"Spirits will never leave the World Tree…"
Wilde jolted awake, then cautiously looked around. The surroundings felt both familiar and strange, helping him calm down gradually.
The tension on his face eased as he realized he was no longer in his original world.
"Wanwan's already gone out."
He stepped out of the living room into the kitchen, placed the ingredients down, and flicked the switch. The smart kitchen system started cooking automatically.
Half an hour later, a plate of hot and sour shredded potatoes, stir-fried meat with chili, and a bowl of vegetable tofu soup were neatly arranged on the table.
"Technology's even more convenient than magic," Wilde thought.
Wilde was a wind elf from the continent of Kurait. When the combined forest empire of the Wind, Moon, and Wood clans was attacked by orcs and dwarves, he led the royal guard as a swordsmanship instructor. But a series of dazzling lights that pierced through the cave skies transported him to a strange world.
This world had no magic, no battle spirits, not even vitality. The goblins' technology dominated everything.
Luckily, a kind local had taken him in. Otherwise, an elf without vitality could barely manage basic archery, martial arts, or elementary nature magic. Forget missiles—a handful of trained strongmen with melee weapons could've easily captured him. In other words, without any identification in this new world, he'd be completely stuck.
Wilde had lived over ninety years (elves lived around 500 on average) and had experience with goblins, dwarves, and humans alike. He wasn't some naïve rookie—he knew exactly how dangerous it was for an outsider like him. Trusting a strange woman came from his instinctual perception. Everyone in Kurait knew elves and merfolk could naturally sense malice. Wilde could feel Wanwan's goodwill, even if her eyes were filled with ambition.
After finishing his meal, Wilde decided to read more. No matter the world, acquiring knowledge through books was never wrong. His forest empire had one of the five greatest libraries on the continent, the Treehole Library, ordained by the god of culture and technology.
The eighty-plus-square-meter apartment had two rooms and a living room, but Wilde was nearly going stir-crazy. The surroundings made him uncomfortable. Within ten miles, there were barely any plants, so few that it even made him feel like he was struggling to breathe.
He once asked Wanwan, "Even goblins plant plenty of purple grass in caves. If inferior beings like them can't handle an environment like this, how do you endure it?"
She didn't answer.
Wilde washed his face with tap water. The one advantage of this world was that its water quality was far better than that of Kurait.
He began flipping through the history books on a full-wall bookshelf, of course in the vernacular rather than classical writing.
Meanwhile, the apartment's owner, Wanwan, wasn't some swooning girl. For her to "adopt" a strange man, she had her reasons. The key was her profession—she was a manager at Aiguo Entertainment in Yang City.
Aiguo Entertainment was a subsidiary under the patriotic conglomerate, mainly training signed trainees. When Wanwan first laid eyes on Wilde, she nearly forgot to breathe—he was just too handsome.
Being an Aiguo manager, she'd seen plenty of good-looking men. The entertainment industry was full of handsome and beautiful faces, but Wilde's appearance immediately reminded her of Chu Zhi in his prime, around thirty-five years old.
If the perfect score for looks was 100, Chu Zhi at his peak would be 120. Wilde had 118, with a mixed-race look to his nose bridge and eye sockets.
"Damn, no wonder elves are always portrayed as gorgeous in dramas. They really are gorgeous!"
"This face is going to blow up."
"If he doesn't, I swear I'll twist my head and kick it like a ball."
That was Wanwan's first reaction, especially with Wilde's elven ears and snow-white skin. If he disguised himself as a woman, he'd be even more stunning than Chu Zhi.
The entertainment industry had plenty of beautiful faces, but globally admired handsomeness was rare. Chu Zhi had landed roles in The Matrix and Never Sinking partly because of his face.
Wanwan didn't doubt Wilde's identity, and it wasn't just because of his elven ears and looks. After all, traveling from a magical world with deities to the modern world was absurd. What convinced her was that Wilde communicated with her using the "voice of the soul." In his words, he could "communicate with nature," which allowed them to converse smoothly even without a shared language.
Modern technology had advanced with "realistic movie" simulation pods and immersive game cabins, but direct mind-to-mind conversation was still beyond reach.
"Wanwan, your trainee's been taken by Brother Li," a colleague called Xiaoyang said quietly in the break room after Wanwan clocked in.
"Even though it's a company assignment, everyone knows Brother Li's got protection, so he often snatches promising trainees," Xiaoyang explained.
"No worries. We just do our jobs. Whatever the company decides is fine," Wanwan said calmly.
