Chapter 243 - A Song, A Show, A Surge of Fans

🎵 "A duck swam beneath the bridge in front of the gate, come quick and count them, two, four, six, seven, eight…" 🎵

Chu Zhi sipped on an iced cola, humming an old folk tune that matched the setting perfectly.

Today, they had rushed all the way to Sanmenxia, Henan Province. The city itself wasn't especially famous, but it was home to one nationally recognized site: Hangu Pass—the very same historic stronghold often featured in films and TV dramas.

But Chu Zhi's team wasn't here for that landmark. They were shooting an ad in the White Swan Reserve along the Yellow River. The commercial was for Boucheron's new Swan Series gemstone necklaces. Shooting in China's largest swan sanctuary made perfect sense—visually and thematically.

Old Qian followed Chu Zhi's gaze toward the river where a big white goose flapped noisily across the water. Hearing the idol call the goose a duck, he didn't correct him. Instead, he asked, "Ninth Master, is that song like 'Good Night Meow'—a children's rhyme?"

Chu Zhi grinned. "Just singing whatever came to mind."

He was clearly in high spirits. After all, a new episode of Journey Among the Stars would air that evening. That meant a fresh wave of fans.

The day's schedule was packed—nonstop filming from morning until night. There hadn't even been time for lunch. But Chu Zhi had never once whined about it on Weibo. Crying online for sympathy? That was amateur hour.

His entire publicity approach differed from the usual A-list crowd. No overblown praise for his acting, no planted media fluff claiming he was "the most dedicated in the business," and certainly no melodramatic updates in fan groups about how tired he was.

Take today, for instance. The client had suddenly added two extra shooting sets. That meant no time for lunch. Still, Chu Zhi was getting paid handsomely. There were plenty of people out there waking up before dawn, breaking their backs all day, and still earning barely enough to scrape by. Complaining about being tired while making millions? That, in his words, was just plain whiny.

As Journey Among the Stars prepared to air, all the featured guests were expected to repost promotional material. Chu Zhi's studio handled the reposting for him.

Ironically, the most enthusiastic promoter wasn't one of the main cast but rather a guest star—Yang Shinbo.

Yang Shinbo had been in the industry for over ten years, juggling singing, acting in films, and TV dramas. Over time, he'd gained strong national recognition. His fan base, creatively known as the "Flock," "Wool Party," and even "Dr. Yang," was known for its wild sense of humor.

Comments flooded in: 

"Here for Old Goat!", "

Our slogan: Fleece the Sheep!", 

"Who's the social butterfly gonna bother today? Bet it's Chu Zu!",

"Hubby, I'm here!"

Yang's overly friendly personality had once earned him flak on another variety show. Since then, his fans had made it a running joke.

Most male idols get called "husband" in comments, but for Yang Shinbo, 90% of those calling him that were other guys—go figure. That's just the kind of fan base he had.

Of course, Chu Zhi still dominated the comment stream. Even with advanced filtering enabled to remove duplicate comments, his fans' messages flooded the screen:

"Chu Zhi's legs aren't legs, they're spring waters by the Seine."

"That waist isn't a waist, it's a killer curved blade!"

"Are you all preparing for grad school or something? Why are the comments so spicy? All I can type is AAAAAHHHH!"

Male viewers and casual fans usually turned off the comments just to avoid the chaos.

Picking up where the last episode left off, Chu Zhi rode more than 20 kilometers to meet up with Yang Shinbo at Sapporo Station. Despite being first-time collaborators, they acted like old friends. Yang's overly familiar energy was met with Chu Zhi's calm composure—no awkwardness at all.

Male fans noticed odd details. Unlike female fans, they didn't comment on Chu Zhi buying two bottles of water and giving one to his guest. Instead, they focused on how well he handled Yang's enthusiasm without seeming uncomfortable.

The team began prepping for a street performance. Commenters were hyped:

"Time to let the Old Goat shine!"

"Sure, he talks a lot, but the man can sing."

"As long as production doesn't sabotage it, this task should be easy."

But excitement didn't guarantee results.

One song, then two… but the turnout was far less than expected. Not even 50 people stopped, let alone 200.

The show's director, Che Lun, leaned into the struggle, even using his production team for meta humor. A small window showed Wheel and his assistant discussing in the control room:

"Street performances are tough without prior hype or a fixed audience. Getting 100 people is hard enough," Che Lun said.

"True, most passersby are still at work," the assistant director agreed. "The record here is 150, set by local idol Daikawa Ronin."

Local idols—celebrities promoted by specific prefectures—naturally drew hometown crowds.

