The loud outcry from Fujiwara Hideshi startled Takeuchi Kadoine, who had been casually filming nearby.
Takeuchi's eyes had just fallen on a photo album resting on the bedside cabinet, its cover pulled over. Inside was a family portrait of three.
The thought of family hit him hard. The grief that surged up was so great he did not dare look directly.
The burly man across from him was staring rigidly at his phone, as if witnessing something beyond belief.
The shock in his expression was greater than if Fat Tiger suddenly sang like a heavenly voice. Unable to hold back, Takeuchi asked, "Fujiwara-san, is there something I can help you with?"
"Rong-san was an orphan since childhood. He even attempted suicide once. He suffers from severe depression…" Fujiwara Hideshi spoke as though talking to himself, yet it also felt like he was answering the reporter.
"???"
Important things said three times. Takeuchi Kadoine was completely baffled.
"Takeuchi-san, look at the news. The online headlines," Fujiwara Hideshi said.
As a reporter, the word "headline" was like a hook. Takeuchi instinctively pulled open the blue-bird app. The news about Chu Zhi had already taken over the entire entertainment feed.
A flood of stories exploded before his eyes. His professional instincts allowed him to quickly trace where this Japanese internet firestorm had started.
It began with JU News. The headline read: "Look, that angel seems to be bleeding."
[What you are about to read is an unbelievable investigative report.
Chu Zhi is unquestionably one of Asia's top superstars. Even if you have never listened to his music or liked him, you must acknowledge his influence. The question is: beneath the adoration of countless fans, what kind of person is he in private?
Chu Zhi is from Shancheng, China. In 2017, he debuted as the champion of the variety show Future's Star, while still a senior in high school.
After the show ended, he enjoyed a short period of glory. Armani, Bottega Veneta, and other world-class luxury brands extended olive branches. With a contract worth 366 million yen, he became the spokesperson for their China market.
But very few knew about his family. Orphaned from childhood, he lost both parents early. At twenty, the grandfather who had raised him also passed away.
That same year, he suffered slanderous attacks from rivals. Social media was flooded with abuse and doubt.
A staff member from Weibo (China's largest social media platform), speaking anonymously, said:
"From June 2019 onward, the platform deleted more than a hundred thousand hateful comments against Chu Zhi every single week. They were unbearable to read. As a moderator, I felt tormented."
Later, conclusive evidence proved all accusations false.
But before that, the online storm had already taken its toll. Chu Zhi developed severe depression, plagued by nightmares, sleeping fewer than five hours each day.]
The report was painfully accurate. Ōmori Gento's blade was swift and merciless. He even included screenshots from Back to the Countryside, showing Chu Zhi waking in terror from a nightmare, along with excerpts from Dream of the Red Chamber where Chu Zhi wrote a farewell letter, and his medical diagnosis.
If Chu Zhi's treatment in China had been like a slow knife cutting flesh, Ōmori Gento's approach toward fans was like a guillotine falling on their necks.
[My first impression of Chu Zhi came from Once, I Too Wanted to End It All. After the Hokkaido earthquake, that song gave countless people hope. He was called "the voice of salvation." But in truth, Chu Zhi deceived us. He did not only think about it—he acted on it. He overdosed on sleeping pills.
Chu Zhi is still alive. His attempt failed. Yet depression clings like a shadow. He even suffers from PTSD. To perform publicly, he relies on alcohol to get through.
Why do songs like Riding on the Silver Dragon's Back, Don't Give Up, Even if Our Hands Hold Nothing at All, and Once, I Too Wanted to End It All give people strength? Because he braided his despair and suffering into a rope, and those drowning in the mire could climb up by clinging to it.
…
"When I listen to Chu Zhi's music, as I fall toward him, I feel infinite gentleness."]
Over a thousand words were skipped in the middle. After all, it was a full-length headline piece. Hidden within was a subtle push for his new Japanese album, though fame-wise, Once, I Too Wanted to End It All far outshone the two freshly released songs.
