A five-minute-long video. The song The Unspoken Sutra runs for 4 minutes and 48 seconds including the intro. Right after the singer Chu Zhi's casual line, "Then let's begin, one more time," the video plays without a single cut.
The entire recording is a one-take shot.
Every singer has their own performance style. Fei Yuqing gazes up at the ceiling from a 45-degree angle. Jacky Cheung curls his fingers like he's holding a flower and rises onto his toes.
Chu Zhi's style? More like a "pillar of output." Whether it's belting high notes or conveying deep emotion, he does it all with a relaxed expression, standing still, as if casually doing vocal warmups. There are rare exceptions, of course.
Why such a style? It goes back to when the performer-beast had first crossed into this world. With no stage experience, he kept repeating to himself: Don't panic. Be graceful.
And eventually, he got used to it…
To viewers of the video, streamers in the music scene, and professionals in the recording industry, it looked almost surreal.
"Why can Chu Zhi sing so effortlessly? Is this what they mean by a true powerhouse…"
"Brother Jiu is definitely a linguistic genius. He knows Japanese, Russian, and even sings in Cantonese. This vocal technique outclasses so many singers from Hong Kong!"
"Babe, you're so steady it's scary."
"Saw folks saying in the live chat that even the original artist couldn't perform this song live. Turns out this guy records in a single take. The gap between streamers and real singers is clear now."
These were the kinds of comments flooding in. The term "casual viewers" here refers to people who don't actively follow the entertainment industry and just watch livestreams or short clips in their free time.
Their impression of Chu Zhi shifted from "talented young man" to "a gifted singer with top-tier technique."
Some of them argued that there's still a gap between streamers and professional singers, which was kind of unfair to others like Qijiao Xiong, Ochi Bao Jiu Shui, Brother Xun and Runtu and Chacha, Laíqu Sui Xin, Diamond Athlete, and more. It's not that streamers can't sing, nor that singers are always good either.
Sure, lesser-known singers would love to ride the viral wave. Just look at how many jump to cover viral TikTok songs.
So why didn't they join in this time? It wasn't that they didn't want to—it's that they couldn't. Either it was too hard, or it just didn't sound good. Even Zhou Yuyi, who had gone viral previously with another song, gave it a shot—then gave up immediately.
"As long as I'm willing to give up, there's nothing I can't handle," Zhou Yuyi muttered to herself.
Ever since her own song blew up, Zhou Yuyi had been trying to hop on every trend.
"Brother Jiu is too insane. I finally get it—some people have a door closed by God and the windows locked shut too. But for others, when the door shuts, the ceiling just gets ripped open."
Ever since that "discarded draft" song made Chu Zhi famous, Zhou Yuyi had been chasing after him as a goal. She knew just how powerful he was.
Unmatched in songwriting, lyrics, composition. A gorgeous vocal range. Impeccable breath control. And emotional delivery that hits right in the heart. Zhou Yuyi felt that if she could master just one of those things, she'd dominate the industry.
"What's even crazier is how disciplined Brother Jiu is." She even tried mimicking his daily habit of reading. At least she had a college degree, right? That gave her confidence. She managed six days before giving up.
If it were fiction, that'd be fine. But classical literature, historical records, and pure literary works? She'd start dozing off just flipping pages.
"11:58. Gotta check in. I haven't logged in today."
She'd kept it up for 19 days. No way was she breaking that streak now. She opened Orange Home in a rush.
Muttering to herself, "Don't freeze, don't freeze. Makka Pakka, please don't freeze."
Because more and more Little Fruits were active following the album release, the platform was lagging like crazy. Zhou Yuyi felt just like a web novel author frantically trying to post at the perfect time, heart racing and fingers dancing across the screen.
"Yes!" Her luck held up. Check-in complete. Her streak hit 20 days. Satisfaction filled her chest.
Her alternate ID, "September Leo," didn't log out immediately. She suddenly remembered Ayaya's post from a few days ago.
