"Alright, Bunny, I gotta go—King of Masked Singer is about to start," Jiang Qing said mid-call with her best friend, glancing at the time on her phone.
"I don't get why you're so obsessed with the Korean version. Isn't the Chinese one just fine? At least you wouldn't have to squint at subtitles," her friend retorted.
Jiang Qing bristled. "Bullshit! How dare you slander me, you monkey? My Korean is fine—if it weren't, how could I be studying at Yonsei University?"
Their banter was full of silly nicknames like "Bunny" and "Jerkface."
"As Chinese people, we really shouldn't..." her friend trailed off. "Shouldn't be so obsessed with Korean stuff."
"Shut up! You're the one obsessed, you and your whole family! Koreans are annoying as hell," Jiang Qing shot back, feigning anger before pausing to clarify seriously.
"I'm just done with the Chinese entertainment industry. It's like Hong Kong's scene—stagnant, not even maintaining its old standards, let alone improving. And at least Hong Kong's decline had reasons, like funding and market limitations."
"But mainland entertainment? Money's pouring in, and yet it's somehow getting worse. A bunch of uncles and aunties in their thirties and forties playing teenage sweethearts—it's disgusting."
"Sure, Korean dramas can be cheesy, and there are bad ones too. But at least the actors look their age. If they're ugly, they're ugly; if they're old, they're old. It doesn't make my skin crawl."
Her rant came out rapid-fire, brimming with frustration.
"Whatever, it's starting," Jiang Qing said, hanging up.
She wasn't a hardcore fangirl, but she occasionally bought K-pop merch and concert tickets. The Korean entertainment industry might be messy, but what did that matter to her? It was just a way to kill time—as long as the music and shows were good, she was happy.
Watching King of Masked Singer, there was only one thing Jiang Qing disliked about the Korean version: the hosts never introduced the guest judges.
The show had only two permanent judges, Sung Yoon and Yoo Jin-ryong. The rest were one-or-two-episode guests, and while their names and roles flashed on screen, there was no proper introduction. Half the time, Jiang Qing finished an episode without even recognizing the new guest judges.
"Wait, a Chinese contestant?" Jiang Qing perked up when she heard the "Great Demon King" speaking Mandarin. His voice sounded oddly familiar.
She wracked her brain but couldn't place it. Giving up, she muttered, "His voice is kinda soft—can he even sing? If he gets eliminated right away, it'll be so embarrassing."
Her hometown dialect slipped out, betraying her irritation. Still, she secretly hoped the Demon King would win. "Of course, as a Chinese person, I'll support the Chinese contestant. Who roots against their own?"
"The 'Prince of Gangnam from Towel Hot Springs' is crazy strong. That chest resonance is textbook," Jiang Qing remarked, her Korean good enough to follow along as long as they didn't speak too fast.
The subtitles and voiceovers were a mixed bag. Some, like [Sensual emotions], she agreed with. Others, like [A plea from an ex-husband], made no sense. Since when does singing with emotion mean you're divorced?
Can he even win? Jiang Qing scoured Chinese forums but found no clues.
Then the narrator teased, "A shocking, jaw-dropping moment is coming!"
Jiang Qing's eyes widened as the Great Demon King pulled out a bottle of Luzhou Laojiao and chugged it like water. The editors even added a caption: [Chinese Baijiu].
What the hell is he doing?! She watched, stunned, as the masked singer downed half the bottle in five gulps. The golden mask's mouth slit was too narrow—otherwise, he'd have finished it in one or two swigs.
When the Demon King took the stage and clashed with Yoo Jin-ryong, Jiang Qing cheered internally. She'd long disliked that smug, meat-faced judge who mocked everyone.
Subtitles flooded the screen—[Can he defeat the Prince of Gangnam?], [How does his voice sound?], [Prepare for the Demon King's sorcery!]—typical of East Asian variety shows, where bold text bombarded viewers.
Then came «Оперная».
No matter what came before, the moment the Demon King sang, it was like a deity had descended. His voice swept away all the noise—even the subtitles seemed to vanish. The editors cut to the audience's stunned faces, mirroring Jiang Qing's own expression.
"That voice... it's too ethereal. Who is this guy?" She'd initially thought his speaking voice sounded familiar, but now she wasn't sure. She couldn't recall any young Chinese singer with a voice this transcendent.
The performance lasted nearly four minutes. By the two-minute mark, everyone was spellbound. Even the editors, who loved cramming the screen with text, seemed at a loss. They settled for [A siren's voice mixed with a sea demon's] before giving up.
Why did Italian choirs use castrato singers? Because their voices were divine—literally. The best castrati had a celestial quality, and Farinelli was the pinnacle. There was even a Spanish saying: "Dios en el cielo, Farinelli en la tierra" (God in heaven, Farinelli on earth).
The audience was lost in the paradise woven by the Demon King's voice. Even Jiang Qing, whom her friends called "Motor Mouth," fell silent, utterly entranced.
This wasn't just normal—it was expected.
King Felipe V of Spain, in the 18th century, had opposed castrati... until he heard Farinelli sing in Madrid. He offered the singer a staggering salary to perform for him nightly. For 25 years, the king couldn't sleep without that voice.
Chu Zhi's Perfect Vocals could trigger the same effect.
And then—the final note.
An E7, piercing through the studio, spanning three octaves like lightning. The paradise shattered. The audience snapped back to reality. That high note—everyone in the studio, every viewer at home, even the judging panel—was left slack-jawed, unable to believe their ears.
The screen exploded with captions: [A god has descended], [A voice that bewitches the soul], [The human incarnation of the siren]...
"The Great Demon King is truly a demon king. The Prince of Gangnam is just a prince—how can mortals fight a god?" Jiang Qing was electrified.
Most songs either used vocals to complement the arrangement or vice versa. But the Demon King's «Оперная» treated his voice as an instrument.
"Should I call this a wordless song... or pure music?" Jiang Qing mused before landing on a term from a Chinese beer commercial: "Pure Draft!"
Victory was inevitable. If the Demon King didn't win, the show would be crucified.
As for his bold confrontation with Yoo Jin-ryong? Jiang Qing fully supported it. "Screw this 'seniority' crap. You're not even his countryman—why should he bow to you? What a joke."
Then it hit her. "Wait... will this backlash against him in Korea?"
Without realizing it, Jiang Qing had already become a fan—enough to worry. She immediately logged into Band, Korea's largest social platform (think "Korean Reddit"), and navigated to the King of Masked Singer forum.
The entire page was glowing praise:
"That high note was unreal—smooth, effortless, not showy. The first half painted heaven on earth; the last note shattered the illusion, reminding us heaven doesn't exist here. He's the Great Demon King."