"Our rule for 'gathering a crowd' is just staying put for ten seconds. Not too harsh, right?"

"Not at all."

"So they'll need props."

"Definitely. Who even keeps props on them?"

Their exchange foreshadowed Yang's impending failure.

While fans of typical idols would've been heartbroken, Yang's male fans celebrated: 

"LMAOOO",

 "Outplayed by production. Old Goat's a mess.", 

"Fly high, Goat. If you crash, it's on you."

When Chu Zu stepped up to sing, these fans didn't trash-talk—but inwardly, they doubted he'd outperform Yang.

🎵"夢ならばどれほどよかったでしょう,

未だにあなたのことを夢にみる"

 忘れた物を取りに帰るように

古びた思い出の埃を払う"🎵

From the first line, the difference was night and day. The skill and emotion were palpable.

Yang's fans were stunned. Wait, this guy sings better than Old Goat?

No joke. When it came to vocal resonance and mixing, Chu Zhi didn't just outshine Yang Shinbo. He dragged him face-first through the dirt.

Maybe due to copyright issues, or perhaps an oversight, the post-production subtitles stayed in Japanese, with no Chinese translation. Most viewers didn't understand the lyrics, so they assumed the song had a slightly sad tone, though the chorus felt energetic.

It was just like Earth's "She Once Lived," a song that sounded upbeat but was actually about suicide awareness.

Still, Chu Zhi's performance drew a crowd.

"Damn, this slaps!", 

"Chu Zu's songwriting is insane, but since when does he do Japanese?", 

"666", 

"Conquering Japanese randos with one song—why does this feel so satisfying?", 

"This is straight-up wish fulfillment. Chu Zu's making fiction reality!"

After finishing the challenge, Chu Zhi and Yang Shinbo rushed to Ramen Alley to regroup with the team.

Their next task was simple: help one of the local shops, Nankuchi Saji Ramen, double its usual sales—without using their celebrity status.

Game-savvy Cai Jia quickly devised a plan. The "dumb method": go pull people in from the street.

Dumb, maybe, but very effective. Ramen Alley used to be a local favorite, but ever since it became famous, it was packed with tourists. And tourists could be convinced.

Cai Jia killed it. She modeled her strategy after an experience in Chengdu's Fifth Avenue, where someone dragged her into a shop.

First line out of her mouth: "What do you feel like eating? Our Saji Pork Ramen or our customer favorite, the Lily Leaf Noodles?"

She didn't even ask if people were hungry—just gave them choices.

But a snag hit: no one in the team spoke Japanese, so their target audience had to be domestic tourists.

Thankfully, Ramen Alley was a hotspot. Tourists weren't in short supply. What they didn't anticipate, though, was the national recognition of Zhang Ning and Min Jeongbae.

National fame didn't always equal fan following. Zhang Ning had under 10 million Weibo followers, but even parents could recognize her.

Once spotted, she and Jeongbae were no longer anonymous. And even though they wore masks, Jeongbae's expressive eyebrows gave him away. Chu Zhi had once joked that Min's brows alone held a whole life story.

Under the rules, "celebrity identity cannot be used to promote the store."

So, any sales pulled in by Jeongbae or Zhang Ning were disqualified. Zhang Ning blew up.

She hadn't said she was a celeb, hadn't used her fame—and yet, they got penalized. She threatened to quit on the spot.

The producers were stunned. Sure, the show followed a general script, and the guests knew the arc, but this… this was real fury.

It was like a girl joking around with her boyfriend, then suddenly getting genuinely upset mid-laugh.

Che Lun knew Zhang Ning could be headstrong, but this… was next level.

Neither Luo Jianhui nor Min Jeongbae could calm her down.

Thankfully, Chu Zhi arrived.

"Who bullied our Sister Zhang?" he asked with a smile.

Then he negotiated with the staff. Che Lun quickly gave in. "We'll just remove the few customers who recognized you from the total. The rest will count."

Zhang Ning finally cooled off.

"If Sister Zhang hadn't stood her ground, we really would've gotten screwed by the producers," Chu Zhi said.

It wasn't a tantrum. It was leadership. That comment hit just right.

Zhang smiled. Her temper, while fiery, faded fast.

Chu Zhi also praised team MVP Cai Jia. As team captain, he treated everyone fairly.

Male fans and casual viewers alike could see how Chu Zhi held the group together. Even someone as notoriously difficult as Zhang Ning worked well with him.

Clearly, time after time, it was Chu Zhi acting as the glue behind each mission's success.

