"Over twenty million IDs?" Pang Pu blurted out, his years of host training taking over.
"It's a beautiful journey," Chu Zi said softly. "Back then, over twenty million 'Little Fruits' supported me. Their love helped me win Future Idol, helped me become who I am."
Pang Pu didn't show much reaction, but Wei Tongzi did. She remembered it all too well. When the scandal broke months ago, the fanbase cracked apart like shattered glass. The company had remained silent, offering no statement, no defense. A quarter of the fans vanished. Another quarter turned on him, becoming his loudest haters.
To be blunt, the most vicious insults hadn't come from strangers. They came from ex-fans, once passionate, now scorned.
"Did those rotten 'Little Fruits' even deserve to call themselves fans?" The anger simmering in Wei Tongzi's chest wasn't just righteous. It was personal. She had been one of them—a casual supporter who unfollowed when things got ugly. She hadn't stood by him.
She regretted it deeply.
"But—" Wei Tongzi's throat tightened. There was so much she wanted to say, but before she could find the words, Chu Zi noticed.
He smiled gently.
"Life is like a train bound for the grave. There are many stops along the way, and very few people can accompany you from start to finish. When someone who once walked beside you has to disembark, even if it hurts, you should still be grateful. Then wave goodbye."
His words echoed with a quiet calm. The quote was from Miyazaki.
Jelly, professional to the core, zoomed in on the wall. The usernames only became legible when viewed up close—thousands of them stitched together like a digital quilt.
"Those twenty million Little Fruits were like a forest. They shielded me from the storm. Even when I wasn't good enough, even when some stopped liking me, I never forgot the warmth of that love. I'm endlessly grateful for the support they gave."
Chu Zi turned to face the camera directly. His expression was calm, eyes steady.
"Thank you for once loving me. And I… really loved the version of myself that you loved too."
Pang Pu was stunned. His admiration swelled, rising like a river after heavy rain. "This guy's fan-retention skills are god-tier."
From beside him came the sound of quiet sniffling. He turned—Wei Tongzi was crying. Barely holding it together. As a trained host, she never lost composure on camera. Unless something truly moved her.
"There's one last little secret," Chu Zi said suddenly.
Then, without warning, he flipped the light switch.
The practice room went completely dark.
Before Pang Pu, Wei Tongzi, or Jelly could react, their eyes adjusted to the soft glow rising above.
The ceiling.
Over eight million IDs were printed in special silver-white ink. In the darkness, they emitted a cool, luminous light, arranged in swirling constellations. A galaxy above their heads, suspended in stillness.
"The Milky Way turns, a thousand sails dance. The world's curtains sway and fall."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Jelly moved, breaking the silence.
"Camera, camera—get this now!" he whispered urgently, adjusting the lens. The livestream audience had to see it.
After ten long seconds, Chu Zi turned the lights back on.
But the moment lingered, like starlight behind closed eyes.
"I chose the practice room because singing is both my passion and my livelihood. This space means everything to me," Chu Zi said. "And I'll never forget the eight million fans on Weibo who stood by me. Their trust became my guiding stars through the darkest nights."
Wei Tongzi felt a pang of envy—toward the fans immortalized on that ceiling. But the feeling faded quickly. By that logic, she had been one of those twenty million. In a way, she was up there too.
"Let's start composing," Chu Zi said, sitting at the electric keyboard.
"Teacher Chu," Pang Pu interjected, "could we film these IDs properly? As a special segment for later? I'm sure your fans—and our viewers—would love a closer look."
"Of course. I agreed to this show precisely because I have nothing to hide. Film whatever you'd like."
"Thank you." Pang Pu shot Jelly a look. Film everything during breaks.
"Now, let's watch Teacher Chu compose Overworked!" Wei Tongzi steered the conversation back.
"The intro needs energy—something raw. I'll use the keyboard first, with a touch of electronic rock. Let's pick a gritty synth." Chu Zi, seemingly unaware of how deeply his gesture had moved them, smoothly shifted focus.
The Yamaha Genos in front of him boasted 1,700 instrument sounds and 200+ arpeggios. With external sampling (YEM), it could handle pop, jazz, even traditional Chinese arrangements. Chu Zi, fluent across all 76 keys, treated it less like a keyboard and more like a full synthesizer.
"Next, guitar and bass."
While the synth work was effortless, his guitar and bass skills were rougher. The original "Chu Zi" hadn't played them, and even with borrowed muscle memory, his few hours of practice left him fumbling slightly.
"I'm barely passable at these. Not my strong suit," he admitted. (Though "barely passable" to him still looked impressively fluid to the average viewer.) He recorded the guitar and bass melodies into the keyboard.
"Let's hear the intro… Hmm, something's missing."
"Add drums."
"The chorus melody needs to punch harder."
…
Two hours later, the arrangement was complete.
"I'm obsessed with this melody! When the album drops, I'm buying three copies—one to listen, one to collect, one to frame!" Wei Tongzi gushed.
"Buying three copies?" Chu Zi said calmly. "Actually, I've decided all my future albums will be free. Full releases, including MVs, will go straight to streaming platforms. That way, my Little Fruits can save that 20-30 yuan for an extra lemonade."
"?"
"?!"
The question marks weren't coming from Pang Pu or Wei Tongzi.
Pang Pu's first thought: Is he drunk? But Chu Zi's expression was steady. Whether this was premeditated or not, it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment whim.
"Teacher Chu—" Wei Tongzi tried to protest this financial suicide.
"I know you're a Little Fruit too, but this is my thank-you to them. No objections." Chu Zi shut it down.
In an era where physical albums barely sold, digital albums netted pennies per copy. Take a top-tier Earth artist like Kris Wu—his YOUNG racked up 70 million RMB in sales. After platform cuts, label splits, and taxes, he pocketed maybe 30 million.
Chu Zi was still in debt—he couldn't afford to be cavalier about 30 million. But this was a long game. Free music meant:
Fan loyalty skyrockets → more spending on merch/endorsements (just look at Wei Tongzi's reaction).
Casual listeners actually listen → broader appeal.
Loyal fans = higher endorsement fees. One extra deal would outweigh album profits anyway.
Then why don't other stars do this? Simple. If a talentless idol's music is free… would you still listen?
Bad music won't convert casuals. Might as well milk the existing fans.
Meanwhile, the livestream was imploding. Between the twenty million IDs and the "free albums forever" bombshell, "exploding" was an understatement.
The chat was frozen.