Chu Zhi wrapped up one run and wasn't empty-handed—he completed "Appear Publicly Without Makeup 50 Times" and earned six Personality Coins, bringing his total back above double digits.
He also got good news from Langzi Publishing—his Japanese edition of Stray Birds would be published with a first print run of 1,200 copies and without having to pay out of pocket.
Europe was self-published, expensive. But in Japan, at least it wasn't costing him. That qualified as progress.
"A European sales highlight and now a divergence into Japan," he mused, knowing that Langzi would market Stray Birds as a cross-continental success—perfect for boosting reception in Japan, where Western literature is respected.
Then he got another invite—to dinner with a group of second-generation elites. The kind with no ambition, chaotic circles, and pushy power players. He declined politely. Entertainment circles were messy, with powerful outsiders who tried to control female and male stars. Thanks to backing from ByteDance and his ambassador roles, he could refuse without consequences.
"Becoming a Prism Youth Award winner next month should improve things," he thought. To build good relations, he considered participating in patriotic songs—My Motherland and I, Singing for Our Country, maybe even newer tracks like Descendants of the Dragon.
He searched online for patriotic song contests. Nothing relevant—this could be an opportunity for next year, China's centennial of the Party founding.
"Yes, it would've been ideal last year, July 1, 70th anniversary," he reflected. But he could wait and release a red anthem next year—a hit patriotic song could propel a composer's career. Maybe Qin Lao, composer of Singing for Our Country, would serve as an example—he became president of Shenyang Conservatory.
Meanwhile, iQiyi's PR team held impromptu meetings to plan promotion for Journey Among the Stars. Before the day ended, their social media handles were tagging Peking Opera venues and stars:
"Chu Teacher @EatingABigOrange__PekingOperaQingYi, tomorrow at 8:30 PM iQiyi premieres Peking Opera! @NationalPekingOperaHouse @BeijingPekingOpera@yue派4thGen_xiaoba, @PekingOperaWangTi, @PekingOperaHaoChuan…
#ChuZhiQingYi #UnexpectedProject #PekingOperaReveal"
Nineties-born and beyond had slightly more attention to Peking Opera, but these venues had only tens of thousands of followers. One standout was Xiaoba—40,000 followers on Weibo—while other performers had 70,000. Tagging was clumsy.
After a day, the news that Chu Zhi would perform Peking Opera in the finals was everywhere online. Supporters saw it as a chance to revive traditional art; critics saw it as opportunistic clickbait.
Responses from Peking Opera actors on Weibo:
Wang Ti: "…"
Hao Chuan: "Please don't tag me. I'm fine."
Zhang Lidi: "Reviving Peking Opera—wow, good luck."
They mixed awe and disbelief. Younger actors were proud of their craft; many bristled at being used for promotion without substance.
Xiaoba (Weibo handle "pussycat") had joined the Little Fruits fan group two months earlier. She screenshot the tags and posted:
"Why this kind of promo? It's a disservice.And please don't confuse opera singing with 'yaqiang' singing techniques."
More complaints followed:
"You can't just tag someone and expect them to bring back Peking Opera. Opera requires years of training. This stunt cheapens it."
Xiaoba's post alerted Chu Zhi's team; soon a public statement was being drafted.
She felt sympathy for him—he'd been trapped by iQiyi's overreach. But the thought that opera was harder than it looked still lingered.
Even most fourth-generation Peking Opera actors found the stunt tasteless, though none directly criticized him—they feared Chu Zhi's star power.
With buzz building, I Am a Singer‑Songwriter finals approached. Neither Chu Zhi nor his team offered any response.
Quiet trolls believed they had finally halted his momentum—until the show aired and everything changed.