Creating an exclusive app for fans, launching fan festivals, writing songs just for them... and now, leading them to the starry sky? Can someone tell Chu Zhi to stop being so perfect?
The pressure landed squarely on the shoulders of the new five top idols: Lin Xia, Wu Tang, Su Yiwu, Li Fei, and Zhou Guowu.
Wu Tang, Li Fei, and Su Yiwu had already chosen to sit this one out. Their fan bases—"Toffee," "Yi's Heart," and "Reporters"—were already half-filled with people who had a soft spot for Chu Zhi. Though these three still held their spots on the charts, none of them wanted to go head-to-head with Chu Zhi. He was playing a different game entirely.
"Come on, every time something happens, fans start tagging me," Wu Tang sighed to himself. "Being a traffic idol shouldn't be this demanding."
"Drums beat, winds rise... who else am I afraid of besides Chu Zhi?" Li Fei liked to posture, but he often overshot and ended up awkward. The only person who could take his antics in stride was Chu Zhi himself, which made them surprisingly good friends.
"I almost want to be a fan myself. Where the hell did he learn all this? He's like a sow in a lingerie store—endless tricks, all layered," Su Yiwu muttered to himself.
Raised under the watchful gaze of "Mom-fans," Su Yiwu had countless admirable traits. But one big downside: he always had to act like the perfect son. In public, he was spotless. In private, he was dying to curse just a little.
Side note—Li Fei's fanbase was called "Reporters" because of a pun. His name, Fei (非), sounds like "scandal" (绯), so naturally his fans had to chase scandals. Their behavior was so notorious that even the official Xinhua Dictionary jokingly replaced a poetic phrase "Yixing Yunfei" with "Yixing Yunfei" (逸兴云斐), and netizens started calling them "paparazzi."
The remaining two rising stars, Lin Xia and Zhou Guowu, still had some fight left in them.
"Do you think we can pull this off too?" Lin Xia asked his agent, Brother Xian.
Most people followed footsteps through the riverbed. Lin Xia followed Chu Zhi into stardom. Whatever Chu Zhi tried, Lin Xia had tried to imitate at least once.
He'd done a Summer Fan Day, written songs for fans, but he hadn't built an app. That required hiring staff, renting servers—it was a huge investment of time and energy. Lin Xia truly didn't understand how Chu Zhi kept his energy up.
Brother Xian nodded. "Absolutely. We could take our fans to the sea or something like that."
"Let's plan it carefully. If we do it right, the fans will definitely feel that effort," Lin Xia replied.
Following Brother Jiu always meant there was soup to drink. Lin Xia was a bit confused though. With how generous Chu Zhi was to people, shouldn't he be called "Big Brother" instead of "Jiu-ge"?
Meanwhile, Zhou Guowu had just returned to China a few days earlier. His luck was awful. After seeing how popular Journey Among the Stars had become, his company managed to get him a guest ticket—but on the day he landed in Tokyo and set off for Otaru, an earthquake hit.
"Whew... I'm starting to wonder if Hokkaido somehow knew I was coming and planned the whole quake as a welcome," Zhou Guowu joked. He got checked out at the hospital right after returning. He valued his life too much. Thankfully, the doctor said he was just shaken up.
"Taking fans to see a sea of stars... that's romantic," Zhou Guowu admitted. "Why waste this kind of romance on a fanbase instead of a girlfriend?"
Still, he couldn't bring himself to dislike Chu Zhi. Even though his own fan group, "Porridge," shared many fans with Chu Zhi.
Having multiple favorite idols was normal in fan culture. What was abnormal was this: most fans of other idols also liked Chu Zhi. But many of Chu Zhi's fans, the "Little Fruits," were loyal to him alone. That was unfair.
"I can't compete," Zhou Guowu finally admitted. "Better to focus on my own field than to challenge the final boss right off the bat."
Even without official promotion from iQIYI, Journey Among the Stars's popularity skyrocketed on its own.
"Shocking! Chu Zhi writes another song for fans under a sky full of stars—millions moved to tears. If you're not watching, are you even a real fangirl?"—Headline from Penguin News
Penguin tried to copy UC's clickbait style, but shock tactics were out of date. The original UC headline read:
"What top idol Chu Zhi was caught doing at 3AM—his private side revealed. Fans furious: 'Why did you hide this from us?!'"
