"Teacher Huainan's new work Circuit, I'm honored to be its very first reader."
Ono Akio sat straight at his desk, eyes fixed on the email on his computer, the subject line read, "New work, Circuit," sent by Huainan.
Facing a great poet's new collection, he had to take it seriously. He spent the entire afternoon reading and appreciating it. As Huainan's responsible editor, this was proper work, not slacking off.
After finishing it from start to finish, Ono Akio had two major thoughts. First, the instinctive one, shock.
The opening short poems were fine, romantic and full of gentle warmth. Then came the narrative sequence, Seven Books of the Sun, built on Chinese mythology, moving from the birth of the universe to the land, to nature, to humanity, to the present.
"Teacher Huainan wants to write a new-century Divine Comedy, a modern Faust." Ono Akio was overwhelmed by Huainan's ambition.
He'd wondered if, in today's world, there could still be poets who'd create a narrative epic. His mood felt like spilled water, scattered everywhere.
His second thought was subtler. Teacher Huainan was indeed Chinese. You could see it clearly from the mythic epic, and of course, Teacher Huainan had stated his nationality himself.
"The sky holds nothing at all, so why does it comfort me…" Ono Akio murmured, "I really love this collection. It's an ambitious work from Teacher Huainan."
Ono Akio started writing a reader's report. He somehow barreled through seven or eight thousand characters before clock-out. Forget fancy technique, he just opened Office and went for it.
The editor-in-chief skimmed the report. He lifted his head, his forehead lined with years of experience that pressed on newcomers like a weight.
The editor-in-chief asked, "Its artistic value is high. How about sales?"
"I'm sorry." Ono Akio bowed at once. It was his mistake not to include market analysis.
He answered, "If Circuit were written by a newcomer, it wouldn't sell at all. The market wouldn't accept this kind of poetry collection. But since the author's a world-famous poet, the situation's completely different."
"A modern Homeric epic, that's something people will yearn for," Ono Akio said, then realized he was getting carried away and quickly apologized again.
Apologizing seven or eight times in a chat with a superior wasn't unusual.
The editor-in-chief waved a hand, signaling Ono Akio to continue.
"Buyers of a poetry collection split into two groups. One group keeps up a good reading habit and genuinely loves poetry. They'll buy it."
Ono Akio was very confident when he analyzed the problem.
"But the bigger group doesn't enjoy reading poetry at all. They'll buy because of recommendations, social trends, and online discussion. It's a 'useless purchase,' but they'll still do it.
Combine Asia's 'new-era poet' Huainan with a modern mythic narrative poem, and I think the impact's huge. We can shape this into a sales bomb," Ono Akio concluded.
"Sales bomb" was in-house jargon, meaning a book that breaks a million copies within two months. Hearing that, the editor-in-chief's eyes brightened. Wonderful.
"Ono-san, after hearing you, even I want to buy a copy," the editor-in-chief said. "Go with your plan. Start the publicity."
The publishing house kicked into a fiery frenzy. After drawing Hai Zi's poetry collection as reference, Chu Zhi hurried to produce a Japanese edition. The core reason was to keep his Western reputation from cooling off.
If "Huainan" were a Westerner, even Australian, there wouldn't be any rush. They could wait two years to release another poetry book. The key was that "Huainan" was Chinese.
The world didn't originally have a "West" as a single concept. It was created during the Cold War to rally Europe, but plenty of so-called Western voices were indeed hostile toward China.
Meanwhile, the person behind the "Huainan" penname was signing albums. The new record needed ten thousand printed-signed copies and five hundred hand-signed copies as giveaway prizes for the release campaign.
Printed signatures were machine reproductions, so Chu Zhi didn't need to handle those. Even so, signing five hundred by hand still took a lot of energy.
Since the Emperor Beast was busy, let's mention two things related to Chu Zhi, though not directly tied to him.
Abnormal Is Normal finished its theatrical run with a box office of 1.31 billion yuan, firmly topping the summer season. Director Wang held a lavish celebration banquet, but Chu Zhi was abroad at the time and couldn't attend.
This year, the national broadcaster also planned a National Day documentary. Riding on the renewed interest in the Long March, they wanted to recreate the magic. Call it path dependence.
