The host stepped offstage, leaving only Chu Zhi at the center under the spotlight, the focus of all eyes in the venue.
The intro of Herbal Manual kicked in—first, the synthesized bass, then the flute, blending Eastern and Western instruments to create a catchy secondary melody. Rap music must have a strong sense of rhythm, so at just the right moment, the drum kit came in, with electronic and jazz drums complementing each other seamlessly.
After the earlier confrontation, Sung Yoon wasn't fond of this Chinese singer. But from a professional standpoint, compared to the casual intro of Opernaya, this song's arrangement was meticulously crafted, packed with small details.
For instance, the high-frequency synth stabs layered with identical bass tones to thicken the low end, followed by the lead synth enhanced with compression. Sung Yoon actually found himself liking the arrangement.
Making a stunning first impression was key to success, and songs like Bedtime Story, Herbal Manual, Lady, and the Dark Trilogy all had incredibly gripping arrangements.
"If Hua Tuo were reborn, he'd cure this blind worship of the West. Foreigners come to study Chinese characters, igniting our national pride."
"Nux vomica, cassia seeds, cocklebur, and lotus seeds; yellow yam, bitter bean, chinaberry—I've got my pride. I'll rewrite history my way."
The live audience could see the Korean lyrics on the big screen. All these medicinal herbs were well-known in Korea, documented in Dongui Bogam and other Korean medical texts.
Here's something even more amusing: Korea uses the term hanuihak (한의학) to refer to traditional Korean medicine, but if you look it up in a Korean dictionary, it also means "Chinese medicine" or "traditional medicine."
"Nothing else to do, just follow me and chant a few words: Yam, angelica, goji berries—GO! Yam, angelica, goji berries—GO! Watch me grab a handful of herbs, swallow a dose of pride."
Chu Zhi sang with spirited confidence, his delivery crisp. Maybe it was the few sips of Luzhou Laojiao, or maybe it was just the sheer satisfaction of singing this in front of the Koreans.
His vocal style differed slightly from Jay Chou's. While Jay's songs usually sound best with a slurred, laid-back flow, Chu Zhi had decided backstage to perform it his own way once the energy took over.
"I look relaxed, moving casually—my vibe's too hard to copy. Seoul's neon signs adjust their glow, waiting to awaken in this dazzling city."
"I look relaxed, moving casually. Writing dynasties in calligraphy, channeling inner strength. A bold strike in regular script, a punchline in the dialogue—who's left standing in the end?"
Crucially, Chu Zhi wasn't singing to the live audience or even to Yoo Jin-ryong. His gaze was fixed on the camera, as if addressing the entire Korean populace.
He wanted to tell all of Korea: Korean medicine originated from Chinese medicine. Dongui Bogam merely compiled what Chinese medicine had already mastered. The Herbal Manual was the true pinnacle.
Beside him, backup dancer Bae Ri-na silently mouthed the lyrics, thinking to herself, "This Chinese singer has absolute audacity."
Truth be told, if she were to go to China and sing something like this alone, she'd be too scared to even try.
"What elixir are you refining? What pills are you kneading? Deer antler slices can't be too thin—old masters' techniques aren't yours to steal."
"Turtle jelly, Yunnan Baiyao, and cordyceps—my music, my medicine, perfectly dosed."
Then came the even more provocative lyrics—
"You say Chinese medicine's bitter? Plagiarism's even worse. Open the Compendium, study the ancient texts. Toad venom, earthworm—already legends in the martial world."
"Our ancestors' hard work must not be in vain. This is the light—this is the light! Sing it with me!"
"Let me prescribe a remedy for your foreign-worshipping sickness. This millennia-old formula holds power outsiders will never grasp."
Chu Zhi had two goals with this song: First, to address Korea directly—hence changing the original lyric's "Neon" (Japan) to "Seoul." Second, to send a message to domestic media and agencies blindly chasing the Korean wave. By stirring controversy in Korea, his unmasking would dominate China's entertainment headlines.
Lines like "Plagiarism's even worse" were practically designed to drive Yoo Jin-ryong mad. If this weren't a televised show, Jin-ryong would've lunged at him by now.
Damn it! Kim Sung-joo had never seen a Chinese star this brazen.
The 88 audience members had initially enjoyed watching the魔王 (Devil King) and Yoo Jin-ryong clash, but as Herbal Manual played, the lyrics made them frown.
This didn't sit right. This Chinese guy was way too cocky. Even if Korean medicine came from Chinese medicine, what gave him the right to flaunt it on MBC's stage?
"Plagiarism's even worse, open the Compendium"—that line went too far. How could medical knowledge be called plagiarism? At most, it was borrowing a small part. And if they refused to admit it was borrowed, so what? Even if it was copied, who cared?
If stares could kill, Chu Zhi would've been riddled with wounds. But since they couldn't, he sang on, unfazed. Not just unfazed—he even ended with playful, staccato lyrics, crouching slightly with each line:
"Crouch, little zombie crouch, little zombie crouch. Crouch again, little zombie crouch, lighting lamps in dark alleys."
"Crouch again, little zombie crouch, diving into radish pits. Crouch again, little zombie crouch, chanting spells—hmm!"
The sudden inclusion of little zombies was a cheeky touch—Koreans were quite familiar with zombie lore too.
Performance complete.
"The arrangement of Herbal Manual is different from typical hip-hop tracks. I've never heard anything like it before. Were the lyrics and composition both written by Devil King-nim?" Kim Sung-joo's earlier praise was just to confirm the lyrics were indeed his.
"Original work," Chu Zhi nodded.
Kim Sung-joo nodded. Good, you admitted it. He then said, "Let's hear Sung Yoon's critique."
As the host, he had the privilege of skipping honorifics when calling on others—unlike other guests, who had to use polite speech even on variety shows.
"The arrangement is thoughtful, but it's far inferior to Opernaya. Devil King's second stage—I don't think it was a good one."
"Especially the lyrics…" Sung Yoon had initially planned to criticize them for harming Sino-Korean relations, but remembering how Yoo Jin-ryong got branded earlier, he swallowed his words.
Instead, he rephrased: "Lyrics should resonate with listeners, but neither the audience nor the judging panel felt any connection. So, sorry—I didn't like it."
"You've only learned the shallowest aspects of American rap. I need to go listen to aaGOD to cleanse my ears. This was terrible," Yoo Jin-ryong sneered. "The synth and bass arrangement leans toward gangsta rap, but without the traditional themes—drugs, guns, violence, sex—the lyrics feel forcibly tacked on. It sounds awful."
As a rap enthusiast, Jin-ryong could at least critique it knowledgeably. (A quick note: Hip-hop is a broader American street culture encompassing graffiti, breakdancing, DJing, and rap.)
The judges' overwhelmingly negative reviews influenced the audience. Critics could elevate a song—"Oh, this is actually amazing"—or ruin perceptions.
A few audience members had initially found the track interesting, with its strong rhythm. But after Sung Yoon's take, they second-guessed themselves. Guess it really isn't good. Alone, people could think independently. In crowds, they became sheep.
Back in the control room, PD Myung Nam-jik was thrilled. He'd planned to edit Chu Zhi into a villain in post-production, but this Chinese star was doing the job himself—those confrontational remarks and this song were practically tap-dancing on Korea's nerves.
Perfect. This is exactly the effect I wanted.