Tonight, many people will lie awake—not Chu Zhi's fans, but fans of other idols. They're all chasing stars, yet the gap seems so big.
"Who donates in their fans' name? Cat plays mouse, sheep teases wolf, bear shuts down Bald Qiang. Am I missing something about society?"
"Roundtrip airfare? Free banquet? My company doesn't even do expense reimbursement that smoothly. I admit I'm pure sour lemon here."
"I'm not jealous… okay, maybe I am. (Quietly registers on Orange Home to become a Little Fruits)"
"Can't compare my idol to Chu Zhi. If they were even one third as good, that would be great."
"Curious question—not trolling—is Chu Zhi an angel come to Earth? Free albums, the fan fest funded by himself, donations made in fans' name?"
"Subsidizes fans himself, money-man extraordinaire. Three words: make every big red idol spend one million for me. 😂"
It sounds silly coming from someone earning only a few thousand a month worrying about a star earning hundreds of millions. But this is the honorable tradition of fandom.
Bystanders even calculated the value of the festival giveaways. Popular idols always have merch—so let's compare. From countless online photos and videos:
Notebook
Keychain
Pendant
T‑shirt
Pen
Mini backpack
Phone case
Bracelet
Wallet
Badge
That's ten custom items. At typical merch prices, even a token few dozen yuan each, that batch easily totals over 100,000 yuan.
For example, E‑Bo dance group sold five‑item bundles—PVC pouch, tee, hat, pendant, umbrella—for 520 yuan at full price, discounted to 450. That was just a show bundle—company merch sells even higher.
All those items? Given away free.
Two words: converting fans.
Five words: converting fans wildly.
Fangirls everywhere were floored by Chu Zhi once again.
He's handsome, fitting the mainstream idol aesthetic. He has already captured the fandom sphere—even Korean fans wouldn't dare to challenge his Little Orange circle.
Chu Zhi's goal "There are only two kinds of fangirls—Chu Zhi's fans and those who haven't discovered him yet" was met universally.
That night, his team released both singles "Glory" and "You're Not Truly Happy" at 2 AM on all major music platforms.
Early signs showed they were climbing the charts.
It rained in Shancheng that night. Some were soaked to the bone; others stared at the falling drops from their windowsill.
By dawn, a rainbow appeared over Shapingba. Chu Zhi caught his morning flight to Modu.
He'd been in Shancheng two days—many appointments piled up.
"Brother Jiu, shouldn't you try the over-the-top stage theatrics?" Wang Yuan was watching videos of K-pop concerts in Europe and the US—intense performances with shirt tearing and dramatic flair.
"Uh, no need," he said. "If needed, stripping off jackets for atmosphere is okay. But full abs display? No thanks."
Wang Yuan giggled softly. He was always too well-behaved.
In truth, Chu Zhi thought revealing his body might delight fans but would seem greasy to casual observers. If he wanted to convert passersby into fans, he needed moderation.
Besides, he had no six-pack to show off.
What he did not know: the number of mommy fans was growing. Wang Yuan and others often gathered at a beauty salon, chatting about him and his updates.
That number had grown to eleven. Wang Yuan, who also had charity experience, had donated over 200,000 RMB in Chu Zhi's name during the fan event.
She felt emotional—she'd finally received her donation certificate yesterday. She kept it in her wallet.
Next salon chat topic: discussing scalpers and ticket bots.
She'd already acted ahead—using 5,000 RMB she'd secured premium fan-group accounts that were climbing in value, some selling for 2,000–4,000 RMB.
The account sell-off process was weird—no escrow, much like Name Trading in King of Glory game. After payment confirmation, the seller changed the account name and told her, she pasted credentials and logged in within seconds. No mistakes if luck was on her side.
Account values had soared thanks to Weibo's strict control. They held onto zombie accounts rather than deleting them.
Not because they were capitalists refusing money—they claimed it was asset protection. Twenty million accounts at 3,000 RMB each... insane valuation. Like withholding a promising IP for market control.
But their goal was future leverage.
"Night's setting in. A few hours before dark. I think the lighting shoot is due," Chu Zhi said.
Photographer Chen Shu rubbed his back pensively. He wasn't old, but after a long flight he had old-man aches. But the main man was still full of energy—not showing any fatigue.
Chen Shu was gently persuaded up to Cho's studio.
Everyone else returned to their own tasks.
"Ah," sighed Fei Ge in the corner.
Lao Qian replied, "Oh wow, Fei Ge sighing? I thought there was nothing you couldn't solve. Spill it—apart from borrowing money, I can be your consultant."
"Recently I've grown interested in photography. I want to buy a DSLR, but I don't know what to choose," Fei Ge said. "I've read many posts, but it seems complicated."
Lao Qian asked, "Why not ask Chen Shu? He's a pro."
"Well… we're not on speaking terms," Fei Ge admitted.
About two weeks ago they had clashed over a shoot. Though they resolved it, Fei Ge snapped, "Your suggestion makes no business sense—I doubt your professionalism." Now their relationship was tense.
"I posted on the photography forum," Fei Ge opened Honeynet—title: 'Newbie here, want an entry-level DSLR. Any recommendations?'
No replies. Zero help.
Who knew Fei Ge would be forced to humble himself online. Lao Qian found it crazy. In real life he'd argue with anyone, but online he was subdued.
"Your tone's wrong, so no replies," Lao Qian said.
"Tone?" Fei Ge thought. He thought he'd asked politely and humbly—what was wrong?
"What's your budget?" Lao Qian asked. Fei Ge replied: 3,000‑4,000 RMB.
"You should say, 'Haha, forgive my bluntness, but there's no good DSLR under 5,000.'"
Fei Ge paused. That made sense. Attention-grabbing phrasing often summons big-name advice. But something bugged him—it didn't feel right.
"Just post it that way. Hurry, we've got a heavy day ahead. Don't waste time on details," Lao Qian advised.
Fei Ge nodded. He had bigger tasks ahead—monitoring livestream sentiment for the fan fest to prevent any trouble, and preparing for the day-after broadcast of I Am a Singer-Songwriter finals. Way too much to handle!