Different people, reading the same article, latched on to completely different details.
For Fujiwara Hideshi, what struck deepest was the fact Chu Zhi lost his parents in childhood, and later his grandfather too.
For Takeuchi Kadoine, it was the PTSD. He once mentored an apprentice, now working at TV Tokyo's news site, who had written a piece: "Li Bai penned a hundred poems drunk, Chu Zhi must drink to sing." Suddenly, the reason fell into place. No wonder Chu Zhi always carried a fragile aura on television.
At the same time, Takeuchi criticized his apprentice inwardly. The kid had only ever chased hot topics without learning how to dig for the story behind them. Had he done so, he might already have secured a stronger position within TV Tokyo's news department. After all, TV Tokyo News was the official news portal of TV Tokyo.
Turning his thoughts, Takeuchi recalled the Hokkaido Ishikari earthquake rescue and found his title: [How Can We Stop Chu Zhi From Walking Toward Self-Destruction?]. The very idea quickened his breath. The thrill was as strong as when he had first, in real life, seen his favorite AV actress.
Takeuchi Kadoine was excited.
Partly at the thought of how his report might explode in popularity. Partly because Chu Zhi's state—destroying himself while still saving others—aligned perfectly with what he adored, the Japanese love for mono no aware, the beauty of impermanence and sorrow.
A sobbing sound interrupted his excitement. He turned.
The burly man was crying, holding the framed family photo from the cabinet.
Crying because he thought of family? The reporter asked softly.
Fujiwara Hideshi choked up. "Takeuchi-san, I know very well what it feels like to never see your loved ones again.
When my wife and daughter died in that accident, for one or two months I desperately wished I could dream of them." His eyes reddened as he continued, "But once I came out of that grief, I no longer wished for it. Not because I forgot them. The best state for humans is to bury such sorrow deep in the mind, not drown in it. But it is so hard. Too hard. I could only rely on Rong-san's music. But then… who can Rong-san rely on?"
He thought of Chu Zhi—still only twenty-five years old. To countless people he was medicine, salvation. But what about when he reached the point of collapse? For Fujiwara Hideshi, that thought carried unbearable sadness.
The strong man's sturdy frame trembled as if it could no longer contain the torrent of pain. Shaking where he stood, he spoke.
"My parents died when I was very young. I may not have had deep feelings for them, but my grandfather, who was always by my side, became the pillar of my life."
"Takeuchi-san," said Fujiwara Hideshi earnestly, "when a person's life pillar collapses, ninety-five percent of people will never again be able to live a stable life."
Those heartfelt words made Takeuchi Kadoine realize the gravity of the situation. As a journalist, he asked with solemn respect, "Fujiwara-san, may I include your insight in my report?"
Over the next hour or two, Takeuchi Kadoine continued his interview with Fujiwara Hideshi During the breaks, he began piecing together a pattern.
The way fans addressed their idol revealed why they followed Chu Zhi. Those who called him "Rong-San," the "circuit breaker preventing human suicides," were often people saved by his songs.
Just like the burly Fujiwara Hideshi
Meanwhile, those who used nicknames like "Ragdoll among humans, fairy among cats" tended to be fans who admired his appearance. The titles "brother Jiu" or "Chu-dono" came from intensely devoted girlfriend fans, while there were countless other variations not worth listing one by one.
"Fujiwara-san, please leave me your address and phone number. A signed copy of the album With You will be sent to you within seven working days." With that, Takeuchi Kadoine left the café Ohanajaya.
Back at his office in Hamamatsucho, he requested a front-page slot on the company's website for the next day. After work, he went straight home, writing his article through the night. By the early hours, it was ready for review. If he hadn't been a long-time senior at the company, there would have been no way to push through a piece under such a tight deadline.
The next day was Wednesday. Weekly Bunshun's website published it as the top headline.
The "Chu Zhi incident" had already set ablaze Japan's internet and entertainment world, like a bonfire sparking everywhere. On commutes, during school breaks, while grilling skewers at izakayas, people casually brought it up.
