Chu Zhi had known for a while that his song Chinese People had won an award. On July 1st, the official website of the Publicity Department of the Communist Party of China had published the results, and his name was listed among the winners of the Excellence Award.
But there had been so much buzz surrounding Chu Zhi lately that his team hadn't pushed the news heavily. As a result, it didn't gain much traction online.
Here's a little trick: if you ever need to find reliable sources for party-building reports or grassroots write-ups, the Party Building Network has tons of ready-made material. Nobody reviewing your draft could ever say it's wrong.
Lan Wuyi clapped enthusiastically and used his foot to sweep the ribbons on the floor to the side.
"Seven tribute songs were selected," he said. "The average age of the lyricists is over fifty, all of them well-established artists. You're the only one, little Jiu, who stands out because of your age."
Tan Lu also offered her congratulations, though her voice was so soft that even Emperor Beast didn't hear it.
"Mushroom House even prepared a surprise for me. I'm so surprised," Chu Zhi said, using his signature deadpan humor.
Lin Feifei might not be here, but Chu Zhi's nonsense literature certainly was.
He looked around at the festive setup—confetti cannons, balloons, mood lighting. They'd clearly put in effort. Hmm… the balloons were a bit lopsided though.
He'd had a lot of practice with this kind of thing. Emperor Beast often helped decorate for birthdays and other surprises. Even before he crossed over, Chu Zhi had mastered the art at the age of eleven or twelve, trying everything he could to lift his mother's spirits while she battled depression.
"Xiao Mei, you should really learn songwriting from brother Jiu," Zhou Dakong said instinctively, redirecting the attention.
"Songwriting is really about talent," Tan Lu mumbled. She didn't think she could ever measure up to her idol.
Zhou Dakong gave Chu Zhi a once-over with his squinty eyes, feeling like life was just unfair. Several of his favorite songs were written by Chu Zhi—spanning Chinese-style ballads, rock, jazz, pop, even traditional opera. Now Chu Zhi had nailed the patriotic theme too?
Too talented. It was infuriating.
With that thought, Zhou Dakong set off the last confetti cannon, colorful ribbons exploding right over Chu Zhi's head.
Handsome, gifted, and a great personality? You deserve to be blasted! Zhou Dakong screamed internally.
"Dakong, clean up with the DustVac," Kun Yun directed.
Of course the DustVac was one of the show's sponsors. Dakong nodded and got to work immediately.
Once the confetti excitement died down, the guests sat on the floor around a charcoal pit in the center of the room.
The Mushroom House living room was decorated in a local ethnic style, most of the floor covered in rugs. A cement square in the center held a suspended iron pot, bubbling with tamarind. Chef Blue was experimenting with making tamarind juice.
Usually, they had to feature their sponsor, Chunsheng Milk, as a beverage. Tamarind juice didn't get much screen time because it competed for attention.
"I wonder if Xiao Jiu will give us a live performance," Kun Yun said, prompting at just the right moment.
"Sing one! Sing one!" the other guests joined in, voices echoing through the house.
"Let us hear Chinese People live!"
"I'm ready! I'm ready!"
"I'll sing a little then," Chu Zhi replied, giving in to the warm pressure of the crowd. He began:
🎵 Five thousand years of wind and rain
How many dreams have they held?
Yellow skin, black eyes,
But the smile never changes
Eight thousand miles of rivers and mountains
All flowing like a song... 🎵
The song Chinese People is considered a tier-one patriotic anthem. While not quite as universally recognized as tier-zero classics like My Motherland and I, The East is Red, or My Chinese Heart, it's still a heavyweight.
Originally composed in 1997, the song gained widespread recognition largely thanks to Andy Lau's massive popularity. The lyrics were penned by top lyricist Li Anxiu, who also wrote Thousand Paper Cranes, Big Brother, and Woman Flower—half of Andy Lau's hits, really.
As for performance—Chu Zhi didn't even need studio effects or background music. His pure vocals alone could bring the song to life.
The three-minute a cappella performance ended to a round of thunderous applause. Whether it was the steaming pot or the warmth in the room, the atmosphere had shifted, becoming lively and full.
Tan Lu, ever the dedicated fan, listened with special attention. She knew all too well that her idol had achieved "three miracles"—miraculous songwriting, miraculous vocals, and miraculous recovery from depression. No one could catch up to him.
It was real. What Chu Zhi accomplished in one or two years of training, others would need decades to match. His vibrato and vocal control were stunning.
