According to the Candy.Industry rankings of the world's top 100 candy companies, based on both sales and market value, not a single company from mainland China made it into the list. Meanwhile, Japan's Morinaga Confectionery and that infamous South Korean corporation both ranked within the top thirty.
First place went to Mars Wrigley, a conglomerate that continues to acquire candy factories worldwide. Brands like Doublemint, Extra, Big Big Bubblegum, Chupa Chups, Ricola—names everyone grew up with—are all under its umbrella.
China's confectionery industry started late, which made breaking into the top ten nearly impossible. Adding to that, many domestic candy brands were shelved after being bought by foreign giants. For example, Golden Monkey, once as famous as White Rabbit, ended up frozen out.
Su Shangbai, born into a sugar family, understood these things far too well.
For a candy brand to dominate a country, relentless publicity campaigns were needed, with outrageous initial investments.
It was true that Chu Zhi was extremely popular across Asia, but a few days of celebrity endorsements alone could never build lasting sales.
Think about it: if it were you, when buying candy, wouldn't your choice either be tied to childhood memories or driven by advertising?
Still, no matter what, Su Shangbai had faith. He believed in Chu Zhi. He was confident that brother Jiu's popularity across Asia could last for more than a decade. That would be enough to raise White Rabbit Milk Candy into an international confectionery giant.
"The Japanese and Korean markets have too many protective trade policies. To get into department stores and convenience chains, we must cooperate with local confectionery companies." Su Shangbai was waiting for the next big opportunity: the Summer Supersonic Festival in August.
He and Chu Zhi had already agreed. After brother Jiu's performance at the festival, he would toss White Rabbit Milk Candy into the crowd…
Yes, protectionist policies were many, but solutions were always more. Su Shangbai had already launched on Yahoo Shopping and Amazon Japan, bypassing brick-and-mortar altogether.
"Kotsura family, Chen family, I will come back." Su Shangbai was not a man to forgive and forget. Ever since the dozens of sugar mills he owned in Thailand had been sabotaged into bankruptcy, he had been plotting his return.
On the surface, he was running downstream sugar refinery businesses. In reality, he was quietly acquiring small sugar mills in Indonesia, Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand, where labor was cheap.
If revolutionaries could surround cities from the countryside, then he could surround large factories with small ones. Luckily, the White Rabbit brand was making good money, providing constant financial support.
"With brother Jiu backing me, things are so much easier." Su Shangbai had lost count of how many times he had sighed this. If it had been any other shareholder, they would have flipped the table by now.
The biggest drawback of his "small factories surrounding big factories" strategy was management difficulty. That was why Su Shangbai was no less busy than Chu Zhi. He often worked until one or two in the morning. Tonight was considered early—he returned to the hotel at eleven.
He admired brother Jiu's work ethic, and had begun to follow the same model.
It wasn't until now that he finally had time for a meal. To be precise, a combined lunch-dinner.
Though his cooking skills were excellent, he had no time to cook for himself. Meals always came from the hotel's Western restaurant.
Su Shangbai liked eating steak with chopsticks. He would grab a chunk and bite straight in. Alone in his room, convenience was all that mattered. Just as he bit halfway through a steak, he suddenly remembered something.
"Almost forgot." He opened Apple Music and other music platforms common in East Asia to download the song Gp.M.Trong.M.
Of course he paid for it. He followed brother Jiu's Instagram and knew the track had dropped today.
"Piracy has really gone down." After downloading, Su Shangbai searched on the Vietnamese internet. The first few pages of results all showed official channels.
Previously, pirated versions had been ripped from a VTV documentary broadcast. They were incomplete, full of noise, and far from lossless quality.
Now, with a new lossless recording officially released, the track sold 975,000 downloads on its first day (not counting Apple Music).
At 10,000 đồng per download—roughly the price of a 550ml bottle of Coke—the single-day revenue was about three million yuan.
Indeed, piracy had dropped dramatically overnight. That was because Niu Jiangxue had handed the release directly to local music platforms.
Never underestimate Vietnam's piracy capabilities. But never underestimate capitalists' determination to crush piracy when it threatened their profits. Of course, if piracy served bigger interests, they would turn a blind eye just as easily.
As for protecting original creators' interests… who cared?
