Yahoo Japan's comment section was buzzing. As the main page drew massive traffic, new keyboard warriors kept logging on. But something was off—wait, people were praising a Chinese singer. Instantly the keyboards sharpened into swords.
[Is it actually good? I tuned in and heard nothing that special from a Chinese singer. Have you all never heard good music before? Praising them like that]
[I must have the wrong livestream. Only overseas students praise someone like that]
[A bunch of uncultured mutts!]
Typical keyboard warriors, shouting at strangers with fake bravado whenever they dared an insult. But soon...
[If it's good it's good. Music has no borders. Don't let the kappa steal your eyes]
[Don't talk nonsense and make us look like we lack musical taste]
[I swallowed a thousand needles and Chu Zhi's song is still good. I rewarded myself twice again and I'm okay, just a little dizzy]
And that set off a flame war among Japanese commenters.
Back at the concert hall, the energy was electric. Koguchi Yoshihiro kicked into a classic J‑pop set. J‑pop was Japan's own pop sound shaped by Western influences—icons like Hikaru Utada, Ayumi Hamasaki, and Mai Kuraki epitomized it.
Chu Zhi decided to stay and watch the rest of the show. To Koguchi, as a Japanese star, that was a sign of value worth cultivating.
He checked in with the production crew. Zhang Ning spoke up: "That was so good. It's rare to hear new talent like that. I may be old‑fashioned, but live Chu Zhi showed me real confidence in Chinese music."
Professional singer Luo Jianhui and album‑releasing Liu Pei wanted to chime in too, but struggled to find words.
Was Chu Zhi strong?
Absolutely. He blew Luo Jianhui's mind—so much so that Luo Jianhui abandoned his idea of coaching him, almost relieved he hadn't voiced it.
Liu Pei thought out loud: "His Japanese tracks are strong too. He's popular in Korea… The company should push him in Japan and Korea to open doors for Chinese modern music."
"That meant Chu Zhi would reclaim first‑chair status at home". Liu Pei chuckled at the thought.
Min Jeong-pyo added, "He moves people. Our leader finally showed me what a bilingual singer can do."
The guests all laughed. The assistant director was thrilled—this was a golden moment for the show: a Chinese singer winning over a Japanese crowd with his original songs, sung live in Japanese, and a capella Mandarin.
As the clock approached 10:30 PM—the concert's scheduled end—they realized the audience refused to leave. Koguchi returned for an encore and extended the show for another thirty minutes.
Chu Zhi watched as Koguchi danced and sang, clearly equipped with impeccable stamina.
After the show, Koguchi invited everyone—Anshan Motoma and company—to a dinner downtown in Sapporo at a quiet upscale izakaya, "Ootaro Izakaya." Without any female staff around, Koguchi would've taken them to a bar or karaoke.
Convenience stores and izakayas are the only late‑night venues open in Japan. Even fancy ones are just glorified local joints, not what you see in dramas anime.
"Chu‑san, you've got to try this," Koguchi said, introducing Kubo‑san, the chef with thirteen years raising his own chickens. "His yakitori is a masterpiece, praised by dancyu food magazine."
A server sliced the sliding door open and presented black dishes of signature chicken skewers glazed with teriyaki sauce, plus grilled chicken skin, hearts, and gizzards. Chu Zhi tasted it—and found it no different from any other yakitori.
Maybe thirteen years of poultry‑raising is enough to earn you "Yakitori Master" status, but to Chu Zhi it was ordinary.
"Suzuki Kanon asked—is Chu Zhi planning to work in Japan?" Koguchi asked around the table.
Kanon was curious. Why bother writing Japanese songs if he didn't intend to stay?
Anshan Motoma and Koguchi listened closely. Anshan hoped for a no, Koguchi for a yes.
Miyoshi Saburo tensed. If Chu Zhi debuted in Tokyo... there would be blood in the streets.
