When the unexpected happened, the first to react were the background actors hired by THT. In the variety show, they were cast as the powerful and overbearing Tov Knight Order, supposedly able to influence decisions in Saint Petersburg.
"Should we score them?" one of the knight actors asked, looking at the man with the rooster comb hairstyle who led them.
The leader thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Without the approval of the key figure, it doesn't count."
Forget surpassing Mikhail for a slot in the International Cultural Forum—they wouldn't even be getting a score.
Lin Feifeng recovered quickly from her surprise. She smiled and turned to the boy. "Onegin, are you playing a joke on them?"
By "them," she meant Chu Zhi, Aurora, and the others. The tension in the room was sharp enough to cut through. The camera crew from Xinglu hesitated, unsure whether to avoid filming the awkwardness. Meanwhile, THT's crew looked like they wanted to shove their lenses right into the drama.
"Onegin, if you have anything to say, say it privately," said Fedotov, trying to keep calm. "This isn't the time for stubbornness."
But trying to suppress a spring only made it bounce harder.
"I won't say it in private. Since I'm the general's son, I'm speaking as the general's son," Onegin declared. His voice was tight with restrained anger. He looked straight into the camera. "I like songs that are emotional and rhythmic. Those are the only ones that satisfy me. I want to hear something in Russian too."
The way he described the kind of music he liked immediately reminded Chu Zhi of an old friend, Uncle Chen. That guy used to say, "Top-lane fighters don't need love. Women only slow down my blade. That's why I only listen to sad songs with a beat."
This kid might just have the makings of a top-lane king.
Fedotov tried to intervene again. "Our little general just doesn't understand his own taste yet. As his parents, we can help him make those decisions. He clearly enjoyed the 'Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy' earlier."
Parents—no matter where they're from—often think they know best. But for teenagers, dignity is as vital as air.
"I didn't explain myself clearly before. Let me try again," Onegin replied, lowering his head. "You can sing another song. If it meets my standards, then I'll accept it."
The fury in Fedotov's eyes was visible to everyone in the room. Onegin, still looking down, braced himself and refused to back down.
From the moment Chu Zhi stepped into this home, he had sensed there was tension among the family. He'd hoped it wouldn't affect the shoot, but now the conflict had pushed the main mission to a standstill. The entire production—Xinglu's guests and THT's actors—were now stuck between two choices.
Follow the parents' approval, or listen to the child's wish?
Life is full of surprises, and every family has its own mess. Who would have thought a variety show would run into this kind of drama? No scriptwriter could outdo real life.
The show's producer, Che Lun, wasn't trying to do what was right or wrong—he just wanted whatever would generate the most viewer comments.
"Music speaks to the soul. Whether it's satisfying or not, we should listen to the person it's meant for," said Kobayashi, the cameraman. Everyone understood this was the production's stance.
The choice was clearly made to give Chu Zhi another moment to shine. If only Luo Jianhui and Mikhail had performed, the episode would lack impact.
"If we need to sing again, I'll need at least a day to prepare," said Aurora.
Being fluent in Russian and actually performing Russian songs well were two different things. Aurora saw herself as the only suitable person for the task.
This was the perfect opportunity. With the highest vote count currently at seven, the slot for the Saint Petersburg International Cultural Forum was still up for grabs.
But creating an original Russian song, complete with arrangement and performance, within one night was a stretch. Chu Zhi also agreed that Aurora should handle it.
"We, the Tov Knight Order, stand for justice. Evil has no equal standing with us. But we will give you one more chance. We'll return tomorrow to observe again," the rooster-haired man declared. "To be fair, the ten public judges will remain the same."
The decision reflected THT's support as well. And it made sense—the boy had specifically asked for a Russian song. With a local singer, how could they lose? Giving Aurora a chance to perform was a win-win.
"Fairness!"
"Justice!"
the bulky men from the knight order shouted their slogans in chorus as they marched out, loud and proud.
If you're not embarrassed, then everyone else has to be.
The Bluetooth translators even relayed the slogans. Zhang Ning, Luo Jianhui, and the others winced as they watched the suited bodyguards chant like anime villains. They could almost feel the floor cracking beneath their cringing.
