"Man, you really treat me better than my own brother." Liao Dachong immediately knew Chu Zhi had gone out of his way to promote something, and he couldn't help but sigh.
Liao Dachong's actual younger brother, Liao Chi, spent all day borrowing money and asking for favors. Dachong knew Chi moved in the right circles, but even if he didn't, there were better ways to show family loyalty than just constantly taking.
Since he knew his brother's name, he casually mentioned his own. Liao Dachong was born Liao Zhang. His father was an interesting man named Liao Bin, inspired by the idea of balancing strength and restraint: "one firm, one loose."
While they were talking, Dachong got a call from some production crew. His brother Liao Chi had gotten himself into trouble again, and Dachong needed to go clean up the mess.
He muttered an internal curse he wasn't sure he should say out loud, thinking, I'd trade ten years of Liao Chi's life to have Chu Zhi as my real little brother.
Anyone who knew Chu Zhi's talent in acting as the Emperor Beast could tell he was genuinely a good person, not just Dachong. Xiao Yue, an associate professor of Japanese at Beiwai, also felt this firsthand.
Xiao Yue did freelance translation for a lot of industrial manuals from Japan, and anyone familiar with technical translations knew it wasn't about writing style but precision. His hobby was brutally honest critique, which often left his daughter Xiao Qing with sore knees.
"Old Six, I might need your help with something." On the other end was Professor Ma from the Renmin University School of Sociology and Population.
"Ma, what's up?" Xiao Yue asked.
They'd been friends for years, which was obvious from their casual way of speaking. Professor Ma might not know the online meaning of "Old Six," but Xiao Yue sure did, realizing "Ma Jiao" was a pun. Within his abilities, he'd never refuse.
"You know my granddaughter Xiao Xi is a fan of Consultant Chu," Professor Ma said. "I've noticed a worrying trend."
"A worrying trend?" Xiao Yue tilted his head, holding the phone and setting up his notebook and pen. "Go on."
"Chu Zhi went trending a few days ago for responding to letters. You know that, right, Old Six?"
Xiao Yue nodded.
"In the past two weeks, there've been tons of online tutorials teaching fans what gifts to send Chu Zhi. Even after Aiguo Company issued a notice, the trend hasn't slowed," Professor Ma explained. "You have authority in the fan community, so Old Six, this is up to you."
Anyone else would have been confused. A professor with high standing among fans?
More precisely, Xiao Yue commanded respect from the Little Fruits because of his research, particularly on how Chu Zhi's interactions helped fans with exams. One reason Little Fruits occupied the top of the fandom hierarchy was that their internal environment encouraged study, and the "Self-Study Room" function in the app remained its most popular feature.
"I'll sort out the data," Xiao Yue said, realizing it wasn't urgent but could get out of hand.
In that kind of environment, sending gifts to idols sparked competition. Fans can be ruthless when it comes to comparison. Anyone who's been in some of these groups knows it's chaos.
"Consultant Chu is one of the few positive examples in the entertainment world, and the way he behaves is a good role model. It takes years to produce someone like him," Professor Ma added. He had a hidden motive too, since one of his research topics involved the entertainment industry and Chu Zhi.
Two things stood out in their conversation: both professors' children were Little Fruits fans, showing deep loyalty, and both referred to Chu Zhi with respect, which is rare for a celebrity among intellectuals.
After hanging up, Xiao Yue recorded plenty of notes. By afternoon, he'd drafted an article whose title alone caught attention:
"Has Chu Zhi Lost Control of His Fans?"
Xiao Yue clearly understood fandom culture.
[Chu Zhi and the Little Fruits have always been a positive story in entertainment. Keywords like cherishing fans, order, belief, motivation to live, and emotional impact frequently pop up online. I've surveyed and studied Little Fruits' internal environment and Chu Zhi's influence, covering things like diligent studying, setting exam expectations, emerging from hardships, and cultivating correct values.
In today's commercialized and almost religious fandom culture, Chu Zhi and the Little Fruits are truly unique globally. But recently, things are about to change. Search trends like "how to choose gifts that Jiu-yé will use often," "check out 1000+ gifts that probably won't be returned," "is Xiao Jiu's bracelet a fan gift?" have risen across Xiaohongshu, Douyin, and Weibo. Official statements by Aiguo Company and Chu Zhi himself only fueled the craze.
Data shows the average value of fan gifts has jumped from 180 to 400. It looks like a car about to lose control.]
Xiao Yue even linked three news articles about extravagant fan gifts and public criticism. Despite spending little time, his article was thorough and full of charts.
