An audience of 20,000—already surpassing most music festivals. Even the renowned MIDI Festival barely drew a few thousand.
The Rongcheng Outdoor Music Park was vast, which meant plenty of staff was needed to maintain order. Fortunately, they had a secret weapon: top-tier "volunteers."
Thanks to Chu Zhi's participation, many Little Fruits had signed up to help. Volunteering meant free entry and the chance to catch a glimpse of brother Jiu. A little sweat was nothing.
Outside the park, however, volunteers couldn't help much. Traffic coordination required actual police officers.
The show officially began at 2 p.m., but by 10 a.m., the gates were already surrounded by eager fans. Huaxia folks were nothing if not clever. Food carts lined the sidewalks, selling spiced potatoes, sizzling tofu, grilled gluten skewers, and rose jelly.
Especially the sizzling tofu—often advertised as Korean-style. But tourists from Seoul expressed genuine confusion: they'd never seen it before.
Even with language barriers, Arabic numerals were universal. Vendors marked their prices with thick marker pens in giant font. It worked just fine.
"Did you get in touch?" asked Huang Xi, a mother fan and the organizer for Little Fruits who had bought tickets.
It was a tradition unique to Little Fruits. Every major event had a designated leader. This came from: "Brother Jiu wants every fan to be safe."
It sounded like a lot—and it was. Leaders didn't get paid, usually spent energy and their own money, but people like Huang Xi loved it. It was a way to show that the Orange Orchard fandom was different from all the rest.
"We've pulled over 700 Little Fruits into a group chat already," said Qiqi. "The issue is that the lineup for the tri-nation festival came out late. By the time we knew brother Jiu was attending, most tickets were gone."
"There are lots of Ragdoll fans from Japan and Apostles from South Korea, but they're scattered. No way to find a coordinator to communicate with," Qiqi added.
"Forget the foreign fans. Just make sure our Little Fruits are safe," Huang Xi said firmly.
"Brother Jiu doesn't appear often," Qiqi sighed. "I really want to go to the Orange Festival on July 9th."
Huang Xi stayed silent. She'd tried using connections and money to secure a ticket, but word came from inside—it was impossible, not even with bribes. Just thinking about it left her frustrated. On one hand, it was great that special tickets couldn't be bought through shady means. On the other, she couldn't get in herself.
As the blazing sun rose, more fans sought shade. The crowd thickened, and nearby parking lots filled to the brim.
Around 1:20 p.m., the singers began arriving. Japanese and Korean performers entered through the south and west gates. Chinese artists came through the east, closer to the main stage.
Screams erupted from the audience: "Ragdoll! Ragdoll!" "The Demon King is here!" "Brother Jiu, I love you!"
Out of 20,000 attendees, nearly 70% were hardcore idol fans. Most called out for Chu Zhi, with smaller pockets cheering for Izawa Iro and Nam Junmo.
"Inoue, Deputy Minister of Culture, hopes we achieve a great result," said Toriyama Jirou, addressing the four other Japanese singers in the car. "First place would be ideal."
"But this is China's home turf..." Izawa Iro hesitated. Touted as Japan's next hope in the music world, she was a rare solo debut success in recent years. Her sweet voice had graced many romance and slice-of-life anime openings.
"China isn't like Korea," Toriyama Jirou said confidently. "With their rich cultural legacy, they emphasize fairness above all else. That's why Inoue pushed for a strong lineup—Kubo Todoren-san, Fujiwara Keiki-san, Toyohara Shin-san, and you."
Praise from a veteran like Toriyama prompted the others to feign modesty.
"Given how China handles competition, I'd bet the audience is split evenly among the three countries," Jiro continued. "Our ranking will depend entirely on skill."
That thought made Izawa Iro nervous. She planned to sing her breakout hit in China, "Sweet Sweet Loop". It had done well online. Still... Chu Zhi was on the list. Iro wasn't a diehard fan, but even she had bought his EP. His vocals and emotional delivery were on another level.
Fujiwara Keiki checked his email. Each singer had received schedules and performance rosters. His thirty-year-old face looked like it had weathered fifty years.
"Our biggest threats," he said, "are Byeon Jaejung and Chu Zhi."
That set Toyohara Shin off. "Chu Zhi? He's just a marketing product. We'll crush him easily."
