"Mr. Chu, let me help with your wounds." Dr. Du, one of the support team doctors, pushed through the crowd toward Chu Zhi.
"I'm not hurt. Others need treatment more than I do," Chu Zhi replied instinctively. He genuinely didn't think of himself as injured.
"They've sent in the official medics already. I've got time. Let me check," Dr. Du insisted.
"A band-aid will do," Chu Zhi said casually.
At the same time, the crew's cameraman, Kobayashi, squeezed his way over too. He had just finished filming the injured—several with broken limbs, countless others with cuts and scrapes.
If it weren't for Mr. Chu, things could've been much worse. The assistant director had been buried under the wreckage, unconscious. Normally, he worked night shifts and had gone to soak in the hot springs in the afternoon. He never made it there. Instead, he got buried under a hallway on the lower level. Chu Zhi had dug him out by hand, like harvesting sweet potatoes.
"Mr. Chu's pretty banged up too," Kobayashi said just as Chu Zhi rolled up his sleeves and pant legs.
There were several cuts from broken beams, with wood splinters still embedded. His fingernails were cracked. Sure, it was minor compared to others, but every one of those wounds came from saving someone.
Dr. Du took out hydrogen peroxide. The iodine solution had been crushed in the quake. Chu Zhi briefly considered using his "Sick Leave" persona to claim temporary paralysis and dodge the pain.
Then he caught a glimpse of Kobayashi's camera out of the corner of his eye.
"Wait, are you filming this?"
The moment he asked, it was too late. The disinfectant touched a wound.
"Ah—!"
The pain was sharp enough to make him howl. Not the kind of pain you hiss through your teeth, but the kind that wrings a scream from your throat. His hands and arms were littered with tiny injuries. The price of playing the self-sacrificing hero was steep.
Inwardly, he winced and activated his "Sick Leave" perk anyway. Immediate effect—the pain dulled instantly. Chu Zhi checked his points.
"Eighteen personality coins. I could redeem six rare items or pull three blind boxes."
"Nothing urgent for now. I'll hold off until I get a feeling for it—sixth sense kind of thing."
He scrolled through the ever-expanding catalog of rare items in the system shop. Last he checked, there were around 10,000 options. Now it was over 11,000. Was the system evolving in real time?
One of the new listings caught his eye—a strange blue pill that could protect your eyes from blue light, UV rays, and radiation. Pretty niche, but useful.
Still, Chu Zhi didn't spend much time on his phone. He mostly read books.
By the time his mind wandered back, Dr. Du had finished disinfecting and bandaging all his wounds.
"Thanks, Dr. Du," Chu Zhi said.
"No trouble at all." To Dr. Du, Chu Zhi was nothing short of a hero. The kind of idol the entertainment industry should actually be celebrating.
He was in his thirties, with a three-year-old daughter. If his daughter ever became a Chu Zhi fan, he wouldn't object.
Around 8 p.m., full darkness had settled in. Flashlights were necessary to move around. The official rescue team had distributed emergency supplies—water, rice balls, bread. It wasn't enough to fill your stomach, but it could keep you going.
"Good news, Mr. Chu," said the staffer in the cat hoodie. "All 78 members of our production team made it through. No fatalities. Three people are seriously injured, the rest are minor cases—and it's all thanks to you."
"No one critical?" Chu Zhi asked, concerned.
"All safe. They've been moved to the temporary field clinic."
Chu Zhi nodded. "That's good." He was especially concerned about Lao Qian, one of the three seriously injured.
"Mr. Chu, I really thought I was going to die. You saved my life."
"I'm not good with words, but I'll remember this forever."
"From now on, I'm your ride-or-die fan. Anyone dares talk bad about you, I'll unleash a thousand curses."
"Thank you for risking your life to save us, Mr. Chu."
More and more people came to thank him, including Zhou Guowu, who had clearly shifted his focus. Why chase Zhang Ning when Chu Zhi was right there? Sure, Zhang had seniority and prestige, but Chu Zhi was genuinely kind.
Sleep wasn't going to happen that night. They only had one tent, and it was cold in October. There were no sleeping bags, no heaters. And even without the physical discomfort, who could rest easy after an earthquake?
Of everyone, producer Che Lun probably had the most reason to lie awake.
He and his assistant, Xiao Tang, sat in silence. Che Lun's silence came from surveying the damage—equipment destroyed, guests injured, the future of their show in doubt.
Even though natural disasters didn't count as a breach of contract, the production would still lose money.
"Was I just too good at my job?" Che Lun muttered bitterly. "Is this what it means to be cursed by heaven?"
Xiao Tang stayed quiet out of sympathy. Can't laugh when the boss is suffering.
"This damn country," Che Lun grumbled. "If the quake hit after we left, I'd be fine with it. But no, it had to be now."
"I have a not-fully-formed idea," Xiao Tang said cautiously.
Che Lun perked up. "Let's hear it."
"Kobayashi filmed everything—Mr. Chu rescuing people. We could do a special episode. And didn't you prep a camera when you got stuck earlier?"