"Huh?" Xiaoyang was puzzled. The trainee taken by Brother Li had star potential, so why wasn't she upset?
Wanwan was calm because she held an ace in her hand—someone with the same level of looks as Chu Zhi.
After chatting briefly, Wanwan said, "The director's inspecting today, so I'll go check."
She entered the cultural classroom where trainees studied academic subjects. Aiguo Entertainment's founder had a philosophy: "Trainees will become stars, and stars have a responsibility to guide fans. Culture, morality, and skill are equally important."
The company hired professional teachers, so most trainees looked miserable. Learning was often grueling.
A few exceptions existed. Two years ago, one trainee suddenly caught on to the joy of studying and left just before debuting to pursue graduate school.
Back at her desk handling paperwork, Wanwan's job wasn't majorly stressful since she only had trainees under her, but small tasks piled up nonstop. By noon, she took a brief break, picked up her translucent phone, and saw over 999 unread messages in the work WeChat group, all @everyone.
[Holy shit, badass!]
[66666]
[I'll crush work like thunder!]
"Stay calm… but holy shit!" Wanwan scrolled. Her phone was a retro touchscreen. Most colleagues had futuristic wearable projection devices, but she hadn't splurged. The transparency was just the material.
"Is this real?!"
Wanwan's calm shattered when she saw the announcement from the artist department manager:
[@EveryoneThe big boss wrote a song, "When You're Old", to support trainees. Trainees with excellent midyear evaluations can debut using this song.]
[Note: The lyrics are adapted from the boss's famous poetry collection After Long Silence, widely recognized.]
"When You're Old" had even been included in high school textbooks.
"Debuting with the boss's song? That's debuting at the peak!" Wanwan thought, tempted to bring Wilde in immediately.
Chu Zhi had been in entertainment for over sixty years, producing Aiguo's three major kings (King of Love Songs, Rock King, Live King). The industry had rotated through countless top stars, many with direct or indirect ties to the boss.
"Too bad we still can't solve Wilde's identity."
In this era, creating an identity was tough. Wanwan's plan was to get one and then do minor surgery to make his pointed ears normal.
Even with recent trends of women wearing elf-ear accessories or surgeries to make their ears pointy, true elves had to hide them a bit. Otherwise, she feared losing her ace to research projects.
Company decisions wouldn't wait for one manager's hesitation. Weeks later, the midyear competition proceeded as usual.
It was originally an internal contest, but fandom attention grew. With the nation more developed, fans with the leisure to follow idols increased. By 2075, Chinese fandom had grown roughly 70% from 2027.
Fans especially followed Aiguo Entertainment's midyear assessments, flooding official social media with requests for livestreams.
Other trainee agencies envied the attention.
Aiguo Media Group was one of six major international entertainment companies, with top sales channels worldwide. Its subsidiaries—Aiguo Entertainment, Aiguo Records, Aiguo Films—were top-tier in Asia, and within China, second to none.
The group had excellent relations with authorities, cooperating in any matter. Five years ago, when South Korea stirred trouble and relations soured, the group suspended all operations there, despite overseas revenue from South Korea, Japan, the U.S., and the Middle East being critical.
The midyear exam winner was trainee Wang Xiaogeng under senior manager Kou. He graduated from Beijing Dance Academy, joined Aiguo Entertainment, chose Doctrine of the Mean as his reading material, and Thai as his selected language.
Wang Xiaogeng debuted with "When You're Old", instantly topping the new song charts.
"Mu Chire vouchers are monthly, but what good are they?" Wanwan complained. "The cheapest coat still costs almost twenty grand."
"Wait, the brand's forty years old and offering discounts… maybe I'll bite," she admitted, unable to resist.
Mu Chire had indeed succeeded. Invited to Paris, Milan, and New York Fashion Weeks multiple times, its designs were loved by wealthy East and West customers. It was the only widely recognized luxury brand founded after the 21st century to successfully break into overseas markets.
Failed designs hardly sold, but anything Chu Zhi wore in public sold out instantly. A luxury brand's job was convincing both rich and poor of its value. Many second-generation heirs bought Mu Chire, some paying huge premiums. When they gained power, they influenced global aesthetics, shaping the brand's identity from the start.
For example, Santander Group's chairman Pablo, a hardcore Chu Zhi fan, wore Mu Chire daily and spent lavishly on formalwear. When someone controlling a nation's resources endorsed a brand, the fashion world had to follow.
