"Mr. Ono, I'm Stag…," Stagnelius hadn't even finished saying his name before he was cut off.
"Do you take me for an idiot?" Ono Akio scoffed. "Next, are you gonna ask me for money? My book Me and Nan won the Nobel Prize in Literature?"
Me and Nan had been published last year and had won the Simada Ryotaro Award. On the surface, Ono Akio's book told the story of himself and the great poet Huainan, but in reality, it was a semi-autobiography written from his perspective as an editor. The depictions of workplace and family pressures resonated deeply with many young people in Japan, especially the line: I wanted to kill myself, not to commit suicide, just to stop existing. I wanted to live alone, and that thought kept me going. It captured the mindset of Japan's low-desire generation perfectly.
In short, Me and Nan was Ono Akio using the aura of a famous poet to explore Japan's low-desire society through his own eyes. Winning the Simada Ryotaro Award was well-deserved. Even though the award was nicknamed the "Little Nobel" of Japan, Ono Akio didn't imagine it had any link to the real Nobel Prize.
He knew his limits; after all, he was also a '90s kid shaped by a low-desire society.
"Sir, could you speak a little slower? I can't catch everything," Stagnelius admitted.
Not catching his Japanese-accented English? Ono Akio's expression turned serious. Maybe this person really was a foreigner? But the next line made him suddenly realize.
"Are you Mr. Ono Akio, editor for Mr. Huainan?"
Huainan… the great poet… had won the Nobel Prize in Literature?!
This was supposed to go to Huainan all along. The Swedish Academy finally had good taste.
Ono Akio's mind had two reactions in an instant, and he immediately replied, "Yes, I'm Huainan's editor. Has he really won the Nobel Prize?"
"The 2027 Nobel Prize in Literature has been awarded to Chinese poet Huainan," Stagnelius said. "However, we couldn't reach him, so we're asking Mr. Ono Akio to help contact him."
"No problem, just give me a moment. I'll email him right away. You have to wait," Ono Akio said, already starting to type. Huainan was his idol, and it was Huainan's encouragement that gave him the courage to write Me and Nan. Now that he knew his idol had won, he was shaking with excitement, his fingers trembling as he typed. He was so thrilled he almost forgot to confirm the caller's identity.
"Mr. Ono, please keep this confidential. Don't reveal anything. The winner will be publicly announced in two months," Stagnelius reminded.
"My nickname's White Monk. I'll never leak it, don't worry," Ono Akio promised immediately.
White Monk was a faceless yokai in Japanese folklore. With no eyes, nose, or mouth, he naturally couldn't spill secrets.
Ono Akio hung up temporarily. The email wouldn't get a reply immediately, but he didn't want the staff waiting. Luckily, Stagnelius sent a photo via text—a picture of his office ID at the Swedish Academy—to verify his identity.
In reality, Ono Akio's email reached Chu Zhi an hour later, when he was resting during the shoot for the Four Great Classics MV.
[Huainan-san, you've won the Nobel Prize! The secretary at the Swedish Academy just called me. I knew it—if the Academy ever thought of a poetry collection, it had to be you!]
Chu Zhi couldn't hide his happiness. It wasn't just about the Nobel Prize itself; seven years had passed since he'd adopted this alias, and now he could finally reveal it. Of course, performing as Emperor Beast for seven years had its perks—good food, good sleep, tens of millions of fans, ahem…
He wondered how everyone would react when they realized Huainan and Chu Zhi were the same person. Emperor Beast loved seeing his friends' shocked faces.
His assistant Xiao Zhuzi noticed his bright smile and thought, "Boss must be really happy."
"Alright, let's do it. Treat ourselves to a little gift. System bro, let's go for a ten-pull!"
93 Personality Coins instantly dropped to 42, and Chu Zhi's eyes went wide at the ten blind box prizes.
Even the seasoned Emperor Beast quickly regained his composure and began inspecting the prizes.
[Rare Item: Six Nuke Multi-Function Drinks]
[Song Voucher x3]
[Album Package: Restless]
[Album Package: Black Tangerine]
Ethereal Sound
[Custom Album Voucher x1]
[Poetry Collection: William Blake Selected Works]
[Album Package: The.Game]
[Rare Item: Non-Stick Glutinous Rice Balls]
[Song Voucher x3]
Chu Zhi had two thoughts. First, the ten-pull didn't yield the special grand prize. No guaranteed rare even on ten pulls—was this worse than Pig Factory or Goose Factory?
