fans who hadn't managed to buy Chu Zhi's new album had set their eyes on the life-sized cardboard cutout standing at the store's entrance.
The moment one fan made a move, others joined in. Everyone wanted to claim it, never mind the key fact that the standee belonged to the store and was never meant to be taken away. In the frenzy, not one of them cared.
[Is Chu Zhi a walking stimulant?] Takeuchi Kadoine thought to himself. Or should I change "stimulant" to "hormone"? He snapped photos rapidly, clicking away for several minutes until finally, the standee found an "owner."
"Only the strong can have it!" declared a fan. He was a towering man, easily over 1.8 meters, with the build of a laborer. His method of victory was simple: he lifted the standee high above his head, far out of anyone's reach.
The store staff were overwhelmed inside with the new release rush and had no time to intervene. So, the moment the man secured the standee, he bolted. His speed was shocking.
His clothes and posture screamed construction worker. For someone like that to be a Chu Zhi fan felt almost absurdly out of place.
Maybe his wife or kids were fans? Whoever it was, Takeuchi Kadoine sensed a story. He lifted his camera and gave chase.
But a fifty-year-old journalist, even one used to pounding the pavement, couldn't match the giant's stride.
"Sir in the white T-shirt up ahead, stop running!" Takeuchi Kadoine shouted.
That was a mistake. The man froze at the voice, assuming it must be a Tower Records employee trying to take back the standee.
No way. He had waited in line for five hours and hadn't managed to buy the album. At least he could take this home as a keepsake.
That thought only made him run faster.
"Huh? Why is he speeding up?" For a moment, Takeuchi Kadoine was confused, then it hit him: his words had been wrong. Quickly, he tried again. "I have Chu Zhi's new album! I can sell you one!"
The man skidded to a halt. He turned, suspicious, and saw only a middle-aged man with a camera.
A reporter? At least not a store clerk.
"You bought Chu Sang's new album With You?" the man asked.
Takeuchi Kadoine hadn't, but lying was part of survival. He asked instead, "So you're a fan of Chu Sang?"
"Of course! Chu Sang is my idol forever." The answer was immediate, without hesitation.
"Would you share your story as a fan?" Takeuchi Kadoine asked. "If you're willing, we can give you a signed copy of With You. Let me introduce myself—I'm a reporter for Weekly Bunshun. Here's my press card, issued by Kyodo News."
This was where experience showed. He knew Chu Zhi's album would shatter records. Straightforward sales reports would be everywhere. To stand out, he needed a different angle.
His plan: tell the story of an ordinary fan. That would hook others in the fandom.
As for the signed album, he didn't have one. But he could always ask his editor-in-chief to request one. Weekly Bunshun was a heavyweight in the entertainment press. Sony Music would likely oblige.
The offer thrilled the man. He introduced himself: his name was Fujiwara Hideshi, 35 years old, a construction worker, single, and a devoted Chu Zhi fan for two years.
When Takeuchi Kadoine asked if he could visit his home, Fujiwara Hideshi thought a moment, then agreed.
Japan even had a show called May I Follow You Home?, where staff offered late-night workers free taxi rides in exchange for visiting their homes. Compared to the cost of taxis, any fan would value a signed album far more.
Fujiwara Hideshi lived in お花茶屋 (Ohanajaya). Takeuchi Kadoine knew the place well: a cheap residential area compared to central Tokyo, thanks to its reliance on the Keisei Line. Miss the last train, and commuting became a nightmare. The area was also known for its funeral hall, Shigi Saijō. Many low-income workers lived there.
They arrived at a small three-story building tucked off a side street. Fujiwara Hideshi led him up an outdoor staircase showing its age, then into a twelve-tatami room on the second floor.
"I'm home," Fujiwara Hideshi called instinctively as he opened the door.
Inside, the space was neat and spotless. The layout was simple: two parts kitchen, three parts bedroom, five parts shared living area, bathroom, and corridor. Books stacked in the corners were arranged with care.
It was hard to believe a single man lived here.
"Would you like iced tea or coffee, Takeuchi-san?" Fujiwara Hideshi asked, setting the standee carefully against the wall.
"Coffee would be great, if it's no trouble," said Takeuchi Kadoine.
"Ah—sorry, I forgot. I don't have coffee in the house. Iced tea then?"
"…Yes, thank you."
He served iced tea with a plate of cookies, then slid open the tatami mat storage.
"Takeuchi-san, please look. This is my collection."
Beneath the mat was a hidden compartment, filled with every physical album Chu Zhi had ever released—except for today's newly launched With You.
There were also countless bits of merchandise, carefully saved and collected over time.
Takeuchi Kadoine filmed everything, struck by the contrast. Fujiwara Hideshi was broad-shouldered, rugged, with the look of a laborer. And yet he was this devoted. The difference was startling.
Noticing his doubt, Fujiwara Hideshi began to explain.
Three years ago, his wife and daughter had gone hiking. A sudden storm trapped them in the mountains. By the time rescue teams found them, it was too late.
When Fujiwara Hideshi heard the news, his world collapsed. For more than a year, he lived in a haze.
It was Chu Zhi's music that gave him the strength to keep living. He still hadn't gotten used to being alone. He still called out "I'm home" as if his wife and daughter could answer. He still forgot there was no coffee in the house anymore because his wife, who loved it, was gone.
But Chu Zhi's songs carried a force that allowed him to bear it.
"My dream now is to save up, really save, and buy a house in Okinawa. My wife and daughter loved Okinawa," Fujiwara Hideshi said, laughing in a way that sounded too light, too forced.
The words blindsided Takeuchi Kadoine. He hadn't expected this kind of story. Could music really do that? Could the songs of a foreign singer give someone enough strength to keep living?
He had read such things online, but now he was sitting face-to-face with someone living it.
Still, he didn't ask aloud. It would have been rude.
Just as Fujiwara Hideshi was about to continue, his phone rang. "Excuse me," he said, and answered.
"Log in to Twitter, now! Check what I sent you!" His friend's voice was urgent before the call cut off.
Sensing something serious, Fujiwara Hideshi opened the app. His friend had tagged him in a post.
It was a news headline: 'The Circuit Breaker Who Stopped Others From Suicide Couldn't Stop His Own.'
"What?!" Fujiwara Hideshi's face went pale, his composure shattering.