Even with the "Chu Zhi Strongest Support Team" picking up the trash, the remnants of the festival's chaos were still everywhere.
After all, the crowd had been in the millions. Add in the celebrity guest rest areas and backstage, which together covered 0.6 square kilometers, and there was no way it could be cleaned all at once. They only managed to sweep parts of it.
Within a five-kilometer radius, people from groups like "Holy War," "Liberate Africa," "Love and Peace," and the "Rebellion Army" were lying in wait. The names sounded decent enough, but of course, they'd gone extreme. If you don't play the religion card or the justice card, why would anyone follow you?
Nearby, national defense forces from Nigeria, Chad, Niamey, Benin, and Togo were also stationed. Compared to the extremists, their weapons were only slightly more organized, but not significantly more advanced.
"Lying in wait" was really just showing their hands. All the factions were wary of each other, and the air practically smelled of gunpowder. There were probably at least twenty or thirty thousand firearms in play.
Leading a squad was Tofa, the twin brother of the "Holy War" leader. Most African tribes consider twins cursed and kill them at birth. Luckily, Tofa was a Fong tribe member, and their Vodou faith revered twins.
Vodou, known in the West as voodoo, is famous worldwide. Modern zombie culture actually has its roots in the deep-sea Vodou traditions.
Tofa gripped his gun tightly. Every second was agony. His face was iron-gray… well, it wasn't obvious since he was Black, but his nerves were stretched to the limit, waiting for someone to fire the first shot.
Colonel Tanja, stationed in Niamey, led an external unit just under a kilometer from the "Holy War" group. Using binoculars, he scanned the rebel organizations, his finger never leaving the trigger. His soldiers stayed on high alert, ready for an ambush.
It was a vicious cycle. The constant battle-readiness of national forces only fueled the aggressiveness of the extremist groups. With the tension already at its peak, a full-blown skirmish seemed inevitable.
Amid the anxious, greedy, brutal, and fearful eyes, more than twenty people approached the stage, making things even more tense.
"Boss, what do we do?" one subordinate asked. Losing a bird in hand was frustrating.
"They're United Nations personnel, don't you see the uniforms? Idiots," Tofa stopped him.
"But what if they're trying to take our sound system?" another asked nervously.
Fair point, Tofa thought, but then he laughed internally. "Bullshit. Do you really think a group of twenty people could move this stuff?"
True, without trucks, there was no way to move it by manpower alone, so the Holy War members relaxed a little.
"Keep an eye on them anyway. If something goes wrong with the UN people…" Tofa added, "…but don't attack them if there's no issue."
"Yes, Boss," they replied.
The Holy War feared the UN? Not at all. How many divisions did the UN have? They only feared France. Mostly, it wasn't necessary—after all, the idiots at the UN occasionally helped African refugees.
"Boss, how did you know this stuff was worth so much? I thought singing equipment was only worth a few hundred thousand francs," one asked curiously.
A few hundred thousand West African francs was just a few thousand RMB.
"What, you think I don't know?" Tofa replied.
Even Tofa wasn't sure how his twin knew. He wasn't interested in music, so he shouldn't even know the equipment's value. He didn't know who had informed him either.
Even more intriguing, the rebel groups in the Sahel had already heard the news.
Of the twenty people arriving at the scene, ten were UN staff. Their uniforms were sky-blue vests with a clear logo of hands holding a spire to shelter a small figure from the rain.
The other thirteen started adjusting the central control, lighting, and audio equipment. Within half an hour, the Hungarian ATV crew arrived in a rush.
They walked, not drove. Worried about provoking nearby extremists, they left their vehicles two kilometers away, carrying all filming gear by hand.
"Working overtime after getting off work, God, my life is so bleak," Janos sighed.
ATV was one of over fifty global broadcast channels. They packed up and left after the festival ended in the morning, but hadn't even reached the airport before being called back.
"A bleak life comes with a fat bonus. One hundred thousand forints per person," said Zoltan, the filming team leader.
Hungarian forints, ten thousand forints equaled roughly two thousand RMB. Not bad.
After setting up their equipment, the media team waited for Chu Zhi to arrive.
"Are we in danger?" Janos asked nervously.
"Chu Zhi isn't afraid of danger. Why are you?" Zoltan replied.
"No, no, no, no, no. Chu Zhi is a legend—a righteous man. During the earthquake in Japan, he risked his life to save people. He's the type to give himself for the world. So what he's doing isn't necessarily about safety, just about peace," Janos explained, his sharp eyes gleaming like a clever husky, as if he'd figured everything out.
Zoltan fell silent for a moment, then said, "Don't worry. There are UN people nearby."
If the UN were truly reliable, they wouldn't let a celebrity step in to prevent an imminent conflict. Janos silently prayed the extremists wouldn't act rashly.
The rebel and national forces stared at the small group approaching. The festival hadn't even fully ended. Why allow these outsiders near their sound equipment unless they feared another group lurking behind?