Even with million-level sales revenue, Apple still wasn't devoting too much attention. The negotiations were being handled by mid-level overseas managers. Meanwhile, Chu Zhi's main agent, Niu Jiangxue, was dealing with more critical matters—such as splitting subscription revenues with Apple Music.
Apple Music followed a 30:70 split. But here's the catch: only international music giants could claim the 70 percent. Smaller companies had to rely on attaching themselves under a big player.
Niu Jiangxue was determined not to attach to Sony Music again, so she started negotiations directly.
In China, only giant copyright companies like Taihe Music Culture could get the 70 percent cut. Compared to them, Aiguo (Love Fruit Entertainment) owned very little music copyright.
But Aiguo had Chu Zhi. And that made Apple Music tread carefully. Especially after "The One Watched by God" charted on Billboard and Spotify, Apple had no choice but to compromise.
70%, 71.5%, 73%—three tiers. Taihe Music was at 71.5%. Like a fearless young bull, Niu Jiangxue aimed for the top tier, while Apple wanted to cap her at 71.5%. The tug-of-war dragged on endlessly.
The conversation could be summed up like this:
[Apple Music: 71.5% is already a great deal. Surely you did your research before coming. Even Taihe Music Culture only gets that much.
Niu Jiangxue: They don't have Chu Zhi.
Apple Music: But Taihe has integrated copyrights from Maitian, Haidie, and Dashishi Music.
Niu Jiangxue: They don't have Chu Zhi.
Apple Music: Taihe has over a hundred artists under contract. And please, can you give another reason?
Niu Jiangxue: Our company has Chu Zhi.
Apple Music: …]
As an artist, Chu Zhi was truly formidable. With him alone, Aiguo was elevated to the same negotiating table as industry titans—at least within Apple Music.
Since leaving Taiyang Chuanhe Entertainment, Chu Zhi had thrived, and so had his company. Core team members all received bigger bonuses, motivating everyone to work harder.
"Huh? Isn't this the actress Old Qian said would definitely get big this year? She feels a little underwhelming." Qi Qiu was scanning an advertisement plan.
He skimmed through it, then looked shocked.
"Wow, she's only been in the industry for half a year and already gets to film with Brother Chu? Impressive, though I bet it's only a short-term endorsement."
A short three-month deal, riding on hype. Coca-Cola didn't mind spending. Whoever was trending, they'd grab quickly, then drop after the buzz faded.
But Chu Zhi was different. He was Coca-Cola's official ambassador for Asia—two years, 35 million yuan, plus a $1 million signing bonus. His fee matched Hollywood A-listers.
No one else had ever held such influence across China, Japan, and Korea—the world's second, third, and tenth largest economies.
"Maybe two terms. It's over four months until National Day. If they only sign her for one, it won't last long enough," Wang Yuan said curiously, leaning over. A devoted "mom fan," she followed everything about Chu Zhi's career.
The documents clearly showed Coca-Cola's campaign for Coca-Cola: National Day Celebration. The commercial would be around twenty seconds with a short storyline. Chu Zhi was the male lead, Shao Qing the female.
"Don't make a fuss, Ah Qiu. Talent shows usually start at the peak. Coca-Cola just likes to test trending stars with short contracts," Wang Yuan explained.
Her unspoken meaning: no comparison to her "precious son."
"True." Qi Qiu stretched. As long as the ad had no inappropriate content, every contract had to be honored.
"Old Qian, how did you know Shao Qing would become famous? She wasn't even ranked high back then—57th, right?" Qi Qiu remembered that Old Qian had predicted her success with just one glance.
"What do you think this is?" Old Qian tapped his temple.
Damn it, he really did look smug.
"You can always trust the tastes of Mosquito Coil Company bosses, Coconut Palm Coconut Juice bosses, coal bosses, and Old Qian." Fei-ge summed it up neatly.
"True, true. Old Sea King really knows what men like. But wait, Boss Wang, what is Mosquito Coil Company?"
"It's a film company," Wang Yuan said casually. "Same category as S1, TMA, Alice Japan, and Toei."
"Toei makes those films too?" Qi Qiu asked without thinking.
"Oh? Didn't you say you didn't know what Mosquito Coil Company was?" Wang Yuan teased.