Baidu News kept it classy: "Under a sky witnessed by millions, Chu Zhi says fans are his forever stars."
Sina focused on personal stories: "Why I became a Little Fruit—three years as Chu Zhi's fan."
One day passed. The heat didn't drop. It only grew.
Every time Chu Zhi made a move, Orange Home—his official fan app—saw a surge in new signups and activity. This time was no exception.
"Oh my god, I laughed like a pig. My bestie's in some mainland boyband fandom and was so jealous of me today."
"Fan culture basically equals Orange Home now. I'm certain."
"I'm proud to be a Little Fruit. I spent the whole day watching Chu Zhi clips on Bilibili. They even gave him his own channel!"
"Wait, are you Chi Chi? Weren't you the one who swore you'd get into Fudan next year, and muted yourself in the group so you wouldn't get distracted?"
"Huh? What are you talking about? I think you got the wrong person. Same name, maybe?"
"Same name your butt. Your username [In the Name of the Red Cup] is way too specific. Still want your star back or not?"
"Waaa, stop rushing me. I'm studying again, I swear!"
Little Fruits were celebrating. First-time users of the app were stunned by the energy. Posts got buried by the second. The registration numbers jumped by another two or three hundred thousand.
These were real users too—not bots inflating data for fake reports. If fandoms had tiers, Little Fruits were solidly S-rank. High combat power, high cohesion, and still room to grow.
Aside from iQIYI and Orange Home, another app also felt the impact.
After Journey Among the Stars Episode 3 aired, the price of "Star Pattern" Weibo usernames soared. These IDs normally cost around 4,000 yuan, but after Chu Zhi sang "The Brightest Star in the Night Sky", they shot past 6,000.
There were only around 8 million Star IDs in circulation, and most were tightly regulated. Few ever hit the market.
@YanhuaXue:[I'm dying to get a Star ID. Please, I'll pay 6,500 yuan through WeChat. Save this child! #StarIDWanted]
"I don't get it. What's the point of buying someone else's old username?"
"Seriously, isn't that a waste of money?"
"Could this be fake hype from insiders?"
@YanhuaXue replied:[I can't speak for others, but I'm just an ordinary worker. 6,500 is a month's salary for me. But I want to be by Chu Zhi's side. This account may not have always been mine, but it will be, from now on. I want to be his star, protecting him through wind and rain. It's like spending on a front-row concert ticket. You grit your teeth and do it.]
Some people agreed. Others didn't.
Those who disagreed said a concert gave actual audio and visual payoff. A username felt empty. But YanhuaXue didn't reply again. Empathy was hard enough in real life, let alone online.
Weibo execs once proposed giving Star Pattern and Vine Pattern accounts special badges—something like a custom background or charm.
The idea had potential. With visible markers, the price would rise, and implementation would be easy. They could even track when each user followed a star.
But the plan was shot down without mercy. The reason? Simple. Chu Zhi was a ceiling-breaking idol. He stood apart. But he wasn't untouchable yet.
If they gave his fans special privileges, what about the others? In blunt terms, Chu Zhi's ceiling wasn't high enough.
Not yet invincible. The Idol Beast still had work to do.
They say, "Fist strikes the southern nursing home, kick sweeps through the northern kindergarten. Anyone under a meter tall goes down. One stomp in the morgue, and if anyone dares to stand up, I'll take them on. But Fist Girl didn't see anyone move... Yeah—if someone did, they'd probably cry from fear."
"Damn, that was insane! My follower count hit a plateau, but Chu Zhi just blasted me into the stratosphere with this one!" Fist Girl beamed with satisfaction.
Xiao Ma just stared at her, speechless. Fist Girl didn't seem to realize she had said anything strange at all.
"You've got a stream this afternoon. Get yourself ready," Xiao Ma said as she turned to leave.
But Fist Girl reached out and grabbed her arm.
"I got you the full Helena Rubinstein set—black bandage cream, white bandage toner, green serum, vitality cream, the whole lineup. It's all yours, Xiao Ma."