"Faked a heroic image after the earthquake, dropped an album, then used bel canto in Russia as another stunt. He's a one-trick pony."
Toyohara Shin came from an old noble lineage—'Toyohara' was a rare ancient surname. But that didn't mean much today. None of Japan's top four conglomerates had a single-surname origin.
"Our true rival is Byeon Jaejung. The throat monster," Toyohara concluded.
Ever since Koguchi Yoshihiro had helped promote Chu Zhi, Toyohara had disliked him. He never actually watched Chu Zhi's performances or listened to his songs—he only heard rumors.
"Byeon can still hit triple high notes. His vocal cords are like he's in his thirties," Toriyama Jirou said. "And he's performing 'June Blizzard'—his signature song."
Izawa Iro had tried covering that one. Nearly ruined her throat.
If Byeon could deliver even 80% of his original performance, he had a good shot at winning.
Throat resonance—a bel canto technique in Italian opera—was similar to Chinese's traditional open-throat training. It wasn't just for high notes, but also powerful low tones.
Honestly, Chu Zhi was strong too. Iro admitted it silently. But she didn't dare contradict Toyohara Shin.
Kubo Todoren sat in the back of the van, shades on, black jacket and spiked boots. The silent rocker. Maybe his singing wasn't flawless, but his stage presence was unmatched.
"No other genre can match heavy metal in power," Kubo thought to himself. He didn't care what the others said. He had faith in his music. Beating Chu Zhi might be tough, but not impossible.
Meanwhile, South Korea's team had arrived backstage. The semi-open venue meant few resting rooms, so they were divided by nationality.
The Korean room was modest—TV on the wall, blue chairs, a black loveseat, dark wallpaper.
"Please, Mr. Byeon, take the couch," said Jeon Ajeong respectfully.
He sat, followed in order by Jeon Ajeong, Lee Youngjun, Kim Ryuhak, and finally Nam Junmo—seated by seniority, no one dared overstep.
"To win the audience vote, who are our biggest threats in China and Japan?" Byeon Jaejung asked. "Know your enemy, and you can make a plan."
Despite all the talk of cultural friendship, this festival was a fierce competition. Each country's captain picked the lineup. The post-show vote mattered more than anyone admitted.
Lee Youngjun and Kim Ryuhak knew it was their time to speak.
"Chu Zhi from China, and Kubo Todoren from Japan," said Kim Ryuhak.
"Kubo has raw stage power, but I think Chu Zhi's popularity makes him more dangerous," added Lee Youngjun. "He's not a perfect singer, but his fanbase is overwhelming."
"If possible, I'd like to go head-to-head with Chu Zhi," Nam Junmo said.
Why? Because his group's record was recently broken by Chu Zhi's single, "After the Clouds Clear"
Byeon Jaejung didn't reply. His vocal power might've stayed frozen in time, but his face had aged—liver spots, deep forehead creases.
"So Chu Zhi and Kubo are the ones to watch... I'll make arrangements," Byeon finally said.
No specifics.
Onstage, technicians checked lighting and sound. Fans filtered into the venue, buzzing with anticipation.
Even the clouds seemed to part, letting sunshine blaze down like nature itself wanted a front-row seat.
In the Chinese waiting room, things felt fractured. Wang Dong and Yuan He stayed in the corners, trying to stay invisible.
"What song did you choose, Teacher Yuan?" Wang Dong asked.
"Something I'm comfortable with. Hoping for a good result." Yuan He tried to sound confident.
"I'm doing 'When I...'," Wang Dong replied.
Yuan He raised an eyebrow. That song had been the theme of a massively popular early-2000s drama known across all three countries. Clever move.
Chu Zhi, Gu Peng, and Qi Dake sat near the center, casually chatting to ease their nerves.
As Qi Dake put it, "No matter how many times you sing, the moment you face the crowd, you get nervous."
Gu Peng was even worse—he got anxious just talking in public.
Chu Zhi? It depended. If he'd had a drink or two, the "Drunken Immortal" within him emerged, turning anxiety into excitement. But sober... yeah, he was a little tense too.
"Teachers Chu, Gu, Qi—when would you like to go on stage?" asked Yuan He, stepping forward.