Going up is easy. It's coming down that hurts.
At 5 a.m., Chu Zhi and the two cameramen began their descent.
Never mind the stress it puts on your knees—going downhill was much faster. In just over three hours, they reached the base of Mount Nanyue. The driver was already waiting.
And despite being in his forties, the driver was crouched by the roadside, watching a line of ants move house. Not waiting in the car. Not on his phone. Just squatting there like a curious kid. No wonder people say, men never truly grow up.
"How was the night hike?" the driver asked with a cheerful grin.
"Other than being a bit tired, no real complaints," Chu Zhi replied.
"Tired isn't a flaw of night hiking," the driver chuckled. "If your body were stronger, you wouldn't feel it."
He started the engine. The hum of the car felt unusually loud, or maybe it was just Chu Zhi—sitting there, feeling like the vibrations were traveling straight into his sore legs.
"System, do you have anything that can stop my muscles from aching?" Chu Zhi asked. "I'll trade for it. I've got Personality coins."
At this rate, he figured he wouldn't even be able to crawl out of bed tomorrow.
"I might've overestimated myself a little. It really hurts," he muttered.
[System recommends rare item: Pain Relief Candy Sphere. Allows user to freely adjust physical pain levels.]
The item mall was full of weird and wonderful artifacts. There was even one called "Mudman Dumpling," which, once eaten, meant you'd never need to shower again—and you wouldn't even smell.
Chu Zhi had eight coins left. He was about to make the purchase when inspiration struck. Instead of dulling the pain, why not disable the limbs altogether?
He quietly activated the "Sick Leave Persona" title, forcing his body into a state where both arms and legs were paralyzed.
If he couldn't feel anything at all, then there'd be nothing to hurt, right?
The moment the title took effect, he completely lost sensation in his limbs. Not just the soreness—everything.
"Nice. Saved myself three coins," Chu Zhi said with satisfaction. The next second, he deactivated the title. Everyone knows the worst soreness hits the day after intense exercise. If things got worse tomorrow, he'd just use this trick again.
[…]
The system had no words.
Cameraman Kobayashi could barely feel his legs, shoulders, or arms. After going up and down the mountain, all he wanted was a full day of sleep.
The car moved a bit faster than usual. They were on a tight schedule, after all—today's episode had to be filmed.
Downtown Sapporo was lively, but compared to Beijing, well... not quite the same league.
"I've finally broken the seal. I've got time to record," said Quan Mei, practically bouncing with energy. It had been three or four days since she bought that discarded song for three million yuan.
If her schedule hadn't been so packed, she would've recorded it that same day. Being a content creator didn't mean Quan Mei had the workload of someone like Li Jiaqi, but her time was still tightly budgeted. Meals and sleep got pushed aside for work.
The moment she read the lyrics, an idea popped into her head. Doesn't Watsons sell distilled bottled water? Maybe there was potential for a brand collaboration.
"…What the hell am I even thinking?" she muttered. "Watsons is a mega-corporation. They might let me sell their products, but work on a branded song? Not a chance."
Still, she rushed into the studio. She had the budget, after all. High-quality music producers weren't cheap, but she could afford the best.
🎵 "Even the smile of a Super Idol isn't as sweet as yours. The noonday sun in August can't outshine you. I love you at 105°C—you're like drops of pure distilled water…" 🎵
Sometimes, there's only the thinnest barrier between effort and success—but that wall can be impossibly hard to break.
Quan Mei followed every direction her music producer gave. Even so, it took the whole afternoon to finish. She had standards. The voice had to be sweet.
Sweet, but not cloying. And since she wasn't exactly known for her singing skills, the producer had to coach her half a line at a time.
Still, the result was worth it.
"It's done, Ms. Xiao. Recording's finished," Quan Mei said over the phone, calling her agent. "No agent, no access to the trash can," she added with a grin.
"The producer even said '105°C Love' turned out great." Her tone shifted quickly from excited to a sudden sigh.
"What now?" her agent asked.
"Do talented people really get to be this reckless?" Quan Mei said. "This song's genuinely good. And it still got tossed. That's just… unfair."
"…We could hire someone to camp out by the trash cans. Pick up whatever songs get thrown away," she added, half-serious, half-not.
"Focus," said Ms. Xiao. "I applied for a resource push on Douyin. Run this song properly. Get your name into the Top 10."
"This song cost me a lot of favors to secure."
"Don't worry," Quan Mei said. "I'll pick the perfect time to drop it. Three million yuan, after all."
To be honest, with that much money, she could've bought three or four polished tracks.
But polished songs were boring. Quan Mei wasn't trying to be a real singer. She wanted something like "Learn to Meow" or those ultra-viral tracks that dominate the internet. Even if people called it a brainless earworm, who cares? It's still money in the bank.
This week's guest star was from the same agency as Chu Zhi—none other than Liu Pei, the former golden boy of Tianyue Entertainment.
Since Chu Zhi signed with the company, Liu Pei had always seen him as a rival. Only recently did he accept reality.
Second place wasn't so bad.
Being number two at the company wasn't a bad deal. That's how Liu Pei saw himself now.
Because Chu Zhi had laid a strong foundation with the other team members, Liu Pei had integrated quickly. But to be honest, his personality was a bit uptight, a little smug, and totally unfit for variety shows.
Even with help, he couldn't keep the jokes going.
"Come on! Chu Zhi is handing him punchlines and he's not reacting! What the hell!" The assistant director at the monitoring station was on the verge of running in and delivering the jokes himself. The whole situation was frustrating.
Chu Zhi had agreed to appear at Koguchi Yoshihiro's concert tomorrow. He needed to ask Director Che Lun for a leave of absence or at least work out another schedule.
"I spoke with Mr. Koguchi," said Chu Zhi. "They've allowed filming during my performance. But since Yahoo Video bought the rights to the rest of the concert, we can't record outside my segment."
"That's fine," Che Lun replied. He wasn't interested in filming anyone else anyway. Koguchi might be popular in Japan, but in China, even a minor celebrity like Yi Li had more presence.
Recently, netizens had even coined a new unit of measurement—"One Yi Li" equals Yi Xingwei's current popularity.
While Chu Zhi and Che Lun calmly discussed plans, things weren't as peaceful in Koguchi Yoshihiro's home.
"Yoshihiro-san, inviting a Chinese singer to perform at your concert… don't you think that's something you should reconsider?"
The speaker was Koguchi's friend, Motoma Anayama. He wasn't being racist, just realistic. Koguchi had already been criticized by nationalist fans for appearing on Chinese programs. Now he was inviting a Chinese artist to Hokkaido?
It was basically asking for trouble.
"If Chu-san can win over the audience on stage, that's all that matters," Koguchi said with absolute confidence.
"…Right," said Anayama. He didn't know where that confidence came from. But seeing how firm Koguchi was, he had no choice but to stand by his friend.
Let's just hope tomorrow's concert doesn't end in chaos.