People often say that an idol shouldn't be held accountable for their fans' actions and that idols can't control their fans. But Chu Zhi proved that it was entirely possible to manage or at least guide them.
The five fan leaders in charge of fundraising quickly left comments.
One Bite, One Little Orange: [Respecting Brother Jiu's wishes. Every donation from Little Fruits has been clearly recorded, so we guarantee it can be returned. Brother Jiu, stay strong—we, your Little Fruits, are your solid support!]
Wei Tongzi, a host at Mango TV and an industry insider, was one of them. While it wasn't unusual for celebrities to have fans within the industry, her role as a fan leader was excessive—enough to fuel conspiracy theories. Thus, she used One Bite, One Little Orange as her alt account.
The refund process began immediately. Anyone who's handled money knows that refunding is harder than collecting. Even after @-ing everyone and posting announcements in the group, not all Little Fruits checked their messages right away.
Wei Tongzi worked tirelessly all night, but she didn't feel like it was a waste of effort. Even though her idol refused the money, he had reopened his Weibo comments section because of them. Now, they could leave supportive messages for him.
If it helped their idol, no amount of exhaustion or hassle was too much for the Little Fruits!
In the fan group—once called Orange Revival and now Orange Garden—a major discussion was underway.
Wooden Fiend: "Refunding? A hundred yuan is just the cost of a League of Legends skin. I donated willingly to support Brother Jiu."
July Clear Skies: "Agreed. Group admin, stop @-ing everyone. Once money's taken, it's hard to give back. Ever heard 'easier to invite a god than to send one away'? (Loud yelling.jpg)"
HILDA: "Successfully left a comment! Refreshed once, and Brother Jiu's comment section already had hundreds of new messages. So great to see everyone supporting him."
Jade-Faced Wolf Lord myc: "@One Bite, One Little Orange, Group admin, have you considered that many Little Fruits might not want refunds and still want to support Xiao Jiu financially? What if we donated to charity in his name to help more people?"
True to his name—wolf being a step above ruthless—his suggestion was brilliant. The Little Fruits unanimously agreed.
Wei Tongzi also thought it made sense. Fans donating to charity in their idol's name could improve public perception.
Chu Zhi already had the best reputation among traffic stars, but Wei Tongzi believed it could be even better.
"Brother Jiu does his best to help others, so we Little Fruits can carry on his kindness through charity." Wei Tongzi acted immediately, announcing it to the entire group.
Even at 3 or 4 a.m., many night owls in the Weibo group were active. The idea of charity in Chu Zhi's name was met with enthusiasm.
Among the fans were former charity workers, lawyers, and other professionals who began discussing the specifics.
Summer of Troubles: "Has anyone thought about giving A-Jiu a gift?"
This familiar username had appeared before during the Karaoke Incident, when a fan named Frosty Misty Rain couldn't change her nickname back. Whether she ever recovered it was unknown. Summer of Troubles had been the first to suggest adopting a similar name.
This proved that many who noticed Chu Zhi or saw him trending became fans.
Summer of Troubles then posted a screenshot—a Weibo post from Guinness World Records congratulating Wu Tang for his record. In March of last year, Wu Tang's 25th birthday selfie had garnered over 47 million reposts, earning him the "Most Reposted Weibo Post" certification.
This was similar to records on Earth—like when TF Boys' captain received over 42 million reposts for his 15th birthday, also earning a Guinness record.
Summer of Troubles continued: "A-Jiu said he wants our blessings in the comments. What if we set a Guinness record for the most comments?"
Mentioning Guinness World Records instantly elevated the discussion. This was a two-for-one deal—supporting their idol while showcasing the power of the Orange Fandom.
For Wei Tongzi and the Little Fruits, this was a revelation. Their thinking had been too narrow.
Considering their idol's struggles—depression, a suicide attempt, and massive debt—they felt a sense of responsibility to save him. Fueled by adrenaline, they vowed to set the Weibo comment Guinness record.
Research showed that the current record was held by Su Yiwu's 18th birthday post, with over 30 million comments.
After discussion, the fan leaders decided to aim for at least 50 million comments—far exceeding the record to ensure certification.
Fifty million comments was an insane goal. Even with a million participants, each would need to leave fifty comments.
But underestimating the dedication of fangirls would be a mistake. On Earth, Lu Han's fans had set the record for most comments on a Weibo post—over 100 million.
Unbeknownst to Chu Zhi, his Little Fruits were preparing two surprises for him. The next day, he attended the final recording of Dream of the Red Chamber without incident, wrapping it up smoothly.
Director Meng Teng treated everyone to another meal to celebrate the show's unexpected success. During dinner, Chu Zhi reminded Wei Tongzi to take care of herself—her eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion.
Chu Zhi hadn't updated China Poetry Network in over ten days. Now that life was back to normal, he selected two poems.
