Liao Dazhong stared blankly at his little buddy, like he didn't understand a word of Chinese.
"Perfect timing," Chu Zhi continued, "the Bureau's about to launch an event called [Promoting Classical Culture, Witnessing the New Era]. I feel like a lot of the ideas in your footage come straight from classics like Liezi, Shan Hai Jing, and Chu Ci, so it perfectly fits the theme. I went ahead and signed you up. I hope you won't mind me acting on my own?"
"N-no, of course not," Liao Dazhong hurriedly shook his head.
"That's good," Chu Zhi smiled, then added, "I also gave your number to the staff over there, since the official side will provide some promotional resources."
Chu Zhi wasn't showing off his connections. Ghosts, demons, and immortals were one thing, but even the Bureau's officials couldn't just bend the rules. Still, once Chu Zhi spoke, they couldn't just say no, so he found a compromise.
"Okay, okay, I'll make sure to answer the calls," Liao Dazhong said, not realizing that this compromise had already shaken him far more than Chu Zhi intended.
It was normal for the Bureau to run events. From March's campaign promoting Lei Feng's spirit, June's labor-themed events, to July's Party Day activities, Liao Dazhong could easily be a tool for filming the assigned content. His connections were decent enough. But why "a tool"? Because the filming content and schedule were strictly dictated, like a set essay topic. He'd never imagined shooting a movie only to be forced into an official slot.
And just now, Chu Zhi had made a call that lasted only half a minute. That little buddy of his was brutal in his efficiency.
"Ahem, thanks a lot, little buddy, for all your help. Are you free this afternoon? I know a place that does really good E-Cuisine. Their Mianyang Three Steams are amazing," Liao Dazhong said, finally snapping out of his daze. He wanted to show gratitude but didn't know what to say, so inviting Chu Zhi to eat was all he could manage.
"Mianyang Three Steams? What's steamed?" Chu Zhi feigned curiosity.
"There's no fixed recipe. It's mainly poultry, seafood, and vegetables, like steamed Wuchang fish, steamed crown daisies, steamed meatballs, or steamed mackerel. It depends on the season, so it's pretty flexible," Liao Dazhong explained.
"Sounds delicious. Wait, Liao Dazhong, let me check my schedule," Chu Zhi said, asking Little Bamboo beside him.
Bamboo responded immediately. He had a flight to Modu after ten, no time to spare.
"Then save this meal for me, Liao Dazhong. Once I'm done, I'm definitely eating it," Chu Zhi said.
The little buddy had real business to handle, so there was no way to stop him. Liao Dazhong hurriedly agreed to save the meal. After all, one meal was nothing compared to Chu Zhi's help.
Without much small talk, Chu Zhi headed to Xujia Ping Airport. The Grand Canyon was still quite a drive from the airport.
"Xujia Ping, Xujia Ping," Chu Zhi suddenly said in the car. "Which airport names do you think sound nice?"
"Baiyun Airport, clouds drifting in the sky," masseur Ma Weihao immediately replied.
"Hmm… I think Taoxian Airport sounds better," Little Bamboo added.
Driver Qiu chimed in from the front, "Phoenix Airport. That's a nice name too."
The discussion continued, with suggestions like Taohuayuan Airport and Liupanshui Zhaoyue Airport.
The flight went smoothly. Since Chu Zhi held a ceremonial role in the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, his itineraries were well protected. Unless the company announced it in advance, there wouldn't be crowds disrupting the airport.
Back at the company, Wang Yuan and the team had everything ready. The live broadcast explanation was prepared, and promotional content was already out. Even with limited time, the "Red, Micro, Dou" channels were well coordinated, yielding good results.
Live Broadcast Time: 7:00 PM sharp
Participants: Chu Zhi, a photographer, and several staff members
Little Fruits and fans gathering place: [Chu Zhi's Treasury] livestream
Many people watched, including fans who downloaded the app just to catch the hot gossip. Over 700,000 were online as soon as it started, putting a huge load on the servers. Luckily, Wang Yuan and the team had prepared well.