They couldn't invite the same guests again, so the lineup changed. The old "Three Melons" couldn't reunite. This time's guest was Su Yiwu, who'd been immersed in main-theme films in recent years. He fit the event, and his family background was impeccably red.
Even so, he couldn't match Chu Zhi. As chief advisor to the culture and tourism department, his background set the floor, but raising the ceiling required a cheat buff and hard work.
Without a cheat buff, that'd be a real pity.
"Don't leave regrets for yourself." Chu Zhi stretched. The Orang Home app had launched its annual lottery to fulfill fan wishes again.
Overseas fans on the Orange Family app left comments too. They wanted the same event. Chu Zhi thought it over and decided to open it to Orange Family next year, admitting he did treat domestic fans a little better.
He browsed the Little Fruits' wish wall. There were so many wishes.
["Wish: I'm getting married next year. I hope we can invite Jiu-yé."]
["If I get picked, I'll confess."]
["Pick me, pick me, I'll go back to find him."]
["Wish: I hope my parents' jobs get a little easier."]
[...]
A lot of Little Fruits weren't making wishes. They were gambling on a possibility, which was why Chu Zhi sighed like that.
After a few pages, Chu Zhi checked the news and found something useful.
"Director Ke Meilun, I saw the news. Did you fire the composer?" Chu Zhi called to ask.
Today's top story in The Hollywood Reporter said Ke Meilun was furious with the composer Laike. He'd even cursed Laike out on set, and a reporter caught it on camera.
Laike was already the third globally renowned composer to be dismissed. It showed how strained Ke Meilun's mental state was. It made sense, a failure on a film this expensive would bury the director and the actors for good.
"Knowing you, you wouldn't call to comfort me, since you know I don't need comfort." Ke Meilun sounded busy and not in the mood for small talk. Then he seemed to remember something and changed the subject. "Do you have a good composer to recommend? China has many excellent composers."
Chu Zhi organized his words and said, "I've done some research on scoring. I can try…"
Before he finished, Ke Meilun cut him off. "Chu, I know you want to help the crew, but film scoring and songwriting are two completely different fields. Professional work needs professionals."
The director's refusal didn't surprise him. If even world-famous composers had been fired three times over, there was no way he'd accept an outsider.
"Mr. Ke Meilun, I understand, but you haven't found a suitable composer yet," Chu Zhi said. "I'll draft a short piece and send it over. It won't be any trouble.
The only thing I'll waste is a bit of your time," Chu Zhi added. "Please let me try."
"…Alright."
If Chu Zhi had said, "It won't take any time," Ke Meilun would've refused on the spot. Was his time worthless?
But since Chu Zhi openly admitted he'd be taking up some of it and only asked for a chance, their relationship could afford that much.
"Don't get your hopes up. That's my warning," Ke Meilun said.
They both had packed schedules, so they hung up after handling business.
Ke Meilun went back to his pile of work on VFX. By the time he wrapped, it was already night. He grabbed a quick bite. He remembered how Chu Zhi wanted to help with the score, so he opened Apple Music and sampled a few of Chu Zhi's released tracks. Every one of them was good.
"No wonder he kept singing even with that face. His talent in music's more than enough," Ke Meilun praised softly, but he still felt songs weren't the same as scoring.
"There's a Chinese saying, you won't bruise your forehead till you run into the wall."
It felt like Chu Zhi wanted him to bang his head first, then back off.
On the other end, Chu Zhi immediately redeemed the song pack for "My Heart Will Go On" , a film theme that also counted as a score.
As a song, it was wildly famous on Earth, one of the most recognized English songs. As a score, the British Academy even listed it among the top one hundred film scores. It was strong in every way.
Chu Zhi volunteered because he'd drawn a "film scoring mega-pack," and if he didn't flex it now, it'd gather dust. Plus, if "My Heart Will Go On" accompanied the movie, it'd push his singing career up another step.
Only after redeeming it and gaining the creative memory did the Emperor Beast realize a lot of tiny details. He'd always thought that mellow instrument was an English bagpipe, but it was actually an Irish tin whistle, which was pretty different.
They didn't have that instrument on site, so he bought one on the fly. You rarely heard it in Chinese pop, so it made sense the Dream Dragon studio didn't have one.
He knocked out the recording in a few hours, then emailed the track to Ke Meilun. Whether the other side might claim or copy it didn't matter, he'd already filed it on an international rights registry before sending.