The headline, How Can We Prevent Chu Zhi From Walking Into Self-Destruction?, was like pouring gasoline onto the flames. It devastated many cat-loving fans. One excerpt read:
"I consulted Professor Egawa, an expert in medical psychology. He explained that Chu Zhi's disregard for his own safety while rescuing people during the earthquake was a textbook sign of self-destructive tendencies. He squeezes his emotions dry to give strength to fans and listeners, and squeezes his body with daily routines that allow far less sleep than any healthy adult. To Professor Egawa, Chu Zhi is like a cruise ship with a fatal engine failure. Even as it's about to break apart, even with its fuel nearly gone, it still insists on delivering the passengers on deck safely to shore.
'Let me emphasize,' Professor Egawa said, 'there's no need to doubt Chu Zhi's goodwill. When a person has decided to destroy themselves, the more common behavior is indifference, living out the remaining days in carefree indulgence, breaking rules they once never dared cross. To still think of saving others before self-destruction—that's a quality most people do not possess.'"
Takeuchi Kadoine's article cited references, layered arguments, and wove a complete chain of reasoning that pointed to Chu Zhi's self-destructive tendencies.
He even included all the testimony from Fujiwara Hideshi the day before.
The article closed with a chilling question for fans: "When Chu Zhi dies, who will replace him? Where will the passengers of his ship go? Will they drown in the waters?"
The three rapid-fire questions made it sound as though Chu Zhi might die at any moment.
Many fans had once been drawn only by his looks or his music, but swept up in this wave of media coverage, even they now understood the weight of it all.
"Why would anyone attack and slander someone as kind as Jiu-yé?"
"Even if he falls into the abyss, he still plants it full of flowers. I've never cried over an artist before. Today I broke that rule."
"My best friend betrayed me, and I wallowed in self-pity for a year. It wasn't until I found Rong-San's songs that I found strength again. But reading this news, I froze. Who can save Rong-San?"
"I wish Rong-San could rest for a few years."
"No, he must not. Jiu-yé must live!"
Twitter and Instagram exploded.
The article's reasoning was difficult to refute. The fragile mental state, the lack of sleep, the back-breaking schedule—everything suggested he had little time left.
And yet, as has been said before, mono no aware—the Japanese aesthetic of tragic beauty—drew in even more new fans. They were not moved merely by kindness, but by the sight of someone so powerful slowly destroying himself.
Before, Chu Zhi's popularity in Japan was something local top idols could compete with. Now, sheer fan numbers alone placed him above them. That was no small feat.
"Chu-dono's childhood was not much better than mine, yet he became an idol for countless people," thought Airi, once threatened by her teacher.
"I still have my mother who loves me. Chu-san has no one left. He's all alone," thought Ojima Matsushika, who endured her father's abuse.
"Does he really like living this way? I don't think so. I believe Chu-san doesn't either. But still, he clings on," thought Ono Akio, who survived on only four and a half hours of sleep a night.
"So there really are people this foolish, exhausting themselves just to help others," thought Suzuki Kano, violated by her stepfather.
More and more people read the news.
To compare tragedies, to give someone "comfort" or "courage," is cruel and foolish. Suffering cannot be measured in that way. Just because someone is worse off doesn't erase another's pain.
But Chu Zhi was not competing in misery. He was a model. By his actions, he guided others out of their fog. His pain became the background color, and from that, countless people drew strength.
Japan's administrative divisions are arranged in a peculiar way: prefectures, cities, towns, villages, and wards. It feels awkward, since prefectures outrank cities. The system, after all, was modeled long ago on China's Tang dynasty's "Five Provinces and Seven Roads."
In Yamanashi Prefecture's Tsuru District, tourism had once been sparse. But with the rise of Aokigahara's fame—the infamous "Suicide Forest"—visitors multiplied.
Yes, because many chose to end their lives there, the forest became a bizarre tourist attraction, drawing even more attention. It has been featured in films many times. Reality is often absurd.
