If Chu Zhi exchanged for a single song, it included the creative materials and memories, as well as automatic copyright registration.
For an album, the copyright had to be registered manually, though now comPhanies had teams for this; once written, submitting it to Niu Jiangxue would suffice.
This feature meant that drawing a foreign-language song granted a bit of knowledge in that language. For instance, six Korean songs together could teach fluency, while one Vietnamese song only offered a little. Therefore, Emperor Beast's Vietnamese accent had minor flaws under careful listening, but nothing major.
🎵"Này.bu.tri.rng.ln.i, có.nghe.chng.ting.em.gi."🎵
🎵"M.gi.này..chn.nao, con.ang.mong.nh.v.m."🎵
Even Vietnamese officials like Nguyễn Đông and Minister Phan were surprised, noticing the effort put into mastering the language.
Leader Lü was not shocked, partly because he knew the performance roster in advance, and partly because it was known that the Chief Consultant of the Ministry of Culture and Tourism was a language prodigy. At events like the Hokkaido Song Festival and the St. Petersburg Forum, Chu Zhi always learned the host country's language.
Domestic advisors had analyzed that part of Chu Zhi's ability to establish himself in Asia was due to his fluency in JaPhanese, Korean, and Russian.
Chu Zhi modified some lyrics, because the one going far away was himself, not his mother. About 30 percent of the despair in the song, the revised Chinese lyrics roughly read:
"Yet I have gone to distant lands."
"Legends say those who leave transform into stars in the sky, shining their light on the ones they love."
Two passive skills amplified the effect: Immortal Wine enhanced live performance, letting his innate abilities reach divine levels; once alcohol hit his stomach, his expressive talent could not be contained.
Meanwhile, Crowd Freak increased perception. Emperor Beast could feel his senses sharpen, manifesting through his five senses. Looking down at the floor, he could even discern the wool pattern of the Ocean Carpet forming waves.
It felt like leaving an all-night internet cafe session, with dopamine flooding the brain and heightening perception.
🎵"M.gi.này..chn.rt.xa, trong.m.con..thy.m."🎵
🎵"M.du.dàng.hát.khúc.ca, sao.con.thy.m.bun."🎵
Chu Zhi's emotions gradually escaped control, pushing despair in these two lines to sixty percent. The lyrics told the story: his mother was far away, yet he often saw her in dreams. She still hummed familiar tunes, but why did her brow furrow?
The lyrics' imagery was intense—
Why did Emperor Beast never buy childhood memory marshmallows even when system prices dropped?
Because he had Wonderful Dream Chocolate and Dead Pig Elixir, which ensured good sleep and continuous sweet dreams.
His sweet dreams showed his mother in good spirits, eating together, watching TV—good dreams—but waking reality could differ.
"Suddenly waking from a dream, realizing mother is gone."
"My longing for mother flows like a spring, hoping to always stay by her side."
The Vietnamese lyrics, translated into simple Chinese, were unadorned and heartfelt.
For Chinese-speaking listeners, learning Vietnamese was tricky due to voiced plosives and pronunciation habits. Yet no Vietnamese scholars, leaders, or artists cared—they were all swept up in the song's emotion.
The despair reached eighty percent in Chu Zhi's empathy.
"Aftershock" is praise for a singer with deeply charged emotion. The song's effect on the first half was intense. Secretary-General Nguyễn felt an inexplicable tightness and unease, even more so his superior, Minister Phan.
Minister Phan tried to maintain composure, yet memories of his mother surfaced.
Born into a prominent Ho Chi Minh family, Phan was an illegitimate child and had a hard childhood. Fortunately, his mother protected him, but at twenty-six, she was found dead from a gunshot, ruled a suicide. The song revived those memories.
Vietnamese leader Nguyễn Đông, more stoic, was equally affected.
A glance around revealed the hall's atmosphere was gray, like heavy winter clouds, no sunlight, with sparse roadside plants. Life seemed absent.
Most had just watched a local performance without stirring emotions. Now, the tidal wave of emotion swept everyone.
"Mother, why can't you always stay by my side?"
"Mother, you always wanted me to be happy, yet do you know my greatest happiness—"
"Is being with you forever."