The boy's defiance had clearly riled up Fedotov. But the show had to go on, so he stuck to his theatrical tone. "General Petrov will wait one more day. Same time tomorrow. I hope you can satisfy little Lov's wishes then."
With that, the main task was postponed. Everyone headed back to their base hotel for the night.
Back in Chu Zhi's room—her second time here—Zhang Ning noticed that her future kid's godfather kept everything neat. No laundry scattered around, suitcase properly stowed.
Good habits.
The mini-whiteboard was still filled with Cai Jia's sticky-note breakdowns of the current mission.
"I've got several songs that match what the general's son asked for," said Aurora. "Like 'Chamomile,' 'Silent Winter Night,' and 'Withheld.'"
"I'll practice a Russian song too," Chu Zhi replied. "Double insurance."
Aurora nodded in understanding. Of course Chu Zhi would want to perform more—he was here to showcase himself. "Passing shouldn't be a problem, so give it your best, Leader Chu."
In other words, leave the mission to me. You just go and shine.
"My recording studio is nearby," said Mikhail, offering his space.
Suddenly there was a light thump outside.
Min Jeongbae opened the door and saw a remote-control car zipping away, nearly disappearing around the hallway corner. A mission letter had been left at their door, clearly meant to avoid another interception by Min.
Xinglu was striking while the iron was hot, piling on new tasks for the guests. Post-production needed content, after all, and they had to give everyone enough screen time. Stirring the pot was part of the formula.
The new mission was clear.
"I'll go with Luo and Min. Leader, you handle the music," Cai Jia said. "We'll take care of the prop hunt."
She didn't include Zhang Ning—she was still recovering.
With that, the team split into two squads. Cai Jia's group would chase down the side quest, "Search for the Evil Faction's WMD," while Chu Zhi's would focus on recording tomorrow's song.
Chu Zhi hadn't realized how big Mikhail was in Russia until now. The fact that he owned a professional-grade studio near Vanye Street in Saint Petersburg said enough.
"Leader Chu, do you need my help with the Russian lyrics?" Aurora asked, adjusting her own track.
Chu Zhi paused his thoughts and replied, "I don't think so, not for now."
"Really?" she pressed. "I meant vocal coaching. I could help with your technique."
"If I need anything, I'll definitely ask," Chu Zhi said.
Aurora wasn't thrilled. She'd lagged behind during their duet performance, but singing in Russian was her strength. She had hoped to redeem herself in this area. Instead, she got turned down.
Chu Zhi, the young Chinese singer, was a capable organizer and a solid team leader. Still…
Forget it. At least they had a backup. Mikhail's opinion of Chu Zhi was shifting—from a privileged youth to someone with real leadership chops.
Sitting quietly in a corner, Chu Zhi pondered. In his past life, he hadn't been into music. Especially not melancholic Russian tracks. The only Russian songs he even vaguely recognized were "Katyusha," something by Lubeh, and maybe Vitas.
Lubeh had come up during a business dinner. The boss liked them, so Chu Zhi did some research. But most of their songs? Not suitable. One in particular came to mind: 🎵 За тебя, Родина-мать 🎵. (For you, Motherland)
The lyrics? "For you to stand tall in the forest of nations, for you, Motherland, we will endure, for you, we shout three times: Hurrah!" Cool rhythm, but completely the wrong vibe.
"System bro, help me out," Chu Zhi whispered in his mind. "Sad, rhythmic, in Russian. Search it for me."
[Cost: 1 Personality Token.]
"I only have a few left, but go ahead. I can't let you suffer either."
[...] The system followed protocol but somehow still felt like it was being taken advantage of.
A long list of Russian songs appeared, overwhelming Chu Zhi.
"Give me the most popular ones. Make sure they're recent—Onegin's only fifteen. He'll want something trending."
[Recommendation: Rauf & Faik – колыбельная (Lullaby) ]
Chu Zhi frowned and checked their info. Twin brothers from Azerbaijan who became a hit online with self-produced music. Huge in Russia, Finland, Sweden—even China. "Lullaby" had gone viral on Chinese social media.
"A viral hit? Why haven't I heard it?"
That's what makes something a viral background track—you've heard it a dozen times without knowing the name.