Speaking of Pablo, he also received the Chinese Friendship Medal—the only Spaniard to do so—for donating billions in antiques to China, including a national treasure. Two others, from South Korea and Japan, also received medals for artifact donations: LG Group chairman Gu Hyo-yan and Ojima Kira, president of Ojima Shoyu. Kira inherited her position from her husband, who ousted his father with her help, keeping control of the family business.
Grimacing and stomping her foot, Wanwan bought a bag once used by Jiu-yé at a charity gala five years ago.
No doubt she'd go broke again this month. But it was okay—eating "dirt" with an elf was better than doing it alone.
That made her feel less guilty, like realizing she was late for class, but then noticing everyone else was late too.
After months of effort, Wanwan still couldn't get Wilde an identity. She wasn't breaking laws and didn't know anyone who could help.
Left with no choice, she had to seek outside help. Using every method and connection, she secured a half-hour opportunity to meet the big boss alone between 1:30 and 2 PM. She was determined to make the most of that half hour.
She thought carefully about asking the boss. Firstly, his social and official influence could make it happen.
Secondly, it was "safe." She trusted Jiu-yé completely. If even he couldn't be trusted, who could be?
Most importantly, her idol, Niu Jiangxue, had risen to queen of Asian entertainment by becoming Chu Zhi's manager. Wanwan wanted to emulate that path. Even if Wilde couldn't reach Chu Zhi's level, his looks alone were enough to make global superstardom possible. In the face of such huge potential, she couldn't risk someone else taking him.
"Commander He-von, just a quick heads-up…" Wanwan said in the lounge on the twenty-fifth floor of the group building, giving Wilde some pointers.
She wasn't sure if the elf race was naturally proud, but the Wilde in front of her certainly seemed a bit arrogant, so she wanted to set expectations.
"What?" Wilde asked.
"We're asking a favor, so you need to be polite," Wanwan repeated.
Wilde's full name was Wilde Iman He-von, with Wilde being his given name, He-von his surname, and Iman indicating his profession as a swordsman. Adding "Commander" before his name was an honorific. Being a swordsman commander was Wilde's pride, and the apprentices calling him Commander He-von or Commander Wilde always made him happy.
Since he couldn't hear anymore after crossing over, when Wanwan asked him how to address him, his expression shifted as he said "Commander He-von," showing he wasn't ignoring her—he just wanted to hear it twice.
"Big boss… Chu Zhi is that powerful?" Wilde couldn't help asking, "How powerful?"
There it was, his pride flaring again. To Wilde, wasn't this just like the head of a merchant guild on their continent? How impressive could that be? Back in the day, even when the empire's biggest guild leader sought an audience with the elf queen, Wilde hadn't given them a second glance.
After over six months in this world, Wilde had already learned how to look things up online and had picked up a bit of Chinese. He searched the name of the "big boss" Wanwan mentioned, and the information shocked him.
[Chu Zhi (born September 9, 1998) from Fengdu, a mountain city in China. Chinese male musician, poet, singer, translator, lyricist, composer, philanthropist, and pacifist. Graduated from Shancheng No. 37 High School.
Debuted in June 2017 on "Child of the Future," published first album Beautiful and Brilliant in November 2017. Second album My Dream released December 2018, setting a record for Chinese digital albums. February 2020, music album Chu Ci · Ode to the Orange Tree released, pioneering "New Chinese Style." March 2022, first English album The One Gazed Upon by Gods launched, loved by fans worldwide. Chu Zhi has won 32 Grammys, 51 American Music Awards, 19 U.S. chart-topping singles, and holds Guinness World Records for "best-selling album" and "highest cumulative personal sales."
His films Unsinkable and The Matrix rank second and third worldwide in box office history.Outside of entertainment, he's donated over 6.7 billion RMB and promotes peace with albums like Is It Peace?, winning the Nobel Peace Prize.
In 2027, he received the Nobel Peace Prize. His poetry under the pen name Huainan has been recognized, including Collection of Flying Birds (2019), I Am a Willful Child (2020), and The Great Mystery (2021).]
Wilde didn't fully understand these awards, but Wanwan explained them: a mix of Nobel Literature + Nobel Peace + Pop King roughly equated to their continent's "Climb the Wandering Monument" + "become bishop of three Woodfruit cults" + "legends passed through hundreds of races."
When Wanwan added that Chu Zhi had over 500 million "followers," including herself, Wilde's mind nearly exploded. His eyeballs might've popped out.
The Wandering Monument was the dream of every wandering poet on their continent, a sacred monument left by the god of art and music, with only poems known across the continent recorded there.
The three Woodfruit cults were the continent's most peace-loving sects. Woodfruit was common but bitter. Followers ate just three a day while striving to stop wars.
