For Little Fruits on-site and those watching from home, the difference was huge. The ones there were lost in the dream their idol wove for them. The ones behind screens were already blowing up the chat: "In Annie's Wonderland, is Annie that shameless little fox?" "It's gorgeous, but who's Annie?" "Kinda awkward, my English name's Annie." "Sounds amazing, Jiu-yé puts so much heart into fans."
A few minutes later, the music in the side hall faded, but the room stayed quiet. Most people were still savoring the aftertaste.
Pure instrumentals cross borders easily. Whether it was Russia, Thailand, South Korea, or Japan, everyone could feel the calm of that "wonderland."
"It felt like when I was a kid, legs skimming through a creek, cool and sharp," Taliya said.
"I've always said Jiu-yé isn't just a top-tier lyricist. His arranging and composing are top-tier too," Meng Meng said.
"I felt the first light of dawn spilling onto my blanket. I could smell that sun-dried quilt scent," Chen Wu said.
"Pretty words, but just saying," Kim Seo said, "that 'sun smell' you described is the 2-methylpropanal and 2-methylpropenal produced when textiles sit under UV light. The piece uses instrument timbres, especially that faint rain, to help some people fall asleep."
Some fans waxed poetic about how it felt. Some were allergic to romance. Whatever their flavor, the song had them all.
Alves didn't speak. He didn't like how his Tetum sounded, and he didn't want to switch to Portuguese. He didn't feel confident about representing his country. While everyone heard a wonderland, he heard a thread of sorrow in Annie's Wonderland.
The chatter swelled and sparkled.
Those prepped translation earbuds were a great call. With how expressive Taliya was, she made a bunch of new friends in no time.
After a bit, Chu Zhi raised a hand to steady the room. The buzz softened, and he finally spoke.
"I'll upload the full track to all major platforms later. If you've got insomnia or trouble falling asleep, give it a try."
The Emperor Beast added that it'd be a free download, at home and abroad.
With that, the three-hour Orange Festival wrapped up, and the next phase began, the guests' "take-everything" run. Souvenir merch, untouched snacks, everyone stuffed their bags for dear life.
Meng Meng's mom noticed her daughter tugging a rolling case and reminded her, "Don't grab things at random. You've got to pay."
You shouldn't snag cheap-looking stuff, a rule she'd learned after traveling a lot.
But then she remembered the flights and hotel were covered, so she said, "Ask for the price. If it isn't expensive, we can buy it."
"What do you mean price? It's all free," Meng Meng said. It was her first time attending, but she'd watched all three previous festivals. She knew the flow by heart. She'd been eyeing the merch for ages. The official flagship store never had stock, and resellers listed for crazy prices. Her stash was never enough.
"It's all gifts, really. Ask that guy," she said, pointing at the staffer portioning out snacks.
LoveFruit's employee, Xiao Mu, answered, "Snacks and souvenirs are all Mr. Chu's gifts to fans."
Only then did Meng Meng notice a change this year. Backpacks had been upgraded to small orange rolling suitcases.
It didn't take long to realize why. There were too many gifts to fit in a backpack.
A coin purse, an Orange Ripeness Watch, a sun-and-rain umbrella, and more. Meng Meng was as giddy as a ninety-eight-jin kid.
The best part was how clever the merch was. Take the Orange Ripeness Watch already strapped to her wrist. It counted from 0 to 1,439 minutes every day from midnight, meaning, "We aren't wasting each day. We're gaining more and more time." If you wanted the exact time though, you still had to check your phone or do some math.
It sounded as "useless" as a Da Vinci contraption, but since young people already had phones, a watch's utility wasn't the point. The Orange Ripeness Watch looked great. It was a match-anything piece. It proved again Chu Zhi's merch wasn't cookie-cutter. He really put thought into it.
Lots of items weren't just commemorative, they worked in daily life. Still, considering how many Little Fruits couldn't bear to use them, most would probably end up carefully tucked away.
They picked up their rolling cases and followed staff to the restaurant. The chorus of orange wheels humming across tile layered into a crisp, cheerful sound.
Because fifty international fans attended, the banquet leaned fusion, part Chinese, part Western. Honestly, the fourth Orange Festival's budget was up by about fifty percent over previous years.
Just imagining the dishes made your wallet ache. Meng Meng's mom squirmed in her seat. "Meng Meng, aren't we overdoing it?"
"Wait, what was overdoing it?" Meng Meng blinked mid-bite, claws deep into a crayfish.
"Our two plane tickets, that hotel isn't cheap either, plus today's banquet and the venue, and you're walking out with a whole case," her mom said, plain and simple. "How much is Chu Zhi losing here?"
Meng Meng swallowed. "That's why Jiu-yé's the positive-energy idol official media keeps praising. He's genuinely good to fans."
He really was. Her mom nodded. It wasn't just about spending money.
At forty-three, Meng Meng's mom noticed tiny things. When dueting with fans, he'd adjust the mic stand to their height and stand on the outside, letting the fan stand inside, so if they got too into it, they wouldn't step off the edge. It was a natural, almost unconscious move, proof that he instinctively wanted to protect fans.