"What are you all doing here together?" asked Shibata, a security officer in his forties, as he spotted several people lingering at the forest's edge. He quickly approached with long strides.
Because of the suicides, Tsuru District not only posted warning signs but also hired patrols.
The three high school girls looked about sixteen or seventeen. Their eyes were swollen red, as if they had been crying.
"Could they be planning a group suicide out of despair?" This was serious.
Shibata's chest tightened. He hurriedly said, "It just rained, the paths are muddy. You can't go wandering in the forest."
"Uncle, we're not here to explore. We want to place this sign here," replied the leader of the three, Adachi Nanaha.
Looking closer, Shibata noticed what they carried: makeshift T-shaped signboards, crafted from thin plywood nailed to mop handles. The girls had raided every mop they could find, making over fifty signs.
On them, written with waterproof markers: [If you are having troubling thoughts, please call us.] Followed by a phone number.
"And this is…?" Shibata was taken aback.
"We know Aokigahara is a suicide spot. Dozens of people come here every year to end their lives. We want to save as many as we can," said Adachi Nanaha.
The seriousness in their eyes convinced him.
"I'll help you put these up," Shibata decided at once.
And so the four of them set to work. Suicide intervention like this is not uncommon in other countries either.
In Seoul, South Korea, the Mapo Bridge spanning the Han River was also known as a suicide hotspot. To combat this, the government had renovated it, placing motivational phrases along the railings such as, "Have you been doing well lately?" or "Go see the people you love now" and "Your wife and children are still waiting at home to have dinner with you." Beside these words were photographs of warm family moments and the number for the suicide prevention hotline.
It was a heartfelt idea, meant to stir memories of a beautiful life. But what if the person with suicidal intent had lost their wife and children?
For someone like Fujiwara Hideshi, a burly man carrying such grief, those words and photos were nothing but salt in the wound. The following year, the suicide rate doubled.
Compared to that, the students' campaign posters seemed better—simpler, without the gaudy embellishments.
News from Japan
Hokkaido Region:The Hokkaido Shimbun reported: "A pregnant woman in Sunagawa City went into premature labor after hearing about idol Chu Zhi's tragic family history. Her emotional state triggered uterine contractions. Doctors warn husbands not to let their wives become overly agitated during pregnancy."
Tōhoku Region: The Fukushima Environmental Protection Organization launched a campaign titled 'Take Responsibility, Don't Give Up.' The organizer claimed it was after listening to Don't Give Up that the idea to act was born. The aim was to push the authorities to take full responsibility for nuclear radiation issues.
Kantō Region: Several shops in the Nasu Highlands of Tochigi Prefecture remained closed.
Chūbu Region: Many fans who loved Ragdoll, after seeing the news, wanted to do something themselves. In their hometown suicide sites, they left encouraging messages, hoping to save those standing on the brink.
Kinki, Chūgoku, Shikoku, and Kyūshū Regions: Many schools reported unusual numbers of student absences.
People often said Chu Zhi had a powerful influence on reality. This time, Japan was experiencing it first-hand. Many of his fans—students and young office workers alike—had taken leave because of the "Chu Zhi incident." The scale was almost absurd.
Japan was shaken badly. Back in China, however, things remained calm.
Chu Zhi's Chinese fans, the Little Fruits, filled the internet with playful comments:
"Sorry everyone. Last night I was reading Grimm's Fairy Tales before bed and forgot to close the book. My prince walked right out."
"According to the principle of Tian Ji's horse racing, it makes sense that a man of perfect looks would end up paired with lowly me."
The tones were wildly different, but all brimming with affection.
"If all else fails, you could ask Jiu-yé to write a song," suggested agent Brother Zhan. Without a lead single, the album could not be released.
"No, no," Zhou Yiyu waved quickly. "Once is asking a favor, twice is taking advantage."
That startled Brother Zhan. For the past half-year, Zhou Yiyu had been acting with his head in the clouds. Yet now, he seemed oddly principled.