Wilde knew every duchy and kingdom distrusted them because if persuasion failed, the cult would send troops to intervene. Their armed forces were stronger than several kingdoms combined, one of only two groups on the continent with a "Blood Elf Corps."
(The other was Wilde's Forest Kingdom, where blood elves were elite troops willing to sacrifice themselves in battle.)
"Hundreds of races pass down his legend; no one but ancient gods could've done this…" Wilde paused. Five hundred million followers basically made him a deity.
He also saw many of Chu Zhi's legendary feats, unbelievable even to a visitor from a magical world.
"Is he really a spellcaster who can't use soul magic?" Wilde asked. "Even the merfolk Grand Spellcaster can't stop two nations at war with singing."
What stunned the elves most were Chu Zhi's three African Peace Chu Zhi Music Festivals. The first stopped all fighting in the Sahel, the second quelled a civil war in a small African country with a single handshake between rebels and leaders, and the third, at age fifty-nine, got several "benevolent kings" to sign a non-aggression pact for a year.
If Chu Zhi hadn't refused the Nobel Peace Prize later in life, saying, "The world has many heroes for peace; don't focus only on me," he could have won again, becoming the only person with three Nobel Prizes.
"Brother Jiu's peace festivals involve politics, too, not just music," Wanwan said rationally, never overhyping idols. "But still, only Jiu-yé could pull this off."
Curiosity got the better of him. Wilde couldn't resist listening to Chu Zhi's songs.
Chu Zhi released the peace trilogy: Is It Peace?, What Do We Expect?, A World of Harmony. Wilde picked one.
🎵 "Do you know what you're fighting for, when none of it's worth dying for? Do you feel your breath stolen, slowly suffocating?"
"Does the pain outweigh the glory? Are you searching for shelter? Has anyone pierced your heart?""You, left in pieces. Fire the cannons, twenty-one shots…"🎵
He hadn't learned English yet, so he read the Chinese translation, but even without understanding the words, he felt the emotion in the music.
"This voice holds immense emotion. Unlike soul magic, it's more like the high priest's sacred spell, [Holy Lament], capable of affecting the mind," Wilde thought. "Holy Lament only works on undead or demons. Qi Chu's voice is like seeds, making you think of happy or sad memories."
[Qi] was the continent's first revered sound, a holy title below the gods. On this land, divine titles were reserved for power, not names.
Even from his address, Wilde could feel how his attitude toward Chu Zhi changed.
"If only Qi Chu lived on our continent, we'd have fewer wars," Wilde sighed. As they were about to meet someone almost divine, the elf's ears blushed pink, so Wanwan put a hood over him.
When it was time, Wanwan and Wilde entered the big boss's office.
Wanwan had never been there. Unlike the grand, solemn office she imagined, it felt like a mix of a music studio and library corner, a bit messy but spacious.
"Holy shit, the ageless god! Over seventy and still looks like a handsome guy in his thirties or forties." Wanwan was shocked. She thought on-screen makeup helped, but in reality, Chu Zhi still looked young, clearly the same age as her grandfather.
Divine presence, Wilde could sense it, but also chaos in the man's mind.
At first, the Emperor Beast didn't care about Wilde. Seeing himself in the mirror daily was enough.
When Wilde used telepathic communication, Chu Zhi and his system brother were both startled. He declined the block, curious about meeting another traveler.
"Could this human be an elf?" Chu Zhi asked the system brother.
[Analysis shows the humanoid in front has a 99% chance of not being human.]
Chu Zhi trusted the assessment. This elf's looks were good enough to be a lead with a bit of effort.
Even though Aiguo Media was one of the top five globally, it still relied on him. He knew if he died, the company would survive, but maintaining a top-five position would be tough. Cultural exports needed such a global powerhouse.
Chu Zhi couldn't die. He sought an heir, which was why he trained trainees and wrote over twenty songs a year for his artists for nearly a decade.
He had no issue with Wilde signing under Aiguo Media or Wanwan managing him.
"To debut as a star, you're exposed to media scrutiny. Buying an identity alone isn't enough; no school photos is a major gap," Chu Zhi said.
"So we'll make him a Chinese-African mixed heritage, Moroccan nationality, father a Chinese businessman, mother Moroccan, just returned to China. Morocco's unstable now, so media inquiries would be tough.
Sound good?" Chu Zhi asked. Wanwan realized her own plans had huge holes, but Wilde nodded obediently.