"Ahem." Qi Qiu's attempt at innocence had failed.
"Don't show off in front of Boss Wang. I don't dare either," Old Qian said.
Qi Qiu realized he had been pretending to be worldly in front of an expert. He mumbled, "Yeah, yeah."
"I admit, Old Qian's taste is solid." Chen Shu the elder also chimed in.
"Of course it is. Just look at my Bing Bing—she's gorgeous." Old Qian never missed a chance to brag about his Bing Bing.
Everyone, including Wang Yuan, was curious about what charm this "Bing Bing" had. She seemed to have bewitched him.
The chatter eventually quieted. Everyone had work to do.
Wang Yuan was busy hunting piracy—cups, pillows, anything printed with Chu Zhi's face. Fans would pass them off as "official merch." She hunted them down relentlessly.
Qi Qiu had his hands full with expiring contracts. Most brands renewed two or three months in advance, and an artist's value fluctuated. For most, that value went down.
Take Su Yiwu, once at the peak of endorsements. His fee now was barely 60% of what it had been.
Chu Zhi was still climbing, so his rates only went higher.
In Japan, Lucky Star's Lee Gwiseon was unhappy. No matter how successful Chu Zhi was, he was still "just an artist." That meant the deals Lee Gwiseon handled were often low-priority.
Meanwhile, Old Qian, as executive manager, had returned to the company to hold the fort while Niu Jiangxue pushed full throttle on Apple negotiations. Someone had to keep both hands on the wheel.
And Chu Zhi himself? He was at the Dream Dragon Recording Studio, working on his Japanese album 君がいること (Kimi ga Iru Koto, With You). He had named the album himself as "Emperor Beast," with a production budget of 10 million.
With Chu Zhi's current vocal skills, recording didn't take much time. What consumed energy and time were the post-production and music video shoots.
The team cleared a solid block from 3 PM until evening. Three songs were recorded in one day. At this pace, the entire album would be finished in just two more days.
Post-production and MV shooting would take at least two months. During that time, there was also a trip to Tokyo scheduled for the audition of the MV's female lead. Chu Zhi thought to himself that this was definitely not going to be an easy job.
And he was right. Not just difficult—extremely difficult.
Sony Music's Ōmori Gento had already begun promoting a month or two in advance, so just imagine how many Ragdoll fans Chu Zhi had waiting for him in Japan.
"Brother Qiu, you don't need to come pick me up. I'm close to the hotel. I'll just take a cab back myself. You should rest at home for now." Chu Zhi had learned that Brother Qiu had been hospitalized for severe fatty liver and blood clotting that triggered myocardial ischemia, so he called to tell him not to come.
"I'm fine now, boss, I…" The first reaction Brother Qiu had over the phone was fear. He was worried that his illness might cause him to lose his job. Even though he was only a driver, being Chu Zhi's driver came with great pay and benefits.
But Chu Zhi was someone who paid close attention to people's feelings. He immediately sensed Brother Qiu's concern and reassured him over the phone. "Focus on your health. Take at least a month to recover, bring down that fatty liver. Your position will still be here when you're ready."
Drivers were crucial for both celebrities and company executives. Brother Qiu had been with him for over four years, and their cooperation had always been smooth. Chu Zhi didn't want to go through the hassle of training and adjusting to a new driver.
After hanging up, Chu Zhi pulled out his phone to order a ride. But before he could, a bus pulled up right in front of him.
He had just finished a recording session and, by habit, treated Li Menglong to a meal. Li Menglong always packed leftovers like bones to take home, and coincidentally, the restaurant they ate at had a bus stop right in front.
It had been a long time since Chu Zhi last took a bus. Adjusting his baseball cap lower, he boarded. At this hour, the bus wasn't crowded. He figured he wouldn't be recognized.
It wasn't vanity. It was just that with his current popularity, being recognized in public could easily cause chaos. Better to stay cautious.
He found a seat near the back, leaning his head against the window. The brim of his cap cushioned his temple, otherwise the glass would've felt icy cold.
He zoned out for a bit, until two girls sitting in front of him began chatting loudly enough to pull him back.
"Are you serious? You actually like Gu Peng? His style is practically funeral music."