The raw, unembellished delivery of Chu Zhi pushed despair to ninety percent. His hand subconsciously clenched the microphone, friction audible, revealing emotional instability.
The song neared its end, yet the despair deepened, diving into a chasm deeper than any abyss.
"To you far away, worry no more for me."
"I have grown up and will take care of myself."
"One day, we will meet again, Mother."
Despair hit one hundred percent. Emperor Beast himself was overwhelmed. Even the word "Mother" was sung in Chinese, two characters like a cuckoo bleeding.
No one noticed that any system voice buff at full capacity was another form of mental assault. Chu Zhi was singing at one hundred percent for the first time.
The song ended.
The effect was clear—
Hold it in, Ma.Cao, I must hold it in.
One day, I will rise to the highest position and expose everyone who harmed my mother. All of them, GG!
Minister Phan's heart surged, telling himself to control his emotions.
A skilled politician must hide expressions. Being seen crying over a song by the leader would be unfit for a political powerhouse.
Yet the next second, Phan noticed the leader. Nguyễn Đông, expressionless, had tears at the corners of his eyes, moved earlier than anyone.
Looking around, Phan saw every Vietnamese in the hall, even the diplomats serving tea in the corridor—every single one was crying.
Phan was astonished. Could one song really make everyone cry?
Was it really necessary to be so fragile? A simple song brought tears. His own tears came from personal memories, entirely different.
Of course, others had mothers too, with stories and memories. It was understandable.
The song made hundreds empathize, exaggeration at its extreme.
Phan silently admired Chu Zhi, noting their similarity in talent.
Vietnamese national treasure pianist Đặng Thái Sơn, Canadian citizen, had lost his mother in her eighties without illness or pain, yet even he wept after the song. Sixty-year-old Đặng longed for his mother.
At full despair capacity, even Chinese officials who did not understand Vietnamese fully grasped the emotion, except for government translators. It was no exaggeration to say full despair meant even robots could feel the singer's emotion, let alone flesh-and-blood listeners moved to tears.
"No wonder he was hired as Chief Consultant at such a young age."
"Art knows no borders. Consultant Chu's voice tells stories; each word conveys longing."
"Now I understand a bit about Consultant Chu's family, sigh!"
The forty-seven-year-old Ambassador to Vietnam, considered in his prime, had a tough demeanor and was known as the "Black Stone" in Vietnamese politics.
He too sobbed, unsure why he was so affected.
Poor relations with parents aside, the song enveloped him in sorrow, the ending crashing like a flood.
"Artist, is this what Japanese call a song from hell? So sad, yet why unleash the ultimate move right away?" Liu Ya thought, tears streaming, offering a handkerchief to Leader Lü.
Even in a hall where all were crying, offering the handkerchief did not reveal the leader's emotion.
Liu Ya understood why the Third Leader recommended Chu Zhi's work: no one could surpass him in emotional expression.
"This is how a Chinese artist should be. Any country listening can feel the emotion directly," Leader Lü praised, even saying Chu Zhi had given him a huge surprise.
He did not need to understand art or music. Once this song aired on VTV, it would create tremendous impact.
A national celebration with domestic singers leading the performance—what could be more satisfying? Leader Lü thought the news broadcast should definitely cover it.
The audience was stunned by the song.
Chu Zhi bowed slightly, a polite gesture thanking the quietly appreciative audience. He had not yet recovered himself, so he hurriedly followed the Vietnamese staff and exited the center of the hall.
The staff guided him to a seat in a corner of the hall. The artists invited to the celebration could take their seats after performing.
Group performances like Chaoxi or Dai ethnic dances required only the lead to stay.
"Thank you," Chu Zhi said, noticing tears on the staff's cheek for the first time.
He silently praised himself. Even without using one hundred percent despair during a sad song, based on today's feedback, it could have been lethal.
Only when Emperor Beast sat down did the applause begin. The audience was too stunned to react immediately.
It was not thunderous applause; with leaders and artists present, hand-clapping was gentle and restrained.