"I have a small personal wish—once you're famous, you can apply for Chinese citizenship," Chu Zhi added. "Many stars change nationality; I want to set a positive example."
High standards, thought Wanwan.
Even in his seventies, Chu Zhi arranged Wilde's identity in just a week. Plastic surgery changed his ears to human style; Wilde initially resisted but Wanwan persuaded him.
To keep his elf heritage secret, Wilde got the typical heroic backstory: orphan, living with Chu Zhi's uncle, named Wilde in Chinese.
He also quickly learned Arabic, Morocco's official language. Within three months, he was fluent.
"Elves learn too fast; I'm a little jealous. When I learned languages…"
"I just opened a blind box and instantly mastered them. Never mind," Chu Zhi muttered.
Wilde's debut film was Death in Venice, playing the second male lead. Fifty years ago, director Joseph invited Chu Zhi repeatedly for the role, but he refused after Shiyi Lang, not wanting a gay-tinged role.
Not sure if everyone still remembers the plot, but I'm guessing most don't. Let me give a quick recap. Back in the 1990s, a German composer went to Venice and met a handsome man from the East. From that moment on, he couldn't forget him. Even when he later caught cholera and was on the brink of death, the only person on his mind was that Eastern man.
That movie originally made the supporting actor, Kiefis, famous. He was hailed as a "beautiful young man as handsome as Chu Zhi." Death in Venice even won the Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival.
Of course, Kiefis got roasted for the "as handsome as Chu Zhi" label for half his life. Sure, he was good-looking, but compared to Chu Zhi, the gap was huge. Honestly, he was basically ruined by the film's marketing team.
So why did Chu Zhi want to remake this movie from the start? Simple. It didn't require acting skills, and it would make the world notice Wang Wilde's beauty instantly.
The standard of beauty worldwide is androgynous, meaning it looks stunning from both male and female perspectives. Chu Zhi's face leaned slightly masculine, while Wang Wilde's leaned more feminine, so technically Wang Wilde was perfect for this role. His pure white elf skin added a delicate, almost fragile charm.
Chu Zhi even invited the famous director, Yuan Lian—his sworn younger brother. Yuan Lian had once played young Su Shiyi in Shiyi Lang. Originally an actor, he switched to directing at thirty-five and won Best Director at both the San Sebastián International Film Festival and the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival. His artistic credentials were top-notch.
From the cast to the crew, Chu Zhi gathered all the big names, and he even personally composed the soundtrack.
Although the movie's title was Death in Venice, not all of it was shot in Venice. Some scenes were filmed in El Salvador.
"I don't feel any fun in acting since it's all fake," Wang Wilde told his manager.
Wanwan said, "With your face, not acting would be a waste of resources. And Wang Wilde, didn't you say you want to become someone like Jiu-yé?"
"I could sing," Wang Wilde replied. "My voice might not be as beautiful as the mermaid clan's, but I still think it's pretty good."
Wanwan hesitated for a moment, recalling his tone-deaf singing. She sincerely said, "Let's just stick to acting for now."
You didn't need to know exactly where El Salvador was, only that it had once belonged to Mexico. And one fact: the gangs there were even worse than Brazil's. Enough said.
Since they were filming there, trouble was bound to come.
A group of gangsters appeared, some holding knives, others blunt weapons, and a few with hands in their pockets—obviously carrying guns. Everyone froze in place, not daring to move.
"What are they here for?" Wang Wilde asked.
Wanwan barely breathed and thought, Why pick this location? before answering, "They're bad guys, here to extort money from us."
Thieves! Wang Wilde's eyes flashed with cold light. He whispered, "Wanwan, get me a sword. Even if I can't use magic right now, with my physique, a dozen untrained thieves won't stand a chance."
"Wait!" Wanwan quickly stopped him. The gang had guns—what good would swordsmanship do?
"The director will handle it. We don't know what's going on, don't go making things worse," she said.
"What's making things worse? The elf code says if we can help weaker races, we must," Wang Wilde thought, though he didn't say the second half aloud.
Do you know the value of a Guiding Officer? A legion has ten thousand members, but only five Guiding Officers teach single-handed swordsmanship, spear, bow, traps, and two-handed sword.
"There's a better way. Don't rush," Wanwan calmed him.
Wang Wilde seemed to realize Wanwan couldn't get a single-handed sword, so he started looking for sticks.
Meanwhile, the director and producers were panicking.
"Didn't we pay protection money already? Why are there still gangsters?" Yuan Lian asked the external producer.
"They're not from the same gang," the producer replied.
"Then contact the ones who got the money!" Yuan Lian instinctively said.
