The Band community was filled with posts in either English or Korean—there were no Chinese threads. Most Chinese international students would go to HelloTalk, which supported translations between languages, but it was also a hotspot for scams, especially when looking for housing.
Jiang Qing had no trouble reading Korean. As she scrolled through the comments, the entire page was flooded with praise.
Lady_First: "The Great Demon King's voice is mesmerizing—softer than a woman's. Does anyone know who this Chinese singer is? Any Chinese fans here?"
Jung_Yeon: "A genius voice. I didn't sense holiness in his singing—'enchanting' fits better. Who knows, maybe there are scales under that golden mask. A siren come ashore."
Reply_to_Keegan: "Some singers are just singers, but others are artists. Why can't our great Korea produce an artist when we value vocal training so much? The government should reflect on this."
President_Prince: "I was so confident hitting that final high note, I tried it myself. But even at 190cm tall, I strained my voice and still couldn't reach it."
…
Jiang Qing squinted at the posts. No way that 'President_Prince' is actually 190cm. In her two years studying in Korea, she hadn't met many people that tall.
It wasn't until the second page that she found discussions about the Demon King's bold attitude. Surprisingly, there wasn't much backlash.
[Did Yoo Jin-ryong really think everyone would put up with his crap?]
[It's rude, but shouldn't the Demon King be like this?]
[LOL, he finally met someone who won't take his nonsense. Foreign contestants don't play by those rules.]
[I wish I could do this to my boss—no overtime pay and still getting scolded.]
"The bullying culture here is really severe," Jiang Qing muttered, recalling a real incident where fifth-graders had forced third-graders to run home naked.
"It's weird. People rage online, but no one dares to resist in real life." The truth was, even if young people spoke up occasionally, they were quickly silenced.
Despite studying in Korea for two years, Jiang Qing didn't fully understand the country. Why didn't young people rebel? Because unless you graduated from one of the SKY universities (Seoul National, Korea, Yonsei), good luck finding a decent job.
Did they think Parasite was just exaggerated art? Quitting your job on a whim meant genuine struggle—survival came first.
"Damn, even Daum Cafe has a 'Great Demon King' fan club now?" Jiang Qing had expected the stunning performance to go viral, but not this fast.
Daum was Korea's largest web portal, and its Cafe service allowed fans to create communities for their favorite celebrities—even if the stars themselves weren't officially involved.
[Great Demon King Club - Description: The mysterious powerhouse who dominated King of Masked Singer.]
Posts inside included:
"How is this voice even real? Why isn't he Korean?"
"Tragically beautiful—oppa must be so handsome too."
"If you didn't tell me, I'd think this was a soprano's flawless humming."
"Uh… a great voice doesn't guarantee a great face," Jiang Qing thought. Still, she had to admit: A singer gaining this many fans without even showing his face? That's like a sparrow pecking a bull's ass—truly badass.
Since no one knew the Demon King's real identity, there was no official membership yet—meaning no way to monetize Korean fans.
For comparison, GZ Group's Jo Kwon had 210,000 paying members at 10,000 KRW/month (~50 RMB), netting him millions in passive income.
If Jiang Qing remembered correctly, Korea's entertainment industry was notoriously insular. Currently, Daum Cafe only had two Chinese celebrities—both actors.
[It's been half an hour since the episode aired. How has no one figured out the Demon King's identity? Not even a single guess? I'm disappointed in you, #MaskRevealers.]
As Korean netizens scrambled for answers, Jiang Qing began her own investigation. She ruled out top idols and pretty-boy singers first—those guys were all hype, no skill.
Could he be a young national team vocalist?
In China, "national team" referred to singers with state-level prowess—often graduates of elite institutions like the PLA Art Academy, some even holding the title of National First-Class Performer.
She dug deeper.
King of Masked Singer was already a ratings juggernaut in Korea, but the Chinese "Great Demon King" had now stormed into the country's Twitter equivalent, trending at #WhoIsTheDemonKing?!
Meanwhile, the man behind the mask—Chu Zhi—was strolling down a red carpet, flashes from cameras erupting around him.
At the Chinese Music Media Awards, even a nomination for a top-tier artist was rare.
Whispers rippled through the press:
"Probably just a token nomination."
"'Suddenly Missing You' from 25,117 Possibilities is on my playlist—he could take two awards and I wouldn't mind."
"Winning on his first nomination? Unlikely."
The ceremony was packed with veteran singers in their 30s-50s, plus legends in their 60s. Even the younger performers leaned toward folk or experimental music. But Chu Zhi wasn't out of place. He recognized a few faces, and even if he hadn't—the Acting Beast never faltered in public.
Hou Yubin turned to his old friend. "A talent like his, handling everything from lyrics to mixing on his debut album? Rare."
Zheng Huo, a rock pioneer, shrugged. "The kid's got skill, but calling him a 'once-in-a-generation genius' after one album? Let's see the second."
(Notably, he completely ignored Chu Zhi's first two EDM albums from earlier years.)
Hou chuckled. "Didn't expect you to praise him. Thought he was on bad terms with the rock scene."
Zheng frowned. "Since when?"
"Wu Xi publicly trashed him—called his music 'garbage,' said Burn the Midnight Oil and Survival Over Life were 'fake rock,' claimed the scene wouldn't accept him."
Hou had once respected Wu Xi—both were key figures in Chinese music. But after Wu's petty attacks during last month's album wars (where 25,117 Possibilities overshadowed his release), that goodwill vanished.
Young talent should aim outward, not tear each other down. To Hou, Chu Zhi's silent dismissal was the mark of maturity.
(The truth? Chu Zhi simply didn't care. Let the rotten tomatoes and stinky eggs throw themselves at me.)
Zheng Huo scoffed. "I don't love those two songs either—they lack rock's edge. But… who gets to define rock?"
"The rock scene won't accept him? Hah." At 60, Zheng was a founding father of Chinese rock, having organized the nation's first-ever rock concert.
That was seniority.
"Old Hou, introduce us later," Zheng said.
"Sure, sure," Hou agreed.
The award ceremony was held at Guangdong's Xinghai Concert Hall. As guests settled in, the real show was about to begin.