"Oh, right. Brother Zhan, free up my schedule for this Friday and Saturday," Zhou Yiyu said.
Saturday was already accounted for—Brother Zhan knew. He would accompany Chu Zhi for a game of badminton. Since Chu Zhi had gone international, his time was even more limited. Their monthly games had already been cut from three down to two, sometimes even one.
But what about Friday?
"You've got the show Roll, Baby Cow, then a phone-in interview. There's hardly any room left," Brother Zhan said.
"Make room," Zhou Yiyu insisted. "I need to practice badminton, get my hand back in. It's been a while."
He dared not be careless. Controlling the score against Chu Zhi was no easy feat. To keep the match believable, he had to maintain a razor-thin loss, a back-and-forth battle.
Brother Zhan sighed. "If only you took singing this seriously, you wouldn't keep embarrassing yourself on stage."
"That's different. I have to guard my title as Chu Zhi's 'lifelong rival.'" Zhou Yiyu's tone was firm.
"Right. Badminton cannot lose Zhou Yiyu, just like entertainment cannot lose Chu Zhi, just like the West cannot lose India." Brother Zhan gave him a thumbs up, then shifted back to business. "We're visiting Teacher Wang Shen this afternoon. If we can secure him as music producer, half the album is already a success."
Zhou Yiyu's face was full of reluctance, practically screaming, "Do I really have to?"
"Wang Shen is a gold medal producer. Countless acclaimed albums were born under his direction. It's best to show respect," Brother Zhan urged.
"No need. Wang Shen is signed with our company too, isn't he? Pay him well and he'll do the job. No need for formal visits. Collaboration should be an equal relationship." Zhou Yiyu was stubborn.
In his eyes, Chu Zhi was "number three in the world" after heaven and earth, and Zhou Yiyu believed himself to be on the same tier. Why bow and scrape to some producer?
Meanwhile, Chu Zhi, alerted by Japanese manager Li Guixun, learned what had been happening. A seasoned businessman, Chu Zhi instantly saw through Omori Genjin's ploy. It was obvious—Omori had used Chu Zhi for hype without even informing him beforehand.
That crossed the line. It called for a different price. At Chu Zhi's direction, Li Guixun went to confront Omori Genjin directly.
Omori Genjin, however, was delighted. His plan had worked perfectly.
Day 1: 394,000 copies sold.
Day 2: 422,000 copies sold, boosted further by strategic promotion.
Day 3: 361,000 copies sold.
The staggering daily sales quickly placed the record at number three in Japan's all-time single-day rankings. Most of those charts were dominated by classics from the 1980s and 90s.
In just two days, sales surpassed 800,000. Omori Genjin and his team were thrilled. A gold-tier album was all but guaranteed.
Rock singer Higuchi Hanato not only introduced the album during its release but also posted a lengthy review on Yahoo Japan under his own account:
"This is Chu Zhi's first official Japanese-language album, and without a doubt it is the revival of J-POP in 2023. Its release date, August 2023, is stamped into history. When humanity encounters events that cannot be altered yet carry lasting impact, we call them history. The quality of Kimi ga Iru Koto (君がいること / "Because You Are Here") will go down in the history of Asian music.
He went on to analyze each track in detail:
Riding on the Back of the Silver Dragon and Don't Give Up held pure emotional strength.
Even Though Our Hands Are Empty was his personal "temozolomide."
Jealousy strolled effortlessly with soft harmonies over cymbals and bass slides.
Counting the Distant Stars breathed through its dense, icy bassline.
The Street Where Flowers Dance combined acoustic rhythm with electric guitar and drums in seamless play.
Crimson Lips layered keyboards with violin-like tones and vocals like a golden goblet drum duet.
secret.of.my.heart evoked summer drives with the windows down, the city alive outside.
Song of Spring shimmered with synths between J-POP and old-school European pop.
Destiny carried the sound of Shibuya-kei, fringe rock reborn after decades.