One detail stood out—Luo Jianhui wasn't the most vocal in the group. During team discussions, his voice was softer, certainly not as loud as Yang Shinbo's boisterous tone or Cai Jia's naturally booming voice. His presence wasn't as commanding as Min Jeongbae's either.

There were a couple of times when Luo Jianhui tried to speak, only to be drowned out by others. He had said, "I think we can reconsider this task," and, "It feels like the production team is setting us up."

Chu Zhi always picked up on it. He would speak up for him, saying things like, "Luo-ge thinks we should reconsider? Why?" or "I agree, this task does feel rigged. The crew's up to no good again." That way, Luo Jianhui never felt ignored.

As the episode drew to a close, Chu Zhi had prepared a surprise birthday party for Zhang Ning. Some viewers had commented after the first episode that it wasn't obvious he looked out for his teammates, but this time, it was clear as day.

Then came the teaser for the next episode—Chu Zhi sneaking out late at night. Well, not exactly sneaking, he left the hotel openly. But the way the promo was edited gave it an air of mystery.

The full episode ran for two and a half hours if watched at regular speed. But just one hour in, the internet was already buzzing.

Episode two outperformed the first. The first one had set a solid foundation, so the second rode the momentum.

Time Waits for No One:[I came for Old Goat, but ended up becoming a Chu Zhi fan. The way he plays games is just so unrestrained.]

Zhonghu Zhaixin Ye:[Didn't expect the Iron Scroll prop to be used for a birthday surprise. Chu Zhi really cares about everyone.]

Bookworm:[At first, I thought all the bullet comments about Chu Zhi were annoying. But after watching, I get it. He's the kind of guy you can really get along with. Chill personality, talented, and easy on the eyes too.]

Where Did This Fool Come From:[People used to say Chu Zhi was the king of live performances among the younger generation. I used to scoff at that. But watching him sing on the street in a foreign country, still managing to captivate people... maybe it's true.]

A-Zhu Can Fly:[Not gonna lie, I watched the first episode for the goddess, but I didn't expect Chu Zhi to have such a great personality offstage too.]

For many people, reality shows are the closest thing to seeing what celebrities are like in private. It made sense. Not everyone's got paparazzi tracking their lives 24/7. So Chu Zhi's kindness and sincerity really shone through.

Cai Jia, Yang Xinbo, and Luo Jianhui all brought in plenty of male fans to watch the show, but somewhere along the way, many of them found themselves quietly becoming Chu Zhi's fans too.

Or maybe not full-on fans—the kind who join fan clubs and grind rankings. Most guys didn't have the time or energy for that. But when Chu Zhi released an album, they wouldn't hesitate to buy it. That's goodwill, not obsession.

Short-form videos, for all their faults in dumbing down the entertainment industry, were still incredibly effective at spreading content. Clips of Chu Zhi's street performance started going viral. Some titles included:

"The World May Be Cruel, But Romance Lives On—A Singer's Tender Defiance"

"Turns Out Chinese Lyrics Hit Harder—A Random Song from a Chinese Artist, and It's in Japanese"

"Just How Alluring Can One Man Be?"

Accounts like "Chu Zhi Intelligence Station," "Mr. Handsome Chu," and "Jiu-ye's Recycling Bin" were all riding the wave, milking the content for views.

Thanks to short-form videos, Chu Zhi's Japanese song got a second wind.

Netizens started clamoring for him to release a single version of "Lemon."

"I get it, recording a song takes time and money. But I don't mind paying, just don't keep it to yourself!"

"Everyone else hides their best songs in albums to surprise people. You? You sing it on TV, then don't even release it. This is wild!"

Where there's demand, there's business. With so many people asking, several music platforms reached out to Chu Zhi's team.

But with his packed schedule, he didn't have time to record.

Then Fei-ge made a suggestion. "Orange Orchard already has over 600,000 daily active users and it's stable. If we release 'Lemon' exclusively there, it'll boost our numbers even more."

Orange Orchard was the fan community app. It wasn't profitable yet, but high user activity meant strong potential. Advertisers were already circling. Chu Zhi just hadn't accepted any deals yet.

Fei-ge saw the opportunity. An app with 500,000 DAUs was already one-fifth the size of Qidian's traffic and one-thirtieth of QQ Reading.

But Chu Zhi declined. "It's too much hassle. My songs are free so more people can hear them. Making people download an app just to listen defeats the point."

What he didn't say was that Orange Orchard was mostly filled with diehard fans. Letting the song draw in random outsiders would change the vibe. His "little fruits" wouldn't like that.

Earlier that morning, Chu Zhi had made up for his missed reading session at 5 a.m. He still had another session to go. But even doing it twice in one day felt like a drag.

