"Butter-Fly"—a song with that signature Japanese rock flavor. The opening theme of Digimon and the debut track of Koji Wada. On Earth, it was the sound of many childhoods. But here, in this parallel world with no Digimon nostalgia, it lacked that extra spark of legend. Without its legacy, it dropped a tier. No longer a classic, just a standout track.
Still, 80% angelic gospel, with five parts drunken sage, was more than enough. Chu Zhi was ready. No, not to preach—but to sing.
The intro began with a duet between guitar and keys, both sharp and controlled. The tension built, then—
🎵"I want to become a butterfly, and ride the breeze as I spread my wings."
"Right now, all I want is to see you again. Leave all your worries behind—it's okay if we forget them."
"There's no more time to waste!"🎵
Chu Zhi stood tall, firmly grounded like a rock singer delivering from the core. His voice didn't flutter like a butterfly. It soared like an eagle. Just from the first line, he swept away every doubt, every question in the hearts of all fifty thousand people.
They weren't here for controversy. They were here for music. And this—this was music.
🎵"Seems like wow, wow, wow, wow—something's about to happen beneath these clear skies."
"Even if it's wow, wow, wow, wow—no matter what tomorrow brings, I'll face it head-on." 🎵
Sung gently, this could have sounded like a saint whispering comfort into your ear. But with Chu Zhi's passion, it was the roar of 800 Spartan warriors cheering you on. Not just loud—fierce, uplifting.
Backstage, the assistant director and the others didn't understand Japanese. But every time the "wow, wow" came, they had the urge to shout along.
"This vocal mixing is insane. The breath control from his chest is unreal."
Luo Jianhui wasn't even focused on the lyrics. He was floored by the technique—the full-bodied resonance of the chest voice, shaking the metaphorical valley around them. And just after each "wow," his voice swept in like a hurricane, toppling everything in its path.
The last chord from Chu Zhi's guitar hung in the air. The instrumental continued with a new bass layer, since Chu Zhi hadn't rehearsed and couldn't coordinate with the live band. The background took over.
🎵"Behind dreams that stretch endlessly, through a world cold and cruel—I won't lose to myself."
"The memory of your smile will keep me going. I believe that love never ends. Even if we hit walls, we'll always find a way."🎵
The message wasn't entirely a perfect match for a so-called "angelic gospel," but it was still 80% of the way there. That was more than enough.
Chu Zhi wasn't just giving them energy—he was giving them phoenix blood. Audience members began raising their glowsticks, moving in time with the beat.
🎵"On. my. love."🎵
Chu Zhi launched into a guitar solo. It wasn't the stage lights shining down on him. It felt like he had become the light, illuminating the entire venue.
Most of the audience didn't care that it was Japanese rock. It just sounded good. It hit all the right notes for them—both literally and emotionally.
🎵"Like a butterfly spreading its wings, riding the breeze as it flies."
"Until I finally meet you again. We'll never be apart. I'll pour my heart out to you. If you really mean it, stay with me, lost in this melody of happiness." 🎵
Each lyric stacked upon the last, as if the song were building a ladder toward hope. Instead of forcing high notes the entire time, Chu Zhi dropped his tone, softening it like a whisper. The contrast only made it more powerful.
People feared sweet-talking love song idols, but what they feared more was a rock vocalist suddenly going gentle. 🎵"If you really mean it, stay with me"🎵—the only line where Chu Zhi smiled. A small, sincere smile.
Everyone saw it. Screens positioned around the stadium caught every detail. The crowd stirred.
Come on, sing the song and don't flirt with us. Who could handle that?
Even Suzuki Kanon, watching from backstage, felt her heart skip a beat.
Miyoshi Saburo and Anshan Motoma were watching the Yahoo News live broadcast on their phones. They were both stunned—not just by Chu Zhi's technique, but by the emotion he poured into the performance.
To reach this level... even Miyoshi, Koguchi Yoshihiro's half-mentor, couldn't do it.
It wasn't logical. A young Chinese idol, who looked like someone who relied on his looks, could deliver this kind of performance?
🎵"Seems like wow, wow, wow, wow—something's softly echoing from this corner of the street."
"Now it's wow, wow, wow, wow—I don't want my hopes to vanish while I wait."🎵
Another round of "wow." Chu Zhi raised his hand and waved it in time. The crowd followed instinctively, swaying to the beat.
Even the keyboard warriors watching on Yahoo couldn't help but let out a soft "wow." A song isn't something you learn in one go—but "wow" is something anyone can shout.
They quickly stopped themselves. No! Can't be seduced by a Chinese singer!
🎵"Behind endless dreams, even if the world turns false and fickle—don't hide, don't lie. Don't settle for just getting by."
"Believe that hope will one day come true. Let sincerity carry us through all trials. Chase the dream, full speed ahead!"
"On. my. love!"🎵
His voice carried hope. The lyrics, a declaration of unshakable faith.
The song ended. Chu Zhi bowed.
Not everyone—but at least 80% of the crowd was fired up.
People whispered among themselves:
"Now I want two bowls of soba for dinner."
"Feels like I just recharged."
"Haven't heard something this powerful in ages."
"No wonder Koguchi-san always mentions Chu Zhi. His voice and stage presence are miles ahead of most of our singers."
A tidal wave of applause followed. "Pa-pa-pa-pa!" mixed with echoes of "wow, wow" from all corners of the stadium.
Koguchi Yoshihiro returned to the stage. His first words: "Did Chu-san just light this place on fire?"
The crowd roared with approval.
Koguchi smiled. "A moving performance!"
He turned toward the Yahoo live stream camera. "'Butter-Fly' was written, composed, and arranged by Chu-san himself. If you liked it, follow him. Among the younger artists from China, he's one of the most inspiring."
It was a direct shout-out, pulling support from the audience.
Chu Zhi had lit up someone else's concert—but he didn't overstay. After exchanging a few words with Koguchi, he stepped down.
As he walked offstage, he considered—should he stay and watch the rest of the show, or return with the rest of the crew?
Meanwhile, the Yahoo livestream comment section was boiling over.
[Even if I liked the song, I still don't approve of the singer.]
[That song gave me strength. I literally rewarded myself five times earlier, and I still felt drained—until now.]
[China's bound to have some talented people. They've got numbers and resources. Koguchi picked a rare gem. Every time something important happens, China always manages to produce someone extraordinary.]
[He wrote it, arranged it, sang it—and might even sing better than Koguchi himself. Why can't Japan produce idols like this?]