The barrage of comments was overwhelming: "He's here," "Why is brother Jiu blacked out?" "Over fifty Little Fruits have already posted their replies," "How many people got letters?" "I didn't get one," "+1" …
Two or three minutes past 7:00, the livestream went from black to color, showing the greenery of the neighborhood first, then the sound came on.
"Is the camera ready?"
"The picture's clear, all good."
Even this short exchange let the Little Fruits recognize their idol's voice.
When Chu Zhi appeared on screen, the feed briefly stuttered from the flood of comments.
"There are three romances in the world that are most tragic: Romeo and Juliet, Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai, and me with Chu Zhi."
"Brother Jiu, do you know why I've always failed at dieting? Because when I see you, I can't lose weight."
"My whole life I've sinned, but it's my fault. Brother Jiu is mine, all mine, drooling."
"Little Jiu should stream more. Girls get tired of studying, but seeing this face gives hope."
"Boys feel hopeful too (dog head)."
"You better really be a dog head."
On the internet, clever comebacks never end, and neither do trolls. Even in a harmonious chatroom, someone will always argue hard, from sharp angles.
Check, these are the comments, not the floating barrages.
I want British hotpot: [Frankly, what kind of crappy livestream app is this? Useless features, just trash.]
A Little Fruit couldn't resist, replying with love for the platform: [The Orange Home doesn't have a livestream function, and you just call everything trash. Who are you then?]
I want British hotpot: [I'm an idiot.]
[…]
Great talent arises in every generation.
"It's been a while since I chatted with Little Fruits via livestream. Last time was probably the online concert," Chu Zhi greeted, "This stream mainly explains some discussions about me online. Enough talk, I'll take you somewhere."
He led the way through the neighborhood courtyard, photographer following. Aiguo Company had coordinated with the property management, but Chu Zhi's exaggerated celebrity status still drew many residents to film with their phones.
It was after work hours or people collecting packages. Even with staff clearing the way, the crowd gathered just passing through the courtyard.
"That's the young singer who performed Yang Guifei's song,"
"What Yang Guifei? It's 'New Drunken Concubine',"
"Such a talented, patriotic guy, different from other stars, a great role model,"
"Ahhh—it's brother Jiu," murmurs confirmed Chu Zhi's solid casual fanbase.
Some older residents even called their grandchildren to announce the celebrity in the neighborhood.
The livestream audience grew as people recognized the area. "Wow, I know this place," "That pavilion is unique"…
Reaching Building 6, Unit 1, Chu Zhi pressed the elevator to the 14th floor, arriving at 1402.
"This unit has six apartments per floor. Five are mine. We'll go into 1402," Chu Zhi said. The photographer aimed the camera away while he input the code. The building, finished in 2020, was neither too new nor old.
Good neighborhood relations were obvious. Most people couldn't afford apartments like this, but Chu Zhi bought five. Unlike other stars, no one criticized him; people felt he earned it.
Works, character, and morality mattered. Most people weren't jealous—they just disliked spoiled young stars flaunting wealth.
Inside, the living room looked more like a media store than a home—no sofa, no coffee table, no TV, just metal shelves neatly holding letters instead of albums.
Pink, orange, transparent, tied with bows, cute patterns, or simple pretty card stock—it was overwhelming. Even the photographer and staff, seeing this for the first time, felt like stepping into a giant garden from a Wilde story.
"Chu Zhi, all these are?" the photographer asked.
"Over eight thousand letters arrive every month from Little Fruits," Chu Zhi said. "In five years, over half a million."
These days, anything could be looked up online. Most celebrity agencies had websites with addresses, emails, and phone numbers.
"You keep all of them?" the photographer asked, the same question the livestream audience wanted answered.
"Each is a Little Fruit's heart, of course I keep them," Chu Zhi said naturally. "I'm busy and don't have much time to read them, but I save them to enjoy in retirement, maybe in a scenic place. Just thinking about it is enjoyable."
The livestream's corner split-screen showed the photographer capturing the shelves.
