"Ballads just aren't suited for competitions," Chu Zhi said, stopping his gentle swing. It was meant to comfort, though the words struck him as oddly familiar—where had he heard that before?
Ah, that was it. Music director Liang Pingbai had once told him the same.
Xiao Xu also gave Li Jun a comforting hug, and somehow, all the encouragement made Li Jun care more about the loss than he initially did.
The broadcast cue sounded for the second challenger. Not wanting to wait, Chu Zhi said, "Then I'll go next."
"No problem," Xiao Xu replied immediately.
Chu Zhi left the lower-tier room and stepped into the hallway. On the face screen of the smart mascot, Xiao Qi, he selected his opponent: Zhao Quan, from the upper-tier group.
[Guest contestant Chu Zhi challenges Zhao Quan]—the announcement echoed across the venue.
"So direct?"
Li Jun had expected Chu Zhi to challenge one of the Korean stars, but not this early, not this boldly. Couldn't he win a safer round first, build some momentum?
At the moment, two people remained in the top-tier room: Liang Zhengwen and Zhu Xinyue. Zhao Quan had already gone to the hallway to prepare.
"If you're going to fight, fight the best. I like that attitude," Liang Zhengwen remarked.
"I knew it," Zhu Xinyue muttered to herself. She had been watching all this unfold with amusement, knowing full well that Chu Zhi had gone on The Masked Singer Korea.
He had performed "Compendium of Materia Medica" on their turf, like slapping someone across the face in their own home. It was bloody. Now, showing up here as a guest challenger? It was obvious who he came for.
At the end of the hallway was a small bench, but neither of them sat. They both stood tall and straight, like two upright spears.
Tense. Electric. Sharp as flint.
"Mr. Chu's performance on Masked Singer Korea was excellent. It's a shame you didn't win," Zhao Quan said. "I hope today we'll see something just as exciting."
After seeing his Seoul performance, he still had the nerve to say that? Chu Zhi couldn't understand where Zhao Quan's confidence came from.
"Oh, it'll be memorable, Mr. Zhao," Chu Zhi replied coolly. He never bothered with politeness when it came to Korean performers.
Who wasn't scared of the high notes at the end of "Opera," the way they shattered the whole stage? Zhao Quan certainly was.
The only reason he dared to act smug now was that Chu Zhi had lost the Masked Singer finale by performing "Compendium of Materia Medica"—a song with no high notes.
If he could do it again and win, why wouldn't he?
The truth was simple. He couldn't.
Zhao Quan's logic was flawed. Deep down, he simply refused to believe a young singer from Huaxia could be that skilled. Even young stars from Korea couldn't reach that level.
Since he had been challenged, Zhao Quan took the stage first. Chu Zhi gestured politely for him to go ahead. His calm and confident expression made Zhao Quan's skin crawl.
Cocky little—where was that confidence coming from? Every time Zhao Quan saw that expression, he felt a violent urge. His old teammate, Jang Taehwan, used to have that same face. Zhao Quan had broken his front teeth once—and never saw that look again.
Bastard. Zhao Quan cursed inwardly as he walked on stage. Over three hundred audience members cheered. His expression stayed composed, even smiling, but inside he sneered at what he saw as a dull and ignorant crowd.
"This song is called 'Nine Times'. It's for all my fans. I hope you like it." He introduced it in Chinese—something he'd practiced just for the stage. His clumsy Mandarin earned him a round of applause and cheers, like always.
Just as Chu Zhi predicted, "Nine Times" had a K-pop and hip-hop fusion. Girl groups dominated Asia for a reason: their stage presence was excellent.
As a former lead singer of one such group, Zhao Quan's vocal foundation was solid. He handled mixed voice, breath control, and pitch accuracy well. His natural timbre was thin, but clever arrangements covered for that.
His transitions between chest and head voice were smooth, and his high notes held steady at B2. He rapped live and interacted with the audience, so the atmosphere stayed upbeat.