"They won't do anything," came the reply.
"..." Damn it. Yuan Lian checked how much this gang wanted. Ten thousand dollars.
Damn! Why not just take them down? Yuan Lian was furious. Calling the Salvadoran authorities wouldn't help—they couldn't always protect them. Even if they could solve it with ten thousand, what if another gang showed up next? How many tens of thousands would that be?
"Director, look at their shirts," assistant director Wang Ren said.
"What?" Yuan Lian was too annoyed to care.
"Just look," Wang Ren urged.
Yuan Lian followed his gaze. The gang surrounding the crew wore matching black T-shirts printed with [loving.god, Loving.chuzhi].
"Is this Chuzhi… Jiu-yé?" Yuan Lian asked in shock.
"I just looked it up. Jiu-yé has sung many gospel songs, stopped countless wars, and is considered a holy figure in many places," Wang Ren explained. "Especially in chaotic regions like Brazil, the more disorderly, the more believers."
So Yuan Lian approached the gang leader, a fierce-looking middle-aged man we'll call Bai Zhu.
When Bai Zhu learned this crew belonged to Chu Zhi, he laughed. But Yuan Lian's details were listed on Aiguo Media's official site, available in twenty-three languages.
"Exactly the same," one of the crew whispered.
"Did we just mess with Chu Zhi?" another asked.
"Nope. The priest told me Chu Zhi's a reincarnated deity," came the reply.
"What now?"
The gang panicked, but Bai Zhu's cold snort calmed them. "The Hammer and Stone gang didn't tell us this place belonged to Mr. Chu Zhi. Don't worry. Mr. Chu Zhi is the most respected person for us besides God. I'll guard the area. If anyone comes, we'll take care of them."
Bai Zhu didn't believe in God, but he trusted his subordinates' faith. Chu Zhi's influence in Christianity and his superstar status meant you don't confront him directly.
In Brazil and El Salvador, faith and gang life didn't conflict, think of it as cyberpunk religion.
In the end, it all worked out. Ten thousand dollars weren't even needed, and they even got free bodyguards.
"Will Chu Zhi come? His singing is incredible," someone whispered.
"You know me. Aside from posters of busty beauties, I only collect Chu Zhi's," said another.
"I only know one Chinese person, and it's him."
"Never thought I'd get to help Chu Zhi one day. Amazing."
The crew quietly praised Bai Zhu's arrangement.
Problem solved. Yuan Lian directed the props team to reset, and the camera crew returned to position.
"Keep filming. It's all sorted," Yuan Lian said, calming everyone who'd been panicking abroad.
Everyone marveled at the power of just one name overseas.
"See? I told you there's always another way," Wanwan muttered, exhausted. This elf was arrogant and peace-loving in theory, but any slight disturbance made him want to rush in. Clearly a beast's instincts, not an elf's.
"Chu Zhi truly lives up to his name. One name ended the fight," Wang Wilde thought, genuinely impressed.
Filming and production took eight months, then the movie was sent to the Venice Film Festival.
Neither Yuan Lian nor Wang Wilde disappointed. Death in Venice won the Silver Lion for Best Director, plus four Oscars: Best Editing, Best Makeup and Hairstyling, Best Original Score, and Best Original Song.
As a side note, in Earth cinema, fifth-generation directors like Chen, Zhang, and Tian are known for not being strong storytellers. That traces back to Chinese film origins. The fourth generation discarded theatrical props, adding emotion to the camera. Fifth-generation directors relied on visuals to tell symbolic stories, with the story itself serving the imagery. Yuan Lian's remake, while technically seventh generation, leaned toward fifth-generation visual storytelling. With an established base and solid story, his remake of Death in Venice was even better than the original. The Venice jury even admitted he "better suited this story."
The movie captured Wang Wilde's stunning beauty exactly how Chu Zhi wanted.
Global box office: $610 million. For an art-house remake, that was incredible, even with Chu Zhi's influence.
Wilde basically hit the peak of his career the moment he debuted, instantly becoming the handsome boy every teen around the world fangirled over.
More accurately, it was a single movie that shot Wilde to global stardom. He didn't have to struggle in his home country like other actors did.
Things got even crazier when the media found out that the role of the second lead was personally chosen by Chu Zhi. The buzz skyrocketed.
"The World's Most Beautiful Boy, Chu Zhi Approves!"