She thought it would've been reposted by marketing accounts by now. But surprisingly, nothing happened. The post already had over 100,000 replies. She found the most recent update:
[Thank you all, Little Fruits, for your concern. After deep reflection, I'll work hard to get into Fudan University's Chinese Department. After graduation, I'll chase my dreams!]
"That's it?" Zhou Yuyi felt a bit disappointed. She had been watching like it was a drama.
If you're watching a drama, you want to see big drama. You want the "actor" to mess up. And Zhou Yuyi wasn't exactly known for empathy.
Back in middle school, a friend's grandfather passed away, and her first reaction was, "Great, now you won't get nagged during New Year's." Borderline antisocial personality. Of course, family and social morals kept her in check. Outwardly, she was still a sunny girl. Even an athlete. And Chu Zhi remained her inspiration.
Most trending topics last three days at best. Major breaking news? Maybe a week. The entertainment industry follows this rule even more.
Fan-generated hype is fleeting. But the staying power of a song? That depends on the quality of the work itself. Chu Ci: Ode to Oranges had enough quality to stay hot for a full week.
Even Guangming Daily, a top-level state media outlet, featured a headline article about it:
"Chu Zhi explores a new creative path in Chinese music, opening a fresh chapter for the 21st century."
[Rooted in tradition yet not bound by it. Boldly innovative yet rich in Chinese charm. Exploring Chinese music amid the clash of Eastern and Western cultures.
A Thousand Miles Away brings ancient tones into a modern era. The Unspoken Sutra is infused with Buddhist thought. Dreaming of Swords and Blades speaks to adult fantasies of the martial world.
With Chrysanthemum Terrace, Dreaming of the Tang Dynasty, and The New Drunken Concubine, Chu Zhi brings the grandeur of the Tang Dynasty to life through music.
These tracks are steeped in Chinese style and spark curiosity about ancient aesthetics.
Since Reform and Opening, many new-generation composers have blended modern Western techniques with Chinese traditions to produce outstanding "new wave" music.
But Chu Zhi's path is unique. He believes that 'what is national is universal,' and that Chinese music must have both timeliness and global appeal.
"Since the 20th century, we've emphasized connecting with the world. That's fine. But I believe connecting domestically is just as important," he said while explaining his album's vision.
While many musicians master Western techniques yet lack traditional Chinese foundation, Chu Zhi draws extensively from Peking Opera, poetry, wuxia, Buddhism, and classical instruments, becoming a role model for young musicians.]
Getting any coverage in Guangming Daily, let alone a front-page headline, is no small feat.
Unless there was clear top-down support for using Chu Zhi as a promotional model, this wouldn't happen. Nearly a third of verified government accounts on Weibo reposted the article.
To be honest, Guangming Daily's praise was a bit fluffy. After all, artists like Su Yiwu and Wu Tang have also received praise from state media. Shen Yun, with all her built-in resources, gets praised constantly.
Once upon a time, a line of praise from state media was a partial "get out of jail free card." Now? Overuse has diluted its impact.
If you want that kind of bulletproof credibility, it has to come from outlets like News Thirty Minutes.
A singer getting a feature on News Thirty Minutes? That would be unheard of.
Back to the Guangming headline. The key takeaway: "a role model for the new generation of musicians." What does that mean?
It means even the authorities endorse Chu Zhi as the leader of the new wave.
That's a powerful statement. State media may not always have great graphics, but their word choices are deliberate.
Chu Zhi is now the rare combination of popularity, skill, reputation, and state recognition. That's leagues beyond self-hype.
His management team quickly issued a statement, likely posted using Chu Zhi's account: [We will continue drawing from classical culture to create more great music.]
No doubt that was the team, not him personally.
Fan circles and casual viewers had no reaction, which, honestly, was the best reaction—because it meant no one disagreed.
"Old Zheng has great judgment." Xu Ji had subscriptions to Guangming, People's Daily, and Beijing Daily. Of course he saw the headline.
"The Fuji Rock Festival spot should go to young people with real spirit."
Xu Ji said this with his raspy voice. He liked this young guy.