[Life]
Death belongs to life, just as birth does.
To walk is to lift a foot, just as to set it down is to walk.
[Untitled]
I have suffered,
I have been disappointed,
I have known "death,"
And so I rejoice in this great world.
Chu Zhi posted them under Poem of the Day, where his works had been absent for a while. Other poets on the site had assumed their complaints about favoritism had worked, and the "500-yuan sky" had returned to normal.
"Hehe, steamed buns—two poems in one day. I'm back, folks!" Chu Zhi posted successfully.
Done. Checking the time, he saw he still had a while before his meeting with Sun River Entertainment. After wrapping up the show, he ate the Sweet Dream Chocolate.
Now that filming was over, there was no need to maintain his nightmare-ridden state. His mind held a Song Voucher and a piece of chocolate.
He ate it in a few bites. "Aside from not tasting like chocolate, it's not bad."
The effect was immediate. His body felt subtly lighter, as if an invisible coat had been removed.
"Instant results. If only this chocolate could be mass-produced. Poor sleep quality from nightmares is a modern epidemic."
A product like this could easily earn billions. He'd seriously discussed this with the system, which simply replied:[The system's function is to create a unique celebrity, not develop pharmaceuticals.]
"Normal bowel movements—my future is bright." After a bathroom break, Chu Zhi resumed recording his album.
Why do studio albums sound better than live performances? Because every track can be recorded repeatedly, stitching together the best phrases or even half-phrases. In simpler terms, the studio is like a game where you can save and reload anytime—even the clumsiest player can finish.
You can even tweak word by word. Ensuring coherence and musicality is where the producer's skill comes in.
Songs are born either from a melody or lyrics first. The rest—arrangement, instrumentation, live or synthesized recording—falls to the producer, who also controls the budget. Otherwise, you're stuck with lo-fi instead of hi-fi.
Some young artists claim to be their own producers for clout, but in reality, they only decide the arrangement style while the company handles the rest. Fans, unaware, praise their idols as all-rounders—as if that's the same thing.
"Xu Gao, despite being milked dry, is a true all-rounder—handling every part of album production, even mastering. And conveniently, I plan to pull off the same flex."
Chu Zhi smirked. His real goal wasn't to praise Xu Gao but to highlight how difficult this was.
Four hours to record one song—ridiculous. The album had to be at least mid-tier in quality.
"Before I transmigrated, I read about Zhang Liangying recording fourteen songs in four hours, mostly in one take. Do such monsters really exist?" Chu Zhi sighed.
When would the system grant him vocal skills? Like Lin Zhixuan, Han Lei, or Liu Huan—the first of whom recorded his album One Take live in collaboration with a TV station.
"Does the system even have vocal skill draws? With just Voice of Despair and Perfect Non-Lyrical Vocals, it's not quite enough." He asked, realizing that apart from Vitas-level talent, there weren't similar options.
[They belong to rare blind boxes, of which there are very few.] The system replied.
"Good, as long as they exist." Even though he'd never won a special prize, Chu Zhi remained confident.
Still, he couldn't rely solely on blind boxes. Once signed with an agency, he'd hire a vocal coach to learn techniques—control was key.
Half an hour later, Chu Zhi, wearing a cap, prepared to leave. Standing before the mirror, he marveled at his original body's looks—enough to make Narcissus' myth seem plausible.
"Hair's getting long, covering my eyes. Need a trim soon."
The original owner's genetics were impeccable—flawless skin, thick black hair, and no oiliness.
His destination was Yu Zhi Lan, accessible via Line 4's Jing'an Temple Station.
Yu Zhi Lan was a famous private kitchen in Shanghai, costing around ¥2,000 per person. Chef Lan Guijun was a renowned Sichuan cuisine master, famous for his Golden Thread Noodles.
Taste aside, Chu Zhi found the ambiance acceptable. Huang Bo, CEO of Sun River Entertainment, and the pot-bellied head of the artists' department had flown in from Beijing.
Most entertainment companies were headquartered in Beijing, providing fertile ground for Chaoyang District's infamous citizen watchdogs.
Before the meal, Chu Zhi received a message:
Disciple of Big Cat: [Brother Jiu, you didn't have to mention me. I didn't help much.]
He glanced at it and replied.
After the meal—no alcohol meant no rounds of toasts—the discussion began. Polite but firm, the negotiation lasted forty minutes before a "2+ Cooperation" deal was signed.
The 2 was literal—a two-year S++ contract, after which Sun River would support Chu Zhi in establishing his own studio, maintaining a close partnership.
The two S++ conditions were: "No revenue sharing from merchandise" and "Autonomy in choosing his management team."
Autonomy in scripts or endorsements didn't need to be written into the contract—if you were popular, no one could force you.
"Pleasure doing business. Joining Sun River will lead to an even brighter future." Huang Bo stood and shook his hand.