Xiao Ma paused. She knew Fist Girl too well. That kind of generosity only meant one thing—she wanted something. She was ready to say no, but… the full Helena set? Tempting. Just the eight-piece luxury box set alone was over six grand, and that wasn't even the full package.
"Alright, spill it. What do you want?" Xiao Ma sighed, cursing her own weak will.
Helena Rubinstein was a brand made for the elite. Besides the black bandage cream and the eye serum, most products only showed results with long-term use. Still, the price alone was enough to scare off most people. It really was a brand for the wealthy.
"Well, look, the song blew up again. You don't even need to think hard to guess that more people are gonna want to buy Chu Zhi's throwaway tracks now," Fist Girl said eagerly. "Since he's the company's golden boy, and we're part of the same family, shouldn't we get first dibs? I won't even haggle."
"Even if you hadn't asked, some of our artists already planned to bid on his demos," Xiao Ma replied.
Fist Girl's eyes widened in disbelief. "Wait, what?! Are you serious? Don't those singers have any self-respect? How can they compete with a small-time streamer like me for his scraps? Can't they just buy proper songs?"
"No one would know it's a discarded track unless we say so. And let's be honest, if it goes viral, who's going to complain?" Xiao Ma said, then added, "You don't need to worry for now. You offered the highest bid. None of the other singers could match that. Besides, Mr. Chu and our company go way back."
"Good," Fist Girl let out a relieved breath, then grinned. "Xiao Ma, you've always got the connections. If you have time, can you ask around and see if Chu Zhi has dropped any new gems in the trash lately?"
She wanted to strike while the iron was hot and grab another hit. After all, Fist Girl was a streamer with ambition and a clear goal: make money.
Chu Zhi had no idea that casually selling off a discarded song would end up shaking an entire industry.
The first track, "Imitating Cat Sounds," going viral could be brushed off as pure luck. But when the second, "Loving You at 105°C," also exploded in popularity, no one could dismiss it as coincidence anymore.
Everyone in the music scene shouted the same thing: "What the hell?!"
Say what you will about Chu Zhi's vocals, but as a songwriter, the guy made no sense—at least not by conventional standards.
No other producer could guarantee a song would become a hit.
A viral track—what people now called a "god song"—was not the same as a good song. You could usually tell during the creative process if something was objectively good. But whether it turned into a phenomenon had always been chalked up to fate. Even producers who had created hits before never truly knew why they caught on. That's why the entire short-video music industry was built on volume: thousands of tracks released, hoping one would strike gold.
But what Chu Zhi was doing went against that grain—like he was bending fate itself.
For context, in the age of short videos, "god song" had two meanings. One was praise, the other a more neutral or even mildly mocking term, depending on context.
While the internet buzzed with speculation, Chu Zhi was calmly working in the recording studio.
"This is your first time recording in Japanese, right?" asked the music producer, Li Menglong.
"Yeah," Chu Zhi nodded. "Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Li. I've got six tracks to record today, and I hope we can get through them all."
It was already a little past 1 p.m. Given that each song typically took two hours, finishing all six today would be pushing it. Unless, somehow, he could finish each one in under 120 minutes.
It was just past one in the afternoon. If they stuck to the usual pace of two hours per song, recording all six today would be a stretch—unless Chu Zhi could shave down the time per track.
"Sorry for the trouble, Mr. Li. There are six songs total. I hope we can finish all of them today," said Chu Zhi.
Li Menglong rubbed at the corners of his eyes. Well, bring it on. If the storm was coming, let it hit with full force.
The tracks were:
"Once, I Thought of Ending It All"
"Butter-Fly"
"Lemon"
"The Riddle"
"Turmoil in My Heart"
"Spinning the Wheel of Fate"
Each one had a different style—rock, pop, J-pop—but all unmistakably carried the flavor of Japanese music. Bright mid-to-high frequencies, heavy use of piano and synth, packed like a movie poster filled with text. Every gap had to be filled, or it felt wrong.
"Maybe true songwriting genius really does need a foundation of intense reading," Li Menglong thought. His wife and daughter were both loyal Little Fruit fans. Naturally, they'd been roped into watching Journey Among the Stars too. The only thing Li paid attention to was the behind-the-scenes footage of Chu Zhi's daily reading habit.
