The audience had been riding that spiritual high—until the static cut in, dragging them all back to earth with a jolt.
Many began grumbling, but once the host's technical explanation aired, confusion turned to awe.
Holy crap, they realized. He blew the mic!
"Are you kidding? Brother Jiu just wrecked that mic!"
"'Sound level exceeded dynamic range'—basically, he hit notes so high, the gear couldn't handle it."
"Actually, it wasn't just one note—it was sustained high notes that blew the speakers. That mic took a beating."
"This isn't 'Left Hand Pointing to the Moon'—it's more like 'One Hand Reaching Heaven, One Hand Crushing Earth, I Am Supreme!' My brain is fried!"
Chinese fans kept it humble, but bursting with pride. Mama-fan Huang Xi nearly lost her voice. Korean spectators stared in astonishment, frozen mid-cheer by what they'd just witnessed.
Their expressions said it all.
"Epic!"
"I've never seen such a performance!"
"Calling Chu Zhi the Demon King is deserved."
Japanese praise was even more hyperbolic:
"To make Takamagahara tremble!"
"At his age, Chu Zhi has vocals he shouldn't even possess!"
"Kubo and Fujiwara aren't weak—but the gap? It's like preschool vs. high school!"
Even quips in Japanese food-pun dialect circulated:
"Maybe Chu Zhi's a Leo—only Leos can hit those notes!"
"Why only Leos?"
"Because Lion-high—get it?"
Meanwhile, backstage coordinator Da Yu from Korea, impressed by his countryman's showing, turned to stage director Jing Yong for context.
"Hey, how many singers can perform 'Left Hand Pointing to the Moon'?" he asked.
Jing Yong, recovering from the shock himself, clarified:
"He spanned from E3 to E6—that's three full octaves in one song! Do you understand that magnitude?"
Da Yu shook his head blankly. Jing Yong continued:
"High notes from C5 to B5 are considered elite territory globally. But Chu Zhi delivered five-tone phrases and pushed into the sixes—still holding all the consonants clear. Vocally, he hit the physical upper limits of the human body."
"Wait, no one else can even attempt that?" Da Yu asked.
"Even a lowered-key version is near-impossible for 99% of singers worldwide. But he did it live, full key. If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe a human could sing it."
Da Yu grinned. Perfect. Now we've truly beaten those Korean and Japanese acts.
Chu Zhi, the night's hero, was interviewed live after his performance.
Host: "Teacher Chu, your vocals left us breathless. What inspired this piece?"
Chu Zhi answered calmly: "I was inspired by a passage in the Lùzǔ Lántán Jīng, where Hui Neng teaches: truth is the moon; words are just the finger pointing at it. You don't need the finger—just look at the moon."
"Using that Buddhist allegory, I wrote 'Left Hand Pointing to the Moon.'" His humility impressed the host:
"You're truly well-read, delving into history and sutras."
Chu Zhi smiled: "The more books I read, the more I realize how little I understand. Reading helps heal my spirit too."
He answered a couple more questions, then exited the stage and headed back to the waiting room.
In the Chinese green room, the four musicians exchanged wide-eyed looks.
"I can't even sing a lowered-key version of that," Wang Dong admitted.
Yuan He revealed a rare grin, trying not to look too excited: "It's the highest voiced pop song I've ever heard. If someone covers it in a lower key, that's still a challenge. I want to try myself."
"Me too," Gu Peng said.
Next on stage was Japan's captain, Toriyama Jirou, performing the classic enka tune "Hokkaido no Haru." He expected a singalong—but the response was lukewarm.
He regretted not offering Kubo Todoren the spotlight's heat—or setting them up against Chu Zhi. With a talent like that in front of him, future festivals might always favor China.
Izawa Iro quickly offered praise: "Toriyama-senpai, your performance was steady and graceful—your experience shines."
Fujiwara Kakei added: "This generation of China has world-class talent—and Chu Zhi is their prodigy."
In other words: losing to this era's genius is nothing to be ashamed of.
Kubo sat silently, unable to talk back in his sunglasses. He dared not utter a word after "Left Hand Pointing to the Moon."
If Koguchi Yoshihiro is Chu Zhi's friend… that's terrifying.
Fùng Yuánxìn pointed out: "Chu Zhi even matches Fujiwara's high standards—those were bottle-girl-tier connections before, but this is next-level skill."
Toriyama shrugged, smiling wryly: "If gods exist, they're clearly favoring China now."
Then came "Throat Monster" Byeon Jaechung, performing his signature "June Blizzard." He gave it 90% of his peak power—but after Chu Zhi, his performance only generated polite applause.
He entered wearing a face like a drained washcloth.
Lee Youngjun, Kim Ryuhak, Nam Junmo all avoided his gaze.
Korean and Japanese green rooms were stark contrasts—Korea's was tense, Japan's infused with gentle humor. Byeon seemed lit distant, Toriyama more… playful.
The final round featured Gu Peng, Fùng Yuánxìn, and Jeon Yajeong.
Gu Peng's folk-rock "Don't Sour the Folk" clearly outshined the other two. His stage anxiety melted away when he started singing. And yes, he is shy—but when he sings, he owns it.
The festival featured 15 singers and spanned two hours. Afterwards, the audience cast their "Asia Tokens."
Half a stadium of people was tricky to manage, but organizers sorted them out through the north, south, and east exits. Voting bins—labeled with portraits and tri-language artist names—lined the paths.
"Please place your Asia Token in the bin of the act you liked best. Failure to vote counts as abdication." Three bilingual staff read from bullhorns in rotation.
Mama-fan Huang Xi whispered: "We must vote for Ah Jiu. No bias—he delivered the best performance today."
Qiqi nodded: "Even Prince Wang would be a fan of 'Left Hand Pointing to the Moon.'"
The crowd swarmed toward Chu Zhi's bin in far bigger numbers than expected—beyond just Apostles, Puppets, or Little Fruits. His stage presence left a gap others couldn't cross.
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The Buddhist allegory: words point to truth like fingers point to the moon (from Lùzǔ Lántán Jīng).