This album carries Chu Zhi's consistent message of salvation and preventing suicide. At the same time, it creates a space of happiness, with songs like Jealousy, The Street Where Flowers Dance, and Song of Spring transcending borders and language to stir the purest memories of love."
Higuchi praised Chu Zhi's voice as well: wide in range, spanning three octaves with ease, especially in the highs. Russian critic Vattedova had once said his singing "makes the world rediscover the beauty of the high register."
Yet in this album, Chu Zhi did not flaunt that skill. Instead, he sang with unfiltered sincerity. "Anyone who listens will feel his expression," Higuchi wrote.
"For decades, J-POP fell into a rut. Music became like a stranger whispering, reminding us to get into the mood, but we never quite could. With Kimi ga Iru Koto, Chu Zhi shares his own experiences. Those who share them unknowingly step into his world—a world full of hope."
Yahoo Music ratings confirmed the storm: his previous EP A Little Expectation for the World scored 4.7. Now Kimi ga Iru Koto scored 4.9, with over 130,000 reviews. It ranked 11th in Yahoo Music's all-time chart, a monumental feat given the sheer volume of J-pop, indie, and folk albums hosted.
The comments were glowing:
"If angels have names, one must be Chu Zhi. I believe everything he says. He said, 'The people of Japan should respect history more,' and I began learning history." [4.9]
"I fully agree with Higuchi-san. Chu-san's songs tell his own story. After learning his background, I wept while listening." [5.0]
"I'm here for the music, not the story. Regardless of background, Kimi ga Iru Koto is great in melody and popularity." [5.0]
"This is the greatest Japanese album of the past decade." [4.5]
Three days, a million records sold. In an era when physical CDs were all but obsolete, this was unprecedented.
And for Chu Zhi? In just three days, revenue would surpass 100 million yuan.
Yet beyond the numbers, Omori Genjin's strategy showed signs of spreading to South Korea.
Projected domestic sales in Japan: more than 3 million. Omori Genjin was ecstatic. Higuchi Hanato, on the other hand, had complicated feelings.
On his Instagram, after posting the review, fans left messages such as:
"Your analysis of the Ragdoll's album was excellent. I discovered you through him. At first I loved Chu Zhi, so I gave your rock music a try—and it's really good too."
But the tone stung. Higuchi Hanato was already a renowned rock singer in Japan. Why did it sound like Chu Zhi had singlehandedly brought him fame? It felt absurd.
===
Once, I Too Wanted to End It All. its original Japanese title is "僕が死のうと思ったのは" (Boku ga Shinou to Omotta no wa) by Nakajima Mika, which translates to "The Reason I Wanted to Die."
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"Mono no aware" (物の哀れ) is a Japanese aesthetic concept that is often translated as "the pathos of things" or "an empathy toward things." It expresses a bittersweet awareness of the impermanence of all things (無常 mujō), and a gentle sadness or wistfulness at their passing, coupled with a deeper appreciation of their beauty while they last.
At its core, mono no aware arises from recognizing that nothing lasts forever: the cherry blossoms that fall after only a few days, the fleeting warmth of summer evenings, even human life itself. But rather than despair, it cultivates sensitivity and appreciation: because something is brief, its beauty is heightened.
The feeling is not crushing grief, but a tender melancholy mixed with gratitude. Example: watching autumn leaves drift to the ground may evoke sadness that the season ends, but also a sweet awareness that this transience is what makes the moment beautiful.
The term was popularized in the Heian period (794–1185) literature, especially in works like The Tale of Genji (源氏物語) by Murasaki Shikibu. Many scenes capture fleeting romances, changing seasons, and the sorrow of impermanence. Later, the 18th-century scholar Motoori Norinaga explicitly defined mono no aware as the essential emotional sensitivity behind classical Japanese literature.
The concept still permeates Japanese culture: cherry blossom festivals (hanami), poetry, cinema, anime, and even video games often carry an undertone of mono no aware.
Famous example: the ending of Studio Ghibli's Grave of the Fireflies is often cited as a deeply moving expression of this feeling.