"Zhang Shan is a good girl" comment instantly grabbed the attention of everyone online and all the Little Fruits. It even made Gu Peng, the undercover king scrolling through videos, jolt in surprise.
"Hey, hey, this is a bit much, isn't it?" Gu Peng muttered to himself. He knew brother Jiu spoiled his fans, but replying to letters? That had to mean he actually read the letters. Even if the current letter writers were only a tiny fraction of the Little Fruits, Chu Zhi's popularity was so insane, it just seemed impossible—absolutely impossible.
Gu Peng's reaction reflected what many others were feeling. The comments section was exploding.
[Wake up, sisters! Time to work, the village cows are flying, gotta plow the fields, got two acres today.]
[No, it's not that I don't believe it, it's just too ridiculous.]
The internet had everything, including the reckless: [If the layer owner's brain is broken, go see a doctor, then live stronger. Yu Yu syndrome, maybe? Laughing so hard.]
Some fans tried to reason calmly: [Could it have been a staff reply? For brother Jiu, fans are basically like his own family. How much does Aiguo App spend every year to maintain things? Hiring someone to reply to letters isn't that strange, right?]
If it were any other celebrity, hiring someone to reply would be laughable. But with Chu Zhi, the credibility instantly skyrocketed. Even casual onlookers knew how much he cared for the Little Fruits. Here, casual onlookers didn't mean fangirls pretending to be outsiders—they meant people who normally didn't follow the entertainment scene.
"Hiring someone? Huh, that's possible. Considering the Orang Home App spends tens of millions yearly just on server rental and maintenance, especially after launching Little Fruits projects, costs spiked. And yet, the app still stays ad-free and doesn't charge users to give them the best experience." Gu Peng grabbed a couple packs of dried fish snacks to calm his nerves.
Gu Peng had liked sites like Zhihu and Tianya before, but now Orang Home had taken over part of their space, becoming the second-largest online community, though still below Tieba.
Orang Home had started as a Little Fruits hub, but as more users posted original ancient-style music, more fans of that genre came to "mine for gold." Two internet-famous singers even emerged from the app.
Now, casual users were flocking to the app simply because it permanently preserved records. That accumulation of attention had caused some Little Fruits to harbor frustrations. Arguments even flared online, but the app's official team eventually stepped in to mediate.
Leaving the app's development aside, back to the buzz caused by "Zhang Shan is a good girl." Before the person involved could respond, more Little Fruits chimed in:
Baize123: [I also got a reply from Xiao Jiu!]
StarlightTian: [Whether it was staff or not, I'm so touched, I cried my eyes out. I never thought I'd get a reply.] [Picture attached]
RedObsidian: [So many people got replies from Jiu-yé? Can someone tally the ratio? Feels like a massive project.]
16-year-oldSupport: [I started writing letters to A-Jiu two years ago, roughly one per month. Last year I got a reply—it was the best gift for my coming-of-age ceremony.] [Picture attached]
Under that thread were countless comments: "Three years and this ID hasn't changed?", "Damn, someone's impersonating a minor!", "Layer owner knows Coconut Tree brand coconut juice? That brand updates its numbers every year."
16-year-oldSupport replied again: [Ahem, my ID comes from the Vine Pattern. Since it's the Vine Pattern, I used this name for all my social accounts except WeChat. Reasonable, right?]
It was reasonable. The joking comments instantly turned into admiration. A Vine Pattern ID now sold for over 4,000 yuan, and the Star Cluster Pattern IDs were even pricier. The price inflation traced back to Emperor Beast himself. Even Little Fruits overseas who primarily used Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter, and not WeChat, still wanted the IDs.
"Wait, I think I have two English IDs, little.princ and Adventures.in.Wonderland." Gu Peng remembered buying them years ago, not for fandom craziness, but because he found it fun. The former was a Vine Pattern ID, the latter a Star Cluster Pattern ID.
"What are they worth now?"
Gu Peng opened the Orang Home discussion section—[Music], [Free Talk], [Study Problems], [Other]—and clicked the last one. He froze at a high-response post:
[This year, Western and European Little Fruits drove English ID values up 14%, hitting a two-year high. Other ID types: Emoticon IDs held strong in the first half of 2026; Special Symbol IDs weaker. Japanese/Korean IDs surged thanks to the world tour, just behind English IDs. Thai IDs are rare, selling for 23,000 THB (Vine) and 58,000 THB (Star Cluster). French IDs are weak, trading index up 8% but no real market. Russian IDs, numeric IDs trade volumes…]
"Huh? Did I just enter a financial forum? This is insane." Gu Peng gawked.
It was like a futures market. Domestic netizens' wild creativity had divided Vine and Star Cluster IDs into thirteen types, each subdivided into Flawed, Near-Perfect, and Perfect tiers. For example, an English ID with a missing letter counted as Flawed. Professional, very professional.
Gu Peng scrolled down:
[Why did JamesII sell for 17,000 USD? I really don't get it!]
Star Cluster IDs for $17k? That's tens of thousands in RMB—people's entire yearly salary.
Clicking the post, Gu Peng found it had been bought by an American rich second-generation heir named James. His grandfather was Robert, so James II wasn't a joke—it was literally James the Second.
Wow, a full three-tier market had formed.
Scrolling further, Gu Peng found a post valuing accounts. The undercover king logged into little.princ and Adventures.in.Wonderland, took screenshots, and posted them. Within ten minutes, replies came:
[little.princ, Vine Pattern ID, seems to reference The Little Prince, missing an "e," Near-Perfect. This week, a slightly flawed English Vine Pattern sold for 4,800 yuan. Adventures.in.Wonderland, Star Cluster, a very valuable account, starting with "a," great English meaning. Reference price 12,000 yuan. Personally bullish, recommend collecting.]