"Wait, what is this? I feel like I lost out." He paused, then realized he hadn't. The three albums plus a custom album alone were worth half a billion yuan.
All three albums were legendary: Wang Fei, David Tao, and Queen.
"Should I sign a female artist next? Plenty of songs from women, might as well keep the profits in-house," Chu Zhi mused.
He calculated one Personality Coin at ten million yuan; the remaining rare items and Ethereal Sound alone were worth hundreds of millions.
"The Rare Item mini-store is seriously techy. Six Nuke Drinks and the non-stick rice balls really do this?" Chu Zhi peeked sneakily. The system's imagination went beyond anything he'd expected.
He left specifics vague—sneaky peeks don't expose secrets.
Other rewards didn't need detail, except for the poetry collection. William Blake, famous British poet, had a four-line poem translated by Xu Zhimo in China: One sand, one world; one flower, one heaven. Infinite within your hand, a moment becomes eternity.
"Hey, System bro, what was that grand prize you promised for the first ten-pull?" Chu Zhi refocused.
Suddenly, a golden blind box appeared in his mind. He instinctively opened it, and the prize made Emperor Beast's smile freeze…
Meanwhile, Ono Akio relayed Huainan's reply to the Swedish Academy secretary, careful not to cause misunderstandings. He added a clarification:
"Huainan-san is devoted to his work and pays little attention to external affairs, but he will definitely attend the award ceremony on October 17."
"Of course, all writers have their own worlds. Huainan-san's world must be exceptionally beautiful; otherwise, in this barren poetic age, he wouldn't have created such a lush garden of words," Stagnelius responded. "The invitation will be sent to the publisher, please make sure it reaches him, as the invitation is the only proof for entry."
"Of course, sir, we'll take care of it."
"Then I won't disturb Mr. Ono anymore. Beep beep—"
Hanging up, Stagnelius didn't show any strong reaction. If the author didn't like direct contact, no call was no big deal. Some Nobel laureates historically didn't even attend the ceremony.
The Nobel rules simply required the recipient to be alive. Most laureates still attended and gave famous speeches.
Ono Akio called some friends, happy as could be. He planned to hit KTV and izakaya after work, but suddenly remembered something.
"Voting! I almost forgot this year's vote!" He smacked his head and opened a simple website. To the unknowing, it might look shady, but it was official. Surprisingly, the less official Japanese sites often had better standards.
The homepage let users vote for the character of the year. He cast his vote for [Chu] and shared it with friends.
[Chu] was far ahead with 40,000 votes. Second and third—[Kim] and [An]—only had 10,000+ and 8,000+, a massive gap.
The Japanese Character Assessment Association let netizens vote for a character to summarize the year. Last year's was [和] for peace. Fans now wanted [Chu] to showcase Chu Zhi's impact on Japanese culture.
South Korea had a similar tradition: "Character Idioms of the Year," announced by Professor News. In 2026, the idiom was 亦余心之所善兮, referencing Chu Zhi's actions in Sadler Territory to stop a war.
That night.
The stars shone above the city—a rare sight.
"Chu-ge, you're treating us tonight. Something good happening?" Xiao Zhuzi asked curiously.
After the day's schedule in Luzhou, Chu Zhi treated them to a feast: mandarin fish, Hu-style hotpot, smoked white fish, Wu King tribute goose, shepherd's purse dumplings, and more.
"What's the good news? Share it so we can all celebrate," Ma Weihan nodded.
He even put down his chopsticks while speaking, showing attention, though Xiao Zhuzi's words didn't interrupt her eating.
"Yes, there's really good news, but I can't say yet. In about twenty days, you'll know," Chu Zhi said, smiling.
On September 30, post-production for the Four Great Classics album was officially finished: intro (Yun Gong Xunyin), Rolling Yangtze, Cao Cao, A Handful of Rivers in Your Palm, Four Seas, Song of Heroes, Wukong, Beyond the Sky… outro (Dawn of Heroes).
Eighteen tracks total. The intro set the stage; the outro wrapped it up with reflections. Already explained once, but since it's the finale, might as well repeat.
