Inside Chu Zhi's management team, the choice between JD.com, Pinduoduo, and Tmall sparked heated debate.
Niu Jiangxue firmly supported Tmall. Her reasoning was simple: Double Eleven was created by Alibaba, and Taobao and Tmall had always dominated in terms of sales. Since Chu Zhi held the top spot in domestic popularity, he should naturally stand with the leading platform.
Fei-ge and those who followed his view argued for Pinduoduo—it offered the highest fee and the least hassle.
Wang Yuan voted for JD.com.
"As an artist, endorsements need to reflect product reputation and brand identity," she said. "Among the three, JD has the most positive public image. For Ah Jiu's long-term credibility, we should choose JD."
Fei-ge pushed back. "That's a narrow perspective. If the goal is relatability, then fans need to afford what he endorses. Pinduoduo practically stands for affordability. That's still on brand."
"But Pinduoduo's platform includes promotions designed to trap consumers," Wang Yuan replied sharply. "The average buyer won't switch platforms just because of an endorsement. But if they run into faulty goods, they'll blame the face behind the ad. It's human nature to shift responsibility."
"A gentleman doesn't stand under a crumbling wall," she added. "Endorsing a brand while knowing full well its shady 'slash-a-price' and 'cash grab' gimmicks isn't a responsible decision."
Fei-ge scoffed. "By that logic, any brand could explode in scandal. Nothing is 100 percent safe."
Their back-and-forth left Niu Jiangxue speechless. She realized she couldn't find a good counterpoint.
After weighing everything, Chu Zhi sided with JD.com.
Originally, he had leaned toward Tmall too—but the schedule clashed. He simply couldn't fit in the Tmall Double Eleven Night recording.
Alibaba's top ambassador had to attend the gala and perform two songs. It would be too awkward for their main endorser not to show. There was no way to reconcile the dates.
While Qi Qiu negotiated the finer points of the JD contract, Chu Zhi found himself thinking about that sporty rookie he had played badminton with. Over lunch, he looked up Zhou Yuyi. Freshly debuted, his online songs were both covers. No real representative work to speak of.
"Not even something decent to boost," Chu Zhi muttered. In contrast, he had once lifted Dabaibaitang with a single indirect post.
He had wanted to post a casual "[Heard a solid track today]" to help, but Zhou Yuyi's catalog left him no opening.
That day, both Chu Zhi and the team received important mail.
For the team, it was an update from Star Voyage. Shooting would resume. The schedule clashed slightly with current plans, but Niu Jiangxue noted it could be adjusted.
Chu Zhi's mail was a pleasant surprise. He received a remittance slip from Japan's Ronin Publishing: 1.4 million yen in stamp tax—roughly 70,000 yuan.
The first print of his poetry collection had sold over 1,000 copies. Within a month, it had been reprinted twice. Cumulative sales had now crossed 10,000 copies, ranking 27th in new book sales.
Ronin Publishing had done well. Marketing it as an "on sale" foreign poetry collection, riding on the mystique of Western imports. Japanese readers still held a strange reverence for America and Europe.
The key was in the wording. They didn't say "bestseller," just "on sale." No specific numbers disclosed.
The poems themselves resembled haiku. Like Matsuo Bashō's Spring Rain:
"Spring rains drift, heavy with stillness,
Old friend never comes—no reason to rise."
The style wasn't far off.
"Success in modern poetry depends more on luck, marketing, and timing than actual quality," Chu Zhi mused. He had refused to appear publicly, so the publisher adjusted their approach.
Thankfully, anonymous writers and illustrators were nothing new in Japan. Ronin just sent over a short Q&A for Chu Zhi to fill out for promo use.
The questions were simple:
[What books do you like?] → Romance of the Three Kingdoms
[Most influential writer?] → Lu Xun
[Why write poetry? What's your mindset?] → He gave a random answer.
"Just over ten thousand copies, and the payout's already like this. No wonder Japanese authors live comfortably."
Royalties in Japan ran from 8% to 15%, slightly higher than in China. But the real gap came from pricing.
A Chinese book averaged 25 RMB. Japanese poetry collections sold for 80–90 RMB. At 10% royalties, a Chinese author made 2.5 yuan per book, while a Japanese one made eight or nine.
Despite his packed schedule, Chu Zhi squeezed in a trip to Tokyo for a costume shoot.
The Japanese high school boy uniform, inspired by Western tailoring, had folded lapels and a plain shirt underneath. Once dressed, he radiated a youthful charm—mostly thanks to his looks.
In Japan, male high school uniforms were referred to as DK (short for Danshi Koukousei), and their female counterparts were JK. Shops in Osaka often used the abbreviations.
"Please, join our film production." Director Ōju Etsuji's eyes lit up. This was exactly the lead he had envisioned. "Chu-san, you're the perfect Tengiki."
God must have given this man his face personally. Even Chu Zhi had to admit his original body was absurdly photogenic. Since it all lined up, the collaboration was quickly finalized.
Japan's film industry had declined. Budgets were modest. The film When I Close My Eyes had only 18 million yuan in total investment. Not even enough to match Chu Zhi's typical acting fee. So the producers offered 2 million upfront plus 11% of global box office revenue.
Before he realized it, three or four days had passed. It was time to start shooting week four of Star Voyage.
The cast checked into the Helvetia Hotel, a building with classic Russian architecture from the 19th century. Ornate balconies, strange arches, carved moldings, and cast-iron window grilles gave it a unique presence.
"Looks like a video game map," muttered Cai Jia.
This time, it wasn't Min Zhengpei arriving first. It was gamer-girl Cai Jia, dropping her bags and checking in.
"I thought the show got canceled."
"Guess not."
She had asked her agent immediately after returning from the earthquake zone. If the program was really dead, she at least wanted confirmation her final payment would come through.
Their on-site videographer, a serious young woman, recorded everything while quietly noting how loudly Cai Jia muttered to herself.
Next to arrive was Zhang Ning. She looked tired—she'd been filming another show earlier.
"Ooh, this place is nice. I'm satisfied," Zhang Ning said.
In front of the hotel were shops lined with red and green flowers. The storefronts were all walnut-toned—cake shops, restaurants, fashion boutiques. Zhang Ning thought it was a big improvement over the first shoot in remote Jozankei, Sapporo.
The production team had chosen this location for a reason. It sat close to Nevsky Prospekt, St. Petersburg's main avenue and one of the most beautiful streets in the world. Since Star Voyage billed itself as a travel reality show, the setting had to deliver.
Whether it was truly beautiful depended on taste. Zhang Ning loved it. Cai Jia found it average. But they agreed—it was busy, and luxury shopping options were endless.
"Don't you check luggage anymore?" Chu Zhi asked casually as he greeted staff on arrival.
"After this many episodes, we fully trust our guests not to bring anything problematic," said the familiar staffer handling check-in, not wearing his usual Hongxing Erke hoodie.
Trust? Chu Zhi felt like the show was planning something. Still, no luggage check meant phones and wallets stayed. That could be useful for upcoming missions.
If Che Lun—the executive producer—knew what Chu Zhi was thinking, he'd have laughed. Of course they were up to something. Has anyone ever farted with good intentions?
"You're amazing, Producer. How did you lock in a deal with THT TV in such a short time?" asked assistant Tang, genuinely impressed. No wonder Che Lun was in charge. His organizational and planning skills were no joke.
Moving the show from Japan to Russia was already a surprise. Now they had a co-production with THT TV? Genius. Che Lun was hoping to replicate the success they had with Japanese syndication, this time in Russia.