Ten more minutes passed, and the four-member Rolling Stone crew, led by Barnes, arrived. Everyone but the leader was drenched in sweat. Armor vehicles are intimidating, after all.
"I've already got the title for my article: 'The Ultimate Humanity for Peace Isn't Woodstock, It's Chu Zhi,'" Barnes said, staring at his phone and the chaos triggered by Leighton. He needed to add fuel to the fire.
"Don't worry. The UN will hand over uniforms shortly. Put them on and don't resist. They're only after money," Barnes said.
That comment made the Rolling Stone staff even more nervous. So there really was a chance of getting shot?
Stage, journalists, and crew were ready. The only thing left was the band. Horman, staying at the hotel closest to the stage, was the first to arrive.
"Fuck, fuck, am I an idiot? Why did I agree to be the guitarist? Why did I get hot-headed? What if I get shot? I'm such a pile of shit," Horman muttered.
He'd borrowed a guitar from a friend. Nearsighted, he'd noticed the armed men along the way. Outwardly calm, inwardly he cursed himself relentlessly.
"Sir, we've finished setting up the equipment," said the lead backstage staff, Gofski, from Russia, a typical East Slavic with a narrow nose, thin lips, and straight jawline.
"What should we do next? Or is there a setlist?" Gofski asked.
Horman paused, glanced around, and replied, "I'm just the guitarist. You'll know the full plan once Chu Zhi arrives. He should be here soon."
"Alright."
Gofski left promptly. He was practically a Little Fruit, after all. Who didn't love Chu Zhi's Moscow Nights or Katyusha?
Fifteen minutes later, the lead singer Chu Zhi, drummer Macdantley, and bassist Field finally arrived.
"I want to make up for Woodstock's mistakes. We can't cause a war," Field said.
Macdantley added, "An event this cool, I'd regret it if I didn't come."
Their words felt like a vow. Horman said nothing, consumed by endless regret.
Chu Zhi handed the USB drive to Gofski. It contained tracks popular in Europe and America because the band hadn't gelled yet. Performing original songs was out of the question, only familiar songs would work.
"Mr. Chu, can we really stop the war?" Gofski asked hesitantly.
"Of course, because we tried together," Chu Zhi replied.
Maybe it was the mood, or maybe the heavens themselves were in on it. There's a poem that says, "Black clouds press down on a city, and the city is about to collapse," and right now, the sky was heavy with dark clouds.
People often have the wrong impression about Africa, thinking it's all desert, scorching and rainless. The Sahel region, however, sits between the Sahara and the West African rainforest. It's a tropical savanna climate with a rainy season from April to July and September to October. And now it was mid-August, so technically, this weather shouldn't even be happening.
The black clouds were just another straw on the camel's back.
"Next, we're holding a special concert. No tickets, no applause required," Chu Zhi said.
"I believe soldiers with guns desire peace more than anyone else, because they're the first victims of war. This concert is for them," he added.
If it were any other sound system, people a few kilometers away probably wouldn't hear clearly, but the equipment left at the site had been custom-built for the festival. The music carried crisp and clear.
No way, no way… seriously, did anyone really think music could save the world? Colonel Tanja of Niamey heard this and felt like the celebrity had lost his mind.
It was understandable though. The guy had never faced war firsthand, and even acting with good intentions carried a risk to his life, Tanja thought.
The reaction of Tofa, the third leader of the Holy War organization, was much the same. Actually, everyone among the 20,000+ people lying in wait felt the same: if music could bring peace, then why did humans even bother making weapons? Were we just playing house?
No one in the organizations or armies made any sudden moves or interference. It was easier to just listen to the free performance anyway, especially after standing guard for so long.
Many were drawn in by Chu Zhi's words. Soldiers with guns truly felt the pain of war fastest. Like the soldiers from Chad's national defense forces—they didn't want to fight either—but three million dollars' worth of equipment couldn't fall into extremist hands, or more people would die.
So a lot of people agreed with Chu Zhi in their hearts, though they couldn't help sighing. "Stopping it? Impossible. Even if Jesus himself came, he couldn't organize today's battle."
"All right, the African Peace Concert starts now. First song: We."
It was the signature hit of the Wild Beast band, one of the most famous songs in the Finnish music scene, ranked in the top ten on multiple countries' SPO charts.
Gems
Without Clouds, What Else Is There
Absolutely Not
Wildcat…
One song after another, all with a calm rhythm. Chu Zhi didn't activate his Ning King title, instead adding an angelic gospel touch to the songs.
He knew it wasn't night yet, and the situation wasn't critical. Feedback from the 20,000+ audience was more like, "Hey, this celebrity sings pretty well,""Better than VCD singers,""Is he trying to spread peace with his voice?" and even, "Should we tie up the star instead?"