He played a preview in his head. Technically, that would cost another token, but the system hesitated to even ask.
The piano intro started, followed by the vocals…
Holy crap, he had heard this before. If you've spent any time on short video apps, there's a 70 percent chance you've heard it too. Used in sad romance clips, breakup edits—very familiar but impossible to name.
"Perfect. System bro, you're a legend. A song that's both beloved in Russia and recognizable back home? It's got everything."
He used one voucher and three more tokens to get the full song data. He had five tokens left.
Lullaby would be his ticket to the International Cultural Forum. And later, maybe he'd bring out Vitas's Opera 2, The Star, or Dedication.
Time to burn the midnight oil. Chu Zhi immersed himself in the arrangement, lyrics, and composition.
From 3 PM to 2 AM, he didn't stop until the entire backing track was done.
Back in the hallway, he bumped into Aurora.
"Leader Chu, just finishing up?" she asked.
"Yeah, just wrapped the arrangement," he replied. "You haven't slept yet?"
"Woke up from a weird dream, so I hit the gym. Just heading back now."
She had a lot she wanted to say about his decision to write and perform a Russian song solo—but in the end, she said nothing.
They returned to their rooms. Chu Zhi made a mental note to make up the two hours of missed reading time over the next couple days.
By morning, the sky hung low and gray, like a ceiling you could reach if you stretched your hand.
Thanks to Aurora and Mikhail's special skills, the team never had to worry about food or drink. After finishing breakfast, they set out with full bellies.
On the road, but not the road to the underworld.
They encountered the Tov Knights again, this time in a completely different location. The mohawked leader's hair wasn't standing quite as tall today.
The bus fell into a moment of silence. And you can always count on Min Jeongbae to break the quiet.
"Captain, you know I could've gone to Peking University on a guaranteed admission, right? Ever wonder why I didn't?" Min Jeongbae leaned over to whisper to Chu Zhi—although his version of whispering was loud enough for most of the bus to hear.
Chu Zhi could already tell this was going to be nonsense, so he focused in.
Min Jeongbae said solemnly, "Because I thought the character for 'North' in 'Beijing' wasn't 'South' enough."
"Then I guess you didn't go to Tsinghua because 'Hua' isn't Chinese enough?" Cai Jia shot back, sharp as ever.
"Hey, cut that. This can't be aired. That sounds borderline offensive," Min Jeongbae immediately replied.
"Sometimes, you've got to investigate things yourself," Chu Zhi said, steering the conversation. "Like when you hate a celebrity. It's fine if you hate them even more after learning the truth, as long as you aren't boxed in by the algorithm's feed. Anyway, let's shift topics. Yesterday, you guys went on a side quest. So, what was the 'weapon of mass destruction' the evil forces were hiding?"
"Siberian Huskies," Cai Jia answered without skipping a beat.
"Huh?" Chu Zhi blinked.
"The show says the two huskies are the 'Felins death hounds'—capable of breaking down castle walls…" Cai Jia sounded very unimpressed.
With his knowledge of Russian mythology, Chu Zhi knew that "Felins" probably referred to Veles, the Slavic god of death. If the show said they were death hounds, then these huskies must be the ultimate form of that.
This was their third visit to General Fedorov and Lin Feifeng's house. By now, they were so familiar with the routine that putting on shoe covers at the door felt automatic.
The Tov Knights once again projected the ten citizen judges onto the screen. Some had changed clothes, others hadn't, but the people were the same.
The atmosphere inside the house had changed since yesterday. Whatever had happened overnight between Lin Feifeng, Fedorov, and their son, Onegin, left the mood far less friendly. It was like looking at a sandcastle—still beautiful from a distance, but up close, the individual grains were starting to show.
Chu Zhi transferred the instrumental to the computer and signaled to the next performer.
"I'll be singing a song called 'Chamomile'. It's mine. I truly hope you like it," Aurora said, locking eyes with Onegin.
Chamomile, also called Matricaria, is Russia's national flower. Online rumors once claimed the sunflower was the national flower, but that was the USSR, not modern-day Russia. The ideologies aren't even close.
