Dream of the Red Chamber had aired eleven episodes so far, featuring guests from various fields. Before Chu Zhi's appearance, the episode with the highest viewer retention and popularity had been the one with the Korean idol.
Each episode took seven days to film, and this season had already sparked three major online discussions—roughly one every two days. At 3.5 million RMB, Chu Zhi's appearance fee was a steal for the program—an absolute bargain.
The first two controversies were his on-camera smoking and alcohol admission, followed by the gratitude moment in the music room. Masked Singer had it rough—constantly overshadowed, it finally thought it could shine after I Am a Singer ended, only to be eclipsed again by Dream of the Red Chamber. The producers now winced at the mere mention of Chu Zhi's name.
Another person who reacted strongly to Chu Zhi's name was a college junior majoring in Seed Science and Engineering at Northwest A&F University. Her online alias was Shi'er, and her discomfort stemmed from the relentless recommendations of a fan named Orange Angel.
Orange Angel was a gentle woman in her thirties—who could resist such earnest fangirling? "Ninth Brother is amazing, so caring toward staff. Just watchDream of the Red Chamber and you'll be hooked!" Shi'er finally caved.
Now, faced with the bombshell revelations, Shi'er felt conflicted—sympathetic toward Chu Zhi's suffering, yet guilty for misjudging him.
But she owned up immediately:
"I owe an apology. I previously said, 'Celebrities shouldn't smoke or drink on camera—it sets a bad example.' I still stand by that principle. But Ah-Jiu's case is… different. I don't have depressed friends, so I can't fully relate. Yet when the hosts pulled out that suicide note and medical report, I saw his body tremble involuntarily. That's when I realized how much he's endured.
He only smoked three times during the entire livestream—that's incredible restraint. And he repeatedly urged others to cut back.
This isn't hypocrisy. I believe if he could, Ah-Jiu wouldn't smoke or drink either. I shouldn't have judged without knowing the truth."
The internet had dubbed him "Double-Standard Zhi"—a pun on his name and the criticism. But now, the narrative flipped entirely.
"This might sound insensitive, but Ah-Jiu might have mild-to-moderate alcohol dependence… given his admission that stopping triggers nightmares and hallucinations."
"Following that logic, he's been enduring nightly horrors and phantom voices throughout filming—yet still projected optimism."
"Stop, please. I cried myself sick reading his suicide note."
"I used to mock Chu Zhi too. Now? I'd buy his album in a heartbeat—oh wait, it's free. How do I throw money at him?!"
Under hashtags like #ChuZhiAttemptedSuicide and #DoubleStandardReversal, waves of netizens converted into fans—especially "mom fans" heartbroken by his tragic backstory.
Previously, Orange Garden (Chu Zhi's fandom) demographics skewed young: 30% middle/high schoolers, 50% college students and under-28s—the core fanbase demographic.
But the 28-36 age bracket, though less visible, held terrifying purchasing power. Among the "Six Kings of Traffic", Su Yiwu—a baby-faced idol raised by fans since childhood—reigned supreme in mom-fan support. For his 18th birthday, they chartered 180 flights, plastered his face on in-flight magazines, and even bought naming rights for 18 stars ("Su Yiwu Star No. 1" to No. 18). No other idol came close in fan devotion.
Today, Chu Zhi attracted swarms of these mom fans.
One post, signed "Green Ivy", went viral:
"My heart aches for this child Xiao-Jiu. Even at 22, he carries himself with a fragile innocence. I looked into why he never publicly defended himself during the scandal. Believe it or not—he trusted his company to clear his name. He obeyed, stayed silent… and we saw how that ended.
His former agency, Kangfei Entertainment, abandoned him long ago. Left directionless, inexperienced—'You're Not Truly Happy' isn't just a song. It's his life. Yet he left it off the album, afraid of worrying fans.
On camera, he bears hallucinations, terror, insomnia—still smiling, still gentle. When it gets too much, he smokes exactly three cigarettes, always stepping outside to avoid secondhand smoke for crew. He endlessly reminds viewers not to smoke.
Why? Because he knows the damage firsthand—just as he knows the abyss of despair. So he clumsily tries to save others from it.
He even controls his trembling.
Xiao-Jiu was wronged, attacked, scapegoated—yet genuinely wants others to thrive. He strives, despite his pain, to be a positive role model.
I don't know if the ordeal left him dependent on alcohol or nicotine. But the shadows remain—nightmares, disabled Weibo comments, frequent dissociation. Still, he fights to quit, to be worthy of his fans.
Little Fruits are blessed to have such an idol.
I occasionally smoke menthols to cope. But for Xiao-Jiu's sake, I quit today.
P.S. To a certain 'Nine-Stroke' company: Hands off our boy."
(The cryptic "Nine-Stroke" hinted at Kangfei's parent company, Dahua—whose Chinese character strokes add up to nine.)
Green Ivy's post spurred fans to rewatch the show with forensic scrutiny.
On I Am a Singer, Chu Zhi had repeatedly dodged mentioning his depression—whether deflecting Heng Kouyi's concern or host Gu Nanxi's probing—only admitting to "not feeling well."
He refused to let his suffering taint the show. Even during the boycott by misinformed viewers, he never played the victim.
Mango TV later clarified: "Audiences mistakenly believed Chu Zhi was a disgraced celebrity."
Every detail confirmed Green Ivy's assessment—Chu Zhi was trying, against all odds, to be a beacon of positivity.
The suicide revelation ignited even fiercer discourse. Netizens rallied behind the underdog—a wronged young man driven to the edge.
And when public justice mobilized, its force was terrifying. Beyond their gullibility, their investigative prowess stunned.
One disclosure came from Xu Zhen, an employee at a luxury brand's Greater China division:
"I debated posting this after the 'permanent free albums' announcement. I'm not a fan—just an admirer—and didn't want to risk my job. But today… my conscience won't stay silent.
Most don't grasp what 'permanent free' means. They think, 'He's a top star—he'll manage.' Maybe before. But post-scandal? Over 30 endorsements and 7 shows terminated contracts. The penalties—even if partially covered by his agency—would've bankrupted him.
How do I know? His apartment and SUV were listed on Alibaba's auction site. In two months, he'd have been homeless.
So when Chu Zhi pledged free albums forever… that was his last stand."