THT's program, The Great China-Russia Singer Gathering, had accumulated just over two million viewers. That was barely over 1% of the national audience, which wasn't exactly a hit, even compared to other shows on the same channel.
But the discussion? Explosive.
Ice Tiger's high praise sparked massive curiosity, prompting more and more people to flock to the TV network's website to watch the replay.
"The greatest contribution of 'Opera 2' is expanding the diversity of aesthetic standards in popular music."
This line headlined a secondary editorial from Moscow News, written by a deputy professor in the vocal department at the Tchaikovsky Conservatory.
The Conservatory, one of the world's six leading music institutions, carries great symbolic weight in the world of classical music. For such a figure to comment on pop music was rare.
"Popular music includes jazz, rock, and soul. Our aesthetic comfort zone lies within C3 to F4, while the 'ace' high notes we anticipate from singers are typically within A4 to D5—commonly referred to as the fourth and fifth octaves.
What Mr. Chu Zhi has achieved is breaking past even the 'golden high note' range of the fifth octave, stepping into the super-high sixth octave.
Gorgeous, exquisite, like the torrent of the Lena River or winter vodka—every word of praise can be used to describe Mr. Chu Zhi's voice.
Even if the sixth octave lacks mass appeal, it still resonates with ordinary listeners and broadens their understanding of vocal aesthetics."
Ice Tiger spoke for the entertainment circle. The professor represented the academic world.
In most cases, scholars ignored pop music. Even top-tier Russian singers like Aurora and Mikhail were rarely praised in academic circles—let alone someone being showered with accolades the way Chu Zhi was.
"I haven't seen a singer like this in years. His looks and voice, he's like a vampire," said Vadim Gerasim. "Didn't I tell you, Aurora? I saw a real vampire in my youth. The way it howled sounded just like that."
"I've been an adult for a long time, Papa. Stop telling me bedtime stories," said Aurora, full name Aurora Vadim Shechen Gerasim. Her father, however unreliable his stories sounded, was no less than the leader of the Tomahawk Gang, known on the streets as Old Gun Daddy.
The Tomahawk Gang operated across Australia and the US, dabbling in everything from drugs and gambling to vice. Vadim was a thoroughbred villain.
"Ro-ra," Vadim gazed at the ceiling, reminiscing. "Why would your father lie to you? I was seventeen—just back from..."
Aurora didn't bother listening. She had heard the story too many times growing up and slipped away quietly.
Ten minutes later, Vadim's neck stiffened. Looking down, he realized she had disappeared from the couch.
"A face more handsome than most humans, and a voice that surpasses humanity itself. That Chinese singer is the proof." Vadim doubled down on his belief. He summoned his men and issued two orders.
First, word should spread—no one should mess with Chinese singers in Russia. Second, he wanted a medium to verify if Chu Zhi was, in fact, a vampire hiding among mortals. And just like that, the strangest rumors began to take form.
As the saying goes: the more friends you have, the more paths you find. Chu Zhi couldn't manage multiple husbands, but he was great at making friends. During the week-long recording in Russia, he developed a genuine bond with Aurora, who asked her father for protection on his behalf.
From professionals to academics to the general public, the phenomenon snowballed. Eastern Europe Herald, the most circulated entertainment tabloid in Russia, followed up with a front-page headline:
"Mr. Zhi (zhi.господин) is a flawless vocalist!"
"From a vocal resonance perspective at the St. Petersburg International Culture Forum, Mr. Chu Zhi isn't your typical pop star. His voice leans toward bel canto and operatic aesthetics. The physical skills and resonance he demonstrates are extreme examples of rare capability.
Such powerful high notes usually weaken in lower ranges, but Mr. Chu Zhi's performance of 'Lullaby' was still flawless. Even within the comfortable mid-range for pop, he maintains a competitive edge. His voice is clear, textured, and powerful—perfect, like Peter the Great."
Anyone remotely tuned in to entertainment news couldn't ignore this. Tonight's trending topic in Russia belonged entirely to Chu Zhi.
Following Japan and South Korea, Russia became the third country where Chu Zhi's fame exploded. His management, led by Niu Jiangxue, wouldn't miss such a golden opportunity.
Upgrades. Price hikes. Chu Zhi's commercial value shot up, making him the obvious choice for Asia-wide endorsements.