The album was finished but not released yet. Since Tour just came out, flooding fans with new albums could be burdensome; domestic CDs still cost 80–90 yuan.
Almost forgot: the sixth Orange Festival concluded perfectly in September. Even though yearly activities had new events, once hype leveled off, it was hard to trend without spending, as Emperor Beast's influence made entertainment predictable.
October arrived. Warner executives Shark Hammerhead and Davis came to China for one last push. It was their final attempt, still hoping Aiguo would compromise—but the outcome was predictable.
October 17, Nobel Prize in Literature ceremony.
6 PM Swedish time.
1 AM China time.
The Blue Hall, on the shore of Lake Mälaren in Stockholm, also the city hall banquet hall, was famous for hosting every Nobel Literature award. Tourists dubbed it the "Nobel Hall." Chinese readers might remember an extracurricular piece titled Ordinary People in the Blue Hall, though it was somewhat fragmented. In reality, it was just a typical Victorian-style banquet hall. Many official events and concerts were held there.
"How many times have I been to Stockholm? Three? Four? Doesn't matter. This time feels completely different," Chu Zhi said, wearing his signature cap. The average ten-degree weather let him wrap nicely in a scarf. Xiao Zhuzi didn't come; only his two bodyguards, Xu and Huang, followed at a short distance.
The building was ordinary Victorian red brick. It was called the Blue Hall because they'd originally wanted blue bricks but lacked the funds. Only the name remained.
Around the entrance, retractable barriers cordoned off the area. Rows of guards stood meticulously. You needed an invitation to enter. Chu Zhi presented his gray invitation; no ID check, and the guards let him in. Guests were wrapped up to prevent outside reporters from leaking the winner before the official announcement, so Chu Zhi's appearance didn't seem odd.
Why were there guards? Because this was Sweden's biggest global event, the king and queen would be there, the crown prince and princess too, basically the entire Gustav family would attend, and Carl XVI himself might present the awards.
"Sir, may I ask who you are?" As Chu Zhi walked down the central corridor, the receptionist, Von Mann, stepped forward.
"Huainan." Chu Zhi introduced himself briefly.
Von Mann's eyes lit up. He was a literary fan, and finally seeing the legendary Huainan in person was thrilling. "Please follow me, Mr. Huainan. We'll wait in the back room first." He greeted him immediately, though inside he was shocked. The legend was true—Huainan really was young. Listening to the voice, he couldn't have been more than forty, maybe even younger.
He felt a little familiar too. Von Mann couldn't stare directly but caught glimpses of the eye contours—they seemed strikingly familiar.
"Could Huainan be some famous celebrity?" Von Mann tried to imagine. Probably a literary professor from some country, he guessed.
The award hall was packed. The Swedish Academy's members sat alongside the royal family, around twenty people, holding flowers in two neat rows. A microphone stood center stage, while a classical orchestra was ready on the second floor: violinists, pianists, and other instrumentalists, all set for live performance.
Below, press from Xinxia News, Reuters, AP, AFP, Middle East News, and other major agencies filled the seats. Globally renowned writers, literary critics, and presidents of national writers' associations were also there. The president of China's writers' association, Mr. Sun, was in the second row. Roberts, who had won the 2026 Nobel Literature Prize, sat in the first row, and the critic Lapam, famous for judging literature in the Age of Barrenness, was there too. Even without paying attention to literature, the two to three hundred people in the audience represented at least thirty percent of the world's literary knowledge—legends all around.
SVT (Swedish Television) was broadcasting live.
Academy president Wilson went on stage, gave a long speech about the significance of literature, and finally opened the envelope:
"Exploring the boundaries of human civilization through diverse languages, demonstrating rare wisdom and perfect artistry, the 2027 Nobel Literature Prize goes to Chinese poet Huainan."
Then Carl XVI stepped up to present the certificate, medal, and prize money—the medal was pure gold.
The winner slowly walked out from backstage under the gaze of thousands—
A familiar face.
A handsome face.
Chu Zhi, who had once won the Nobel Peace Prize?!
No one present had ever associated a globally famous singer with a world-renowned poet.
Whispers spread: "The Nobel Literature Prize ceremony has performances like the Grammys?" "If there's a performance, Chu Zhi could totally be on that stage." "Is Chu Zhi related to Huainan? Is he standing in?" "What's going on?!"
