The system's words opened up a whole new continent of flexing for Chu Zhi. Imagine being a top-tier idol and a world-class poet—he'd instantly outclass every other pretty boy in the industry. Even the internet's hatred for traffic stars would melt away.
Better yet, in the entertainment circle, few could rival him. Culturally, poets inherently stood above singers and actors.
"Bro, you've got impeccable taste—no wonder you picked me as your host," Chu Zhi praised the system.
[Flattery won't increase your odds of drawing the grand prize.]
The system remained unmoved.
"Am I that kind of person?" Chu Zhi retorted.
[Apologies, but system judgment confirms: yes.]
The reply was polite yet merciless.
"Good, system bro. Once again, you've proven your impeccable discernment." Chu Zhi ended the conversation and refocused on his new ambition.
Poetry—especially post-millennium—had withered globally. Both his original world and this one shared this drought. Take Earth, for example. Chu Zhi wasn't some literary hipster, but the only modern poem he knew from the internet era was:
"Actually, sleeping with you or being slept by you amounts to the same—
just the collision of two bodies, the force blooming into flowers,
just those flowers painting a false spring, fooling us into thinking life has reopened."
Titled Crossing Half of China to Sleep With You, its fame stemmed more from the poet's bold public confession to Li Jian than its content.
Was it the era lacking worthy readers, or the era failing to produce worthy poets? The latter half of that poem held depth:
"Across half of China, everything is happening:
volcanoes erupt, rivers run dry...
political prisoners and drifters ignored,
elk and red-crowned geese staring down gun barrels..."
Yet online, only the opening lines went viral. Chu Zhi knew poetry was a desert—but even so, with Tagore, Frost, Whitman, Gu Cheng, Hai Zi, and more stacked together, couldn't he become a world-renowned poet?
"Just imagining it is thrilling. But now's not the time for daydreams." Chu Zhi snapped back to reality, relieved no drool had escaped during his reverie.
"The poet path is a floral one, but I'd still prefer Vitas' talent to dominate the next round."
"After all, the pinnacle of dolphin vocals is Vitas." Chu Zhi mentally filed [World Poet] under Plan B.
"System, you have to bless me with the grand prize this time," he muttered.
[Ignored when idle, worshipped when needed. Classic host behavior.]
The system's tone dripped sarcasm.
Realizing he did only remember the system during draws, Chu Zhi backpedaled: "It's just that I know you're busy. Didn't want to disturb you. But if you help me land the grand prize this time, I'll chat daily—five bucks' worth!"
Silence.
Undeterred, Chu Zhi initiated the draw. Six mystery boxes appeared. He picked one—
Stray Birds.
Prayers unanswered. Third time missing the grand prize. Resigned, he claimed the reward—at least it was a firm step toward poetic greatness.
Whoosh!
A prismatic flash later, the reward wasn't a physical book but memories and insights fused into his mind. Skimming through, Chu Zhi marveled at Tagore's perspective—a true gift.
Where ordinary people saw crowded streets and felt loneliness, Tagore wrote: "The road is crowded, yet lonely, for it is unloved."
Half an hour later, fully assimilated, Chu Zhi sighed in relief. "Thank god it's Stray Birds, not Fruit-Gathering."
The latter, Tagore's later work focusing on India's lower classes, would've been irrelevant.
Stray Birds comprised micro-poems—one or two lines each. In his past life, they'd been QQ signature staples. You might not know Tagore, but you'd seen his words:
"If you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars."
"The world has kissed my soul with its pain, asking for its return in songs."
"Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves."
Useless for the next competition, though. No short-term power boost.
Chu Zhi initiated a second draw. Normally, he'd hoard coins for emergencies, but the show's pressure and his own inadequacy left no room for savings.
This round's prizes:
—Voice of Despair
—Oddity: Divine Throat Lozenges
—"Plain Beauty"Song Pack
—"Light Years Away"Song Pack
—"Cultivate Love"Song Pack
—Grand Prize: Beethoven's Composing Talent
The lozenges likely countered smoking damage. A wild thought struck: "If I reverse-engineered these, even at 50% efficacy, could I monopolize the market?"
He picked a box. White light flashed—
Voice of Despair.
"Exhausted. Just end me. The grand prize is clearly a myth—like those 'win the latest iPhone' lottery scams. Joke's on us; nobody wins," Chu Zhi groaned.
[If grand prizes came easily, would they still be grand?]
The system countered.
[Things gained without effort aren't treasured or surprising.]
"I'm different. Easily won grand prizes would still shock me. Paganini, Beethoven, Liszt, Vitas—with their talents, I'd be the sun. I'd be the night."
Treasuring didn't matter; power did. The system went silent at key points, but Chu Zhi gleaned useful intel: the grand prize was possible, just astronomically rare.
Now, Voice of Despair...
Researching it sparked elation. Stronger than Perfect Vocals, it allowed him to channel utter despair when fully immersed.
Heartbreak, anguish—these paled next to true despair.
A cinematic example: The Mist's ending. Trapped in a car with monsters closing in, the group chooses suicide for dignity. Young Billy is too scared, so David shoots his own son.
With one bullet left, David steps out to find another way—only for the military to arrive moments later, monsters vanquished. His guttural wail? That was despair.
"This skill doesn't just convey sorrow—it makes listeners live the despair. Since music's essence is emotional transmission, this is practically a grand prize."
A silver lining. With this, he stood a chance next round—even if challenged.
Two days until recording. Time to master this new weapon.
His phone buzzed—a pinned WeChat message from Disciple of Big Cat:
[Ninth Brother, try to eat three meals a day. Don't let your body fail before the truth comes out.]
To reply or not?
Leaving concern unanswered felt cruel.
"The original Chu Zhi was too withdrawn or ashamed to face outsiders. Hence the radio silence." After a pause, he typed: [Okay.]
Their exchanges had always been terse.
An instant reply: [Take care. More fame means more attacks. Try to ignore the hate online.]
The concern was palpable—but tragically late. The original Chu Zhi's final online glimpse before suicide had been:
[This trash is disgusting. Why not just die? Wasting air and land.]
"Ah, the luxury of anonymous cruelty."
Back to practice. Dinner was takeout—mild this time. Even a spice lover had to spare his stomach (and more delicate regions).
One more spicy meal would complete [Eat Spicy Food ×10: 3 Coins]. No rush. Stay elegant. The goal was within reach.