Li himself managed two books a week, but that was nothing compared to Chu Zhi. From historical texts to Japan's The Tale of Genji, his steady intake, as shown in the footage, seemed to span every day without fail.
It was because Chu Zhi had created so many remarkable songs that Li believed his reading habits were real. With that kind of daily input, the wide stylistic range in his music actually made sense.
He wasn't the only one who thought so. Many industry insiders said Chu Zhi's reading habits rivaled those of top literary figures—three to four hours a day, every day.
"Let's run that section one more time."
"Sure, sure. Do you want to tweak the intro a bit?"
"I think the chorus could go even higher."
After recording several tracks, Li Menglong realized Chu Zhi's live vocals were excellent. All those online rumors about him needing top-tier tuning were flat-out false.
"The improvement is insane. Is this what they mean by a hardworking genius?" Li muttered. Back when they recorded "The Lone Warrior," he had to guide Chu Zhi note by note. But with this Japanese EP, all he needed to do was offer broad suggestions.
Surprisingly, the session wrapped earlier than expected. By 10:30 p.m., they were done. Li had already finished two full thermoses of chrysanthemum tea.
If someone had looked closely, they might've noticed that his thermos was the exact same model as Chu Zhi's. A birthday gift from his daughter, who insisted Chu Zhi was a sales genius.
"Thanks for the hard work, Mr. Li. If you have time tonight, dinner's on me," Chu Zhi offered.
Despite hours of singing, his throat didn't hurt at all. Farinelli, known for making trumpet players faint from pressure, truly was a technique with an impressive ceiling.
"Of course I've got time. I'm planning to wring every cent out of you," Li grinned. He stretched his neck with a loud pop. Staying hunched over all day had stiffened it up.
Since it was so late, Chu Zhi had already sent Xiao Zhu and Niu Jiangxue home. No point in making them wait. He had recovery meds, but they didn't. And they had work tomorrow. It wouldn't be fair.
A group of four—Chu Zhi, Li Menglong, and two late-shift staffers—headed to a roadside stall. They ordered a roast lamb leg, grilled buns, and an assortment of skewers.
It was too late for drinks, so they went with herbal Wanglaoji tea. Even with four grown adults, it was hard to finish everything on the table, even with Chu Zhi among them.
"Should we get this packed up?" Li asked. "There's still a lot of lamb left."
"There are two stray dogs near my complex," Li added. "Winter's coming. A little lamb might help them stay warm."
"That's great. No point letting it go to waste," said Chu Zhi.
The shop owner helped break down the bones and packed them up. Everyone parted ways after the meal.
Li Menglong got home past 1 a.m. He opened the door quietly and closed it just as softly, like a thief. His apartment had decent soundproofing, but he still didn't want to wake his wife and daughter. He tiptoed into the kitchen.
Inside the fridge, he found a flat bowl covered with plastic wrap. A label read: [Strawberries saved for you by your daughter].
Li Menglong smiled. With his income, he could afford any fruit. But that wasn't the point. What made him happy was being remembered.
He bit into a strawberry. Sweet, with a slight tang. Keeping his movements quiet, he scraped the leftover lamb off the bones and simmered them into a broth.
Once it cooled, he fed it to the two strays outside. Li Menglong wasn't the charitable type, so he couldn't take them in, but he did what he could. He'd been feeding them for months.
Meanwhile, without Qiu to drive him, Chu Zhi hailed a Didi on his own. Luckily, he always carried a mask, so nothing unusual happened.
Sometimes, even Chu Zhi found himself wondering if he was getting a little narcissistic. After being a celebrity for so long, it was easy to think people recognized him.
But if he ever got careless and actually was recognized, it wouldn't just be a few glances. With even a small crowd, chaos would follow.
Back home, Chu Zhi finally checked his phone. He rarely looked at it while out dining with others. There were several messages from Da Mao's protégé:
[Heard something, not 100% confirmed—Chu Zhi might be getting a Ministry of Culture award.]
[Or maybe not an award, but at least he's made it onto their official watchlist. Still a big deal.]
[You're probably asleep now, so no rush to reply.]
A Ministry of Culture award? The only link Chu Zhi had to them was the Hokkaido Song Festival.
Had the performance really been that impactful?