Everyone's gaze turned to President Wilson, who was equally stunned.
In that stunned silence, Chu Zhi stepped onto the stage, facing the microphone. "Hello, everyone. I'm Chu Zhi. You might know me better as a singer, but my other identity is less familiar. My pen name is Huainan."
Even though he spoke Chinese, there were translators and people who understood it, making it even harder to believe.
"Wait, what the hell is he saying?"
"Chu Zhi is Huainan???"
A single question mark wasn't enough to describe the audience's shock.
Reporters, writers, critics, academy members, European nobles—all were astonished.
Why hadn't anyone told them? Wilson scanned the reception staff while Von Mann just shrugged helplessly.
The winner usually gives interviews and chats with academy members half an hour before the ceremony, but Huainan requested no interviews.
A writer refusing interviews? Not strange! The organizers didn't force anything, so the winner only came out at the announcement.
Von Mann had known Chu Zhi was Huainan a little earlier, but it was so shocking he kept staring at the face beneath the hat and scarf, confirming it was the Chu Zhi he remembered. After checking evidence—like the "China Poetry Network" account, emails with editor Ono Akio, and numerous manuscripts—he finally verified it.
"Poetry that can be sung becomes songs. Poetry that can't, I publish. Winning this award still makes me very happy," Chu Zhi said.
Carl XVI was supposed to hand over the certificate, medal, and cash as usual, but he froze. He was seventy and had seen everything, yet this was new to him.
The classical orchestra on the second floor hesitated too—they didn't know whether to play.
After Von Mann confirmed Chu Zhi was indeed Huainan, Wilson accepted the fact.
"Chu Zhi really played a huge joke on us. After verification, there's no doubt Mr. Chu Zhi is the Chinese poet Huainan," Wilson declared.
No doubt. Good. Carl XVI rose and presented the three-piece award. The applause wasn't a loud cheer, just polite claps, almost like testing the waters.
"How can Huainan be so young?" critic Lapam whispered.
Roberts muttered, "So absurd… my daughter and I like the same idol."
Mr. Sun stared at Chu Zhi, as if he were a supernatural creature, muttering, "Reveal your true form, you monster!"
Accepting this was impossible: Huainan was too young, and how could he be a celebrity? Most great writers looked down on stars, not out of malice but pride.
Chu Zhi stayed calm. "Since my main identity is a singer, I'll do something special. I want to perform a song as my Nobel acceptance speech. Can I have a guitar?"
The staff quickly brought one.
"Song title: Farewell."
🎵"I fear I won't get a chance to say goodbye, because maybe I'll never see you again. Tomorrow I'll leave, parting from familiar places and you, and tears will fall. I'll remember your face, I'll treasure the thoughts you gave me, and these days will never fade from my heart. I can't promise whether I'll return, but I'll walk forward without looking back…"🎵
The ten-pull special reward allowed him to return to his original world.
Chu Zhi remembered a conversation with his system a bit over two weeks ago:
[Congratulations, host. You've earned a chance to return.]
'You mean I can go back to Earth?'
'But I've been here for seven years, my body must have turned to bones.'
'And my mom… how's she been all this time? She can't take care of herself well.'
[Super grand prize, you'll return to the exact moment you traveled here.]
'So, these seven years are just an instant.'
[Yes.]
'Nice, nice! System bro, you're amazing.'
'…One last question. If I go back, what happens to this body? Will the original resurrect?'
[The original is already dead. This body will die immediately.]
'…'
'I'll say goodbye to my fans in public then.'
Chu Zhi sang without technique. This was his last song for his fans. He missed Earth, he missed his mother terribly, even after seven years.
As his farewell song played, the audience slowly regained some composure.
Reporters worldwide, their eyes seemingly turning red with shared emotion, rushed to spread the news to the entire world.
"If I leave tomorrow, Little Fruits, what will happen?"
"System bro, save the return opportunity for now. I'll stay here a while to be with them."
[Okay.]
====
Author Note:
This is the grand finale! Initially, I planned for Chu Zhi to miss the return chance forever, but that was too cruel. There are still three extras:
Extra 1: After the Nobel Literature Prize
Extra 2: Chu Zhi's death fifty years later
Extra 3: One hundred years later