"Probably not. The Wind Blows Through the Wheat is a polished gem. If he could find someone to ghostwrite at that level, he would've released it back when he still had money and fame—not after his downfall," Lin Xia reasoned.
"Thinking about it, none of his past albums had original songs. Maybe his company wouldn't let him write," Zheng Yingying offered.
"Kangfei Entertainment isn't stupid," Gu Nanxi countered. "From what I recall, Chu Zhi dropped out of college to chase his dreams. Maybe he got desperate and pulled out a miracle. You know what they say—corner anyone but a mathematician, and they'll surprise you."
She added, "Personally, that face of his is a crime. I caught myself staring in the lounge multiple times. I need to know his skincare routine."
"Stay calm, Sister Gu. Elegance, remember?" Zheng Yingying paused. "Forget right or wrong—just talking looks, when Chu Zhi sits there quietly with that faint smile? Straight out of a shoujo manga. No wonder he had so many fans. What girl could resist?"
"Yingying, your jokes are as much of a joke as jokes get," Lin Xia deadpanned. "As if us guys fare any better. Those eyes—exactly two, no more no less. Perfection."
And so it began—Lin Xia's signature nonsense, unfiltered even off-camera. "His nose? Masterpiece. Centered flawlessly. Mouth? Only one. And his head? Miraculously attached to his neck!"
"Listening to you makes me regret ten years of schooling," Gu Nanxi groaned, her eye-rolls now etching permanent creases.
"Will the show revive his career?" Zheng Yingying finally voiced the question gnawing at her for hours.
"Impossible. His reputation's radioactive. Not even a hit song or variety show can fix that," Lin Xia said bluntly. "At best, he'll gain a small fanbase. That humming today? Career-defining. With that face, he'll land on his feet anywhere."
Translation: Anywhere but entertainment.
Zheng Yingying exhaled, inexplicably relieved. Perhaps subconsciously, after meeting Chu Zhi in person, she couldn't bear to see something beautiful break.
Elsewhere, the eliminated Wu Xi ranted to his buddies:
"Beat me with some plagiarized 'original'? Cheap shot. Next round's themed—watch him crash and burn." He conveniently ignored the heavenly humming.
His cronies rallied: "Pretty boys know nothing about real music!" "Probably rigged." "We'll trash him online after the episode airs."
Typical pack mentality—loyalty over logic. To Chu Zhi? Just noise.
Unaware of the chatter, Chu Zhi holed up in his Changsha hotel, studying the system's achievement list. Meanwhile, the production team teased the upcoming episode:
@MangoTV: "Rock never dies! Lin Xia brings the fire 🔥 #IASinger premieres Oct 4, 8PM on Mango TV!"
Despite ranking outside the top three, Lin Xia remained the promo centerpiece—traffic was traffic. Fans noted the absence of any "surprise guest" hype, a staple in past campaigns. But Masked Singer had just launched, hogging the novelty and budget.
At 2–3 AM, as dawn barely tinged the sky, Chu Zhi stubbed out another cigarette in the hotel's smoking zone. His two days in Changsha had expanded his vices beyond hangovers and spice—
[Smoke King (If the Jade Emperor lights up, so can you.)
1 cigarette → 1 Personality Coin ★
5 cigarettes → 2 Coins ★
10 cigarettes → 3 Coins ★
...
A former social smoker, Chu Zhi had now burned through two-and-a-half packs, netting 10 coins. His lungs protested.
"Smoking, drinking—future bad habits incoming. Not exactly 'core socialist values' idol behavior."
But his blackened reputation was a weapon. "The suicide attempt, the sleeping pills—was there a depression diagnosis?" He rifled through memories.
Once, the original Chu Zhi had ventured out—disguised—to buy sleeping pills. The doctor diagnosed severe depression and prescribed meds.
Evidence. Exploitable. "Wouldn't smoking, drinking, and worse be justified for someone with severe depression?" Even Ganges water couldn't wash away this logic.
"If I rebound, I'll preach against these vices. As for me? Blame the injustice, cyberbullying, and depression."
The system's inventory included oddities like World's Best Stomach Medicine—necessary safeguards. Otherwise, achievements would outpace the host's lifespan.
Unacceptable.
"System, I'm cashing in for a blind box." Back in his room, six virtual boxes materialized. The prize pool:
—World's Most Beautiful Hands
—Voice of Despair
—Poetry Collection: Stray Birds
—"Against the Light"Song Pack
—"Faith"Song Pack
—Grand Prize: Vitas' Vocal Talent
"A poetry collection?" Chu Zhi frowned. Tagore's Stray Birds?
[This world has no Tagore.]
Ah. Plagiarism potential. The timeline had diverged post-19th century, erasing the poet. But—
"I'm a singer. Publishing poetry seems off-brand."
[Songwriters pen lyrics. Is dabbling in modern poetry so strange?]
"...Fair." Chu Zhi mentally scrolled through music history. Lyricists like Huang Zhan or Vincent Fang could've easily published verse.
But poetry—modern or classical—wasn't just copy-paste. Many works bore their creators' scars and eras. Stray Birds, though, could be a slow burn.