Che Lun remembered. Chu Zhi had saved him too, and they had the footage.
The more he thought about it, the more viable it seemed.
Official response had been slow. Eleven cities affected, and the local rescue teams had prioritized Japanese nationals. Che Lun had already arranged a private rescue helicopter to move their people to the nearby city of Yoichi, which wasn't hit as hard.
Hotels had been booked, too. Honestly, his crisis management was on point.
"Your idea's not fully formed, but very creative," Che Lun said, raising his arm to pat Xiao Tang—then wincing from his bandaged injury.
The footage alone could earn them hundreds of thousands in bonuses.
He instructed the crew not to post anything online for now. He would speak to the cast personally.
Japanese news outlets weren't focusing much on the quake unless it exceeded magnitude 6. And since they hadn't revealed they were filming in Otaru, the episode teaser still pointed to Sapporo.
In other words, they could keep this quiet. For the right price, of course. And if it was a money problem, Che Lun wasn't worried.
Che Lun instructed the crew not to release any updates for now. As for the guests, he'd talk to them himself.
The earthquake in Japan hadn't made major headlines back home. Since it wasn't over a magnitude 6, and earthquakes were common there, media attention had been minimal.
Besides, the filming location in Otaru hadn't been made public. The most recent teaser episode was from Sapporo's city center.
So if the production team wanted to keep things under wraps, it was entirely possible. Sure, they'd have to pay for silence, but to Che Lun, if money could fix it, then it wasn't a real problem.
By the next morning, everyone in the temporary safe zone was exhausted. Aftershocks could hit at any time, and there was no chance of going back to the inn to collect personal belongings—no matter how important. The crew wasn't foolish enough to insist on it.
So, what about Zhou Guowu's pet lizard…?
The transport helicopter Che Lun hired arrived early. It could only carry ten people at a time.
With nearly eighty crew members, that meant eight trips, but the journey from Otaru to Yoichi was only thirty kilometers. Each round trip took about twenty minutes, so it wasn't too bad.
The question was, who boarded first? Naturally, people with higher status or popularity went ahead—Che Lun, Zhang Ning, Chu Zhi, Wang Yuan, Min Jeongbae.
"Let the seriously injured go first," said Chu Zhi.
"I'll stay too. Xiao Tang, head over and coordinate things," Che Lun followed up. "We still need people to keep things in order here."
"Will you be alright?" Chu Zhi glanced at the thick bandage wrapped around Che Lun's arm.
"Don't worry. I'll be fine," Che Lun replied, though his real concern was Chu Zhi himself—who had exhausted himself saving others yesterday and hadn't rested at all.
The helicopters began their runs. When it was Zhou Guowu's turn to board, he looked back at the inn and took a deep breath, silently assuring himself it would be okay. He'd left the cage open. The lizard could climb out.
It was built for the wild. It would survive.
By noon, the entire team had safely arrived at a hotel in Yoichi. Not a luxury place, just a Super Hotel, one of Japan's well-known chains. With such short notice, there was no way to be picky when booking dozens of rooms.
Bathing wasn't really an option, since many had bandaged injuries, but at least everyone could get some rest and food.
Things were looking up. Che Lun handled everything with high efficiency. After discussions with the crew, they decided to keep the earthquake incident under wraps. Staff received "trauma compensation," and the celebrity guests and their teams got "emotional distress payments."
"It was a sudden disaster," Che Lun said, "but we've got footage of Chu Zhi throwing himself into the rescue without hesitation. If we edit this right in post-production, the show might not even lose money."
Chu Zhi's rescue effort wasn't just something Che Lun appreciated. The platform backing the show—iQIYI—owed him big too. If there had been serious injuries or even deaths…
The hours ticked by as Che Lun negotiated with sponsors and brand partners, smoothing things over and recalculating plans.
That evening, people began to relax. At the hotel's third-floor book café, Zhang Ning, Min Jeongbae, Luo Jianhui, Cai Jia, and Chu Zhi gathered. Guest Zhou Guowu wasn't avoiding them—he was just still catching up on sleep.
"If we'd waited for the official rescue team, I might've died there," Zhang Ning muttered while scrolling through Japanese news on her phone, a deep frown on her face.
"This country always surprises me in the worst ways," said Cai Jia. "I once played a game where China unified all of Asia and turned Japan into a province. I thought it was designed by some nationalist developer from China, but no—it was made by a Japanese studio."
"That would be one thing if they were trying to cash in on Chinese audiences. But the game wasn't even released in China," she added, confused.
The five of them were still bandaged up here and there, their conversation light and aimless.
Japanese internet headlines were filled with updates. According to the National Research Institute for Earth Science and Disaster Resilience, the October 18 Ishikari Earthquake had so far caused 20 deaths, 531 injuries, and 19 missing persons.
That last number was alarming. Normally, magnitude-6 earthquakes only resulted in a handful of missing people. The online backlash was growing, and public criticism of the government's slow response was escalating.