"Chu Zhi's Successor Emerges—Wilde"
"An Actor as Delicate as a Glass Rose: Exclusive Interview with Wilde"
"A Completely Different Aesthetic: How Director Yuan Lian and Wilde Crafted This Film"
"Exclusive: Yuan Lian Says 'I Owe Everything to Jiu-yé'"
And so on. All the coverage focused on the director and the second lead.
Meanwhile, the first lead, who played the German composer Doug, did win some acting awards, like BAFTA and the Italian David di Donatello. Doug didn't get as much attention, but there were definite perks.
Wilde didn't like interviews, because his manager, Wanwan, had to coach him on what he could and couldn't say. Still, he could feel the malice from some reporters in the audience, so even when he wasn't free to speak his mind, he had to be careful.
Back at the crew's hotel—
"This… is the power of faith? No wonder gods need believers." Wilde felt golden particles flickering in his mind.
"Does that mean I can use magic now?" He tested a natural spell, but nothing happened.
He realized that the power of faith didn't let him use magic again, but accumulating enough of it seemed to trigger some kind of life-altering transformation.
Suddenly, he grinned and said, "Filming's awesome. I need to tell Wanwan we should shoot two more movies."
Compared to Chu Zhi, Wilde had one huge advantage: his combat skills, especially swordsmanship. Being the single-handed sword instructor for ten thousand elves wasn't just for show.
With a little of Chu Zhi's connections, they teamed up with Hollywood's Disney to make an epic action movie.
Action movies always had a market, because visual effects were exciting, but nothing matched the thrill of real combat on screen. Just look at Dwayne Johnson; he's dominated the box office for years.
Why did it feel like action films were dying? Real action actors were becoming rare, and ones who could act and fight while still having star presence were even rarer.
Wilde had both star presence and the ability to fight at the highest level.
So the Special Ops Investigation Squad series was born. The scripts weren't masterpieces, but they were perfectly solid action films. Plenty of drama, lots of martial arts, every move executed flawlessly.
The story followed an elite global squad of special humans protecting the world. The main character had a dual personality: the primary was the foreigner who pulled the sword from the stone, the secondary was a descendant of a Chinese sword immortal.
The squad's first enemy? A zombie outbreak.
It was a little patchwork, but Chu Zhi thought it was solid for a commercial film and perfectly showcased Wilde's skills.
The first movie didn't perform as well as expected, making $900 million worldwide. Some audiences in the West didn't get certain plot points, but that was fine—they could adjust.
The next year, the sequel, Special Ops Investigation Squad 2: Swordwind, performed much better. Wilde's physical abilities allowed him to pull off jaw-dropping stunts.
It made $1.3 billion globally, becoming the highest-grossing action film in that parallel world.
Then Wilde faced off in an unsanctioned live combat against an American celebrity. Though he was 1.8 meters tall and looked slim, his opponent was 1.89 meters with rock-solid muscles, and everyone assumed Wilde would lose.
But he won effortlessly, and videos of the fight circulated online showing no stunt doubles were used for the martial arts scenes.
Combining movie action with real combat skyrocketed Wilde's reputation.
Women adored his looks. Men respected his strength. He conquered all demographics and instantly became a global top-tier actor.
Everything was going perfectly until May 11, 2077.
That day, the sky fell, the sun shattered.
Of course, this was just a metaphor for worldwide shock.
The trigger was a news report from Xin Xia Society:
[According to reporters from Zhongshan Hospital, Fudan University, the globally renowned musician and poet, counselor of the Guowu Institute, senior advisor to the Central Propaganda and Culture Ministry, vice director of the National Cultural Export Center, honorary chairman of the Chinese Federation of Literary and Art Circles, and honorary president of the Chinese Art Academy, Chu Zhi, passed away at 3:21 a.m. on May 11 in Magic City, aged 78.]
Further details revealed that Chu Zhi had been working at the company until around 2 a.m., collapsed around 2:30 a.m., and was rushed to the hospital. At 5:31 a.m. Beijing time, he died from sudden cardiac arrest caused by myocarditis, aged 79. He never married.
Yangcheng Evening News: "The cultural and entertainment barometer of the world, Chu Zhi, has passed away. He became a mountain, an inspiration for countless young people."
Renren Newspaper: "Moment of silence! Chu Zhi has passed away at 78 years and 8 months."
News Headline: "Farewell to the Greatest Star of the First Half of the 21st Century, Chu Zhi"
Guangming Daily: "Sending off Jiu-yé! A look back at Chu Zhi's life!"
Forget the entertainment world, the Chinese internet crashed. Everyone, whether they usually went online or not, had to check the news.
"Waaah, Xiao Jiu was only in his forties… why?"