"Who says young singers need to lip-sync?" Zhou Dakong said, standing up to clap. "Brother Jiu would never agree to that."
"I, Min Jeongbae, second that," said Min Jeongbae.
"Stop praising me. One more compliment and I'll start floating," Chu Zhi joked.
"Teacher Chu is really different from other young stars," said Zhang Xiaodong. "They don't pay much attention to this sort of thing, let alone submit tribute songs."
Li Cheng nodded in agreement. "Hand in hand, no more 'you' or 'me.' Heads held high as we move forward. Let the world know—we are Chinese. These lyrics are amazing. So simple, yet so powerful. The rise of Huaxia's strength."
Their comments were a bit skewed. In truth, many young celebrities had submitted entries—at least a hundred, if you included lesser-known names. After all, in the fan economy era, even patriotism had become a business opportunity.
But writing a song like Chinese People? That wasn't something just anyone could do. And that's why none of theirs got selected.
"There's an old saying you might not know," Min Jeongbae added. "You can always count on Min Jeongbae's acting… and Chu Zhi's singing."
His forced self-praise made everyone laugh. With Min Jeongbae around, no one ever had to worry about awkward silences. He could carry a whole show by himself.
At some point, the tamarind juice was ready. Kun Yun stepped out and returned from the kitchen with a tray of glasses, handing one to each guest.
"Oh my god, that's sour," Dakong said after one sip, scrunching his face until his brows and nose were practically touching.
Zhang Xiaodong and Li Cheng sprawled out comfortably, looking totally relaxed. This was the life they'd dreamed of.
"I've got something to show you," Chef Blue said, getting up to retrieve a box from the top of a large cabinet.
"Dadong, help Blue get that," Kun Yun said. "He's got an injury on his foot."
The moment Kun Yun finished speaking, Dakong dashed over at lightning speed. Chef Blue had initially wanted to handle it himself, but the pain in his leg left him no choice but to accept the help.
The box was black and mushroom-shaped. Definitely not big enough to hide a corpse, but maybe enough to fit a severed head.
"What happened to your leg, Teacher Lan?" Xiao Mei asked with concern.
"I was filming a cameo a few days ago and had a little accident," he said. "There was a supporting actor with seven or eight assistants fussing around him—worse than the lead. The entertainment industry is such a mess. We need more stars like little Jiu."
His frustration was genuine. He'd once been a presenter at the Golden Eagle TV Awards, where a certain idol from a boy-love drama had been extremely rude. Of course, not all young idols were bad—he'd met polite ones too. But a single bad apple had ruined the whole bunch for him.
For the record, in Chef Blue's mind, Chu Zhi wasn't an idol. He was a real musician.
Opening the box, he pulled out a small item.
"This is our Mushroom Capsule. Write your biggest wish on it. The luck of Mushroom House will help it come true."
"Ooooh! I've been waiting for this!" Dakong cheered.
The Mushroom Capsule was an old fan favorite. It remained popular, though Director Luo Xunyuan was careful not to overuse it. They'd only do it maybe twice a season.
Special shoutout to Ace vs Ace—they really ruined the Telephone Game by playing it every time.
Everyone was given paper and pens to write down their wishes. Some scribbled away immediately. Others took their time.
Emperor Beast thought it over carefully and decided to write the wish that truly came from his heart: "I hope I can taste Mom's cooking one more time."
Just a single line. He was the first to finish.
The small paper would be rolled up and inserted into a glass capsule about the size of a finger.
A few minutes later, everyone had finished writing.
"Dadong, can you share yours?" Kun Yun asked.
Some chose to keep their wishes private. But Dakong boldly slapped his paper on the table: I hope to act in more amazing productions, hone my skills, and win Best Actor.
A lofty goal. At his current acting level, he had a long way to go.
Chef Lan and Min Jeongbae both encouraged him with a "keep it up."
"My last Mushroom Capsule wish was 'May my family always be healthy and happy,' and it came true," Chef Blue said. "There've been a few minor illnesses, but no major disasters. I'm writing the same wish again. Mushroom luck, don't fail me."
Xiao Mei wrote: I want to create an album that's widely recognized.(Note: 'widely recognized' means songs that are highly singable and catchy.)
Min Jeongbae's wish: I hope to bring joy to more people, create more excellent comedies, stay energetic, avoid illness and accidents. May everything go smoothly.
Li Cheng and Zhang Xiaodong had similar wishes—hoping for the continued growth of the domestic film industry.
"What are you writing, Teacher Kun?" Zhou Dakong asked, curiosity lighting up his face.