Only when the system handed over a specific "song mega-pack" would it auto-register across major platforms. In other cases, he had to file it himself.
"When we were filming Rose holding her arms out at the bow, this melody popped into my head. It's called 'My Heart Will Go On.'"
He attached the file and sent it.
"Even though I didn't do much today… well, I only shot a commercial this morning, attended an awards show in the afternoon, recorded a score, then had a meeting tonight, I still feel like I did nothing. I'm not even tired."
Chu Zhi stretched. It was shameless self-deception, but somehow the fatigue really did ease a lot. It was like dieting with a smaller bowl. Even if the portion was much less than before, your body still felt full. Same logic.
There was a time difference between China and the United States. Chu Zhi sent it in his afternoon, which was around five in the morning for Ke Meilun. The big director wasn't a night owl, so he definitely wasn't online.
At eight a.m. Washington time, Ke Meilun woke up. He liked to do a few laps in the big pool at home first.
After handling a bunch of little chores, he finally sat down to check emails. It was already ten-thirty. There were a lot waiting, and then his eye caught Chu Zhi's message.
"He finished it in a day?"
He ground fresh coffee. Morning, noon, night, it didn't matter. He had to have coffee to read files, or he felt off.
"Fast gun, huh."
He didn't assume quick meant bad, but from Chu Zhi's call to the file arriving before dawn was under twelve hours. That was fast.
And from the description, the scene was the couple's moment at the ship's bow. In Ke Meilun's cut, that sequence built the atmosphere carefully. In short, it was hard to score.
"My friend, I won't watch you crash into the wall with my eyes open. I'll close them." He downloaded the attachment and listened with his eyes shut.
The opening whistle grabbed him instantly. It wasn't a Scottish bagpipe. Bagpipes sounded like smoke flaring on a distant battlefield, perfect for a hero's entrance.
This whistle felt different. Not rolling black smoke, but rising wisps of mist. He didn't overthink it and kept listening.
"The compositional idea's solid. No aggressive contrasts or wild melodic swings. He's deliberately softening the rhythm?" he thought as it played.
Blurring the rhythm had plenty of benefits. First, it created a fresh unfamiliarity. Using "1" and "7" as the motif to build a pleasing line, then bringing in the piano as a supporting voice added a surprising strangeness and a heartbreaking beauty.
With his eyes closed, he could see it: on the deck of the giant ship, one person spread their arms to the wind, the other wrapped an arm around a slender waist.
"This is the score I need. I can't believe Chu's got this kind of talent." Ke Meilun kept praising it. He admitted he'd spoken a bit too loudly to Chu Zhi yesterday.
He replayed it three times, then called Chu Zhi immediately to discuss the scoring. It wasn't rare for a male lead to sing the theme song, but a male lead doubling as the film's composer was almost unheard of.
Chu Zhi came in ready to deliver, so he and Director Ke Meilun clicked right away. Since they had the "My Heart Will Go On" score, they'd be wasting it if they didn't produce the song too.
While Niu Niu's team pushed album promotions, they also started planning the eighth-anniversary concert.
There were fewer than ten days until All Nations Vol. 1 hit the world. With over a hundred million poured into promo, it was bound to make waves. Posters went up in New York, Chicago, London, Munich, and more.
The push was even heavier in eight cities: Hong Kong, Moscow, Madrid, Buenos Aires, Tokyo, New York, Paris, and Seoul.
[A groundbreaking album — All Nations Vol. 1] read the Paris poster. The visual showed a pair of giant feet striding over the Champs-Élysées, not solid feet, but ones formed from cloud and mist.
[All Nations Vol. 1 will be remembered by the music world] blared the massive banner at a Madrid arena.
[Chu Zhi's mastercrafted All Nations Vol. 1] was the headline on the Shibuya display in Tokyo.
And so on. No need to list them all.
You could spot one detail on the prints. The Chinese title swapped the "①" for the character "一." Chu Zhi took Wang Yuan's advice.
They also bought Google ads: [Album of the Year, All Nations Vol. 1 is coming].
The visuals differed from city to city, but the copy was equally cocky, which drew a swarm of media attention.
Plenty of Western singers hostile to China couldn't sit still anymore.