Cadillac CT Series Asia Spokesperson: Annual fee 58 million yuan.
Kappa (Italy) Sportswear Asia Endorser: Seasonal fee 15 million yuan.
Zegna wants Chu Zhi as a global brand ambassador. Price negotiable.
"These three proposals just came in," said Qi Qiu, presenting updated figures at a temporary studio meeting.
Capital reacts swiftly—by nature it 'moves at the scent of blood' and thrives on information asymmetry. Qi Qiu had stayed up all night.
"Doable, but unnecessary."
Two hours into the meeting, Qi Qiu's temples were throbbing from the all-nighter. He had left Hua & Hua for better treatment and more ambition—but even ambition had limits.
"Within half a year, his commercial value multiplied several times. Is that even normal?"
Sipping bitter tea, Qi Qiu rubbed his temples. He had to rewrite the talent-brand compatibility charts and pricing sheets.
These sheets were deeply personal, outlining which brand a celebrity could or could not endorse. Underwear ads, for instance, were off-limits.
Entertainment was full of miracles. An E-list actor could rise to the top in a month. But someone who climbed repeatedly, like Chu Zhi, was still a rarity.
Chu Zhi's annual ad revenue now approached 60 million yuan—far beyond the domestic ceiling of 28 million.
"My daughter's birthday is tomorrow. Missing one celebration isn't that big a deal," Qi Qiu muttered. Then he remembered promising to be there this year.
Ask Niu-jie or the boss for leave?
But everyone was overwhelmed. Even Wang Yuan didn't have time for skincare. Requesting time off felt wrong.
He called home. His wife answered, saying their daughter was looking forward to the three-person celebration.
"I won't have time tomorrow..." The words wouldn't come out. Instead, Qi Qiu replied, "Okay, okay. I'll make time tomorrow."
Then he walked into Chu Zhi's office. The boss was designing his album cover.
"Boss, I have something to ask..." Qi Qiu wasn't shy, but he hated troubling others.
"Ah, Qiu-ge, I was just about to talk to you. Take the day off tomorrow," said Chu Zhi.
"Huh?" Qi Qiu froze. He hadn't even said anything yet.
"Isn't tomorrow your daughter's birthday?" Chu Zhi opened a drawer and handed over a slim gift box. "A Montblanc pen. A present for niece.
It's not a big expense. Montblanc gifted it to me, and I'm passing it along. You won't reject it for being impersonal, right?"
"Of course not." Qi Qiu's mind was overloaded. He hadn't expected Chu Zhi to give him time off, let alone prepare a gift.
"How did you know it's Xiao Yu's birthday?"
"You mentioned it once in passing."
As a proud dad, Qi Qiu was always posting about his daughter's full marks or school achievements. Chu Zhi believed in the saying, 'Success lies in the details', so he had added the date to his notes.
A useful tip: remembering a child's birthday touches a parent's heart more than remembering their own.
Qi Qiu scratched his head in embarrassment. "I know the company's busy and advertisers are waiting..."
But what he really meant was, I want the day off, but I feel bad taking it.
"Work is endless. I always say never sacrifice family for career. We work hard for a better life. So don't think about work tomorrow. Advertisers won't vanish in one day."
Only now did Qi Qiu truly understand why everyone said the boss was amazing. Generous salary, thoughtful leadership—a model employer.
Though Qi Qiu had the day off, today's workload still needed handling.
Even Chen Shu, once a photographer, was helping the "web account team" manage Chu Zhi's social media.
Seizing the moment, the team opened a Twitter account, adding another platform to manage.
Weibo followers: 57.42 million (mainly domestic Little Fruits).
Instagram: 34.82 million (mostly fans from Japan and South Korea). Currently the most followed Chinese celebrity on the platform, double that of the runner-up.
Twitter: 4.71 million (just launched). Nearly 5 million followers within 30 hours—mainly Russian and Eastern European fans.
Though 4 million felt a little low, Chu Zhi's reach across three platforms had very little overlap. So it made sense.
The Weibo Little Fruits were enjoying their good days for now. Star Pattern and Vine Pattern accounts were still being claimed mostly by domestic fans and a few Korean supporters.
But with a five-hour time difference between China and Russia, when it came to who was more shocked—Russia felt it first.