Ask music critics to name the greatest rock album in Huaxia's history, and you'll get a dozen arguments: Junkyard, Black Dream, Cold-Blooded Animal, Rock on the New Long March—each one a heavyweight contender. Even Wei Hua's Modernity, a rare gem of female-fronted rock, could fuel debates for days and nights.
But if the question were about the most legendary heavy metal album? No contest. It would be Tang Dynasty.
And Dreaming of the Tang Dynasty was that album's signature track. In this moment, Chu Zhi had just played his trump card.
Of course, in this parallel world, no one knew any of that. All they heard was the mention of "Chinese style."
"Is Chu Zhi obsessed or what? Everything has to be Chinese style with him?"
"Uh… Chu Zhi doing rock? I can't picture it."
"Hahaha, I'm actually curious. What kind of sparks will fly when Chinese style crashes into rock? The guy's talented, no doubt."
"Not really hyped, but I'll give it a listen."
The audience murmured among themselves—some doubtful, some curious, most indifferent. After all, heavy hitters like Xu Ji and Chen Aigui hadn't even performed yet.
The moment Chu Zhi gave his intro, Wu Xi felt it in his bones: this round, he'd already won.
Crushed it. Rock was all about atmosphere, not some polite dinner party. Chinese style? Original song? That was a risk, not a flex.
He wasn't the only one thinking it. The two camera operators, one chubby and one… slightly less chubby, had also secured prime shooting angles.
"Lin Xia flopped hard, haha," said Lao Mi, more pleased than if he'd gotten applause himself.
"Chu Zhi's up soon too," he continued. "Xiao Wu, make sure to film both of these pretty boys crashing and burning."
"Got it," Xiao Wu nodded.
Because of the camera's directional mic setup, none of their chatter would be recorded.
The intro began—strange and unsettling. A subtle drip of drumbeats and camel bells, like raindrops hitting just beside the ear, sent a chill down the spine.
Chu Zhi, electric guitar strapped over his shoulder, walked toward the suspended war gong. He lifted a mallet wrapped in red silk and struck it hard.
Bang.
Bang. Bang!
The delicate raindrops suddenly turned into a bucket of cold water. The noisy crowd of fifty thousand gradually fell silent.
"Chrysanthemum, ancient swords, and wine steeped in coffee, soaking into the clamor of a garden pavilion."
"Foreign tribes worship ancestors beneath the sun altar. The grandeur of the Kaiyuan era fills the soul with longing—"
Chu Zhi strummed. Finger slides, string bends, tremolos—his arm worked the tremolo bar in broad, sweeping arcs. It wasn't just playing. It was a declaration. The Tang Dynasty was rising.
"Wind cannot scatter long regrets."
"Flowers cannot dye away homesickness."
"Snow cannot reflect the rivers and mountains."
"The moon cannot complete ancient dreams."
Wind, flowers, snow, and moon—all sung with raw force. Behind it all, distorted guitar riffs and pulsing basslines exploded across the stadium. The crowd perked up. This arrangement—was it heavy metal?
Chinese-style lyrics, backed by heavy metal?
He really had the nerve.
"Following fate etched into my palm, I wake from tonight's wine, dreamless. Following that fate into confusion, I return in dreams to the Tang Dynasty—"
Come on, then. Let's go all the way!
Chu Zhi, caught up in the rhythm, lost himself in the performance. When he sang the words "Tang Dynasty," he switched to falsetto—bold, coarse, and unfiltered.
The audience froze. What… was that? That switch between head voice and falsetto was totally unrefined. No technique, just raw.
And somehow, it worked.
The distorted crunch of heavy metal layered over that wild vocal delivery was strangely addictive. Everyone suddenly realized—this song, Dreaming of the Tang Dynasty, was actually good.
"In tonight's cup, the moon's reflection glows. Men plow, women weave, the Silk Road bustles. In tonight's cup, the moon's reflection glows. Treasures abound, and heroes flourish."
"In tonight's cup, the moon's reflection glows. Fragrance of ink, words fill the rivers."
"In tonight's cup, the moon's reflection glows. Valor and brilliance blaze across a thousand realms."
Chu Zhi didn't move. He stood rooted to the spot, channeling everything through his voice. The phrase was "stationary output," and it fit perfectly.
In that moment, he was the embodiment of the "Immortal Drunk," brilliance pouring out like spring water, like a sage remembering his youthful fire. His lyrics were about the Tang heroes, but it felt like he was singing his own legend.
That overwhelming presence burst from his chest and filled the arena. The crowd couldn't help but respond. Thousands of glow sticks began to wave. The Workers' Stadium turned into a sea of red.
Something was happening. Something big.
Wu Xi, watching from the wings, felt his nerves start to tingle. As the ancient passion in the lyrics gave way to a modern beat, the guitar and bass slid seamlessly into the next part.
"In tonight's cup, the moon does not shine. Neon flickers, the party rages. Because tone-deaf stories echo through the halls, sung by the dull, with nothing to lose."
"Following fate etched into my palm, I wake from tonight's dream, without wine."
"Following fate into confusion, I return in dreams to the Tang Dynasty!"
Modern life may be dreamless, but we can still dream of the past. Chu Zhi finally moved. He pulled the mic from its stand, then swept it aside with a sharp motion, knocking the stand over.
Nothing should block his way. Not even a mic stand.
He opened his arms as if to embrace the entire world.
"In the days of Kaiyuan's glory, friends across the land stood strong together.
"Our view knew no bounds, the world was wide. How I wish to shelter millions under grand halls."
His voice shifted into a stylized Beijing Opera tone—not "opera pop," but a genuine imitation of jingju singing. He recited the entire verse, even though he didn't actually know the technique. His falsetto alone dragged the lines up. You could criticize his technique, but not his power. And definitely not the pitch.
The place exploded.
No one had expected it. Heavy metal, Beijing Opera, Tang poetry—blended into a single performance.
Was he out of his mind?
And worse—why did it sound so damn good?
Especially that line, "How I wish to shelter millions under grand halls." Everyone knew it came from Du Fu's lament in his later years, a poet beaten down by fate.
But when Chu Zhi sang it, it became a battle cry—a desire to protect everyone. Like scarfing down burgers in a food shortage or blasting three air conditioners during a cold snap.
Lin Xia's mouth formed a perfect "O." He had just gotten back to the dressing room, but ran back out the moment Chu Zhi began.
The earlier verses had already blown him away, but once the opera tone hit, he felt like his skull had been shaved clean. Why was it that only Chu Zhi, among all the guest performers, had the audacity to pull something like this?
"Following fate etched into my palm, I wake from tonight's dream, without wine. Following fate into confusion, I return in dreams to the Tang Dynasty."
"In tonight's cup, the moon's reflection glows. Fragrance of ink, words fill the rivers. In tonight's cup, the moon's reflection glows. Valor and brilliance blaze across a thousand realms."
Not only did Chu Zhi want to bring joy to all the weary souls of the world, he wanted to return to the Tang Dynasty in his dreams—wine or no wine.
The guitars, bass, and synths continued to roar as he stepped forward. Heavy metal was perfect for shaking the stage, especially for a track like Dreaming of the Tang Dynasty.
As he moved, fifty thousand people rose with him, glow sticks high above their heads.
At a normal concert, this would be over-the-top. But for Rock Night? It was exactly right.
"Following fate etched into my palm, I wake from tonight's wine, dreamless. Following that fate into confusion, I return—return in dreams to the Tang Dynasty—"
He stretched the final note, his head tilted back, mic raised. A farewell to the Tang Dynasty.
The performance was over.