Both Russian singers had previously received the Victoria National Award for pop music. Mikhail was a bit older, but in terms of vocal skill, the two were evenly matched.
Aurora's "Chamomile" told a love story between a man and a Russian female soldier. Sung from a male perspective, yet performed by a woman—it made the song all the more intriguing.
When she finished, applause rang out.
Clap clap clap clap!
"I liked it. I really liked this song," Onegin said, clapping right away.
Success. Mission complete. Aurora felt genuinely pleased. All that nervousness, even the late-night workout to relieve stress, had paid off.
"Then let's proceed to scoring," the mohawked Knight said with professional seriousness.
The ten citizen judges cast their votes. Seven gave positive scores, matching Mikhail's previous result.
The remaining three explained their reasons for withholding votes:
"I just don't like the name of the song."
"It's good, but not my thing."
"My ex-girlfriend used to like it. We broke up, so… yeah."
What does a breakup have to do with this song? Seriously? Aurora was baffled. She had been so close to winning the popular vote outright.
"I also prepared a song. An original, in Russian," Chu Zhi said, casually stepping forward. No sign of fear or hesitation.
Everyone's expression shifted slightly. Was this guy always this bold?
After that performance? And still daring to sing?
"We've already completed the mission," Lin Feifeng reminded gently.
"Exactly. That's why I feel free to just sing casually," Chu Zhi said modestly. "Besides, Aurora's already scored the bullseye for us. I'm just here for a side shot."
Ah, so this was just for show. A casual performance, not part of the competition.
Lin Feifeng, Fedorov, Onegin, the Tov Knights, and even the THT TV crew all nodded in understanding.
Fluency in a foreign language is always something worth showcasing.
The ones who actually had faith in Chu Zhi were Zhang Ning, Luo Jianhui, Cai Jia, Min Jeongbae, and the StarQuest camera crew. They had witnessed enough of his miracles during the Japan arc.
"Captain Chu was up late last night working on this song. Clap louder later, alright?" Aurora whispered to Mikhail.
She admired Chu Zhi's steady presence. Whether she messed up directions or fumbled during the piano duet, he always covered it smoothly. A dependable guy. To her, he was a solid friend.
Mikhail nodded on the outside, but inside, he was amused. Writing an original song in Russian? That's not something you just do.
Young and overconfident, he thought.
Chu Zhi loaded the track. The opening volume was set to 40 percent. He didn't want to emotionally wreck the boy with the first few notes.
🎵Carry me, cherish me, wrap me up, in the blanket we wove together?
Carry me, cherish me, wrap me up, in the blanket we wove together.
Carry me, cherish me, wrap me up, in the blanket we wove together!🎵
The first few lines were the same, but Chu Zhi's delivery gave them distinct emotional layers. The first was a question—could you carry me? The second, a quiet hope. The third, a plea. And finally, a prayer.
Why did it change from a plea to a prayer? Because a plea still assumes someone is listening. A prayer is for when that someone is already gone.
At first, Onegin wasn't really paying attention. In his mind, he'd already won against his parents. Aurora's song felt like grilled meat. Chu Zhi's? Like cabbage.
But one bite in… this wasn't just any cabbage. This was shui zhu baicai, cabbage cooked in delicate broth.
🎵I still remember that night, how I covered your eyes.
At grandma's house, we walked down the stairs.
There was a park, a scandal, a love story,
memories and a love song. Please remember me, and stay with me forever.🎵
🎵In the wind, accompanied by birdsong, I walked you home.
You lay your head on my lap and fell asleep.
I knocked on grandma's door, carrying you in my arms.🎵
Knowing Russian and writing lyrics in Russian are very different things. It's not just about grammar, but cultural nuance.
Lin Feifeng understood this. She spoke Russian. So did Fedorov. And both were surprised at how natural Chu Zhi's lyrics sounded. This song… was actually good.
The sorrow in the melody, paired with the lyrics, felt like slow-burning wood, smoke rising into the fog. The blend of smoke and mist carried a strange clarity, even though the emotions were as light as air.
They exchanged a glance, thinking of the times they had fought due to language misunderstandings.
🎵Don't wake up, darling, you told me.
Take me with you, cherish me, wrap me up, in the blanket we wove together.
