After some discussion, the Chinese-Japanese cultural exchange events were set to be held in three sessions each in Okinawa and Tori Island. Chu Zhi had checked the Okinawa venue, and everything looked fine. Beyond that, the guest list was no longer his concern.
By the time he returned to China's capital airport, it was already past midnight. On the flight back, they even ran into a thunderstorm cloud, but thankfully the pilot was experienced and managed to land half an hour early without incident. This trip to Japan had been unlucky both going and coming back, completing a full circle of mishaps.
"Brother Jiu, you must be exhausted. The hotel I booked is right at Terminal 3, an airport hotel. We can just head straight there," Xiao Zhuzi said.
"This arrangement is a huge help. I can shower and sleep early," Chu Zhi stretched lazily.
The airport hotel was basically a business hotel, though far pricier than a normal one, thanks to the prime location.
After a good night's rest, Chu Zhi woke up fully recharged the next day and headed to 43 Baojia Street.
Baojia Street 43 was fairly well-known; many people recognized it as Zhongyin's address.
It wasn't a huge deal, really. Emperor Beast had been invited as a guest professor by Zhongyin's composition department to collaborate on research about "New Chinese Style and Pop Music." Since 2018, some universities had started inviting celebrities as guest professors just to boost their reputation.
To be honest, last year Chu Zhi had already been offered an honorary professorship by Chuan Yin and Shen Yin, but he had politely declined, citing insufficient credentials. Guest professors and honorary professors were both honorary titles without contractual obligations. However, guest professors generally collaborated on research topics, while honorary professors had no duties at all.
This year, Emperor Beast was twenty-eight. Given his achievements in pop music, he was perfectly qualified to serve as a guest professor.
After receiving the certificate, Emperor Beast casually gave one lecture on "How Not to Overload Lyrics with Obscure References in Ancient-Style or Chinese-Style Songs." He had stumbled across the lyric "天下为公我为母" and found it absolutely ridiculous.
With all his creative experience, his lecture had plenty of substance. Strictly speaking, Emperor Beast could still write songs himself, but there was no need. There were already so many great works. Did he need to write one just to prove himself? Sorry, he wasn't interested. He preferred treating the whole world as a stage.
Since he was already in Beijing, he stopped by Chaoyangmen North Street to report as a "vanguard officer," which was standard procedure.
"The Fifth International Youth Beijing Forum, if you have time, Counselor Chu, you could check it out," Director Xue suggested.
"I won't be able to go. Things are just too busy right now," Chu Zhi replied.
Emperor Beast actively participated in national events mainly to increase his personal value and avoid pressure from second-generation elites or "tigers." There were plenty of examples of officials coercing celebrities. Now that Chu Zhi had enough leverage, he didn't bother with unnecessary entanglements.
Life was just one busy task after another.
Half a month passed without him noticing, and Chu Zhi felt like something was missing.
"Wait, did I forget something?" he asked the system.
[Host, your own birthday. You didn't wish yourself a happy birthday.] The system replied promptly.
Never mind whether the answer was right; the speed was impressive.
"That's not it," Chu Zhi shook his head. Speaking of birthdays, though, he quickly claimed the new achievement for [Apprentice Magician]. Turning twenty-eight, he collected nine Personality Coins, raising his total to sixty-three.
Though he was nearly thirty, thanks to the artifact "1+1 Equals One Spicy Strip," he aged at half the normal rate, so his appearance gave no hint of his true age.
Since he mentioned blind boxes, it was time to open one.
He chose a box and revealed "The Greatest Hero".
A legendary title, radiating chivalry. Simply put, if he were in a movie, standing there with this title, he'd look like a heroic figure robbing the rich to help the poor without saying a word.
"My rating? Not as good as the [Sun King] title," Chu Zhi muttered to himself. No wuxia dramas were airing anyway, and acting wasn't his main career.
He opened another, revealing a custom album voucher. He stopped himself from drawing a third. The previous one still had three song slots left.
Not bad. Better to be prepared. He glanced at his assets; from sixty-three coins, they dropped to fifty-three—self-inflicted shrinkage of ten percent. Wait, that seemed off.
Even after all this, he still couldn't figure out what he'd forgotten.
November rolled around, and with it the annual Nobel Prize in Literature announcement. In 2026, the winner was Fulio Donoso, a Barbadian who moved to the United States as a child. He was a renowned Latin American writer, famous for The Boat of Suffering and cou.cou (a cheap Barbadian food).
The award citation read: "[Fulio's dedication to immigration topics and depiction of racial discrimination are astonishing, bringing Latin America to life as...]"
In recent years, the committee had shown a particular preference for "niche" literature. By "niche," they didn't mean poorly written, just underappreciated. In the past six years, two Latin American authors had won, forcing the world to notice Latin American literature.
How niche was Fulio? In China, only Zhongyi Publishing had translated his Selected Latin American Short Stories, and only one story had a Chinese version. Other works had yet to be translated. Publishers capable of handling his major works had just begun the translation process.
Other publishers were busy reprinting books by Chinese authors likely to be nominated, including new releases by Huainan.