Miyoshi realized why he disliked Chu Zhi from the start: his looks were too good. He assumed someone that handsome had little real talent.
"I'm not planning to work in Japan," Chu Zhi said. "But I've considered releasing a Japanese EP."
That small disc wouldn't uproot the world. Miyoshi breathed easier.
"I'm looking forward to Chu‑san's EP," Koguchi said. "When it's out, I'll get the whole family to buy it."
Dinner conversation stayed on the concert and his performance. Chu Zhi enjoyed polite recognition for over an hour.
After dinner Koguchi offered to drive him home, but Chu Zhi refused—he'd had sake and didn't want Koguchi risking DUI.
On the ride back, Chu Zhi mumbled: "I thought DUI was a serious offense in Japan? Who gave Koguchi the nerve?"
At the luxury Sapporo hotel, Chu Zhi soaked in a hot tub, thinking. "System, do you have any character stats for me?"
["Singing skill grading is vague and depends on state, so no data service available."] Came the reply.
Useless system, Chu Zhi thought, but he held back the insult.
In his own mental scorecard he rated himself:
Singing skill: 85/100 (world‑class classical and belting technique)
Emotional delivery: 90/100 (can evoke both angelic hope and despair)
Physical stamina: 95/100 (Farinelli‑grade breath control and chest strength)
Overall grade: S-rank, with major room to grow
In his scale, 80+ was national level, 90+ world level. Even with two world‑class skills he gave himself 85—an intentional self‑handicap.
He fed those ratings to the system and asked, "System, did my blind‑box draws favor singing skill? Should I ask for more?"
No reply—but silence meant yes.
Still, Chu Zhi felt a ceiling. He knew how to break it: more stages and practice over two to three years—or acquire another world‑class skill from the system.
He stayed up until 3 AM, finishing three books while watching Journey Among the Stars. His notes were neat—back in high school his teachers praised them, and in college he caught a professor's eye and earned favors. Though he came from a single‑parent household, paid his own fees, and built a small company to IPO, Chu Zhi was sharp and driven.
After just four hours of sleep he sprang up at morning. Brushing his teeth he noted the sleep had been good, but he saw early signs of hair loss.
"Not serious yet, but I have to guard against it," he thought. Borrowing photographer Kobayashi's phone, he searched, "Why does hair keep growing but not falling?"
No results—just ads for hair‑growth products. Later he investigated "hypertrichosis," scrolled the system's shop, and found a bizarre item:
Hair‑Suicide Ice Cream: "If I kill my hair fast enough, no one can kill me. Clip a bit every day and you won't thin."
Professional. He eyed it. Also, a strange "1+1 equals one spicy‑stick": slows skin aging by 50%.
"Another surprise from you?" he said to the system. But he only had 1 personality coin—needed five total for both items. Missing coins due to high‑carb restrictions on the show.
He checked achievements—he had four more high‑carb days left. After this week's recording and flights home, he could earn the rest. He needed both.
At 8 AM a bright new day began. Outside, no paper cranes—just marathon runners raising signs.
Today was the Sapporo Marathon. Since 1976 the city held a half‑marathon each fall with over 10,000 participants most years.
Zhang Ning sighed. "Thank goodness."
"What for?" Cai Jia asked.
"We finished the show before the marathon. Soon the Sapporo International Short Film Festival arrives—more tourists, more crowds." She had judged there before and knew.
More people would complicate shooting for a reality show.
This was their final day of filming in Sapporo. The cast felt a bit bittersweet.
Reality shows are taxing. The crew pushes guests hard, but as actors they rarely get to have fun like this.
The more the stars engage, the better the audience response—look at Running Man and Ultra Trail for proof.
Behind the scenes the crew began packing. Assistant Xiao Tang had good news.
"Hey, I've got news. Chu Zhi did it again—Japan wants to bring our show over. I think it's the first time in years."
"Really? There's no precedent," producer Che Wheel said. "Let's hear what TBS wants."
