The Xinghai Concert Hall in Yangcheng was easy to park at, flanked by the American International School of Yangcheng on one side and the Yangcheng Art Museum on the other. Chu Zhi's van was parked in the museum's lot—expensive, but convenient. Most celebrities' vehicles for the awards ceremony were clustered there.
"I hope Ah Jiu wins. Please, please, please let him win." Wang Yuan had set up a trio of good-luck charms in front of her: a fortune bead, tarot cards, and a statue of Guanyin. She prayed fervently to all three.
"Huh? Isn't this a bit much? Boss just topped the charts for weeks straight." Old Qian mumbled around the lighter in his mouth.
Only Niu Jiangxue, Chu Zhi's main manager, could enter the concert hall with him. The assistants—Xiao Zhu and two junior managers—had to wait in the van.
"It's different. The China Music Charts are just weekly rankings—three weeks at #1 isn't that special unless you break the 13-week record," Wang Yuan explained. "But the Music Media Awards? They mean mainstream recognition. Even one win would put Ah Jiu ahead of Wu Tang, Shen Yun, Su Yiwu, and Li Fei. This matters."
"Why does singing need mainstream approval?" Old Qian wanted to ask, but the lighter in his mouth muffled his words. Still, he knew climbing the celebrity ladder required this step.
"This praying stuff is childish," he thought—then asked aloud, "Does this actually work?"
"Absolutely. This is Marseille Tarot, this bead has been blessed by holy light, and this Guanyin statue was consecrated by a high monk." Wang Yuan, dressed in a sharp black blazer with crimson lips, looked every bit the elite career woman—a stark contrast to her superstitious streak.
"Mmm—give me one too. I'll pray for Boss." Old Qian said.
Though he was usually irreverent, an extra prayer couldn't hurt. Wang Yuan fished out a lucky charm pouch from her saddle bag.
"From a famously spiritual temple. Use this."
So Old Qian, lighter still in mouth, began his mental incantation:
"Bless me with a future wife—big chest, long legs. Doesn't need to be too big, a D-cup is fine. Legs don't need to be too long either, a meter will do."
"Then bless Boss to get even more famous so my cut gets bigger."
"And finally, bless him to win tonight."
The prayers rose into the sky—blue and vast—while the concert hall buzzed with guests in their seats and reporters crammed into the aisles.
"I've got your back. Consider this me returning the favor." The man speaking to Chu Zhi was Yang Guiyun.
Yes, Yang Guiyun was here too—not by coincidence. Any awards ceremony with clout would nominate him if he'd dropped a new album. He was China's soul music king, and niche genres always carried a whiff of prestige in awards circles.
"Returning the favor?" Chu Zhi blinked.
"Wu Xi didn't win tonight, but we're both at another ceremony in two days. I'll roast him for you." Yang grinned.
"Uh… thanks, Brother Yang. That's… very chivalrous of you."
"Soul men are all about chivalry!" Yang declared.
With a fanfare of gongs, the ceremony began. A male and female host took the stage for opening remarks.
Chu Zhi's attention drifted instantly. "If I were the one speaking, no problem—I could talk for three hours straight. But listening to others? Instant nap mode."
"The King of Masked Singer finals in Korea are coming up. That'll be chaos. Time to cook up something special—it's been too long since I treated my dear Little Fruits." He had a full plan brewing, preparations nearly ready.
By the time he snapped back to reality, the ceremony had already handed out Best Classical Artist, Best Avant-Garde Music, and Best Rap Artist.
Next up: Best Electronic Artist and Best New Artist.
"Huh? There's an electronic music category? Why was the original 'me' never nominated?" Chu Zhi mused. "Probably awards panels hating on idol singers."
China had solid electronic musicians, and the original Chu Zhi had spared no expense—top-tier equipment and producers. At least a nomination should've been possible.
The Best Electronic Artist award went to an unfamiliar name. During the performance clip, Chu Zhi listened closely—well-produced, but effort doesn't always equal fame.
He thought of Gu Beisheng, the contestant he'd helped advance earlier. Average looks, decent talent, but nothing groundbreaking.
In the age of viral TikTok tunes, making serious music is an uphill battle.
Best Rock Artist went to Zheng Huo, the rock legend Hou Yubin had introduced to Chu Zhi.
"In his album Let's Jump Off the Building Together, Zheng Huo's reckless vocals and defiant energy haven't faded with age. The lyrics—steeped in pessimistic rebellion—are the album's soul, its depth surpassing even the melodies."
At 60, Zheng still dropped an album every two years, creativity undimmed. He also snagged Album of the Year (Mandarin).
A barrage of awards followed: Best Concert, Best Album Design, Best Creative Concept… No wonder the ceremony ran three hours. Chu Zhi felt his brain melting into alphabet soup.
His gaze dropped to the floor. "The tile grout work is shoddy… what am I even looking at?"
Back to real problems. That morning, he'd faced a dilemma: "Should The Stray Birds be published by Abbott Press?"
After Macmillan rejected the poetry collection, their editor had forwarded it to Abbott—a vanity press.
"Self-publishing? Fine, fine." Chu Zhi decided to agree. The Stray Birds had gained fame in the West first, but only after Tagore won the Nobel Prize. Without that prestige now, rejection made sense.
More awards passed. The sudden swell of applause snapped Chu Zhi back—technical categories were next.
His nominations were all here: Best Lyricist, Best Composer, Best Arranger, Best Producer, and Best Recording. (He was up for all but recording.)
"Congratulations to artist Chu Zhi, winner of the 20th Chinese Music Media Award for Best Lyricist! Tracks like Ashes and Survival Over Life blend striking imagery with poetic beauty—rare masterpieces."
"Congratulations to artist Chu Zhi, winner of the 20th Chinese Music Media Award for Best Producer! 25,117 Possibilities —from its title to its themes—radiates hope and tenderness, a cohesive vision."
Two wins out of four. Not bad.
Thus, Chu Zhi delivered two acceptance speeches. The first was more memorable:
"Thank you to the judges for recognizing these songs. This honor isn't just mine—it belongs to my fans too. You've walked every step with me. This award is half yours!"
Yang Guiyun clapped wildly in the audience. "From whole internet hate to award winner in months. Life's unpredictable."
On shows, Chu Zhi had bonded with Yang over soul music. But Yang's sudden "I'll back you up" friendship?
Simple: Popularity breeds friends. In this industry, it was the oldest story.
The ceremony wrapped with Best Male/Female Artist (Cantonese/Mandarin), Best Band/Group, and the big three: Song of the Year, Album of the Year, and Artist of the Year. Maybe next album, Chu Zhi thought. 25,117 Possibilities had reached its limit.