The #MaskRevealers group was widely mocked online—their claim that the Great Demon King must be Italian simply because they couldn't identify him was seen as a desperate, low-effort take.
South Korea's vocal music system, initially modeled after the U.S., has now surpassed many Western countries, producing outstanding bel canto singers and instructors. It stands as the pinnacle of classical vocal training in Asia.
"Ugh, the Great Demon King is clearly MBC's joke—it's just our 'Bel Canto Prince' Ji-sung!"
"Ji-sung's high notes sound like a country bumpkin compared to the Demon King. He's obviously Carmelo Bruni, the heir to Italy's bel canto tradition. Westerners value individuality, which explains his lack of respect for seniors."
Online debates instantly split into two factions:
National Pride Camp: Insisted such sublime vocals could only come from Korea, Asia's bel canto powerhouse.
Italian Theory Camp: Pointed to "evidence" like the Demon King's 180cm+ height matching Bruni's.
The two sides clashed fiercely, with no one believing the Demon King could genuinely be Chinese. "The show only said he's a foreign 'challenger.' Since when does speaking Chinese automatically make someone Chinese?"—such nitpicking logic ran rampant.
Unbelievable? Not really. Recall how Li Ziqi once posted a kimchi-making video on YouTube. Despite kimchi originating in China—and Li never once claiming it as exclusively Chinese—K-netizens lost their minds, flooding the comments with:
"This is clearly kimchi. Why no credit to Korea?"
"Thanks, China, for promoting Korean cuisine!"
"China really wants to be Korea, huh?"
Why such fragility? Nations with scant cultural exports cling desperately to their few claims to fame. In vocal music, Korea treats bel canto like its kimchi—something it must own.
"Bastards. Idiots." Kim Jae-hee scowled, touching his swollen cheek as he scrolled through the vitriol. ("Bastard" in Korean carries heavy historical weight, originally referring to nameless outcasts who slept by barns.)
"Zero logic. Since when does Carmelo Bruni speak Chinese?" Jae-hee had been slapped—literally—by PD Myung Nam-jik for two straight days due to his association with Chu Zhi. Yet he harbored no resentment. Instead, he prayed Chu would dominate the show and shut these clowns up.
At MBC, only a handful (like Myung and Jae-hee) knew the Demon King's true identity—hence the airtight secrecy.
The online war impacted another figure: "Bel Canto Prince" Lim Ji-sung, the 23-year-old prodigy who placed second at the Verdi International Voice Competition and first at Seoul International Vocal. Initially flattered by the mistaken identity (the Demon King's skill was undeniable), Ji-sung stayed silent.
But as fans began hailing him as "Asia's unbeatable young vocalist," the pressure mounted. Coming clean now would unleash an anti-fan storm—a uniquely Korean nightmare where "haters" escalate to real-world violence (e.g., sending cakes laced with razor blades or glue-filled drinks).
His only hope? The Demon King keeps winning—so the mask stays on.
Meanwhile, the man orchestrating this chaos returned to Seoul for the next recording. Having done this once, Chu Zhi moved with ease.
"Maintaining a persona attracts fans, but real talent opens doors", he mused. Without skill, breaking into foreign markets—let alone stealing their spotlight—was impossible.
"Jae-hee, what happened to your face?" Chu Zhi asked the coordinator.
"Ah, thank you for your concern, Teacher Chu! I just... fell." Jae-hee touched his bruised cheek and scabbed eyelid—injuries obviously not from a tumble.
"Be careful next time. Protect your eyes—vision damage is no joke." Chu didn't press further. A habitual people-pleaser, he tossed the kindness casually.
But to Jae-hee? This was earth-shattering. That a superstar like Chu Zhi would care—and tactfully avoid embarrassing him—stirred fierce loyalty.
"What is the beast Myung Nam-jik compared to Teacher Chu? Teacher's looks are peerless, his voice god-tier—this is the idol Korean youth should worship!"
And today's styling? Even more breathtaking. Jae-hee stole glances as they walked. Chu Zhi's outfit blended Hanfu elements with a long-haired wig—half tied in a topknot, half loose. (The finals song didn't suit full traditional wear.)
Korean teens adored "flower boys" with flowing locks. Chu aimed to show them: Chinese historical hairstyles could outshine them all.
Same hotel. Same ungodly hour. Same Jae-hee guiding them to MBC.
In the green room, only two remained: Spinning Lady and the Great Demon King (plus translator Jae-hee).
Spinning Lady was Bae Ri-na, 2012 winner of Korea's Got Talent. A self-taught powerhouse, her three albums flopped—hence joining Masked Singer for a career lifeline.
Her fiery dance-pop had a niche following, and the #MaskRevealers had exposed her identity early. But for revival purposes? Mission accomplished.
"Teacher Demon King, will your song today mirror last round's style?" Ri-na probed. "I'm sticking to dance tracks."
"Different. This time—Chinese rap." Chu Zhi's reply made Jae-hee blink.
"Chinese... rap?" Ri-na hid her glee. Another «Оперная»-level performance would've been unwinnable. But rap in Mandarin? The language barrier gave her an edge.
"I look forward to it!" she chirped, her masked face hiding a grin.
Was Chu Zhi stupid? Of course not. He knew Mandarin rap might cost him the crown—but winning wasn't the goal.
He came to perform "本草纲目" (Herbal Manual) on Korea's biggest stage.
«Оперная» had proven his vocals. No Korean singer could dismiss him now:
"High notes aren't everything—but try hitting E7 before you talk."
Plus, only losers unmask. How else would he enslave Korea's legion of looks-obsessed fans?
The game was chess—and Chu Zhi was three moves ahead.