"Bought for under 7,000, now worth 12,000 after two years. If you want digital collectibles, our accounts are where it's at. Any virtual currency is trash." Gu Peng leaned back, satisfied.
Of course, he wasn't selling. He didn't need the money. Then he remembered something and quickly switched to Weibo. Dozens of Little Fruits replied that they'd received letters from Chu Zhi, some even posting photos:
[The world is so big, Little Fruits don't cry, I can't hug you...]
[Thanks to Zhang Ya-nan, Little Fruit, for liking me, for letting me be part of your youthful memories...]
[From letters, you can see Little Fruits love life. Even if people around them don't understand, they still seek comfort. So brave. If listening to my songs makes them braver, I'll keep creating.]
The letters started with "My most precious treasure—Little Fruits received," roughly 400–500 words each. Only a portion was shown—the tone was what mattered.
"According to online data, dozens of Little Fruits got replies within a couple hours…let me calculate—"
Taking all factors into account, Gu Peng estimated that thousands, maybe tens of thousands of Little Fruits had received replies.
"The tone…doesn't seem like staff replies. Could it be?" he thought boldly.
Meanwhile, Wang Yuan managed the personal brand department, keeping constant tabs on news about Chu Zhi. Seeing the online discussion veer from "Sahel Concert awe" to "reply incident," she called Xiao Jiu immediately. Company announcements always had to be coordinated with the person involved.
On the other end, Chu Zhi smiled to himself. The groundwork had been laid for a long time, and now it was time to activate it.
How to maximize the effect? The Emperor Beast brainstormed.
After a few seconds, he replied: "Don't respond yet. After I finish this schedule, I'll do a live stream in the afternoon and explain everything directly."
"Live stream? On Douyin or Orang Home?" Wang Yuan asked. "Orang Home is easy enough."
Chu Zhi decided on the latter. Ultimately, it was about fan interaction, so his app was the best choice.
He hung up, and without any instruction, his assistant Xiao Zhuzi immediately handed him a thermos. He gulped two big sips. Unlike others who drank to rest, he drank before resuming work.
"Xiao Zhuzi, book a flight back to Modu around 3 PM." Chu Zhi headed to the crew center while giving the instruction.
"Got it." Xiao Zhuzi nodded and quickly started checking flights.
The current schedule was reshooting some close-ups for the Cloud Dream Marsh crew. Looking at his outfit—tattered clothes, a terrifying scar painted on his back by the makeup artist—he was ready.
The filming location was the Selenium Canyon, stunning enough to rival the Colorado Grand Canyon, though far less famous.
Reenacting the Bull Spirit, Chu Zhi quickly got into character under Director Liao Dazhong's guidance. Brave Bull never fears obstacles!
A few shots took just over an hour, plus prop setup time. Chu Zhi thought Director Liao should open a training class. Forget method schools, acting schools, or Lecoq—it was all trivial.
They finished half an hour early. Chu Zhi got up to greet acquaintances before slipping out.
"Thanks for the trouble. The post-production team noticed some plot points weren't clear, so we had to reshoot." Liao Dazhong said.
"No wonder the release date hasn't been confirmed," Chu Zhi observed. Seeing the director's worried expression, he asked, "Liao, what's the problem?"
"Not a big deal…" Liao Dazhong hesitated. "Just…"
From the Emperor Beast's experience, "not a big deal" usually meant quite serious.
"We don't need to beat around the bush," Chu Zhi said. "Maybe I can help."
"The film censors required a major scene cut," Liao Dazhong sighed. "About ten minutes. The story is already fragmented. Cutting more… I'm worried audiences won't understand."
Even without deep film knowledge, Chu Zhi knew a ten-minute cut was serious. It wasn't post-production—censors forced it. Liao Dazhong wanted to shoot more close-ups of Chu Zhi to please his fans.
"What did the bureau say?" Chu Zhi asked.
"I asked around. One scene about souls and ghosts can't remain," Liao Dazhong explained.
That made sense. Since 2007, the bureau banned promoting superstition, and regulations got stricter over time, especially after 2017. They never explicitly banned ghost films, but "promotion" is vague. Ghost Water Tales could be said to promote maternal love instead. But the rule was basically one-size-fits-all.
Liao Dazhong had worked in entertainment long enough and hit many walls trying to lobby.
"Can I see the clip?" Chu Zhi asked.
"Clip…" Liao Dazhong thought, then pulled up the ten-minute footage on his tablet.
The sequence had the main cast descend into the Nether Nine Springs to find Return, Xi. A huge female whale spiraled through a vortex, representing one of the Nine Abysses, drawn from Liezi.
He tried to depict Spring and Autumn-era ghosts, demons, and immortals. Massive whales swirled faster and faster. The imagination was boundless.
The film defined ghosts differently than usual. Two types: wandering souls without temples in the living world, and plague ghosts from the Nether, spreading disease.
Chu Zhi found it fascinating. The effects and creativity were too good to cut.
"I'll see if I can help keep more of it," he said.
"How…?" Liao Dazhong hesitated. He knew this was difficult, even with Chu Zhi's influence.
"Why hesitate?" Chu Zhi pulled out his phone and dialed.
Liao Dazhong wisely stepped aside. Calls like this were delicate—anyone asking had to beg properly.
Half a minute later, Chu Zhi returned: "Liao, it's fine. The clip can stay."
"?" Liao Dazhong was left with a head full of question marks.