Book lovers could read for hours without complaint. But Chu Zhi was just a normal guy. Reading was a discipline he forced upon himself.

"Just thirty minutes today," he told himself.

And with that, the resistance in his heart faded. He picked up Guoque and started reading.

Guoque was a privately compiled chronological history by Tan Qian. Unless you were a Ming dynasty scholar, you'd probably never heard of it.

Tan Qian believed the Qing had monopolized historical narratives and were full of inaccuracies. So he traveled the land, documenting accounts himself. But after finishing the manuscript—it was stolen.

So he rewrote it from scratch. All 100 volumes. Over four million words. As a Ming loyalist, he believed "a fallen nation must not forget its history." The Qing eventually banned the book.

"Tan Qian was definitely a great historian," Chu Zhi murmured. "China has gone through countless dynasties, but we still have a clear historical thread. That's thanks to people like him."

Half an hour passed.

"I've already done thirty minutes. Might as well read twenty more. Better than leaving it at an unlucky three." He grinned to himself.

Twenty minutes flew by. "Ten more? That's barely a game round."

One hour became two. He figured he might as well finish Volume Four. As he read, he took notes. He'd read the official History of Ming, then Guoque, and next would be Ming Shilu. All three often contradicted each other.

Two hours and forty minutes later, Chu Zhi muttered, "Might as well round it up to three. Finish the day's task properly."

This was his trick. When faced with a task he resisted, he would convince himself with little mental bargains. Strangely, it even made him more efficient.

Two hours reading history, one hour translating Japanese, one hour translating English. Then sleep.

That night, something unexpected happened in his dreams. His Japanese song had earned him a new kind of fan—a professor.

Xiao Yue, associate professor of Japanese at BFSU, 45 years old, author of Comprehensive Mechanical Engineering Japanese. A small name in the field. He didn't care much for celebrities or reality shows, but his college freshman daughter was obsessed with this idol.

He was curious. What was so great about this Chu Zhi?

The first impression? Decent-looking young guy. But good looks didn't mean much these days.

Then he heard the street performance.

🎵"夢ならばどれほどよかったでしょう,

未だにあなたのことを夢にみる"🎵

🎵"受け止めきれないものと出会うたび

溢れてやまないのは涙だけ"🎵

🎵"If only this were all a dream, how much easier it would be. Even now, I still see your shadow in my sleep "🎵

🎵"When I face pain I cannot endure, the only thing that pours out are my tears."🎵

Xiao Yue was moved. As a professor, he understood the lyrics instantly. Sad, wistful, like someone mourning a loved one.

"Is he mourning a family member?" he wondered, searching for information on Chu Zhi's background.

There was almost nothing. That meant Chu Zhi protected his family well. But some rumors floated around—like having powerful connections.

Except Chu Zhi had been an ambassador for the fire department and the police. Not just any celebrity could pull that off.

Xiao Yue made a call. He had friends in law enforcement.

The answer? Chu Zhi was the descendant of two martyrs.

His grandfather—the man who raised him—had passed away two years ago.

The lyrics hit even harder now. He realized the song was a tribute to his late grandfather.

But why in Japanese? Chu Zhi hadn't studied in Japan.

Then he thought, maybe Chu Zhi didn't want his Chinese fans to understand the lyrics. Maybe he didn't want them to feel sad.

That… made sense.

Seeing how he remembered teammates' birthdays and planned thoughtful surprises, Xiao Yue started to understand why his daughter admired this star so much.

Then he found old articles: false accusations, a suicide attempt, blacklisting, severe depression.

"Even if the world hurts him, he still loves the world."

Xiao Yue scoffed at first. No one was that good.

But maybe… maybe Chu Zhi really was different.

Xiao Yue finally understood why his daughter admired Chu Zhi so much.

"This celebrity… is nothing like the ones I imagined," he murmured with a long sigh. "Chu Zhi must have an atypical, deeply selfless personality."

He often told his daughter she didn't understand the world. In a couple of days, once she was home for break, he planned to sit down and talk with her about the idol she was always going on about.

"You worship someone without even knowing why," Xiao Yue thought, already forming the words he wanted to say.

The next day, the sun was high, but there was no warmth to be found.

📢 "iQIYI's Paid Members Increased by 3.79 Million in Just Two Weeks. What Sparked the Surge?" — Daily Economic News

According to data released by Daily Economic News, iQIYI's average daily paying subscribers had reached 86.54 million.