The only complaint?
"Not enough rock songs. Dreaming of the Tang Dynasty came from a rock night. The new album only has Dreaming of Swords and Blades that barely counts as pop-rock."
He sighed. "Getting old. Don't even know if I'll live to see it."
Every month, the performer-beast still called to check in on Xu Ji's health.
Last year, Xu Ji asked if there was any chance for a rock album. Chu Zhi said he was preparing one.
So Xu Ji's been waiting ever since.
Chu Zhi has a good relationship with several senior musicians, especially with Zheng Huo, who always supported him. When Zheng read the news online, he kept an eye out, ready to back Chu Zhi in case anyone tried to attack him.
But everything was quiet.
Even things the team didn't expect were happening—like added revenue from the album.
The martial arts drama A Sword of Frost by Noon Sunshine wanted to use Blades and Dreams as its theme song. Negotiations were underway.
Wanda's film Red Cliff was eyeing Drunken Red Cliff. No deal yet, but there was interest.
A Thousand Miles Away and Rain on Qingming were both chosen by two different romance films still in early development. The scripts weren't even done, but they already secured funding.
"Singers depend on their work. Idol hype doesn't last. With a solid image and good songs, you can walk on both legs… Wait, actually, Brother Chu didn't even build an image. It's just pure charisma," said Niu Jiangxue, slightly regretful.
Given the quality and popularity of the new album, if there had been a physical version, it could've sold over a million copies.
Add in revenue from music platforms, licensing fees for theme songs, and so on—it totaled over 40 million yuan.
"Brother Chu, I left the document on your desk," Niu Jiangxue said. She had originally wanted to discuss the second audition for Eleven Lang.
Just then, Chu Zhi got a call. He glanced at her, signaling her to wait. She understood and left quietly, closing the door.
Inside, Chu Zhi picked up.
"Has your cold improved, Koguchi-san?" he asked.
"No issues at all now, thank you for your concern. My vitality is strong. I expelled the cold quickly."
Then, Koguchi Yoshihiro got to the point:
"Chu-san, your song Lemon won the Space Shower Music Award. If you can't come to Tokyo, I can accept it on your behalf."
He added some context, in case Chu Zhi didn't know the award's weight. It was hosted by Japan's largest independent music label, focused on building copyright platforms for indie musicians.
"I've never received this award myself," Koguchi Yoshihiro admitted. "Space Shower rarely gives this to mainstream artists. It proves your EP resonates beyond just the mainstream—it reached the indie scene too."
"A lot has piled up after the New Year. The ceremony clashes with the Golden Bell Awards," Chu Zhi replied. Not an excuse. The schedule really did conflict.
Of course, he let Koguchi accept the award.
"There's no need to thank me. Helping Chu-san is my greatest honor!" Koguchi said with enthusiasm.
As long as Chu Zhi kept his looks, the face-obsessed Koguchi would always be his most loyal friend.
Since the EP dropped last November, Chu Zhi had racked up numerous awards.
MTV Japan Video Awards, Billboard Japan, CD Store Awards—seven or eight in total, mostly accepted by Koguchi.
The only regret? He still hadn't received the two most prestigious Japanese music awards: the Gold Disc Award and the Japan Record Award.
One was run by the Recording Industry Association of Japan, the other by the Japanese Composer's Association. Winning with just an EP was too ambitious. At minimum, he'd need a full album.
Sony Japan's executive Omori Genjin even called to check on Chu Zhi's progress.
Not surprising—A Slight Hope for the World had sold nearly a million copies. Even with Japan and Korea's strong physical music markets, that was a phenomenal number.
They didn't chat long. After hanging up, Koguchi stared at his phone and muttered,
"Ignoring the strength of Chu-san's EP for those top awards is just too much. More scandals will explode, guaranteed."
He said "more" because the Japan Record Award was already notorious for bribery scandals. Still, the award's status remained intact due to its long history and strong connections.
"Half a month left," Koguchi calculated. The first screening of After I Close My Eyes was just around the corner.