The grand hall of Saint Petersburg City Hall, lavishly decorated and rarely used, was now bustling with the opening of the main conference.
The theme up for discussion this year was the exchange topic for the forum. Last time, it had been "Russias Culture under Globalization." This ninth session would explore "Cultural Codes in the World."
"Chekhov International Drama Festival, Tchaikovsky International Music Competition, Prokofiev International Music Competition, the Moscow International Ballet Competition, and the International Film Festival... These are all large-scale events through which our Russia connects with the world."
Say what you will, Russia truly had a legacy of artistic achievement. If it weren't for politics, the Moscow Film Festival could easily rival Cannes, Berlin, and Venice.
But what happened? In 2022, the festival lost its A-class certification. So much for the Western rhetoric of "art knows no borders."
At the front of the assembly, the loudest voice belonged to Aleksei, chairman of the forum's organizing committee and director of the Foreign Affairs Bureau of Russia's Ministry of Culture. He was also a world-renowned playwright, a scholarly figurehead who rarely involved himself in logistics. Most of his time was spent on cultural exchanges around the world.
Aleksei spoke for a few minutes. The second speaker was a French Foreign Ministry official, whom Chu Zhi didn't pay much attention to.
Compared to Aleksei, the Frenchman appeared delicate. One was a sturdy giant nearly two meters tall. The other stood barely above 160 centimeters.
The session mostly consisted of various officials from different nations expressing their hopes and views for this cultural forum. Though more than twenty key guests were invited, none of them were granted time to speak.
What caught Chu Zhi's attention was the guest list: nearly all came from developed countries like the UK, USA, France, Germany, Denmark, and Finland. Among the yellow-skinned representatives, only Japan, South Korea, and China were invited. The sole guest from a third-world country was a writer from Namibia.
He had won the Nobel Prize in Literature for his novels centered on the lives of three generations of immigrants in Europe.
"National power and cultural strength really are two different things," Chu Zhi thought aloud.
The Emperor Beast felt lucky. In the Western market, Chinese performers were often stonewalled, not due to lack of talent, but because others feared them. The truth was, with the domestic Chinese market behind him, Chu Zhi held an advantage few could understand.
The meeting lasted for an hour and a half and ended early by half an hour. Chu Zhi rose with the crowd and left the city hall.
In the parking garage, he was called over by Deputy Minister Zhao of the Culture and Tourism Bureau, the official China representative at the forum, a man in his fifties.
"Consultant Chu, you look well," Deputy Minister Zhao greeted him. "You really must take care of your health. Do whatever the doctor tells you. There are still so many fans waiting for your next masterpiece."
"Thank you for your concern, Minister Zhao," Chu Zhi replied politely.
The deputy minister's rank was equivalent to a vice-ministerial civil servant. In truth, people at his level rarely paid attention to young celebrities, even if their work involved cultural affairs.
But Zhao not only recognized Chu Zhi, he spoke to him with genuine care. First, because Chu Zhi had been specially appointed as a cultural exchange consultant. Second, because Chu Zhi was practically the ideal figure for top-down media messaging. His background was impeccable, his influence on fans healthy, and his works genuinely acclaimed. He had a promotional pull across all of Asia.
To put it bluntly, if Chu Zhi disappeared, where would they find another like him?
"We don't have many representatives from our country this time, especially in the fields of drama and vocal performance. Most are preparing for next month's Chekhov International Drama Festival," Zhao explained. "We'd like you, Consultant Chu, to lead the vocal delegation."
"Huh?" Chu Zhi blinked in surprise. No matter how few people were available, he was hardly senior enough to lead a delegation.
Zhao understood this, of course. During the city hall meeting, none of the foreign keynote guests were younger than forty-five. Chu Zhi, not yet twenty-five, stood out like a sore thumb.
"Your reputation here in Russia is more than enough," Zhao said. "You're more than qualified to represent us. Capable people do more."
"Something wasn't right." The Emperor Beast sensed it. Even though China wasn't as rigid about seniority as Japan or Korea, appointing him as the lead still didn't make sense.
Still, the truth was, his piece Katyusha was strong enough to hold its own. So Chu Zhi nodded and accepted.
Just after his conversation with Zhao, Chu Zhi walked a few steps and was intercepted by one of the British keynote guests, Sander Sterling.
Sander Sterling, aside from being rather overweight and unfortunately plain-looking, had a strikingly refined air.
He was a world-class bass vocalist and firmly believed he possessed both good looks and vocal excellence.
"I showed your performance of Opera 2 in my classroom at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama," Sterling said. "Your high notes were as exquisite as piano notes, absolutely enchanting."
The Guildhall School was one of Britain's top three vocal institutions, and Sterling was a professor there.
"Last time I wasn't invited, so I missed the thrill of hearing those high notes live. I'm really hoping to experience them this time."
"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed, Professor Sterling," Chu Zhi replied. "The piece I'm performing this time doesn't feature high notes. It's a different style entirely."
"Oh?" A flicker of disappointment crossed Sterling's face, but he quickly added, "I look forward to seeing this other side of your artistry."
They chatted briefly before parting ways and getting into their respective cars. Chu Zhi gave directions to Brother Qiu to drive toward Mertynesk Riverfront Street.