This shook the fandom, specifically the Little Fruits. One prominent fan, Miao Miao, admitted, "Jiu-yé has always wanted fans to live well. His usual reply is, 'I'm happy with your gift and will treasure it, but your company is enough. If you want to give me something in the future, consider giving it to your family. Pay attention to your elders; I can't always be with you.' We really misunderstood him this time."
Soon, a famous superfan, Wei Tongzi, posted a video on Weibo:
"Remember why the Orange Home app exists? Jiu-yé wanted to grow together with Little Fruits and increase our value. He isn't happy just receiving gifts, but he will be happy if you improve your life and care for your family."
The fandom's mood flipped instantly.
Chu Zhi noticed the change and had the Orange Home team launch a new feature early: "I Really Want to Say I Love You"—fans could gift their family or friends, share photos or thoughts, and receive the "Outstanding Little Fruit" title each month. The exclusive title carried weight since it couldn't be bought.
Chu Zhi recorded a short video: "We Chinese are reserved. By the time I want to say something, it's often too late. Sorry for rambling, but these are some small life lessons. I hope Little Fruits work to love those who deserve it and love themselves."
Wang Yuan watched, tears streaming. Fans followed suit, leaving apologies and comforting words.
Little Lanhan left a message: "[Brother Jiu, don't be sad, we're here! I'll always, always be with you!]"
She had used her saved pocket money to customize a blue bear for Jiu-yé. Thanks to the app event, she decided to give it to her father instead, writing a short note: "[Dad, wishing you health. I love you, Dad! — Han Lanhan]"
Her mother had died when she was young, leaving her father to raise her. Despite living together, they didn't have a close relationship.
At 9:30 PM, her father returned from work. Lanhan handed him the bear and a letter, leaving him momentarily stunned. He finally set it aside, muttering, "This kid is into some strange stuff," and reached for a cigarette, the secondhand smoke stinging.
Lanhan wasn't alone. Many Little Fruits had gifts for their parents. The wave had finally calmed down.
Chu Zhi didn't feel burdened. He knew popularity came with responsibility. A few minor leftover issues would be smoothed over quickly by his company's PR team.
Meanwhile, his drama Dynasty premiered. The story wasn't amazing and included some odd "rush marriage, rush birth" plot points, which were odd for a political drama, but thanks to veteran actors and excellent production, it scored well: 2.6% premiere rating, 7.6 on Douban, 70 million online views on the first day.
Chu Zhi, however, wasn't happy. "I'm the clueless and unhappy sucker. Nothing's safe."
He was currently in the Parisian suburb called the Choisy-le-Roi Triangle, a.k.a. "Little Asia," home to many Chinese and Southeast Asians.
"Being a star too long makes you drop your guard. I actually got tricked by a little stunt," he muttered.
He had just gone shopping and spotted a Chinese specialty store plastered with his posters. Thinking the owner was a fan, he let his guard down and ended up paying over three hundred yuan for a hundred-yuan item.
The store did great business, especially among foreigners. Each day, a third of the foot traffic was drawn by his posters, thinking it was celebrity merchandise.
Owner Qi Datou prayed daily for Chu Zhi's success, placing incense before a Buddha and a cross, switching from his previous unusual single statue.
"God bless him, let Chu Zhi stay famous for decades! And keep him healthy," Qi whispered.
Chu Zhi's posters worked perfectly, attracting both interested buyers and curious fans without seeming out of place.
Later, the Parisian newspaper Le France Soir reported the ongoing "Renaming Controversy." Last year, the city renamed itself "Chu Zhi City" for a two-day concert celebration. Fans petitioned to keep the name, and after a month-long vote during Chu Zhi's peak popularity, 66% agreed.
The cabinet eventually compromised, officially naming the city Chu Zhi–Saint-Denis.
Qi Datou was thrilled. "Europe's only city named after a Chinese person. Tourists will love it."
He pasted extra posters despite their cost. "20 yuan each… maybe just copy one online," he muttered, but decided against it.
"Chu Zhi, you're even more handsome than that official the rabbit god liked. I'll make sure you stay famous for a hundred more years," he whispered to himself, oblivious that Chu Zhi was actually nearby in disguise.
That night, Chu Zhi attended an internal screening for The Matrix, joined by Davis and Jiang Xiaogong. The script was solid and exciting, but he wasn't impressed—just curious. The dialogue had philosophical undertones, touching the question, "Who am I?"
The producers and executives, however, were blown away. "Who wouldn't love Chu Zhi?!"
The director Davis grumbled. After all his hard work on the script, everyone only cared about the male lead's looks.