"Money's never easy to earn," sighed Hu Xiaodong as he wrapped up backstage interviews with the five finalists. With the lineup set—Liang Zhengwen performing last, Zhu Xinyue just before—he straightened his collar and stepped onto the stage.
"Welcome to the grand finale of 'I Am a Singer-Songwriter,' proudly sponsored by Mengniu Yogurt. I'm your host, Hu Xiaodong."
The crowd gave a round of applause, warm and enthusiastic. Not that it mattered much—post-production would add thunderous clapping anyway. Standard practice in the variety show world.
"Tonight, five contestants from three countries will compete for the title of China's Singer-Songwriter Star. It's an honor to witness this moment with all of you. Let's count down together!"
Hu Xiaodong's voice had flair. Whatever he was told to say—even the cheesiest lines—he could sell them with ease. The audience joined in.
"Three, two, one… Let the stars shine because of you!"
As the countdown ended, the background transformed into a vast starry galaxy. The camera zoomed in on a shining star labeled "iQIYI," which then plummeted to Earth with a dramatic "boom," triggering synchronized lighting effects throughout the venue.
The ceremony was grand, no doubt about it. But Chu Zhi, watching from the wings, had a different thought. A falling star crashing into the ground… wasn't that just a meteor?
"And now, let's welcome our first performer to the stage. He's a beloved, chart-topping artist, known online as a musical genius, and hailed as the Father of Modern Chinese Fusion. Give it up for Chu Zhi, performing his original piece—'The New Drunken Concubine'!"
As Hu Xiaodong exited with a furrowed brow, he couldn't help but wonder why the cue card only had Chu Zhi's name. Wasn't there supposed to be a guest vocalist?
Thunderous applause erupted as Chu Zhi stepped onto the stage. His fans—affectionately called "Little Fruits"—clapped with fervor, joined by curious onlookers who had followed his rise throughout the season.
"Why is it called 'New Drunken Concubine'? What happened to the old one?"
"Probably a reference to the classic Peking opera piece 'Drunken Concubine' from the Mei school. I just looked it up—it's about Yang Guifei and Emperor Xuanzong."
"Ninth Lord really has a thing for the Tang Dynasty."
"Then this must be another Chinese-style fusion like 'Chrysanthemum Terrace.' I'm in. Haven't found anything that scratches the same itch since that song."
None of the thousand attendees realized what they were about to witness. Even Jo Kwon, waiting backstage, let out a breath of relief. If this was just another traditional ballad, they could go head-to-head with their full group singing in Chinese.
Chu Zhi appeared in a wide, flowing Daoist robe and a golden mask—a nod to his mysterious "Demon King" look from MBC in Seoul. His style blended ancient Chinese drama with fantasy flair.
Only one person? No guest singer? Maybe the guest would emerge mid-performance for dramatic effect?
The intro began. The arrangement was haunting, built on ancient Chinese instruments. It opened with the xun, an ancient clay ocarina, its echo ethereal, like a voice drifting from a deep cave. It layered into a duet of long flute and yangqin.
Liang Zhengwen and Zhu Xinyue both felt it. This wasn't a typical intro—it was an overture from another era.
🎵 "That year, snow fell as plum blossoms bloomed.
That year, beside the Huaqing Pool, sorrow lingered long."
"Don't speak of right or wrong, of who's to blame.
I only wish to share one more drunken dream with you." 🎵
Chu Zhi's voice was warm, his tone rich and immersive, pulling the audience deep into the story.
🎵 "Golden hairpin and jade comb, your gift to me.
Feathered dress and silk robes, I danced for you through lifetimes."
"The Jianmen Pass holds your longing.
At Mawei Slope, I died for love." 🎵
It was beautiful—but not revolutionary. Some felt "Chrysanthemum Terrace" hit harder. Host Hu Xiaodong, with the best seat in the house, suspected this was intentional. The soft start raised expectations, only to set up the fall.
Then came the shift in key—
🎵 "At Mawei Slope, I died for love, a beauty's final breath—" 🎵
Chu Zhi's voice soared on the word "beauty," accompanied by a flute-and-guitar effect that echoed with sorrow and grandeur. A lament for Yang Guifei's tragic end.
He shed the robe.
Female fans in the front row froze. Were they really seeing this for free?
But instead of a reveal meant for thirst traps, he unveiled a full Peking Opera Dan (female role) costume—shoulder drapes, red silk robes embroidered in gold, embroidered shoes under moonlight sheen.
He removed the mask. His eyes were rimmed with dramatic kohl, his brows arched delicately. The transformation was stunning. His handsome features took on the charm and poise of a stage beauty from another age. Think Cheng Dieyi from "Farewell My Concubine," but with real presence.
A few male audience members with girlfriends couldn't help blurting out, "I'd go for this one!"
And then—
🎵 "Love and hate pass in a single breath,
I toast the moon, my heart like the heavens.
Love and hate, boundless as the seas—
When will you love again?" 🎵
🎵 "Chrysanthemum terrace reflects the moon,
But who knows the cold in my heart?
Drunk in the emperor's arms…" 🎵
It wasn't just stylized singing. Chu Zhi delivered a full operatic performance: hand gestures, facial expressions, every move evocative of Yang Guifei's sorrow, charm, and defiance.
What the hell?
This voice, this look…
"Wait, so are they a male god or a goddess?" someone asked in awe.
"He's beautiful—soft, but not weak. Alluring, but not seductive."
"I came to hear a song, not get emotionally wrecked by a whole opera."
The whole venue sat frozen. Without seeing Chu Zhi shed his mask and robe, no one would have believed it. Without hearing it for themselves, the sound alone was surreal.
🎵 "Golden hairpin and jade comb, your gift to me…" 🎵
Chu Zhi slipped back into his natural male voice. The contrast was striking. A man dressed in the elegance of a female lead, singing both parts with haunting grace.
🎵 "Jianmen Pass holds your longing…
At Mawei Slope, I died for love…" 🎵
The chorus returned. Everyone leaned forward like kids waiting for Ultraman on Sunday mornings.
Hold your breath.
🎵 "Love and hate pass in a single breath…
When will you love again?" 🎵
Even the second chorus gave them goosebumps. The emotion, the artistry—it was unlike anything they had seen.
He swayed gently, reenacting Yang Guifei's fabled drunken sorrow. After being stood up by Emperor Xuanzong, her heartbreak turned to rage, and then resignation. In her final moments, beauty and grief intertwined.
"Your Majesty, another cup, please," Chu Zhi whispered, raising an imaginary cup toward the sky. As if seeing the emperor one last time, he smiled through his tears.
He collapsed, drunk with heartbreak, then looked back at the audience and smiled.
That look.
This was the meaning of a smile that could destroy cities, that made concubines jealous and emperors lose reason.
That was poetry made flesh.
The closing thirty seconds were filled with nothing but the sound of a lonely flute, a lament for Yang Guifei's fate. A thousand spectators—fans, critics, rivals—sat in stunned silence, eyes fixed on the stage.
Only then did Hu Xiaodong remember to breathe.