"Cultural migration tends to follow financial migration. Does that mean the signs of financial migration actually appear much earlier than we perceive?"
The topic was introduced by Lane, who specialized in international economics. He mentioned Chu Zhi only in passing before returning to the main discussion.
Most of those present did not have a strong sense of cultural shifts. After all, America still held the core power of cultural export, so the effect was not obvious. But finance was different. That was far more tangible, and many people in the room nodded as they listened.
By the time Su Xuanmian stepped out of the forum, the sky had already darkened.
The conference had gathered quite a few young people from Europe and America. Su Xuanmian, whether deliberately or casually, brought up Chu Zhi in conversation. Out of every ten participants from Western countries, at least three had heard of him. In particular, two young people from Norway and Finland became excited and declared that Chu Zhi was their idol.
Sales of Chu Zhi's English album had indeed spiked in Norway and Finland. It wasn't hard to understand why. In terms of rock music popularity, the first tier was the United States and France, while the second tier included Norway, Finland, Sweden, and Germany.
To give examples familiar to his peers: artists like Children of Bodom, Rammstein, Nightwish, Finntroll, Mayhem, and Roxette were all excellent bands from those regions.
"Jiu-yé is actually better known in Northern Europe than in Central or Eastern Europe," Su Xuanmian observed. For the first time, he felt the expansion of his idol's influence abroad not as abstract online data, but in reality.
Back at the hotel, Su Xuanmian was in high spirits. He could not even tell whether he was more thrilled by Lane's talk about cultural shifts or by hearing a fifty-year-old Nordic economist mention his idol's name. It felt like the worlds of two dimensions colliding with three, and the excitement left him buzzing.
On his Weibo account, Cxlxy233, he fired off three posts in a row:
[ Jiu-yé YYDS! ]
[ I'm the most steadfast Little Fruits ]
[ From a fair standpoint, who can compare to Chu Zhi? ]
Fans quickly swarmed in:
"Didn't you go to a finance forum today?"
"Don't mess around. I searched online, and Jiu-yé didn't have any event."
"Same here, I almost thought he went to a music festival again."
"He's hiding in a barbershop somewhere…"
A few days earlier, Su Xuanmian had scored tickets to the Strawberry Music Festival, and that night he had also posted three times in a row.
Longing leaves an echo. Su Xuanmian spent the entire evening looping Chu Zhi's songs. Meanwhile, Chu Zhi himself was wielding a staff of Echo in-game.
That's right. In the middle of the night, he was still grinding levels with Grandpa Chen. Chen Shu, the so-called sunny boy, was terrifyingly skilled, slipping through battles even above twenty stars and still carrying the team.
[Chu Jiu-yé, shouldn't you get some sleep? It's already five or six in the morning, and you've got a flight to Vietnam later.] Chen Shu typed in the chat channel. They had been playing from midnight until nearly three a.m.
[Didn't you promise to carry me to Glory King? Don't wimp out now. Come on, keep pushing! Don't kill the vibe, Grandpa. You know staying up late is bad for us, so we might as well just pull an all-nighter.] Chu Zhi replied.
Grandpa Chen's answer was a simple: [Come!]
After grinding all night, Chen Shu finally carried Chu Zhi to King rank, fifty stars. By the time Chu Zhi's Emperor Beast hit thirty stars, his go-to hero, King of Lanling, stopped being effective. He had to switch junglers.
Turns out, heroes are like people. Everyone has a limit.
[Solid. The two of us together just slay without mercy. Although honestly, I'm only responsible for the 'quack quack,' you're the one doing the slaying. Anyway, Grandpa, get a good rest. Yesterday's photos are done, and you don't have to come to the office today.]
With that, Chu Zhi logged off.
"Huuh…" Chen Shu exhaled, exhaustion finally overtaking him. Drowsiness crept over his eyes, and even his breath came out unevenly.
Earlier that night, he had felt emo, lost in late-night melancholy. But after an all-nighter in King of Glory, the mood had completely lifted.
It wasn't surprising. From what Chen Shu knew, Chu Jiu-yé rarely gamed at all, much less played all night.
Normally, his schedule was extremely disciplined. Unless there was something special, he would be reading books instead.
"Wait…" Chen Shu's face changed, his drowsiness evaporating in an instant. A chilling thought struck him.
He hurriedly quit the game. Sure enough, over thirty missed calls lit up his phone.
Chen Shu used a OnePlus, which in gaming mode automatically blocked calls and notifications.
The calls were from his closest friends and his parents. When he opened WeChat and checked his Moments, his worst fears were confirmed.
His latest post had exploded:
[ Losing her means I've lost everything. There's nothing worth holding onto in this world anymore. ]
He had meant to set it visible only to his ex-girlfriend. But he had pressed the wrong option, making it visible to all his contacts.
Grandpa Chen had broken up with his girlfriend and was trying to play the tragic angle to win her back. But now it had blown up in his face. Without separating his work and personal accounts, this was a fatal mistake. Parents, relatives, friends—everyone had seen it.
