PD Myung Nam-jik of Masked Singer was furious.
All 11 celebrity judges had voted for Prince of Gangnam, Shin Young-oh—yet the total votes only added up to 21. That meant the real audience tally was a pathetic 10. The plan to humiliate the Chinese contestant had failed spectacularly.
Myung raged at the heavens, the earth, and society at large. First, he blamed Shin for being useless. Then, he cursed the audience for their "lack of patriotism." The Cultural Promotion Agency's oversight team? "A pack of mutts" in his words.
In hindsight, Shin's performance had actually been solid. Snagging *10* votes against the triple threat of [Perfect Vocals], [Drunken Immortal], and Farinelli's innate talent was impressive.
After the loss, Prince of Gangnam unmasked to the usual fanfare—formulaic praise, canned applause. Chu Zhi didn't stick around. Post-victory, he filmed two alternate entrances for editing inserts, then bolted.
A 100-minute broadcast took over three hours to tape. By the time they returned to the hotel, it was 5:30 AM. Sleep? Yeah, right.
The only silver lining: the hotel was near Gimpo International Airport—just 10 kilometers away.
"Qian-ge, you've had a rough night. Korean variety schedules are inhuman," Chu Zhi said.
"I napped in the makeup room. You're the one who didn't sleep a wink—rest on the flight." Old Qian paused. "My Seoul contacts say they film late 'cause electricity's cheaper then—about 0.4 RMB per kWh."
"And daytime rates?"
"Around 0.7 to 0.8."
"For three cents in savings? Really?" Chu Zhi couldn't decide if that was genius or insanity. Assistant Xiao Zhu handled luggage with military precision—zero forgotten items so far. At the airport, Kim Jae-hee insisted on seeing them off. His enthusiasm was borderline unstoppable.
Five days. That's all it would take. Once Masked Singer aired, the Chinese star would explode in Korea—even more after unmasking. With those vocals and looks? He'd gain fans even if he lost the finals.
Having witnessed the performance live—the voice of an angel, the attitude of a devil—Jae-hee was already a convert.
"Teacher Chu, see you in a few days. Safe flight!" He lingered until security swallowed them whole.
Priority boarding smoothed the way. Chu Zhi took first class; the team settled for business. Hierarchy mattered.
"Neck pillow and lumbar support," Xiao Zhu announced, unpacking them like sacred relics.
"Perfect. With these, I might actually sleep."
Gimpo to Shanghai Pudong: two hours. At least it wasn't Kunsan—that airspace was controlled by the U.S. military. Every Korean flight needed American approval to so much as sneeze.
At Pudong, stylists waited in the van. Chu Zhi loved going makeup-free, but after an all-nighter, even he needed damage control.
Century Square, usually a bustling hub, was now barricaded. A crimson banner screamed:
"SPRITE DREAM CONCERT"
Coca-Cola China's singing competition offered a grand prize: a endorsement contract. It attracted hordes of D-list hopefuls.
No TV broadcast? No problem. Coke's bottles were the ad space.
"We're early. Let him nap—he's running on fumes," Wang Yuan whispered.
Old Qian deferred to Team Leader Niu Jiangxue, who nodded. Niu handled logistics while Chu Zhi dozed. The organizer, upon hearing the guest had arrived, scrambled.
"1.3 million RMB for one or two songs. Walk away. Stay the whole event? That's a different invoice."
Coke wasn't penny-pinching. "Sprite Dream" was brand synergy—hence the 2 million fee for one song and two contestant "mentions."
"Feedback" was a euphemism. Coke wanted soundbites like "Chu Zhi's pick for stardom!"
Onstage, the host teased: "We've got a superstar in the house! Who is it?"
"Welcome—the one-man creative army, Chu Zhi!"
Silence. Then pandemonium. Fans or not, his fame was undeniable. He performed "The Wind Blows the Wheat", then played savior with a "golden ticket" for contestant Gu Beisheng.
"The composition's simple, but the lyrics? Gorgeous. I'm giving him my special vote."
(Reminds me of Mao Buyi from back home.)
Duty done, Chu Zhi vanished. Get paid, get gone—his motto.
Gu Beisheng, an unremarkable face in the crowd, was a former prose writer who'd abruptly switched to music. No reason. Just vibes.
He mouthed a silent thank you, etching the moment into memory.
Two days later, Cat's Cradle dropped a promo: Chu Zhi improvising "Goodnight Meow".
Did it boost the film? Unclear. But "Goodnight Meow"? Viral.
Not every A-lister's move trends organically. Yet this time, even non-fans caught the ripple.
Let's be real: 99.9% of fangirls are here for the face. And what face beats a hot guy going "meow"?
"SIR. SIR. YOU CAN'T JUST— MEOW AT ME LIKE THAT."
"Mom! He said goodnight! To ME!"
"Demon catboy! You've shattered my zen! …Now come here."
Meme templates exploded:
["This little kitten needs to be squished"] (GIF: Chu Zhi meowing)
K-pop still ruled China, but "Meow" carved a niche. While top stars fought to keep fans, Chu Zhi kept gaining them.
Guo Xun's "The Cat's Song"—a cheesy duet for Cat's Cradle—somehow blew up on TikTok.
Why? No one knew. Maybe the brainworm melody. Maybe the "meow" factor.
First to hop on: curvaceous influencer "One Punch Two Crybabies". Then every TikToker with a pulse.
Soon, the song was inescapable.
Aural assault.
Sheer.
Sensory.
Torture.