🎵"That winter snow drifted as plum blossoms bloomed,
By Huaqing Pool, too many sorrows loomed.
Don't speak of right or wrong,
Only wish to be drunk with you again in dreams..."🎵
"Everyone claims they can perform opera, but if this is singing, I'll take my leave," muttered Bā Yǐng. He had been preparing for the [2020 Summer Voice Tour] with the Capital Youth Peking Opera Troupe when a coworker urged him to check something out immediately.
Bā Yǐng was no casual fan. He was a fourth-generation heir of the Méi school, apprenticed under Master Hu, whose own teacher had been the famed Méi Jiǔbǎo, ninth son of Méi Lánfāng himself. This was the real, proper lineage.
"I don't see what's worth watching," Bā Yǐng muttered with a sigh. At nine years old, he had stunned the capital with a performance of "The Drunken Concubine." Talent like his was rare.
Back in ancient times, opera performers were called "xìzi," a word that once carried a dismissive tone. These days, with Peking Opera elevated to national treasure status, Bā Yǐng felt that modern idols were more deserving of that old title.
"'Chu Zhi' and 'Qingyi' in the same sentence just sounds wrong," he murmured while sorting through paperwork and waiting for the show to begin.
Peking Opera was not just a local flavor from the capital. It was the ultimate fusion genre, stitched together from countless regional arts across China. Despite the "Beijing" in its name, it was forged in chaos by heroes who gathered in the capital from every corner of the empire—actors from Huizhou, Qinqiang performers from Shaanxi, great talents from Hunan, and more.
It was a clash of musical cultures: Kunqu, Bangzi, Xipi, even Chuida and Siping melodies. Peking Opera was born from that brawl, absorbing the strengths of Anhui Opera, Qinqiang, Han tunes, Kunqu, and the local Jing style. You might not appreciate its lofty form, but no one could deny its title as the essence of Chinese art.
To put it bluntly, of the legendary "Thirteen Greats of the Tongguang Era," only one—Zhang Shengkui—was a native of the capital. The rest hailed from Anhui and Jiangsu.
"Here we go," Bā Yǐng said, casually opening the stream on his phone. He wasn't the type to fuss over ceremonial viewing.
He had no interest in the lead-up fluff of variety shows. With the phone set beside him, he went back to his work.
Luckily, Chu Zhi was first to perform. Half an hour in, Bā Yǐng heard the emcee's voice: "Let's welcome our first guest, a chart-topping sensation, known across the web for his brilliant compositions, and widely recognized as the father of New Chinese Style music. Please welcome Chu Zhi, performing his original piece—'The New Drunken Concubine.'"
Wait a minute—"New Drunken Concubine"? That name was intimately familiar. A proper Méi school Qingyi would never be unfamiliar with it.
"The Drunken Concubine" was a classic, reimagined and perfected by Master Méi Lánfāng himself. It had astonished audiences from its first debut. Bā Yǐng had become famous as a child singing that very piece.
His eyes shifted to the screen. The first few lines began—
🎵"That winter snow drifted as plum blossoms bloomed,
By Huaqing Pool, too many sorrows loomed.
Don't speak of right or wrong,
Only wish to be drunk with you again in dreams..."🎵
That was it? And people called this a revival of opera? There wasn't even a trace of traditional cadence in the intro. Maybe it came later, but Bā Yǐng had already lost interest. He looked away, refocusing on his own tasks.
🎵"Love and hate, a flash of fate,
Raise the cup, emotions so great,
Love and hate both blur the line,
Tell me, when will you be mine?"🎵
Hmm? That line had the precise tone of a classic Qingyi, done in the Chéng style.
Bā Yǐng's eyes snapped back to the screen. On it stood a Qingyi figure who had stunned the stage with beauty and poise.
🎵"On chrysanthemum terrace beneath moonlight,
None could know the cold in my heart's night.
Drunk in the Emperor's embrace,
Dreaming of Tang, of love's warm trace..."🎵
Was this a guest performer? The Peking Opera circle was small. That voice, that costume—clearly a master, yet Bā Yǐng had no idea who it was.