Anton had raved about a restaurant there yesterday. Chu Zhi had casually agreed to try it, and since he hadn't decided what to eat yet, he figured, why not?
Meanwhile, back in his own car, Sterling let out a heavy sigh. Why no high notes? It wasn't that he doubted Chu Zhi's vocal skills, but why participate in a cultural exchange without using your greatest strength?
Chu Zhi was known for his soaring high notes. This wasn't just Sterling's view, but the general consensus among all the Western artists attending the forum.
Still, anyone who knew Chu Zhi well understood that his power lay not just in technique, but in emotional depth and creative composition. Expecting Western artists to understand that? With their pride? Not likely.
But that was fine. Chu Zhi wasn't here to play fair. He was going to slam dunk them right in the face.
Three days passed, packed with endless meetings. While others might say they had stirred up a hornet's nest, Chu Zhi felt like he had unearthed the very hive of bureaucratic assemblies. It was mentally exhausting.
"Do people really think that the more meetings you have, the more official everything feels?" Chu Zhi sighed, his voice echoing his soul's weariness.
In his past life, back on Earth, he had run a company and hated useless meetings. Even now, his studio only met when absolutely necessary.
On November 1st, the other Chinese guests began to arrive. The vocalists specializing in bel canto and traditional styles were staying at the Four Seasons Hotel in Lion Palace.
"This time our lead is none other than the superstar Chu Zhi," said Xiao Ke to her theater colleague, Xiao Rongxu.
Half the troupe from the Shanghai Opera had come, and representatives from the Beijing Grand Theater were also here to perform.
Though no senior veterans were present, plenty of middle-aged performers in their forties had come, including Ma Jing, a signed artist at the capital's grandest stage.
"I heard Chu Zhi is quite young. I don't know why the higher-ups put him in charge of us vocalists," Xiao Ke murmured. "If you ask me, Teacher Ma would've made more sense. Now pop singers are managing us bel canto performers?"
"Chu Zhi is extremely popular in Asia. His Opera 2 has a strong following even in Russia," Ma Jing replied at once. "Let's follow the higher-ups' decision."
Xiao Ke's dismissal of pop music wasn't surprising. Within the hierarchy of the entertainment world, bel canto was seen as superior to pop.
"Let's get in line for check-in," Ma Jing added. Even if he didn't like the idea of being led by someone younger, he'd never admit it publicly.
It wasn't about pride, exactly. It was the natural resistance of accomplished professionals being subordinated to someone from another field—especially someone younger.
Sure, Chu Zhi had achieved a great deal, but he and Ma Jing weren't even in the same arena.
At that moment, the focus of their discussion—Chu Zhi—was still in his hotel room. Old Qian had just received a message.
"Jiu-yé, would you be open to holding a fan meeting in Vietnam?" he asked suddenly.
"Vietnam?" Chu Zhi raised a brow. He barely had time for events in Korea and Japan. Why Vietnam?
"Our studio's international department isn't fully staffed yet. A lot of overseas updates aren't getting to us quickly," Old Qian explained.
Chu Zhi nodded. That much he already knew. The overseas department didn't even have a formal director yet. Without clear leadership, things were chaotic.
Technically, endorsements like Xinjieyun should've been handled by that department. But in reality, Qi Qiu had negotiated them. Why? Because Chu Zhi's rise had been so fast, his team hadn't kept up.
"For some reason, the albums After the Clouds Clear and A Small Expectation for the World—which were recently released in Korea and Japan—have sold over 210,000 and 230,000 copies in Vietnam respectively," Old Qian said.
Vietnam had a population of nearly 100 million, but their economic structure and copyright enforcement made official album sales difficult. Most street music shops sold pirated collections like Top 100 Hits. So crossing 100,000 units sold was a huge achievement.
Even top K-pop boy groups and girl groups like GZ or Nine-Colored Deer barely cracked six figures.
"Do we have a report? Let me take a look," Chu Zhi said.
Old Qian had already prepared it and handed it over.
The Vietnamese albums sold for 160,000 dong each—roughly forty-plus RMB per unit.
They'd earned over ten million yuan, though not all went to Chu Zhi, given revenue splits with Sony Music and JYP.
The report also mentioned that Chu Zhi's film When I Close My Eyes had been re-released in Vietnam, earning another ten million yuan at the box office in a month.
CICI, a niche Vietnamese women's fashion brand that had purchased the rights to Chu Zhi's image, saw a huge sales increase.
On Weibo International, a flood of Vietnamese fans had joined. Star Group IDs and Vine IDs were selling out fast, jumping from five or six thousand to six or seven thousand yuan in price.
"What's going on in Vietnam?" Chu Zhi frowned. Based on his understanding, Japan and Korea were the top-tier Asian markets. Thailand and Russia came next. The rest didn't differ much. But this level of fervor from Vietnamese fans was almost on par with Korea and Japan.
"Honestly, I don't know either," Old Qian admitted. "I've already asked our overseas team to investigate. No news yet."
"Keep me updated," Chu Zhi said, then shifted topics. "Did you make the restaurant reservation for tonight?"
"I'm more reliable than a guard dog," Old Qian replied.
Even though being the vocal team leader was more symbolic than practical, hosting dinners was still part of the job.