Disaster!
Panicked, he set the phone aside, hardly daring to open the flood of WeChat messages. He took a deep breath and began calling everyone back one by one.
It took him three hours that morning to explain to his parents and seven or eight close friends that no, he wasn't suicidal.
Many people messaged him and called. But not his ex. Chen Shu understood—this time, it was over.
"So tired," he muttered, slumping on the couch with a pounding head.
If he hadn't posted that message… If he hadn't been using a OnePlus… If he hadn't turned on gaming mode… If even one link in the chain had broken, this wouldn't have happened.
Now he realized why Chu Jiu-yé had stayed up all night gaming with him. He was afraid Chen Shu might do something foolish.
He wanted to call and thank him, but words stuck in his throat. Instead, he sent a simple WeChat: [Jiu-yé, thank you.]
Half an hour later, Chu Zhi sent back a meme: "You sure made me feel awesome, hands on my hips."
By then, Chu Zhi was already in a meeting. A temporary but important one—with 20th Century Fox and the renowned director Cameron.
[ On April 10, 1912, the luxury liner Titanic embarked on its maiden voyage. Onboard, wealthy young heiress Rose traveled first class with her fiancé Cal. Meanwhile, a penniless foreign painter named Jack won a third-class ticket in a game of chance at the dock.
Thus began the story of Jack and Rose… ]
The film, titled Unsinkable, was a massive production, with Fox investing over $350 million. There was no way Hollywood would hand such a leading role to a Chinese actor, even one who had been recognized at Cannes.
But if Aiguo Entertainment also invested, the picture changed. Money buys leverage.
Even Fox, a Hollywood giant, could not shoulder such a colossal budget alone. Other studios were reluctant as well.
Paramount, Warner, and MGM had all declared it madness to spend billions rebuilding the Titanic 1:1. "A guaranteed loss," they said. Only Disney had chipped in a small $50 million.
Why make a risky gamble when MGM could simply fund another James Bond movie instead?
Yet Fox's executives could not ignore Chu Zhi. For three consecutive years, his name had appeared on Forbes' Celebrity 100, each time with annual earnings exceeding $100 million. He was, without question, Asia's biggest money-maker.
If he could cover the missing $120 million, with Cameron's personal recommendation and the international prestige of Farewell My Concubine as precedent, Fox would accept him.
But $120 million, even with the weak exchange rate, came to over 600 million RMB. A staggering sum.
Chu Zhi's team, led by Niu Jiangxue, had been negotiating with Fox for weeks.
Did Emperor Beast even have that kind of money?
In four years, Chu Zhi had earned about $490 million. After taxes, spending, and charity, his current balance was around 1.5 billion RMB.
Not an infinite fortune. For reference, Viya's tax evasion fine alone had been 1.314 billion RMB.
It was possible, but such a huge investment required careful thought.
Chu Zhi even spent one of his "personality coins" to consult his system. After three weeks of audits and investigations, Niu Jiangxue's team decided to go ahead.
Even in the worst-case scenario—if the film flopped—the damage to Chu Zhi's acting career would be real, but his singing career would remain untouched. And the prestige of funding a Hollywood blockbuster would expand Aiguo Entertainment's reach overseas.
The deal was set: Chu Zhi's $14 million salary would be rolled into the investment, Aiguo would invest $106 million, and according to the contract, Chu Zhi would clear eight months next year for filming and shoulder promotional duties across Asia.
"What a massive investment," Lao Qian remarked. "But we definitely won't lose money."
Fei-ge added, "Even if it does lose money, it opens European and American markets for us. We'll earn it back with albums."
"Cameron has had success with sci-fi, but shifting to a medieval romance does carry risks," Niu Jiangxue said.
"Clap clap clap!"
Wang Yuan drew everyone's attention. "No investment is a guaranteed win. Every deal carries risk. Fox isn't stupid—they wouldn't put up $180 million if they didn't see hope."
Niu Jiangxue's leadership was strong, but the pressure of a nine-figure deal was immense. That was when Wang Yuan's voice of experience mattered most.
Chu Zhi would need to part with a third of his savings. The thought stung, but Emperor Beast knew he had to. He approached his ad broker, Qi Qiu. "Ah Qiu, I feel like I don't have enough global endorsements. Do we have any good offers?"
"There are, but the prices aren't right," Qi Qiu replied.
Chu Zhi nodded. More work was needed. Otherwise, he worried he wouldn't even have enough for retirement.
Leaving the company, he spotted overseas agent Lee Guehyun, looking exhausted. Emperor Beast reminded him kindly: "Brother Lee, I know staying up late is your thing, but try to take care."
Lee Guehyun, nicknamed "Lucky Star," was notorious for his late-night habits. His motto: "If the moon doesn't sleep, I won't either. I'm the little bald baby."
Soon after, Chu Zhi headed to the capital airport, boarding a flight to Hanoi.
The seventieth anniversary of China-Vietnam diplomatic ties was about to begin.