The celebration continued—
It was fortunate that Chu Zhi was the only guest performing in a singing format. Other artists were either traditional dancers or Jingpo-Dai performers. Their styles and dramatic tension were completely different, otherwise the brilliance of Gp.m.trong.m would have overshadowed them.
Even if one considered a step back, with diverse presentation forms, all guests were masters. Yet the audience had been emotionally stretched too far by Chu Zhi's performance, making it hard to summon further feeling immediately.
"Based on that live performance alone, he could be hailed as a world-class artist. What a pity…" Deng Taishan thought the performance should have been at Vienna Music Hall, or at the very least Thompson Music Hall. Performing at the politically charged Baicao Garden One was a waste.
Deng Taishan noticed only two media outlets present. CCTV had some global influence, but VTV had almost no impact in the Asian language sphere, let alone internationally. It should have been covered by The New York Times, The Times, or Bild.
Occasionally, Deng Taishan glanced at Chinese artist Chu Zhi. Having traveled to many countries, he was stunned for the first time and wanted to establish contact.
"Teacher Chu's stage was breathtaking," said Tong Ri during a break.
Tong Ri, the leader of the Dai opera troupe, followed Jingpo custom, so his surname would be Letuo.
"The Dai opera Mie Mo Po Nian Gui seemed influenced by the Ximen Bao story. The Cao Wang style had such power," Chu Zhi commented.
The Cao Wang style, if forced to describe, was like the painted-face Jing style. The master really was a master; the performance was excellent.
Tong Ri was surprised. Many Dai themselves did not know the opera, yet a young artist could explain it accurately, boosting immediate respect and goodwill.
"Mie Mo Po means shaman. The story is basically adapted from Ximen Bao, modified for Dai opera," Tong Ri said.
Because he was the first to speak, another nearby opera master also approached to make contact.
All the artists present were conquered by Chu Zhi's performance. It was straightforward: talent spoke for itself.
The performances varied: some Dai were from Chinese Dai, while Vietnamese Nung and Dai Yi were from Chinese Zhuang. Every invited guest was carefully selected.
Chinese leaders gave speeches. Unlike translating Vietnamese literature, Chinese culture influenced Vietnam in many ways. The speeches confirmed a Confucius Institute would be established at Vietnam National University.
Currently, Hanoi University was the only university with a Confucius Institute.
"Did I make everyone cry at the 70th anniversary of China-Vietnam relations? Maybe that is not ideal," Chu Zhi thought while watching the program.
"Not at all. Chaoxi Mai En He and the group dances were not happy topics. Mai En He was a tragedy. The celebration focused more on performance form; my song just expressed emotion a little better."
Chu Zhi judged his performance flawless. Occasional tears were a good emotional release; after all, he rarely cried growing up.
The celebration lasted three hours. The Vietnamese side likely arranged a dinner.
National leaders were busy, so the Chinese Ambassador to Vietnam attended, with only Vietnamese diplomatic leaders present. Of course, most invited artists were also there.
"It has been two years since I last met Mr. Deng," the Ambassador said. A world-renowned pianist greeting him voluntarily deserved acknowledgment.
"Life in Canada is more convenient," Deng Taishan raised his glass. The two chatted casually. Deng then asked, "Where is Mr. Chu? I did not see the performer of Gp.m.trong.m."
"Consultant Chu had business, so he did not attend the dinner," the Ambassador explained, knowing Chu Zhi had flown to Qatar with Leader Lü.
"That is unfortunate," Deng Taishan's expression immediately fell. He wished he had not come either.
Indeed, if not for networking with Chu Zhi, he would have returned to Canada that afternoon.
Soon, several Vietnamese artists asked the Ambassador for Chu Zhi's contact. The Ambassador could check but could not disclose without permission.
"The Chinese singer Chu Zhi brought emotional expression to a peak," one said.
"I want to hear it again, even if it makes me sad once more."
"I asked. The details of China-Vietnam relations will air tomorrow night on VTV's National News," another added.
"The performance will likely be edited, but I worry about it being cut too much," said another.
"Even with editing, Gp.m.trong.m will be broadcast completely."
Though absent, Chu Zhi became the topic of conversation multiple times during the dinner. Chinese and Vietnamese artists eagerly discussed his performance.