Why the rush? Why act right at the start of the second week of filming?
Because today, on the flight, Chu Zhi had a solid five hours of sleep—one hour more than his usual deep sleep. He felt refreshed, wide awake. Pulling an all-nighter wasn't a big deal.
Besides, there wouldn't be another full block of time during the day to catch up on rest. No matter how well he played the role of the "Emperor Beast," one thing couldn't be compromised: sleep.
Between 4 and 5 a.m., the Milky Way would be visible over Mount Nanyue in the Asahi Peaks. Chu Zhi's goal was to hike up in four and a half hours and capture the most stunning shot of the galaxy—for his fans, his "Little Fruits."
Only a little over a thousand meters remained to the summit. For those unfamiliar with mountain climbing, that might sound like a quick thirty-minute dash, but height and distance are two very different beasts.
Take Mount Qingcheng, for example. It's also over a thousand meters tall. A normal person needs three to four hours to reach the Laojun Pavilion, covering over ten kilometers in total. So even though a vehicle had dropped Chu Zhi off halfway up the mountain, the remaining stretch was no small feat.
He started up at a steady pace. At first, it felt manageable. But after thirty minutes, his breathing grew heavier.
"So tired…"
Around the forty-minute mark, he stopped for a quick water break, resting for two minutes before pressing on. It was clear now—climbing a mountain was no joke.
"Those people who treat summiting peaks as their life's pride? They must be monsters", Chu Zhi muttered in his heart.
The higher he climbed, the harder it became. Part of it was sheer exhaustion, the other part was the thinning air.
He'd filmed a commercial once in Tibet, at altitudes between four and five thousand meters. Back then, his body showed no signs of altitude sickness. That experience was the foundation for this plan.
An hour passed. The mountain top was still nowhere in sight. The trail was pitch black. One must never randomly choose a mountain for a night hike—wild animals liked to hunt after dark. If Chu Zhi hadn't checked beforehand and confirmed that Hokkaido's officials sprayed this route with animal-repelling scents year-round, he wouldn't have taken the risk.
Plenty of people attempted this route at night every year. So far, not one had been attacked.
After ninety minutes, Chu Zhi felt like his legs were wrapped in cement blocks.
At the two-hour mark, he no longer recognized his own feet.
What kept him going? The harder he pushed, the more his fans—his "Little Fruits"—would be moved.
Meanwhile, Kobayashi, the cameraman hauling equipment behind him, said nothing. He was starting to regret underestimating Chu Zhi. When this man got serious, he was brutal even to himself. "Why come all this way in the dead of night? What was the point?"
"Damn, lucky it's me. If it were any other cameraman, they'd be passed out by now." Kobayashi checked the time, then handed off the gear to the assistant. They'd switch every thirty minutes.
The assistant was tired too but quietly grateful to Chu Zhi. If it hadn't been for Chu Zhi insisting they wear extra layers, they'd be freezing by now.
One hundred fifty minutes… three hours…
"Finally… I can see the summit." Chu Zhi's flashlight cut through the dark. Victory was near. Suddenly, his limbs regained strength.
Before, he had leaned heavily on his walking stick, wobbling slightly with every step. Now, the stick was steady. So were his legs.
Chu Zhi didn't know the old saying, "Looking at a mountain kills the horse." He thought he was ten minutes from the peak, but it took over forty more minutes to actually reach it.
"Whew…" He drained one of his two water bottles and gave the other to the cameraman.
The summit of Mount Nanyue was barren, nothing like Mount Beiyue, which had the Shijian Pool and high-altitude wildflowers.
No wonder Mount Beiyue was developed for tourism. What did Nanyue have to offer?
There were marks in the dirt where tents had recently been set up. Someone had camped here not long ago.
Looking down wasn't much to see. But looking up—
In ancient times, people wrote, "Drunken, I didn't realize the sky was in the water; dreams filled the boat, pressing on the Milky Way." And now, the three of them looked up at the pre-dawn sky, the stars flooding their eyes.
"So beautiful," the assistant murmured.
Even Kobayashi, the veteran cameraman, stood silent. A magnificent band of stars stretched across the heavens, each one like a drop of light in a celestial river.
Every bit of exhaustion vanished beneath that brilliance.
There was truth in the saying: beautiful scenery soothes the soul.
After a short rest, Chu Zhi set up the filming equipment. Facing the camera, he said, "I once said that my fans are the starry sky that supports everything I do. So today, let me show you the most beautiful sky."
He adjusted the lens to capture the full glory of the heavens.
Kobayashi was stunned. "Climbing a mountain in the middle of the night—just to show fans the stars? Seriously?"
But thinking it through, this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment idea. Last week, Chu Zhi had deliberately left behind a title card. All this, just for his fans. Kobayashi discreetly turned the camera toward Chu Zhi. His face was pale, lips slightly purple—classic signs of oxygen deprivation from lack of physical training.
The assistant overheard Chu Zhi's words and, for a moment, even felt jealous of his fans. What kind of idol was this? He and Kobayashi had traded off carrying the camera, and even that was exhausting. But Chu Zhi had carried his own gear the entire way, no complaints.
🎵 "Brightest star in the night sky, can you hear it—the loneliness and sighs of the one looking up at you?" 🎵
🎵 "Brightest star in the night sky, can you remember the one who once walked beside me, whose figure disappeared into the wind?" 🎵
Chu Zhi sang quietly. This part wasn't in the plan. But looking up at the stars, the words just came out.
In his past life, he had been CEO of a public company. Once, he'd heard a head-hunter was trying to poach one of his best employees. That person loved this song, so Chu Zhi practiced and sang it live at their birthday party. It didn't stop them from leaving, but they never forgot it.
If only he had known earlier, he'd have memorized more songs. Then maybe he wouldn't be scraping his brain just to sing this one. As the "Emperor Beast," this was the only full song he could perform without needing a raffle. He had learned it, simply to win people over.
🎵 "I pray for a heart that stays clear, and eyes that still know how to cry. Give me the courage to believe again, to pass through lies and hold you close." 🎵
🎵 "Every time I lose the meaning of my existence, every time I'm lost in the dark… Brightest star in the night sky, please guide me closer to you." 🎵
Kobayashi and the assistant listened in silence.
Back at the monitoring station, the crew were stunned—or rather, shaken.
The song and the stars. No one saw this coming from Chu Zhi.
"A classic moment! A classic moment!" said one of the directors. "This is going to be the signature scene of the entire show. Unforgettable."
Then came the second reaction: "God, I was brilliant. If I hadn't pushed for this, if I hadn't insisted we pay for Chu Zhi… would we have gotten any of this?"
Just like in "I Am a Singer-Songwriter," almost every explosive moment came from Chu Zhi—singing Japanese songs on the street, and now this live performance under the stars.
Even someone with no eye for production could tell: once this airs, it's going to be the talk of the town.
🎵 "Oh~ brightest star in the night sky, do you care whether the sun will rise first, or whether something unexpected will come before it?" 🎵
🎵 "I'd rather keep all my pain to myself…" 🎵
Chu Zhi's voice was tender and sincere. The Milky Way stretched across the sky, impossibly beautiful.