"You know what they say in the detective circle? We should allow people not to like Sherlock Holmes."
"I know that! And I don't like Sherlock Holmes. So what?"
"Sherlock Holmes is practically the Bible of detective fiction, so of course most people like him. But tastes are different. That's why in fan circles there's a saying: we should allow people not to like Chu Zhi."
"What? There are actually fans who don't like Jiu-yé? That's terrifying to even say."
"Hey, I'm just giving an example. It's about tolerance. We should be tolerant of different aesthetics."
"No way, that's too much. People not liking Jiu-yé? Do you like Jiu-yé?"
"Of course. Xiao Jiu is my absolute favorite."
…
Little Fruits? Should he jump out suddenly, scare them, then give an autograph? Chu Zhi thought about it for a second, then gave up on the idea.
Still, "allowing people not to like Chu Zhi"… what an arrogant statement. Yet the Emperor Beast couldn't stop the corners of his lips from curving upward. He was secretly smug.
Arrogant or not, it was proof of his popularity with the public, and his dominance within the fandom.
Just as Chu Zhi leaned in, curious about what other praises the two Little Fruits might spill, they suddenly went quiet.
"Not even one more compliment?"
He didn't know why, but the happiness he'd been feeling suddenly shifted. He thought of the song The Most Beautiful Sun, which reminded him of Xiao Ai. His attention sank, and he lowered his head, staring at his phone instead.
Sometimes he would ask Director Zong of the foundation about Xiao Ai's family. He never asked directly, because he was afraid Xiao Ai's mother would be reminded of her daughter and end up in grief.
White-haired parents burying their black-haired child. What mother could bear such sorrow? For a moment, Chu Zhi sat there, dazed.
The city at night was filled with streetlights.
But in the city's night, there were no stars.
At the next stop, the two Little Fruits got off. Chu Zhi glanced out the window. The area seemed bustling enough, not isolated, so he stopped worrying and turned his gaze away.
The bus rolled on. Time too raced forward, slipping by. In the blink of an eye, more than ten days had passed, and June had arrived.
Despite his packed schedule, Chu Zhi had already finished recording all ten songs for his Japanese album. He also heard something troubling: the film for which he recorded the theme song Legend had already wrapped, but failed review and had been shelved for six months.
No wonder it hadn't premiered. The payment had cleared, but Chu Zhi still felt it was a pity for Legend.
After all, the company had paid so much for a theme song. If the film never came out, there was no way he could just release the song by itself.
"Hopefully it gets released. Legend really is a good song." Chu Zhi thought to himself.
While he was thinking, something else about him was stirring online—
[Let me tell you a joke. Spot the highlight yourself.] A fan named "Little Fruits Tender Murmurs" posted two screenshots from Chu Zhi's commercial for Big White Marshmallows.
Any news about Chu Zhi posted in the Orange Home forum instantly became a hotspot. The thread exploded with replies.
"New content from Jiu-yé!"
"Huh? I haven't seen this Big White Marshmallow ad yet. Which channel aired it?"
"Look at the TV station logo, vtv3? Which station is that?"
…
Because the Little Fruits community spanned so wide, in just twenty minutes, Chinese fans in Vietnam clarified the situation.
[The ad's been airing on Vietnam TV's Channel 4 for quite a while. But I think the highlight the OP mentioned is actually the text on the right side of the screen—the title of the upcoming program. 'Con.trai.ca.các.vì.sao.' Translated to Chinese, it means Children of the Stars. Yes—that's My Love from the Star, but Vietnam's remake.]
The thoughtful fan even posted a promotional poster online. The male and female leads embraced, with thick eyebrows, big eyes, and sun-kissed skin. It was practically a direct copy of the Chinese version.
"Vietnam remake? Those four words already hurt my eyes."
"I didn't know there was a remake. Now I kind of want to watch it. Somebody stop me."
Many Little Fruits only now realized that Vietnam had done a remake.
And once they dug deeper, they were shocked. It wasn't just Vietnam. Japan and Thailand had also bought the rights to remake My Love from the Star, though none of them made any splash.
Resourceful Little Fruits uploaded all three foreign versions online. And there it was: what people mean when they say, 'No comparison, no harm,' or worse, 'Harm done on purpose can be fatal'…