The heavy rain never came. Starting at four in the afternoon, Chu Zhi performed over thirty songs, nearly three hours straight. Field and Mardantley, the band's members, got a firsthand look at his endurance and skill.
By seven, in West Africa, sunset happens around 6:50 PM, and the sky was dark.
Previously on the phone, Beckson had said the UN Refugee Agency would arrive around nine, but in reality, a big truck and three off-road vehicles were almost at the site by seven.
"The African Peace Concert, calming the audience with music… what a great man," Beckson said, genuinely impressed after seeing Chu Zhi's actions.
"Now, it's up to us," he added.
Beckson had brought a truckload of destruction tools to destroy the equipment on-site.
But just as he spoke, the truck ahead braked sharply. Luckily, there was enough distance to avoid a collision. They were now only a few hundred meters from the stage.
"What's wrong?" Beckson asked, tense.
"They… moved," the Refugee Agency staff stammered.
Moved!
The extremists began their attack. For the Holy War organization, Tofa ordered a few hundred people to advance immediately.
Clatter! One place moved, everywhere moved. Madness!
The extremists surged forward like starving tigers, kicking up yellow sand under the night sky. From afar, it looked like a school of piranhas in the Amazon River.
Colonel Tanja saw this and immediately ordered the army to advance. The sound of armored vehicle tires on the ground was like a machine shop firing up, piercing the calm of the night.
"Don't be afraid. We're UN Refugee Agency staff, stay calm!" Beckson and his team shouted through loudspeakers to announce their identity.
The vehicles had UN logos that glowed even in the dark.
It was useless.
Beckson had overestimated the UN's influence in West Africa. No organization gave an inch. According to Tofa, if there's no conflict of interest, we won't provoke you—but what's a few bucks in front of a US dollar?
The stage, reporters, staff, and band members were all terrified. Who wouldn't be facing death head-on and be scared? The armored vehicles and the barrels of guns were just a kilometer away.
János of Hungary's ATV TV held the camera, using night vision, barely daring to move a muscle to avoid misunderstandings.
"The rebels are hopeless, they have no humanity. They don't understand music," said Bannes, deputy editor of Rolling Stone Magazine, his usual rosy face now pale.
"Chu, what do we do?" Mardantley panicked.
"They really dare to fight indiscriminately in front of civilians?" Field couldn't believe it. How dare they!
The national defense forces wouldn't dare, at least if they wanted their country to develop, but extremists didn't care.
"Idiot, you're a piece of shit," Horman continued mentally cursing himself.
"Mr. Bannes, the food supply officer is here. Let's hear Mr. Beckson first," Chu Zhi said calmly.
Beckson ran over, panting. "Mr. Chu, sorry, the situation is worse than I thought. We can't destroy this batch of equipment, no one can take it. It'll be destroyed in the chaos of war."
"I've made arrangements. You all leave first," Chu Zhi replied.
Field, Mardantley, and the rest of the staff breathed a sigh of relief. Their lives were safe—for now.
Everyone moved quickly, packing up to leave with Beckson. Miss this chance, and there'd be no other.
"Feeling reluctant? It's fine, you did your best," Horman said, noticing Chu Zhi. He was walking slowly, so Horman comforted him a little.
It was understandable. Even after spending money and effort, they couldn't stop the war. Anyone would feel bitter.
"Humans can decide when a war begins, but they can't decide when it ends," Chu Zhi said. "So what I want to do is make sure the war never starts."
With that, Chu Zhi turned and returned to the stage.
"Fuck, fuck, these Chinese people are really something," Horman muttered, watching Chu Zhi's back and unconsciously following.
Chu Zhi silently activated Ning King. Now was the moment!
At the main console, he played the new song Earth Song. The accompaniment started with cicadas and birds, then soft piano melodies.
Beckson and the others glanced over, noticing Chu Zhi and Horman back on stage. "Is he still going to sing?"
"Too idealistic," Beckson thought. "Before, nobody intervened. Now the guns are aimed. Singing is meaningless."
True martyrs, Bannes reflected again. Mardantley and Field were brave and idealistic, but facing 20,000+ armed people and armored vehicles, they retreated quickly.
Don't blame them for fear—who wouldn't want to live? Field and Mardantley were among the top 95% of survival instincts.
"Go first. I'll get Mr. Chu Zhi," Beckson said. A good man shouldn't die like this.
"Mr. Beckson, I'll go too. I'll try to reason with him," Bannes said. This naive fool had to understand that music had its limits.
Bannes thought Chu Zhi was foolish, but incredibly great.
"All right, go fast. They might strike at any second," Beckson urged.
Both ran back, jogging.
"They" meant the 20+ extremists, who were annoyed by the intro noise anyway. Nobody had time to enjoy music while dodging bullets.
Then, everything changed when Chu Zhi opened his mouth:
🎵"The sunrise, the rain, everything we thought we'd get…"🎵