Compared to a total base that massive, a jump of 3.79 million might seem insignificant. But here's the catch—when you combine "average daily" with "total members," it's already playing with statistics. Under that framework, a surge of 3.79 million can translate into figures upward of ten or twenty million.

The article clarified that in fiscal year 2019, iQIYI's total revenue was 28.99 billion RMB, with a non-GAAP operating loss of 2.6 billion. Of that, member subscriptions contributed 14.1 billion, far outpacing advertising and content licensing. This sudden influx of new members might signal a turning point.

Other outlets quickly picked it up—Tonghuashun, Jiemian News, Global Times, Zhiyan Consulting, and TechWeb all dove into the question: where did these 3.79 million new users come from?

The headlines said it all:

"Redefining the Power of Fangirls"

"Is Chu Zhi an Outlier, or the New Benchmark for Top-Tier Stars?"

"The Growth Saga of Miracle Pill Chu Zhi"

Data laid it bare. iQIYI's usual membership growth sat around 530,000 per month. This was a spike, and the cause was obvious: Journey Among the Stars. The extended cut was only available to paid users, and fans—especially the devoted "little fruits"—just couldn't get enough.

Researchers also asked: Do all top-tier celebrities have this kind of pull?

The answer was no.

They compared multiple reality shows featuring top stars, and none had driven engagement like this. Only Chu Zhi had caused such an overwhelming surge.

The professional analyses, with all their neat graphs and figures, weren't really meant for gossip fans. But one thing everyone could see—

Chu Zhi's stardom wasn't in the same category as anyone else's. The old list of "Big Six Celebrities"? Time to toss it out.

Platforms like Tencent Video, Youku, and even Bilibili—who were just starting to dip their toes into original programming—had all realized one thing: there was a miracle drug, and its name was Chu Zhi.

Naturally, his market value shot up again.

At that moment, Chu Zhi was riding a high-speed train from Shanghai to Nanjing. Trains were still faster than flights for these distances.

"Gu Cheng's poetry is probably exactly the kind of spiritual beauty the Misty Poets sought," Chu Zhi muttered, looking at the notification that another one of his poems had been selected as "Poem of the Day." The loneliness of being unmatched was becoming all too real.

Since getting his hands on Gu Cheng's selected works, he had uploaded two poems to the China Poetry Network: "Avoidance" and "At the Door." Both were chosen as daily picks. A 100% success rate.

Back when he posted pieces from Stray Birds, he often got the same honor, though many users would leave sarcastic or backhanded comments. This time, however, the feedback had been sincerely positive. He figured it had to do with the romantic tone.

Even people outside the poetry scene could sense the impact without needing deep analysis.

One more, he thought. Tapping away on his phone, he uploaded a new piece:

Far and Near

You,

sometimes look at me,

sometimes look at the clouds.

I feel

when you look at me, you're far away,

when you look at the clouds, you're close.

"Now what's this invitation?" he mumbled, spotting a message in his inbox.

It was a submission request from Star, a major poetry publication known for its patriotic themes. Even though Chu Zhi once thought he'd failed to build up enough prestige on China Poetry Network, the thirty-plus "Poem of the Day" titles under his name had earned him a solid reputation.

Only four or five poets had received direct invitations to submit.

Among the country's big three poetry journals—October, Star, and Poetry—Star was a nationally ranked core journal in Chinese literature. Whether widely read or not, being featured there was a mark of honor for any poet.

"Should I go with If… or A Generation?" Chu Zhi hesitated for a second before settling on If…

In five minutes, he had uploaded the entire poem.

At lunch, he treated the whole team to a massive carb-heavy feast.

Later that night, while snacking again, something clicked in his mind. Another achievement unlocked: [Overeat Carbs for One Day * 100]—earned 8 Personality Coins.

🎵 "I've waited so long and finally made it to today. I dreamed so long and now the dream has come true." 🎵

He immediately redeemed two rare items: "Hair Suicide Ice Cream" and "1+1 Equals One Spicy Strip." After making the purchases, his balance dropped to 3 coins, but he didn't regret a thing. If these ever went into mass production, it would be totally worth it.

The system's "rare items" were ridiculous, but not beyond the limits of human understanding. They could preserve appearances, slow hair loss.

Some people had thick hair even when pulling all-nighters, while others started balding early.

A few celebrities barely aged, but they still looked human. Even Zhang Yimou—well into his seventies—still directed three films a year and took charge of the Olympic ceremonies. It was absurd. Anyone else would have crumbled under the pressure.

But again, it all came down to constitution.

"Step by step, I've become the heartthrob of multiple generations worldwide. That's fair, right?" Chu Zhi muttered.