"These lyrics… every single line..."
The 101 public judges could view the full lyrics on their small screens. That was exactly why Chu Zhi had dared to perform a traditional Chinese-style song on this show.
"Every single line rhymes."
It took a moment for people to catch on. But once they did, they were stunned. One of the first to notice was someone with the username Vegas—a founding editor of Lyrics Monthly, a top ten literary journal recognized by the Writers' Association. Maybe he wasn't great at writing lyrics himself, but he knew them inside out.
Lyrics Monthly was exactly what the name suggested—a journal dedicated to the study of classical Chinese verse and modern lyrics. Its editor-in-chief held a civilian rank equivalent to a general and received a special stipend from the State Council.
This was a serious publication. If Vegas was one of its founders, that meant he had real credentials.
"Shang, wang, shuang, chang, chuang, fang, xiang, huang, chang, tang—they all rhyme with 'ang'," Vegas exclaimed with delight. "Chu Zhi's lyric writing is no joke!"
He read hundreds of lyrics every month, and it had been a long time since anything had excited him like this.
Rhyming itself wasn't hard. You could throw any matching syllables into a dictionary and brute-force it. What was difficult was making it sound good.
Take the line:'Your shadow lingers, inseparable, leaving me alone in the lake's reflection.' It conveyed such a deep sense of loneliness. It had the same flavor as that famous Li Bai line: 'I raise my cup to the moon, and with my shadow, we make three.'
Chu Zhi had written good lyrics before—like in Waves Over Wheatfields or Smoke—and Vegas had studied those too. He was even part of the judging panel for the Huaxia Media Music Awards.
But there was "good," and then there was exceptional. To Vegas, Chrysanthemum Terrace wasn't just good. It was a masterpiece, steeped in classical elegance.
"He came prepared."
"Zhao Quan might be in trouble."
"These lyrics and melody are a perfect match."
Other judges started to notice too. They shifted their attention from just the performance to the lyrics scrolling on their screens.
Ordinary audience members didn't analyze music the same way. Their standard was simple: "Does it sound good?"
And this?
Sounded good.
'The flowers have faded, brilliance scattered. In a decaying world, fate crumbles.'
'Sorrow cannot cross the river, autumn hearts split in two. Afraid you won't reach the shore, drifting forever.'
On the big screen behind him, sweeping rivers and winding waterways appeared. Chu Zhi stood alone onstage. He didn't just sing—he embodied the song's emotions. That was thanks to the vocal training he'd been doing for the past month.
He didn't have time for acting lessons—didn't pay the bills right now—but voice training? He always made time for that. Four sessions a week. With his Farinelli-level gift, his progress had been astonishing.
So why did so many top stars stagnate or even regress?
Because a two-hour class could be used for a commercial gig that brought in over a million. Who would waste that on training?
Flowers don't stay in bloom, and no one stays at the top forever.
If it weren't for his system, even Chu Zhi wouldn't be so at ease. After all, making money came first. In this industry, no one could guarantee that skill would actually lead to more income.
'Whose kingdom is this, horses stampeding in chaos. I, armored head to toe, roar through the years.''Dawn breaks gently, and you sigh softly. A whole night of sorrow, hidden so tenderly.'
If Vegas was the first judge to notice, then the first contestant to pick up on it was Liang Zhengwen in the top-tier room.
Rappers valued rhyme too. As the saying went, "Wait, are you telling me even basic rhymes count?"Double rhymes, triple rhymes, jump rhymes—Liang played with them all.
"Chu Zhi's songwriting is something I really need to study," Liang said with sincerity, not just empty praise.
"Oh?" Zhu Xinyue chimed in. Normally she didn't talk during performances. She couldn't multitask. But with only the two of them in the room, social grace demanded she follow up.
"What makes you say that, Zhengwen?"
"Chu's lyrics use ang and an rhymes throughout, switching between chorus and verse with smooth transitions and jump rhymes. He's a master."
Zhu Xinyue thought it over—he was right. Every single line ended that way.
'Chrysanthemums fall, the ground is scarred.'
'North wind stirs, the night stretches on.'
Every line kept the same rhyme scheme. The level of consistency was honestly over the top.
"Now that you mention it, it's not just the line endings. Every half-line rhymes too!" Zhu Xinyue was stunned.
The more she listened, the more she realized how excessive Chu Zhi's lyric-writing talent was. She had thought it sounded nice before. Now it sounded incredible.
'Chrysanthemums fall, the ground is scarred. Your smile has faded to yellow.'
'Petals drop, hearts break. My thoughts lie quietly.'
Chu Zhi's breathy mix technique was steady, especially in how he softened the words "quietly" and "lie."
The chorus made many of the judges want to applaud on the spot. One of them, "Smokestyle", was a famous online music producer who had created many viral songs.
"This is the difference between a polished composition and something slapped together. It's like comparing Learn to Meow with this—it's night and day," Smokestyle said. "The arrangement is brilliant."
Most people would use piano to push a chorus to its climax. Chrysanthemum Terrace used a guitar.
"Because guitar sounds clean? But if handled poorly, it gets messy. I didn't expect the pairing with guzheng to work this well—it's seamless, like hesitation made tangible. The pipa, guzheng, guitar, and cello blend so well."
'North wind stirs, the night stretches on. Your shadow lingers.'
Chu Zhi suddenly thought of his past life—drinking at KTV, then stumbling out onto the street at night. He saw a couple arguing, and paused to watch, half for fun. But when they made up and held each other close, he suddenly felt very alone.
'Leaving me alone in the lake's reflection.'
He sang the final line. The stage floor transformed into a shimmering lake. He became the solitary figure walking its banks, eyes lowered to the water, lost in melancholy.
The song ended.
Normally, when a performance finished—like Zhao Quan's earlier—the three hundred audience members would start applauding right away. That was typical. Most people clapped based on how it sounded, plain and simple.
But this time, everyone was still immersed in the song's lingering emotions, lost in the haze of hulusi and guzheng. What broke the silence was the applause of the 101 judges.
Clap clap clap—
Too much focus on either melody or lyrics could actually make you miss the full impact of a performance. In a way, knowing too much could be a curse when evaluating art.
The judges' applause jolted the audience out of their trance, and then came the real wave. Their clapping overpowered the judges', like waves crashing against waves.
"That song was way better than the last one."
"So rich with classical flavor. What genre is this?"
"Kind of like those old-style songs online?"
"No no, this is way beyond that. Most of those just throw in some fancy words."
"This is like... the evolved version of gufeng songs."
Everyone was buzzing with praise. And they were curious too. What was this music style?
Chu Zhi stood tall and composed, waiting for the judges to speak. He was ready to deliver his "artiste moment."
Chinese style, or "Zhongguo Feng," was a massive musical category. It didn't start with Jay Chou, either. Back in the 1950s, the government had already begun shaping its own Chinese symphonic music—merging national tradition with global standards.
As for songs, using ancient poems or legends as creative material, with arrangements rooted in traditional Eastern instrumentation, became the foundation. Guzheng, pipa, xiao—these were essential.
Even classic soundtracks like Dream of the Red Chamber's "In Vain I Pine" and "Burial of Flowers" were part of this heritage.
Jay Chou's music represented modern Chinese pop style. But today, Chu Zhi was setting the record straight.
He was going to define it—three classics, three moderns—and make Zhongguo Feng official.