"Holy crap, that song was wild. I literally shivered like I had to pee. So damn satisfying."
"'Boundless vision, a world wide and grand. If only I could shelter the people beneath a thousand halls.' Damn, now that line hits even harder."
"No wonder people say you can always count on Chu Zhi's songwriting. I didn't know heavy metal could sound like that."
"My opinion of him just did a complete 180. That performance blew the roof off. My skull's still tingling."
"'Tonight the moon reflects in my cup, heroic spirit burning across the land. Tonight the moon does not reflect, neon glimmers and parties rage on.' These lyrics are brilliant."
The audience buzzed with chatter. Some had taken their seats again, while others remained standing, expecting another song. Most seemed to have forgotten—Chu Zhi was just a guest performer, same as Lin Xia. He only had one song.
Fifty thousand people watched as Chu Zhi calmly picked up the fallen mic stand and reset it, then helped the crew carry the gong offstage.
Wait, he's leaving?
Camera operators Xiao Wu and Lao Mi quickly panned over to him.
"No wonder people online call him a genius. Now I get it," Lao Mi muttered. "That wasn't just hype. There's something buried deep in that guy—he's got nails in his bones. Totally different league from Lin Xia."
"Seriously," Xiao Wu added. "By all logic, Lin Xia should've had the edge. He's not as good-looking as Chu Zhi, so usually that means stronger skills. But Lin Xia brought a pea shooter, and Chu Zhi rolled in with an artillery cannon."
The crowd burst into a chorus of "Encore!" Just like they had at the beginning with Zheng Huo. People had gone from doubting the performance to fully surrendering to it. Now, they wanted more.
But there was no host to mediate the chaos. The next scheduled performer, Ji Gong, stood awkwardly backstage, unsure whether to come out or wait.
That's when the elder had to step in.
Zheng Huo tried to hoist himself onto the stage from the side. He planted his palms and pushed—but failed to lift himself up.
The man wasn't young anymore.
Lin Xia stepped over to help, but Chu Zhi quickly stopped him. From their short interactions, the "Emperor Beast" had come to understand Zheng Huo's character. For him, failing to climb up was one thing. Needing help? That was worse.
On the third try, Zheng Huo finally managed to climb up. The crowd quieted as he returned the mic to its stand.
"Chu Zhi's performance was something else, wasn't it?" he asked.
"Yes!" "Heavy metal rocks!" "Totally fresh and powerful!" The shouts came from every corner.
A man in his forties hollered from the audience, "This kid's the real deal. When he takes the stage, he detonates it!"
Zheng Huo laughed. "Chu Zhi's like a younger brother to me. Incredibly talented. Dreaming of the Tang Dynasty—what a perfect song for Rock Night. It really opened my eyes."
The camera crew, thoughtful as ever, zoomed in on Chu Zhi, now quietly waiting at the side of the stage. He looked nothing like the man who had just sung with such grandeur, declaring his dream to shelter the world beneath a thousand halls.
Zheng Huo's public praise said more than it appeared. The message was clear: if anyone tried to mess with Chu Zhi, they'd have to answer to him.
"So please keep an eye on Chu Zhi's future work," Zheng Huo continued. "And now, let's look forward to the rest of the show. Old Chen has a new song for us tonight. Don't miss it."
With the crowd finally calming down, Zheng Huo took his mic and handed the stage to the next performer. Every singer had their own custom mic. Chu Zhi's was no exception, and it hadn't come cheap.
"Inviting you—both of you—to Rock Night was absolutely the right decision," Zheng Huo said. He'd meant to say "you," but noticing Lin Xia standing nearby, he quickly added "you all."
"You've brought so much to the evening."
Lin Xia knew he was just a filler act tonight, but he didn't feel bitter. He understood one thing—if he had the ability, the stage would respond. If he didn't, then he had to take the loss and keep pushing.
The three of them walked through the players' exit tunnel.
"That kid's got bite. Wild as hell," said Chen Aigui, tugging his wide sleeves behind him. "Zheng Huo was worried earlier that pop rock wouldn't hold the stage. Turns out, the kid didn't just hold it, he crushed it."
Calling Wu Xi a "junior" was a mark of recognition. Calling Chu Zhi a "distinguished junior" was pure astonishment.
In Chen Aigui's vocabulary, "distinguished" had nothing to do with appearance. It came from classical rankings: a hero among ten thousand, a distinguished one among a thousand, and a talented one among a hundred.
"The bells in the intro," he asked quietly, "were those the Daoist Sanqing bells and a war gong?"
That guess came naturally—he was wearing a Daoist robe, after all.
"Not quite," Chu Zhi replied. "They were pack bells. More specifically, camel bells."
He clarified because camel bells were significantly larger than those used on cattle or donkeys. Size matters when it comes to sound.
"Camel bells and a gong. That's quite the combo," Chen Aigui said. "I've been following your Three Ancient, Three Moderns series of Chinese-style music. Honestly, I didn't think it had anything to do with rock. But tonight's heavy metal performance—well, it taught me something."
Chen Aigui's own exploration of rock had never stopped. Lately, he'd even been dabbling in experimental and post-rock, blending in elements of religion.
There was a master back on Earth too—Dou Wei. His later work, like Curse of the Golden Tragedy, was so haunting you'd better not listen to it at night. Nightmares were almost guaranteed.
"Mmm… the composition definitely incorporated pentatonic folk elements," he added, "but it didn't break the structure of true heavy metal. You went from D natural minor to D major, then back to D-sharp minor. Wide vocal range, constant mode shifts—that's classic metal writing. No one else in the rock scene is fusing folk scales like this."
He hadn't seen the sheet music, but still deconstructed it after one listen. That's how good he was.
"I'm just trying to follow my own musical philosophy," Chu Zhi said. "Do the best I can within my limits."
That phrase—"follow one's own path"—hit home for Chen Aigui. He thought for a moment about the tension between Chu Zhi and Wu Xi. Maybe he should step in.
Seriously, Wu Xi? You had to come for Chu Zhi like that? He didn't even provoke you.
Xu Ji, standing nearby, had been staring at Chu Zhi like he was trying to read his soul. After a long moment, he gave up. Aside from the fact that the kid reminded him of his younger self, there was nothing else to read.
"Your gift for lyrics is enough to make anyone jealous," Xu Ji said. "I've heard Chrysanthemum Terrace, and now tonight's song. Without deep literary grounding, there's no way you could've written either."
"I didn't go to college," Chu Zhi replied. "So I've been trying to read more books. To make up for what I missed."
In the idol scene, many artists had only a high school diploma. Names like E-Wave, Little Lamb, and Kiki came to mind. Some, especially those from talent shows, hadn't even finished junior high. That often led to some awkward interviews or variety show appearances.
But this young man—he reminded Xu Ji of his own younger self. Knowing your shortcomings, facing them head-on, and striving to improve… that was a rare trait.
What Xu Ji didn't know was that Chu Zhi's high school education would one day become part of his inspirational story, especially after he won awards for his poetry.
"When is the broadcast?" Xu Ji asked. "Didn't Capital TV buy the rights to stream Rock Night?"
"Day after tomorrow, in the evening," Zheng Huo replied.
With three camera setups, the footage needed editing. As for the network's schedule—Capital TV always had room for something like this.
Xu Ji nodded. After it aired, he figured Chu Zhi's performance tonight would win him plenty of new fans across the rock community.