Many letters included gift bags, so no strict mailing format was needed.
[Super Super Super Super Little Fruit]
[To brother Jiu!]
[Heavenly spirits, keep others out]
Some had smiley faces, others blank. Each letter was unique.
Letters were organized chronologically and protected with dust covers.
"I feel guilty," Chu Zhi said. "Little Fruits carefully write these letters by hand, and though I try to reply, I mostly print my responses."
"You reply weekly?" the photographer asked.
"Since five years ago," Chu Zhi nodded. "I spend time every week, about forty or fifty letters. Only the gun injury ever interrupted two weeks."
Years ago, Chu Zhi had used [Super Finger Candy] from the Oddities Shop to type faster. His hands became nimble, perfect for fingerwork, though he didn't learn dance with it.
Over five years, with forty to fifty letters a week, the photographer did quick math—so many letters!
The livestream exploded:
"He keeps them all?!!"
"What kind of godly idol did I follow?"
"I remember writing one in high school,"
"I want to write to Little Jiu too,"
"Wow, he really reads fans' letters?"
"He replies every week…"
The reaction was intense.
Chu Zhi then showed the other four rooms, filled with plush toys, all organized into land, sea, and air displays, like a plush Amazon warehouse.
One room held twenty-plus thermoses. Even changing one a month, he'd never run out. Fans sent these after seeing assistants carry two each. Gifts without addresses were returned, while the rest stayed.
"All so clean," the photographer remarked.
The livestream lasted an hour and a half, peaking at one million viewers. Two main obstacles existed:
This wasn't a concert, and many casual viewers downloaded the app just to watch, a minority.
The app's traffic pool, second in China, couldn't compare to Douyin.
At the end, Chu Zhi sang a medley.
This broadcast quickly stirred the Chinese internet. Fans sending gifts were normal, often not for the idol personally, but for staff. Not a rule, just tradition.
Chu Zhi's approach was a refreshing change.
[Honestly, my brother's letters used to be sold as scrap… awkward.]
[With thousands of letters, storage's tricky. News broke recently about a young celebrity's plush gifts sold online.]
[Some idols exploit fans, some treat them as fools, only brother Jiu treasures them.]
[Chu Zhi's schedule is insane, yet he finds time to read and reply—an angel?]
[Thinking the gifts are cherished makes me so happy!]
Many Little Fruits were moved to tears, especially those who had sent letters.
Take Huang Wen. She started stanning idols in high school but naturally drifted off in college. Seeing this, she felt embarrassed but touched knowing her letters were preserved.
"I've spent ten years at the fish market thinking my heart was cold as steel, but I still get moved. I didn't like the wrong person, oh hahahaha," Huang Wen laughed dramatically.
As discussions grew, fans shared their letters. They noticed two types: standard replies advising fans to care for people around them, and personal replies of hundreds of words.
From every angle, Chu Zhi set the standard for idols.
His refreshing approach cleansed part of the entertainment industry's murk, deterring obvious resale of fan gifts.
Zhou Yiyu immediately called manager Zhan Ge to check if gifts were handled.
"The plush toys?" Zhan Ge asked. "You rented a warehouse, everything's stored there."
"Oh, right," Zhou Yiyu smiled, relieved.
"Zhan Ge, arrange it. We need to ride this wave," he said.
Zhan Ge knew the trending news and immediately acted, cleaning and organizing the warehouse.
Chu Zhi, the instigator, didn't stay in Modu. After the livestream, he took a night flight to Beijing for the Dynasty press conference. According to producer Wang, "The music team barely counts as main staff, attending is normal."
If not for his experience, he might have believed it.
The production clearly wanted to leverage Chu Zhi's popularity.
"Sigh, what's going on?" Kuo Hai sighed.
"What's wrong, Kuo Ge? Why the sigh?" co-star Guo Hongyu asked.
"We have so many great actors, Director Sun at the helm, and now promotion depends on someone else," Kuo Hai grumbled. At forty-something, he'd won the Bai Yulan Best Actor twice.