As usual, the Nobel Prize's popularity gradually waned after the winner's announcement. Any award generated the most buzz just before being announced. But this year's announcement carried a small surprise.
In 2025, Nobel laureate Roberts said: "I noticed a phenomenon I can't keep to myself for global literature. The Nobel Prize hasn't awarded a poet in twenty-eight years. I don't mean purely professional poets. The line between poet and writer is blurry, but a writer's representative work determines their achievement. The Nobel Prize should maintain the stability of world literature. The world can't survive without poetry. Humanity needs poetry for romance, love, and freedom."
Few were eligible for a nomination: national writers' association heads, literary academy members, and past laureates. This year, Roberts recommended Huainan, but he didn't win. His remarks weren't just to complain. He loved poetry as a child, wanted to be a poet, but lacked talent. He accidentally started writing novels at a newspaper job, which became a commercial and literary hit overnight.
Roberts' comments, coming at the peak of his fame after winning the prize last year, sparked worldwide debate.
"I checked. Since the 1990s, no poet has won."
"Are poets just failing these days? I can name plenty from last century, but none from the past twenty or thirty years."
"Outside school, hardly anyone reads poetry. If someone carries a poetry book on the New York subway, I wouldn't say anything, but I'd think, 'Look who's trying to impress a girl.'"
"Most poets are writers too. Take Pushkin—plays, novels, fairy tales. One novel even became an opera by Tchaikovsky. Yet people still think of Freedom Hymn or If Life Deceives You first."
"I don't like poetry, but I admit it's essential to literature."
The last time a poet won the Nobel was in '98, the one before that in '72. The prize is the pinnacle of literary honor, so a gap of decades is normal, but nearly thirty years without a poet shows the Swedish committee undervalues poetry.
This stirred heated debate, splitting opinions.
Supporters echoed Roberts, arguing the Nobel's evaluation of poetry was too low. Critics said it wasn't the prize's fault—poets just weren't strong enough for the award.
Internet discussions fizzled in a day or two, but the literary world kept buzzing.
Critic Lapam commented: "Poetry can immortalize a city. Why say poets lost their spirit or ability? Most information now gives instant pleasure without thought. A society full of anxiety leaves no room to pause and savor the aesthetics and wisdom in poetry. Poetry isn't without soil—it's barren land. Even barren land can grow…"
Lapam identified five poets as [The Barren Generation], including Huainan. The others were mostly over fifty, globally famous.
[Huainan can't be seen as a simple individual. His life is complex, and his poetry years were full of events. Huainan can represent four poets; he's like a garden growing in barren land: red roses, storm-defying olive trees, dense vines...]
Huainan's evaluation was unmatched. While others were flowers or trees, he was a whole garden.
Most people misunderstand literary critics, thinking they're busybodies nitpicking works. Outstanding critics, broadly speaking, drive literature forward; narrowly, they push authors to improve.
Here, Lapam's influence was immense. [The Barren Generation] would soon become a common term in literary magazines, like "Beat Generation" or "Angry Youth," with Huainan at its forefront.
Chu Zhi learned about this a month and a half later. The general public hadn't sparked widespread discussion, but the evaluation had caught the attention of experts.
He found out from Ono Akio's email. Estonia, Poland, and Lithuania's secondary education textbooks planned to include an excerpt from Mr. Cogito's Poetry.
Even with increasing notoriety, it was unusual for four countries to make such a change simultaneously. Textbook revisions weren't made overnight—they required committee meetings.
The odds of four countries acting at once were smaller than a short-tailed cat updating three hundred thousand words in a month. Something important had happened.
Ono Akio checked further: Lapam's evaluation caused a chain reaction. Many poets evaluated Huainan's work, creating another chain reaction. These countries were all Eastern European, within the Russian linguistic influence.
Authorization wasn't the issue—it wasn't about fees. For a poet to gain global fame and be remembered, inclusion in textbooks was the most direct method. In China, foreign famous poets mostly became known through middle and high school curricula.
This brought him one step closer to the Nobel.
This period was also the busiest for Aiguo Company.
"Too bad, Jiu-yé can't use his ace promotion move," Qi Qiu sighed.
Ace move? The PR staff perked up. What was that? Could the boss have a secret trick?
Everyone knew Qi Qiu had been hired four years ago from Huayuhua Company for a high salary. Now she was a company elder, with shares and real authority as COO—definitely a capable person.
Attentive staff might've noticed overlap between Wang Yuan and Qi Qiu's management. Wang Yuan mainly handled artists' personal branding, while Qi Qiu managed overall promotion. Usually, agencies wouldn't split responsibilities this way, but Aiguo was primarily focused on one artist. Even trainee Miao Chen earned some money, though very little.
"Qi Director, tell us more!" "Let us see your ace move!" "Is this something we can hear?"…
"If Jiu-yé were in the US, he could form a party and run for president, trending on social media instantly," Qi Qiu said.
Ah, a clever idea, but unnecessary.
"Just joking. My original PR plan was to make this the best-selling physical album of the millennium. The new album's theme was special, so the plan got rejected."
It sounded like the second plan lacked experience, but anyone who'd done PR knew it was actually more feasible.
Enough jokes. On December 17, Is It Peace? would launch worldwide!