"What forties? Jiu-yé could be your grandfather. He was in his seventies, just looked younger because he took care of his cat. Even if he looked forty, he shouldn't be called Xiao Jiu!"
"I don't care, Xiao Jiu died too young!"
"I suddenly feel like crying. Jiu-yé never married and had no descendants."
"I saw an interview where a reporter asked why he didn't have a girlfriend. He said, 'I don't want to drag anyone down.'"
"No way! I just became his fan… why is this happening?!"
The last comment came from Yuan Yuan, a fangirl born after '65, now in middle school.
Yuan Yuan hadn't been impressed by Jiu-yé at first because the poems in middle school were so hard to memorize. But then, at an award ceremony a female singer she liked attended, Chu Zhi appeared as the guest presenter. The singer literally jumped with excitement, like a fangirl seeing her idol.
The singer even stopped caring about the award afterward, just wanting to sing with Chu Zhi.
That's when Yuan Yuan realized how extraordinary this "uncle" was—his duet with the singer was god-tier.
Chu Zhi's influence in China was just one snapshot. His death sent shockwaves worldwide.
At a UN meeting, countries like Qatar, Japan, and South Korea proposed lowering flags to half-mast in his honor.
Chinese internet rumors claimed China had lowered flags six times out of seventeen worldwide, but anyone paying attention knew it was fake.
In reality, UN protocol only calls for half-mast for deceased heads of state, UN chairpersons, or influential global politicians. The Secretary-General can authorize exceptions, usually for major disasters.
Chu Zhi wasn't a political figure, so the UN refused the proposal. But out of respect for his anti-war advocacy and global contributions, the Security Council observed a moment of silence before their meeting.
So yes, the Secretary-General's decision and the 193-member silence were factual, unlike the Chinese internet rumors.
Japan lowered their flags under the Emperor, and most officials observed the moment of silence.
"The death of Chu-san is a loss for all humanity. It represents the disappearance of the best of humanity," the Emperor said.
Why such a reaction in Japan? Simple. For decades, society had been stifling, and Chu Zhi had inspired young people since the 2020s. Fans saw him as a light in the darkness.
Basically, those born in the '90s were saved by Chu Zhi. When they became teachers, professors, doctors, lawyers, and leaders, they passed on his influence to the next generations.
For example, a cultural minister in Japan during the Reiwa era, herself a Ragdoll fan, had previously criticized the idol industry as an escape from reality. Yet she had Chu Zhi posters all over her house, hundreds of special edition albums on her shelves.
She didn't see the irony, saying earnestly, "Chu Zhi represents the era. He's beyond the definition of a star. If the public follows someone like him, I fully support it, because he tells his fans to live life to the fullest."
Overall, the environment meant even non-fans couldn't escape his influence. Chu Zhi's peak looks and fighting ability shaped a generation from their childhood.
By the time the zero-zero and zero-ten generations grew up, Chu Zhi's presence had cemented itself globally, from South Korea to Indonesia, Russia, France, and beyond.
Even in Japan, whether or not you were a fan, you still learned his songs in school. Poems like The Only Flower in the World and Even Though We Have Nothing were part of the curriculum. You couldn't escape his impact.
The New York Times ran the headline: "The Era of a Great Man Ends, and His Name Was Chu Zhi."
The Sun in the UK: "Seventy Years After Losing Queen Victoria, Today We Lose Chu Zhi."
Russia's Novosti: front page and secondary headlines both devoted to him.
Front page: "One Hundred Cannons Fired into the Sky, We Forever Remember Mr. Zhi, Who Left Us Countless Treasures!"
Secondary: "Mr. Zhi's Life Was Truly Great."
France's Le Monde, penned by Biso of the Sad School of Southern Studies, headlined: "Mr. Chu Zhi Finally Completed His Greatest Art: Himself!"
The Southern School studied Chu Zhi in the context of Huainan scholarship. Their sadist faction analyzed his poems and songs, arguing he secretly wished for death but couldn't abandon the world.
The Spiritual School had the opposite view—they believed he fought to survive and passed that resilience to everyone.
There were seven or eight other factions studying him. This wasn't just a Chinese topic; it was global. After he semi-retired, refusing interviews except for releasing works, his followers and researchers grew even more.
It was predictable that Chu Zhi's death would spur a surge in Southern School scholars worldwide.
Nearly every mainstream newspaper in the world ran his death as front-page news.
Seventeen countries lowered flags to half-mast, and over fifty major websites went black-and-white in mourning, including Google, Facebook, Twitter, Weibo, and Baidu.