Behind them are heroes: police officers, firefighters, doctors, nurses, and soldiers, all safe and sound.
It struck a deeper note. Kun Yun explained, "I hosted a closed event recently, a 'Tianjin Public Security Night.' It gave me some perspective. Every year, we lose far too many officers in the line of duty."
"Criminals should all be executed." Zhou Dakong blurted without hesitation, then added, "As expected of someone I respect—Teacher Kun, you even managed to host an event like that. Serious social responsibility."
"Managed to host? Dakong, can you not say it like I snuck in?" Kun Yun corrected him. "Xiao Jiu is actually the public security image ambassador—and also the fire safety ambassador. In terms of fan influence, Xiao Jiu is someone many young celebrities look up to. He uses his public image to give back to society."
A dangerous shift in topic had just occurred.
"Wait, when did this happen? I didn't even know!" Zhou Dakong, who had always been proud of being a fire safety advocate for Guangdong province, was genuinely surprised. He had thought himself impressive—but clearly, there was a higher mountain.
"You fake fan," Lan Wuyi said, turning to Tan Lu. "Xiao Mei, tell him how long Xiao Jiu's been an ambassador."
Tan Lu responded like reciting from memory, "Over a year. Brother Jiu has filmed two public awareness videos."
"I'm just a fan. Xiao Mei here? She's hardcore—no comparison!" Zhou Dakong laughed.
"I knew about the fire safety ambassador bit," said Zhang Xiaodong, shifting in his seat. His sciatica had started to act up. He continued, "My son's in middle school, and he's more cautious than us adults when we travel. He turns off the power and gas before we leave. Always says, 'A man who can prevent a fire is reliable.' I later found out he got that from one of Chu Zhi's ads."
Well… that ad was shot under the fire department's guidance. The script had been pre-written by the officials. All Chu Zhi did was read his lines. But judging by Zhang Xiaodong's story, the impact had been powerful.
"Xiao Jiu's fanbase spans such a wide age range," Lan Wuyi remarked.
"That's not even the half of it," said Zhang Xiaodong. "According to my son, all his classmates like Xiao Jiu. Mostly because everyone knows how to sing The Lonely Brave."
"But Xiao Jiu's connection to the police and fire departments runs deeper than just public awareness," Kun Yun said. "You could say… he's the son of public security and fire services."
That made Li Cheng and Min Jeongbae pause. Zhang Xiaodong seemed to grasp part of the meaning. Chu Zhi had written The Lonely Brave for the fire department. It was often used in their official promotional videos, so "son of fire" made sense.
But what about "son of public security"? Chu Zhi hadn't written any songs for the police.
Even Nokia·Lu, the loyal fangirl, was confused. In most cases, being "a son of" something meant being recognized by that field—like "son of finance" or "son of hedge funds."
Weathering With You was an exception. Because it wasn't good.
"Teacher Kun always speaks with a certain poetic ambiguity," said Chu Zhi. "But yes, my parents were a police officer and a firefighter."
So that's what he meant. Besides Lan Wuyi and Kun Yun, everyone else looked stunned. Even Old Zhan, the cameraman trailing behind them, paused in shock.
Parents who were both first responders. Tan Lu frowned in thought—her idol had never mentioned that before.
Still, the surprise didn't last long. Many celebrities in the Beijing scene came from even more extraordinary backgrounds. Some could trace their lineage to founding revolutionaries…
Min Jeongbae had been about to say something like, "Your parents really passed down their sense of duty," but he sensed a shift in Chu Zhi's mood and stopped himself.
"Police and firefighter… could it be"—Min Jeongbae suddenly imagined something awful.
Back to the main topic. Kun Yun asked, "Xiao Jiu, what's your wish?"
Each guest had shared their own wishes. Chu Zhi unfolded his paper.
I hope to eat my mother's home-cooked meal again.
Zhou Dakong, straightforward and thoughtless as ever, didn't catch the undertone.
"With your fame, your schedule must be packed. But surely around New Year's or some holiday, that wish can be fulfilled pretty quickly."
Could it? Chu Zhi thought to himself.
"We're not even in the same world anymore."
When Chu Zhi remained silent, Zhou Dakong seemed to realize something.
"Xiao Jiu's father died during a rescue operation. His mother was targeted and killed in a gang retaliation," Kun Yun said quietly. "With the success he's achieved today, his parents would be proud—watching from above."
From above.
Anyone with a functioning brain understood what that meant.
Lan Wuyi added, "Xiao Jiu often risks himself to save others. Some people online even speculate that he has self-destructive tendencies.