Tuck me in, hold me close, in this warm place we share.🎵
Mikhail listened carefully. From any angle, this was a well-composed song. The rhythmic drumbeat alone gave it mainstream appeal. Even if you didn't understand the lyrics, the melody carried you.
But for those who did understand, it was like a dull knife slowly carving through the chest. The pain wasn't sharp, but it lingered. It settled under the skin. The men of the Tov Knights sat stone-faced, yet their hearts had already been sliced open, over and over again.
Mikhail couldn't help but reevaluate everything. Maybe he had been wrong about Chu Zhi. The respect Chinese celebrities showed toward him wasn't only because of his leadership or his ability to hold a team together.
It was because he was actually talented.
"Why?" Mikhail wondered silently. "Why would a Chinese singer, with no study abroad experience, write a song in Russian, and make it this good?"
Was he planning to break into the Russian market? Unlikely. The value of China's entertainment industry was far beyond what Russia could offer. Mikhail had no answer, but a new suspicion began to form—Chu Zhi wasn't chasing opportunities. He was making a statement.
🎵 The streetlights come on, and I see your eyes.
Let me tell you a story, slowly, just for you.
Look into my eyes—I will sing you this lullaby,
A song of every good thing in this world.🎵
🎵 In the wind, with birdsong, I walk you home.
You rest your head on my knee, and fall asleep.🎵
Mikhail glanced at Aurora, as if asking for confirmation. She didn't notice. She was completely immersed, held in the quiet power of the song.
So this was what Chu Zhi meant by "just singing something casually"?
Aurora stared at him, trying to see through the person behind the voice. She didn't believe her own song, "Chamomile," was any worse in composition—but when it came to performance, she had been completely outmatched.
And then came the emotional climax of the song:
🎵 I knock on grandma's door,
I walk through the long hallway,
And you're still asleep.
Don't wake up, my love, you said to me—
Sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep... 🎵
As the song reached its end, Chu Zhi's voice softened to a whisper, as if he truly feared waking a sleeping child. His tone gentled, tender and fragile. It was not a loud ending, but the emotions built through melody and lyrics found their release there.
No one cried—it wasn't that kind of sadness. "Lullaby" wasn't written to break hearts. Even so, the melancholy rose up quietly, like mist.
🎵 Sleep...🎵
The final note dissolved into silence. Performance over.
The first ones to recover were the members of the Star Voyage team. They hadn't understood the lyrics, so the emotional impact had been gentler for them.
"In our team, you can always count on our leader," said Min Jeongbae proudly.
"Japanese songs, now Russian too. The entertainment scene is just too competitive now. Thank god I debuted early. If I were starting now, I'd never make it," Lu Jianhui added.
"The entertainment industry isn't what's competitive—it's just Chu Zhi." Zhang Ning's tone was calm but firm. "I watched a talent show recently. Most new singers can't hold a candle to him."
"Can you say that out loud?" Min Jeongbae was half-joking, shocked by how confidently she said it.
"He's just too good," Cai Jia said. Then she added, "Almost unfairly good."
While the team chatted, the boy—Onegin—was slowly coming back to himself. The repeated lines of "sleep" had stirred something in him. He thought of how his mother used to hold him, hum lullabies at his bedside.
"I liked this one too," he said at last. "Just as much as the last one."
He'd almost said he liked it more, but changed his mind at the last moment. Best not to hurt anyone's pride.
Neither Lin Feifeng nor Fedotov had expected a Chinese singer to write and perform a Russian song of such quality.
"Is this really your first time writing a Russian song?" Aurora asked.
Chu Zhi had performed Vitas's "Opera 2" before, but that was wordless, not a real Russian song in terms of lyrics.
"My first, yes," Chu Zhi nodded.
No wonder he hadn't wanted any coaching at the studio. What could I have possibly taught him? Aurora thought to herself.
There was no need to cue applause. As soon as the music ended, Mikhail clapped enthusiastically.
"Well then," said the Tov Knights' mohawked leader. "Let's vote."
Ten members of the public cast their votes. Nine were positive.
The single dissatisfied comment read, "I'm not a fan of sad songs. That's all."
Nine votes. The highest score yet.