Chapter 33: A Voice That Defies the Heavens

“…So let us…”
“…Entertain you…”
“…So let us…”
“…Entertain you…”

With a voice that seemed to recede into darkness, Zhang Qiyang brought the song to its end. The air at the live venue was left in chaos, as if his furious chainsaw vocals had ripped it apart and set it boiling.

On the massive screen, the final subtitles declared that the young aristocrat in the song had ultimately compromised with reality, becoming a product for public consumption. Yet, for those present at this dark spectacle, it didn’t feel like Zhang Qiyang had yielded to the masses. Instead, it was as if everyone had capitulated to this demon, becoming the cult followers of his wickedness.

Especially at the finale, that look of pity cast by Zhang Qiyang, his eyes shadowed with sinister makeup, seemed to mock the fools before him—“Go on, continue living your lives of drunken stupor and squalor. I’ll just quietly watch you climax.”

As the music faded, the audience erupted into a storm of applause and cheers, both icy and fiery. Some who couldn’t stomach this kind of music finally made it through the performance; their world was returning to its calm. But a greater number, intoxicated by Zhang Qiyang’s storm of sound, bounced and shouted their tribute to him.

Qin Xueyang, who had witnessed the entire dark onslaught from the wings, had tossed her beloved bubble tea to the floor in excitement, dancing with wild abandon. For a gluttonous girl to sacrifice her favorite hot drink, one could only imagine how much Zhang Qiyang’s music had impacted her!

She, more than anyone present, could feel the fury burning in Zhang Qiyang’s chest as he sang. She had been there with him throughout his journey as a public enemy, sharing in three years of scorn blasted by countless haters. Zhang Qiyang had written songs to fight back, wanting to drag all his detractors into hell with him. But back then, his songs had no real force—more the whimpering of the wounded than a true counterattack. Qin Xueyang only felt sorry for him then, never satisfied.

Tonight, though, on the country’s hottest competitive stage, as she listened to his soul-rending rendition of “This Is the New Shit,” all the pent-up negativity and frustration inside her burst forth, exhilarating every inch of her hundred-plus pounds! Li Xuan’s earlier “Painted Faces,” which had almost won her over, was cast far out of mind. At this moment, she felt only one thing—being a die-hard cannon fodder by his side was the ultimate thrill.

Backstage in the singers’ lounge, the seven contestants who’d just witnessed Zhang Qiyang’s astonishingly dark spectacle hadn’t experienced the cathartic agony of Qin Xueyang, but his godlike vocal power left them all shaken.

Never mind the brilliance of the song’s melody and rhythm—Zhang Qiyang’s unbroken, savage delivery alone was enough to stun the seven singers. At every chorus, his voice pressure defied belief, sending shivers through the blood. This kind of abrasive, relentless singing not only tested the durability of one’s vocal cords but demanded extraordinary breath control. A normal person would run out of air after a few shouts, unable to sustain it. Yet Zhang Qiyang howled through the entire song, his rhythm never faltering, his breath seemingly inexhaustible. Such raw power and wildness were rare not just in the Chinese music world, but anywhere.

His performance, like his stage persona, was nothing short of demonic—beyond human.

Veterans like Tan Zhizhong and Zhou Delin, masters among the group, had seen many of the industry’s greatest acts and were themselves top-tier singers. Yet, after witnessing Zhang Qiyang tonight, they found themselves questioning their own lives as vocalists.

During Zhang’s performance, the eccentric Zhou Delin’s face repeatedly registered shock. Several times, he thought Zhang would run out of breath, his voice about to break from the force. But every time, Zhang Qiyang exceeded expectations, screaming through the musical phrases with even greater ferocity. The sheer violence of his technique made Zhou want to clutch his head in disbelief—was Zhang Qiyang really singing live? It was too brutal, too savage, opening Zhou’s eyes to new possibilities.

Li Xuan, who disliked Zhang Qiyang in every respect, always resisted his singing. But tonight, his chainsaw vocals shattered her defenses, just as with the other singers. It was hard to imagine anyone else matching this vocal intensity—his volume and breath were simply off the charts.

Recalling the earlier comments by Little Frog and Lin Longjiang about Zhang’s voice, Li Xuan was finally forced to admit—his voice was one in ten thousand. In terms of raw talent, he might even rival her. The relentless barrage of his vocals left her racking her brain for any other rock singer in the Chinese music world who could match him. Even Zhao Lei, sitting beside her with his rough, wild, rock-ready voice, would be utterly outclassed by the savage power Zhang Qiyang unleashed in “New Shit.”

Suddenly, Li Xuan found herself worrying whether she could take the championship tonight. Before Zhang Qiyang’s performance, she’d been confident: none of the other singers tonight compared to her, and her early slot would still leave a deep impression.

But now, the pressure was palpable. She hadn’t won in two weeks and was determined to take the title this time. Now, though, victory seemed uncertain. Thinking further, she realized her anxiety came purely from a professional standpoint. As a work of art and as a performance, Zhang Qiyang’s “New Shit” was a supreme shock to the professionals—but would the audience like it? Many might find this style hard to accept. And given Zhang Qiyang’s reputation, there must be many in the audience who disliked him. Her win should still be in the bag, right?

Her heart beat with uneasy anticipation, unable to calm.

Meanwhile, Zhang Qiyang, having finished his performance amid an explosive ovation, left the stage. He wasn’t thinking about whether he could take the week’s crown, nor did he realize he’d just delivered a legendary performance. He only felt satisfied, having vented all his pent-up negativity. After so many surges of adrenaline, he was finally coming down.

Once offstage, he returned to the dressing room, where the ecstatic Qin Xueyang—still bouncing with excitement—removed his demonic makeup. Only then did he head to the singers’ lounge.

At the same time, the giant screen in the venue was rapidly recapping the night’s performances. The audience was about to cast their precious votes to decide the week’s rankings.

Online, Zhang Qiyang’s fans, electrified by his performance, were flooding forums with praise for his unprecedented, gut-wrenching show. His haters, too, had recovered and were attacking him from every angle. They could never bear to see him succeed—they would always find something to criticize.

Once again, the “I Sing” forum became Zhang Qiyang’s battlefield. The other singers’ performances were all but ignored, as the discussion focused on the night’s most unbelievable spectacle—