But that's a ridiculous notion. His parents died in the line of duty. They were declared national martyrs. He's just following in their footsteps," Lan Wuyi said, then paused.
Bringing this up on a show was brutal, no matter the intent. But it had been a directive from higher up. Orders had to be followed.
Still, damn it all, Lan Wuyi thought bitterly. At least Chu Zhi had been the one to initiate the topic.
"?"
"Hmm?"
"Teacher Chu's parents are both martyrs?" someone blurted out.
Li Cheng, Zhang Xiaodong, and Min Jeongbae all felt the gut-punch of that statement. A dual-martyr household… what kind of childhood was that?
Right now, if Chu Zhi had shed tears or even broken down sobbing, they would've understood. But he didn't. His smile remained.
"Was it just a habitual smile?" Lan Wuyi, a grown man, felt a lump in his throat.
"My parents died when I was ten and eleven, respectively. They weren't home often either. Their jobs required them to be on-call 24/7," Chu Zhi said. "So my memory of them is vague.
They fulfilled their duty to this country." What he didn't say was: they never got to fulfill their duty to him as parents.
Losing both parents before even entering middle school… the kind of pain that must bring…
No one spoke. The air turned thick, as if wrapped in layer after layer of concrete. Heavy and unmoving.
Tan Lu felt like she was drowning. Her chest rose and fell, but breathing was impossible.
Zhou Dakong and Min Jeongbae, usually the ones who could shift the mood with a joke, were completely silent.
What kind of personality did it take to speak so calmly about such a past? Lan Wuyi no longer just felt uncomfortable. His heart felt like it was being pierced, over and over.
"I was raised by my grandfather. He had the biggest influence on me," Chu Zhi said.
"I remember the last episode, during the truth-or-dare bottle spin," Kun Yun added. "You said your grandfather changed your life."
"Teacher Chu's career is flourishing now," Zhang Xiaodong said gently. "The tough days are behind you."
Li Cheng chimed in, "He raised two martyrs and someone like you, Teacher Chu. I'm sure your grandfather had great character. He can enjoy his golden years now."
"Whatever he didn't get to eat or play with while young, he can do now!" Zhou Dakong said, gesturing as he spoke. "My grandpa's retired life is downright luxurious."
They all tried to lift the mood. The last topic had been too bleak. Time to dream a little about the future.
"Xiao Jiu, your grandfather must be so proud of you." Even silver-tongued Kun Yun stumbled for words.
"Maybe," Chu Zhi replied. "I'm not sure."
The Emperor Beast wasn't sure—because he knew what the original version of him had ended up becoming. He wasn't sure his grandfather and parents would be proud, or simply pained.
"They would be! They're watching from above." Kun Yun's voice was firm.
All the guests felt a hand grip their throats. Unable to speak.
Even his grandfather… had passed.
They hadn't expected everything to fall on the shoulders of one person. Their kind intentions suddenly felt like knives.
Min Jeongbae could relate. The death of his mother had shattered his world.
That phrase sounded melodramatic, but how did it manifest in reality? Here was one way: he never thought about the future again.
"Captain has endured pain most people couldn't bear," Min Jeongbae thought.
Zhang Xiaodong looked at Chu Zhi's unchanged expression and hoped—really hoped—this wasn't a publicity stunt. Some artists did fabricate tragic backstories. But Chu Zhi's gaze told him it was real. And with his level of fame, he didn't need any of it.
Two martyrs to the nation. But to their child, it meant growing up an orphan.
Li Cheng had thought inviting Chu Zhi on the show was mostly for appearances. He now understood the weight behind it.
Chu Zhi spoke like recounting someone else's story. "Two years ago, when my grandfather passed away, I couldn't accept it. I didn't want to believe it. I had worked so hard to become a star, to earn more money—largely because I wanted to give him a better life. But…
This will always be my deepest regret." His expression had barely changed throughout. But now, he took a slow, deep breath.
Old Zhan, the cameraman, felt a chill crawl up his spine. How could someone so talented have endured so much?
In the control room, director Luo Xunyuan tried to keep his emotions in check. It was his job. But watching Chu Zhi's calm exterior, he couldn't stay rational.
Two years ago… wasn't that around the time Chu Zhi was being dragged through the mud by the entire internet?
Tan Lu realized this too. Tears spilled freely from her eyes.
That must've been unbearable.
The room fell into an uneasy silence. Someone ought to say something to comfort him. But Chu Zhi didn't seem all that upset, so their words stuck in their throats.