Reportedly, Hokkaido's rescue teams didn't even begin operations until 30 minutes after the quake. That delay was why Zhang Ning had been so shaken reading the news.
As usual, the government pivoted. On the third day after the disaster, they made two announcements.
The Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, and Transport blamed delays on faulty equipment supplied by a detection company.
And the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology announced plans to spend 300 million yen on a "Hokkaido Uplift Concert," inviting singers from China, Korea, and Thailand to perform in tribute to the victims.
Meteorology fell under the Land Ministry's jurisdiction. So, two of Japan's most powerful departments were already deflecting blame.
Unsurprisingly, these announcements enraged the internet even more. Even typically mild-mannered Japanese citizens were furious, not just the usual loudmouths on Yahoo News.
What kind of garbage decision was this? Public infrastructure near Ishikari was reduced to rubble, and instead of pouring the money into rebuilding, they were spending it on a concert? Three hundred million yen—over fifteen million yuan. What kind of nonsense was that?
No one believed the concert would actually cost that much. Clearly, someone was planning to pocket the difference.
#HokkaidoConcertScandal
#WhatDoesTheCultureMinistryEvenDo
#CanWeAbolishItAlready
These were the top three trending tags in Japan.
And yet... almost no one was talking about the rescue team's delay anymore. The distraction tactic had worked.
Japan's government had used tricks like this before. They once turned the COVID virus into a cute anime girl to deflect criticism. People ended up roasting the character design instead of the actual pandemic response.
They even made a mascot for radioactive tritium from nuclear waste, giving it a chibi face and pastel colors.
Never underestimate Japanese politicians. They weren't stupid. Just evil.
Back in Hokkaido, boredom set in. Chu Zhi strolled out to buy books. He read Japanese fluently, so that wasn't a problem.
Books, though, were shockingly expensive. A single novel cost sixty to seventy yuan when converted. No wonder Japanese authors could live off royalties alone.
Back at the hotel, there was some good news—Old Qian's injuries were healing well.
Then the landline on the nightstand rang.
"Chu-san, are you alright? I heard you were filming in Otaru," said Koguchi Yoshihiro. How he knew their location, Chu Zhi had no idea.
"I'm fine. No need to worry," Chu Zhi replied. "We're in Yoichi now."
"That's a relief." Koguchi sounded genuinely concerned. He wanted to visit, see with his own eyes that his friend's face hadn't been hurt.
But he was swamped. He had been invited as one of the lead singers for the Hokkaido Uplift Concert. There were too many matters to handle. He couldn't spare the time.
But maybe... Chu Zhi could come to Tokyo instead?
"Do you have time, Chu-san?" Koguchi asked. "Have you heard of the Hokkaido Uplift Concert?"
Chu Zhi, who had been treating the whole situation as entertainment gossip, nodded internally. Of course he had. But Koguchi went on to explain something he hadn't known.
Since the concert was organized by the Ministry of Culture, they weren't working with agencies. They were coordinating directly with official cultural departments from each invited country.
"If you're willing to sing, I can write a recommendation," Koguchi offered. "That way, Japan's Ministry of Culture can formally request your participation from China's Ministry of Culture."
That would make it an official cultural exchange—a performance by one of China's top artists for the sake of Sino-Japanese friendship.
Also, yes—the "Hokkaido" concert was being held in Tokyo. Absurd.
"It would be a national-level engagement," Chu Zhi muttered. He didn't care about Japanese fans or international clout, but being selected by his own Ministry of Culture? That meant something. That was how you got into the national team.
"Which Chinese artists are participating?" he asked.
"Since I'm one of the concert's organizing leads, I know a bit," said Koguchi, his tone humble but quietly proud. He explained that there were three lead organizers—himself and two assistants—each with influence in China, Thailand, and Korea. Koguchi was the chief because of his popularity in China.
"China should be sending Li Huai and Luo Jianhui," he added.
Li Huai was a national-level folk and pop vocalist, a recipient of the State Council's special artist subsidy, and a winner of the ABI Association's Gold Medal for Outstanding Global Artists.
Luo Jianhui, while not as internationally renowned, had won more domestic awards than anyone in his generation.
"Then I'll trouble you with this, Koguchi-san," said Chu Zhi, accepting the invitation.
"Not a problem at all. It will be an honor to share the stage with you," said Koguchi, clearly pleased. They chatted a little longer, until someone on Koguchi's end called him away urgently.
"There was another aftershock near Ishikari this morning. Please stay safe, Chu-san," he said before hanging up.
Chu Zhi set down the phone and glanced at his inventory. One album voucher, eighteen personality coins.
Plenty of assets.
"Well, now that I've agreed, I should give a proper performance. Not too good though—just enough to blow everyone else out of the water," he mused.
"Once, I Thought of Ending It All"
He still had that song in reserve. It fit the concert's theme well. Decision made.
He first called Niu Jiangxue back in China to explain the situation, then stepped out to find Director Che Lun.
After all, the concert was in three days. He'd need to leave for Tokyo tomorrow to join rehearsals.