Che listened carefully.
TBS is one of Japan's five big private networks, famous internationally for airing soothing anime like Madoka and Fullmetal Alchemist FA.
Yesterday, Chu Zhi's performance at Koguchi's concert and Butter‑Fly had gone viral on Japanese internet. He was already a trending topic on Mixi's top 50 celebrity list.
For these reasons, TBS wanted to import Journey Among the Stars.
"But since this is the first Chinese show they're importing, they expect a promotional subsidy—30 million yen."
"What?! They want us to pay them?" Che Lun exclaimed in disbelief.
"Yes," Xiao Tang replied, "We negotiated, but that's their condition."
Che Lun had seen shameless deals before, but this took the cake.
Thirty million yen is about one hundred thousand RMB. For a show with sponsors it's nothing.
"I'd be out of my mind to pay to export our show," Che Lun said firmly.
Xiao Tang noted TBS's interest in the content and in Chu Zhi—but not strong enough. That's why they demanded money for airtime.
Che Lun compared it to when Apple first entered the phone market and got dismissed by industry giants.
Che Lun weighed the short‑term cost versus long‑term reputation. If they agreed, they'd brag about being "the first foreign show on Japanese TV." The payoff might be worth it.
"Xiao Tang, what's your advice?" Che Lun asked quietly.
"I say no," Xiao Tang replied, logging into Ameba and searching "Chu そ." Social posts included:
[Face so handsome over five thousand years—there has never been a male this beautiful since the ape age]
[I want cosmetic surgery to look like that Chinese star—what clinic can do it?]
[Unreal beauty, writes songs too—this is the kind of role model young people need]
[That gorgeous Chinese flower on Yahoo—I gave it my heart as soon as he appeared]
[All of Koguchi's friends are gorgeous—if he ever does another concert, I'll buy tickets]
Mixi is like a Japanese forum, Ameba like microblogs. Both major social platforms.
"Here, Che‑producer," Xiao Tang said. "Chu Zhi isn't big in Japan yet, but he speaks Japanese and sings in Japanese—management will consider pushing him in Japan."
Che Lun breathed in. "Then..."
Xiao Tang shot him a confident glance: "Producers, did you see how our kids in Japan melt when Chu‑teacher performs? They don't resist him."
'If Chu Zhi becomes an idol, TV networks will beg to buy the show back", Xiao Tang thought. TBS's haughtiness disgusted him.
Chu Zhi was already popular in Korea from brand endorsements, despite little local activity.
Che Lun considered profit, then nodded. "Chu Zhi is trustworthy."
"Are we ready for Episode 2 airing tomorrow?" Che Lun asked.
"Explosive buzz. Everyone wants to know why Chu Zhi is cycling," Xiao Tang answered—the show's star moment, Chu Zhi singing Japanese on the streets, was sure to explode even more.
They started a 48‑hour promotional countdown.
iQiyi's S‑class web series was now overshadowed by Journey Among the Stars.
At the clock tower in Sapporo, Chu Zhi, Cai Jia, Zhang Ning, Luo Jianhui, and Min Zhengpei posed for a farewell photo—marking the end of their first week.
Zhang Ning finally revealed the gift she'd kept since the show began—a 13‑rose German music box from the 19th century, rumored to bring joy and happiness. While she wasn't deeply spiritual, she believed the gesture would comfort the boy.
Chu Zhi accepted it, silent on its "magic." After all, the magic comes from people, not things.
He flew home, transferring through Beijing before landing at Hongqiao. It was past 1:30 AM when he collapsed into bed.
"I'm exhausted. Maybe skip studying today?" he thought. His limbs were numb, his brain at wits end.
But he reminded himself: "If I miss a day, I lose a bit of momentum."
Still drained, he compromised—sleep at 2 AM and wake at 6 AM to squeeze in two hours of reading before making up last night's notes.