And he wasn't exaggerating. Among opera fans, it was common to recognize talent from the very first note. A brilliant voice could bring cheers before a line was even finished.
He opened the comment stream, hoping for answers.
"No way, bro."
"That's Ninth Brother?"
"???"
"WTF?"
"Chu Zhi is way too pretty!"
"My eyes are glued."
"Mom, this man is prettier than me!"
There was the answer, but it was completely different from what Bā Yǐng had expected.
"That Qingyi is Chu Zhi?" he said aloud, not believing it.
"No way. Must be some kind of vocal trick."
"Ghost tone."
"Only Chéng Yànqiū could make ghost tones sound so hauntingly delicate."
Bā Yǐng felt like his worldview was falling apart. As a professional, he could tell—ghost tone was not exactly a praised technique.
Peking Opera was pitched high. That was why children trained early in a foundational technique called "standing tone," which used diaphragm placement to hit high notes with little strain. Méi Lánfāng had mastered it.
Chéng Yànqiū, though a Méi student, suffered vocal damage early in life. His voice never recovered fully and developed a raspy quality.
But he was brilliant. He adapted, creating a signature vocal style. "Ghost tone," which resembled the weeping tone of old man roles, wasn't ideal for Qingyi performers. It carried a hint of sorrow and rasp that most sought to avoid.
Only Chéng's genius could turn it into something lyrical and sorrowful. Even most of his disciples avoided it, except for one—Master Zhào Róngchēn, who finally managed to break free of it entirely.
"No, wait. This voice isn't just Chéng's style. There's some Méi-school brightness in there too," Bā Yǐng whispered, chilled.
Throughout history, many Chéng-style performers had sung "ghost tone" well. But only Chéng Yànqiū had mastered it. Now, add Chu Zhi to that list.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Chu Zhi isn't even a Peking Opera actor, right? Didn't he graduate from a pop music program?"
Bā Yǐng reached for his phone to check, but his eyes couldn't leave the screen. Chu Zhi wasn't just singing well—his stage presence, his footing, his poise were impeccable.
He closed the comment stream. The scrolling text was blocking the artistry.
🎵"Love and hate, a flash of fate,
Raise the cup, emotions so great..."🎵
🎵"On chrysanthemum terrace beneath moonlight,
None could know the cold in my heart's night.
Drunk in the Emperor's embrace,
Dreaming of Tang, of love's warm trace..."🎵
"Your Majesty, one more cup."
Every move was precise. The lifted sleeve, the offered toast in midair—graceful yet restrained. Even his sleeve dance had a lyrical elegance. Bā Yǐng's eyes were locked in place. It was everything he had ever envied, everything he had longed to express.
The Méi and Chéng styles were different, but this performance had transcended all such boundaries.
"There was a misstep in that drunk stagger," he noted to himself. But even so, this performance was breathtaking.
He felt he had to show this to his teacher. Chu Zhi deserved the national stage, not just some variety show.
Before he could call, his friend—Lǎo Shēng actor Xiao Shan—rang first.
He hadn't even spoken when Xiao Shan's voice exploded through the phone.
"Did you see it, Bā Yǐng? That performance of Chu Zhi's—absolutely wild!"
"I watched it with my mentor. He said it was a bit unpolished overall, but the level is incredibly high. With some training, Chu Zhi could become a true master."
"It's wild. We both checked—no sign of any master guiding him. Could be another Yang Chao'ou, maybe even more gifted."
Yang Chao'ou had been self-taught at eleven and won the Golden Little Plum Blossom Award, full of natural brilliance. Judges said with just a decade of refinement, he could become a top performer.
Peking Opera demanded raw talent. Méi Lánfāng began training at eight, debuted at ten, was famous by fourteen, and by thirty-three was the most revered dan actor of his time.
Sadly, Yang Chao'ou went into film. Even now, Bā Yǐng couldn't comprehend the talent in those old clips. And now… an even more terrifying prodigy?