He wasn't well-versed in the cultural sector, but the truth was, the influence of "Once, I Thought of Ending It All" reached further than he'd imagined. Originally meant to encourage families of disaster victims in Hokkaido, the song ended up resonating across society.
Most importantly, Chu Zhi had officially been sent by the Ministry, which meant this counted as a political achievement. Of course, they'd take notice.
If only he had a few more years of experience, the award would be a lock. For now, though, he was still a bit too young.
"Alright, alright, I'm feeling lucky today. Time for a spin—" Chu Zhi's sentence trailed off as he noticed something.
He had seven personality coins left.
Where did all his coins go? He knew, of course. He'd been spending them himself. Still, it felt just like real money—no matter how much you had, it never seemed enough.
"Any of my achievement badges getting close?" Chu Zhi settled in to check.
The 'Face King' badge for appearing bare-faced and the 'Fairy Boy' badge for rejecting invites both seemed within reach.
"Forget it, I'll wait to draw until I unlock a couple more." He decided to do his daily reading before bed instead.
Elsewhere, Niu Jiangxue hadn't gone to sleep either. Chu Zhi had told her to clock out around 10 p.m., but she stayed up to trace the source of a privacy leak. Eventually, she tracked it down to a flight attendant who was a Little Fruit fan.
Leaks of celebrities' personal info were common. For bigger stars, it was practically routine. But Chu Zhi's team had been lucky—thanks to his "mom fans."
Still, luck only went so far. In the internet age, leaking personal data was too easy and too cheap.
Some mom fans, like those of Su Yiwu, would even buy the info themselves. But Chu Zhi's fan group was unusually protective of him.
"Little Fruits really are the most loyal fan group in entertainment," Niu Jiangxue muttered. "Not a single hired photographer."
Usually, leaked info would lead to fan-sponsored paparazzi. Sometimes even pros would camp out for footage to sell to fan sites.
These weren't real fans. They were in it for the money. They'd block elevators, shove cameras in faces—no line was sacred.
Niu Jiangxue figured she needed to take extra precautions.
The next day, the skies wept for the hustle below. Under torrential rain, every office worker looked more wretched than usual.
"Good thing I left spare clothes at the office," said Fei, who even managed to squeeze in a quick shower in the company washroom.
The studio had showers, much like a gym. Even though Chu Zhi always discouraged overtime, the nature of the work made it unavoidable. Fei was used to staying late.
"Wait, how are you bone-dry?" Fei stared as Qi Qiu walked in, spotless and composed.
Given the morning's storm, even with a car and umbrella, most people were at least a little soaked.
"I checked the forecast. Rain started at 7. I got here by 6:30, walked around a bit," said Qi Qiu.
Fei blinked. "You got here at 6:30? When'd you wake up?"
"Six. I live nearby, less than 500 meters away," Qi Qiu replied.
"There aren't any apartment complexes within a kilometer of here," Fei said. Normally he wouldn't push, but he was the kind of guy who just had to get to the bottom of things.
"Oh, right. Forgot to mention," Qi Qiu said. "I live in an RV. Bought it with my first real paycheck. Parked it in the outdoor garage next door. There's a line of trees, so it's got a nice view. Pretty private. Close to a charging port too."
"What?" Fei was baffled. Long-term RV living? That was next level.
He'd never tried living in one, so he asked, "Is it comfortable?"
"It's a Mercedes-Benz Sprinter 3500. Lots of space inside. I hired a cleaner to come daily—empties the gray water tank and tidies up. It's basically like living in a hotel. Only downside is needing to rent two parking spots."
Everyone has their own way of life, Fei understood that. Still, the cost of RV living probably matched that of a business hotel.
After a bit more small talk, Fei got back to work. He'd received a call from the Overseas Liaison Department at CCTV's international division.
They were finalizing promotion details. The Hokkaido Song Festival would air on CCTV-15 on October 28—just two days away.
It wasn't just domestic. Thailand's NBT and South Korea's KBS would also air the show on the same day.
"What kind of coordination do you need from us?" Fei asked, switching into work mode. Just thinking about how the song had moved so many Japanese fans...
Chu Zhi wasn't just beloved by fans. He had mainstream appeal, and even non-fans were drawn in.
With a national broadcast coming, this was big. Fei wasn't taking it lightly.