One hidden benefit of the Orange Festival was that even though Chu Zhi had been number one on the Hurun China Celebrity List three years in a row, the entire fandom still felt, "He deserves to earn that much." Once you've taken the moral high ground, the effect's unbelievable.
"Inviting international fans," "a Qatari princess chasing a star," "sending snacks for testing so Little Fruits can eat safely," "composing a sleep-aid track," you could already see the hot searches lining up.
Every year someone rises, and every year someone falls. The industry was used to it by now. Melon eaters had their seats ready, waiting for the next spectacle. Each "Involution King" season always managed to drag out a few lousy idols.
Logging into his LV12 account, Lin Xia, one of the most iron-willed top stars, tapped his sign-in for the 1,348th day. If not him, then who?
"Writing soft music just to help fans with insomnia, seriously, how does this guy come up with new tricks every single year?" Lin Xia muttered. He actually admired it. To him, fan festivals felt like a burden. Just a one or two-hour event could eat up several days of preparation.
Lin Xia had switched more into film and TV recently. Running between two sets left him double-booked, even clashing schedules. Taking time out for a fan event would cost too much.
"But I've got to hand it to Chu the Involution King. His fame's already huge, yet every year he throws more and more time into these fan festivals." Lin Xia didn't feel jealous, only impressed. His own team copied Chu Zhi's playbook often, and only after walking that path himself did he realize how hard it really was.
Inside or outside the circle, most people could never agree on one artist's evaluation. Celebs often claimed "I'll never forget my original intention." Lin Xia himself had said that countless times, just empty words. In his experience, only Gu Peng, Chu Zhi, and Jiang Zengyue actually lived by it after making it big.
Speaking of Gu Peng, Orange Home had plenty of insiders lurking around, including Gu Peng, nicknamed the Surfing King. What caught his eye most was Chu Zhi's fluency across so many instruments.
"The 'Bilibili Weapon Master' title wasn't for nothing. Damn, maybe Xiao Jiu really is a genius," Gu Peng admitted.
Think about it. Mastering hundreds of instruments, speaking multiple languages, juggling everything else—hard work alone wouldn't cut it. That kind of output had to come with extraordinary talent.
Scrolling through the comments, Gu Peng saw:
Jun Liyu: [Why do I feel more awake the longer I listen?]
Big Salted Fish Flame Night: [Xiao Jiu could totally write OSTs. This piece is just too good.]
Little Watercolor: [I love pure music. Can we please, please, please get more?!]
179 Handsome Guy: [Brother Jiu on the piano, my dream man forever.]
"Too restrained," Gu Peng thought. He typed his own reply: [If it's for insomnia relief, I think Jiu-yé should try recording ASMR sleep tracks. Bonus points if they're 18+. Just saying.]
Within minutes, hundreds of likes piled up. Gu Peng nodded in satisfaction. Everyone here had verified IDs. Why act so shy?
Just as he was about to close the Orang Home app, something hit him.
Chu Zhi poured his heart into making sure Little Fruits could sleep peacefully. But wasn't he the one suffering the worst insomnia?
Nightmares, restless nights, barely a few hours of sleep. He was worse off than most insomniacs.
So who was going to soothe him?
That thought froze Gu Peng's smile like cement setting in his face.
He switched to a smaller account, hovering over the post button. Should he say something?
In his eyes, they were good friends, even if they'd only met a handful of times. Each time, he'd felt how thoughtful Chu Zhi was toward others.
Gu Peng was socially anxious. Usually, over-attentive people made him uncomfortable. But Chu Zhi had this perfect sense of balance, never making things awkward.
"Xiao Jiu probably wouldn't want people to know," Gu Peng muttered, dropping the idea.
Then he hesitated again. His fingers flew anyway, typing out a post titled: "You're Always Thinking of Everyone Else."
From a bird's-eye view, the Orange Festival's livestream pulled over a million simultaneous viewers on Orang Home. Every year, the numbers just kept climbing.
Honestly, unless you were hardcore, you wouldn't bother watching a fan festival stream. Chu Zhi's domestic loyalists were terrifying in scale.
Across Asia, the Orange Family audience hit 5.45 million, according to official numbers. Third-party data company Ipsos put it even higher, over 6.2 million.
Now that's what you call "everyone watching."
Even Reuters, usually fond of gloom-and-doom filters, snarked: "I've no doubt if Chu Zhi decided to livestream himself sleeping, he'd still have millions watching. If he really wanted, he could run Denmark, since Denmark's population is under six million."
Denmark: You better have business here.
The snide tone only confirmed his impact. To be precise, Chu Zhi's fourth Orange Festival wasn't just shaking up domestic entertainment, it was reaching across all of Asia.
The Asian entertainment world was about to feel the storm of Chu the King of Involution!
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卷 (juǎn): The character originally means "to roll" or "a scroll." But in this context, it's a shortening of 内卷 (nèijuǎn), which translates to "involution."
王 (wáng): Means "king," "monarch," or "champion."
Involution describes a social or economic phenomenon where increased input (effort, time, money) does not lead to increased output (rewards, benefits, spots in a good university). Instead, it just raises the baseline level of effort required from everyone to simply maintain their position.