When the performance ended, the crowd erupted in applause.
"Thank you." Zhao Quan stepped offstage, quite satisfied. He'd made no mistakes. Then his gaze fell on his opponent.
Chu Zhi, the guest challenger, was turned around and seemed to be fumbling with something behind his back. The cameraman, a seasoned professional with a shining bald head, wasn't about to miss this.
Zooming in, the cameraman caught Chu Zhi pulling out a bottle of baijiu—looked like Moutai—and taking a few hearty gulps.
"What the hell, I thought this was for a brand promo. He's actually drinking?" The cameraman was stunned.
[Up next, our guest challenger, the heavenly voice himself, Chu Zhi!] The familiar electronic voice of Xiao Qi filled the venue—no need to pay a real host when a robot could do the job.
With three shots in him, Chu Zhi took the stage. The moment he grabbed the mic, he was in full control. This was his domain.
"Nine Bro!"
"North of the Yangtze, no one's more stunning than Nine Lord!"
"Chu Zhi! Chu Zhi!"
"Aaahhh it's Nine Lord! The guest challenger is actually Nine Lord!"
He had barely stepped on stage, but the audience had already exploded with applause and shouts.
From the middle-tier room, Yu Lan's eyes burned with jealousy. He hadn't even sung yet, and the crowd was already louder than they'd ever been for him.
No wonder people say jealousy is fire—it burns everything in its path.
"This song is called 'Chrysanthemum Terrace'. It's something special. I hope you like it," Chu Zhi said, signaling backstage to start the track.
Zhao Quan, hearing the title and the first line flash across the teleprompter, was secretly relieved. He pretended not to think much of Chu Zhi, but the truth was, he was still haunted by "Opera." Now? This was fine.
A few pretty high notes, a slightly nicer tone—what else did Chu Zhi have? He wasn't that different from other young Huaxia singers.
"Seriously? He wins one episode of Masked Singer while I'm not there, and now he thinks he can steal my endorsements?" Zhao Quan stared daggers at Chu Zhi.
Unlike I Am a Singer, where bands played live, I Am a Singer-Songwriter used backing tracks. The only thing that could compete with Mango TV was their stage lighting and set design.
A duet of cello and violin set a refined, melancholic tone. The floor screens and massive backdrop transformed into a majestic palace courtyard, filled with dead vines and ancient trees.
The spotlight was dim and golden, like a lonely streetlamp at night.
"Your teary eyes, fragile yet aching.A pale moon arcs above, catching the past.The night, too long, freezes into frost..."
Soft plucks, chaotic but clear, like pearls falling on jade plates. Chu Zhi's voice emerged along with the pipa.
"Who stands in the attic, frozen in despair?
The rain lightly taps, red windows closed.
My life scattered on paper, blown by wind,
A dream far away, turned into lingering scent..."
Blending twenty percent despair with the gentle sadness of the pipa, Chu Zhi painted a vivid picture of solitude—like standing alone at a west-facing window, under a hook-shaped moon.
Unlike upbeat tracks, Chinese-style ballads evoked beauty that resonated deeply with the Huaxia soul.
Just moments ago, the audience had been thrilled and energetic. Now, in the world of Chu Zhi's song, their emotions cooled, like an ice pack pressed to the chest. The pipa strings plucked at their hearts. Chu Zhi's voice was like red maple in autumn, leaves falling, carpeting the floor in beauty.
"Chrysanthemums fall, leaving pain behind.
Your smile has faded to yellow.
Flowers drop, hearts break,
My thoughts lie silent.
The north wind stirs, the night drags on.
Your shadow lingers, inseparable,
Leaving me alone, reflected in the lake, side by side."
The spotlight dimmed even further, casting light on only half his shoulder. The final word, "side by side," struck deep in every listener's heart. The phrase meant companionship—but sung like this, it felt utterly alone.