October 28.
With time zone differences taken into account, China was the first to air the broadcast, followed by Thailand. The Korean Peninsula came last.
"I haven't watched Central TV in ages. The last time was probably two Spring Festivals ago."
"I feel like I can't connect with the New Year Gala anymore," Mo Qingqing sighed, her mind drifting to thoughts of her mother.
Whether the show had changed, she didn't know. What she did know was that she had changed.
She used to laugh beside her mom in front of the TV every New Year's Eve. Now, when the festival came, her mom spent it arguing over the phone—probably over another failed investment. Either way, all of Mo Qingqing's income as a singer ended up in her mother's hands.
Today, she had no work. Holding her tablet, she flipped between apps, refreshing Weibo while waiting for the concert to begin. For once, she was just like any other fan—just another "Little Fruit." Except she had stood on that very stage. She had heard, up close, the way despair gave way to something divine.
"This time, Jiu-ge's going to prove once and for all that his singing is top-tier. I want to see what anyone dares to say after this," she muttered.
The seconds ticked by.
As the show aired, the livestream chat was full of fan messages:
[Reporting in!]
[Where there's Jiu-ge, there's me!]
[LMAO Jiu-ge's getting better and better. This must be an A-list Asian stage, right?]
[Of course it is! Deron and Sung Yoon are international stars too.]
Chu Zhi's fans had practically taken over the screen. Their focus was funny, though—career fans were quick to analyze the concert's prestige and confirm that their idol was, indeed, of the highest rank.
Mo Qingqing quietly posted a comment herself:
[Go, Jiu-ge! You're the phattest!]
Around twenty minutes into the broadcast, she noticed something odd. The performance order had been rearranged in post-production. She was supposed to go after Chu Zhi, but her segment aired first.
[Who's this girl? Her voice's kinda amazing.]
[That's Mo Qingqing, you cultureless louts. Triple Golden Disc winner for Best Pop Female Vocalist.]
[She's slaying me with that tone.]
[I'm into it. Like, really into it.]
"Hehe, you guys know how to talk. Keep it coming." Mo Qingqing felt genuinely happy. She had given her best on stage, inspired by the serious dedication of her mentor, Li Huai.
But then—her most anticipated performer appeared.
🎵 "I thought about dying because the seagulls cried at the pier, floating and vanishing with the waves…" 🎵
The Chinese subtitles were perfectly placed: readable size, clean color, just right.
Mo Qingqing read the lyrics while listening. She hadn't felt particularly emotional on site, but now—watching it on her phone—something was different. She could feel the weight of every syllable, every pause.
It wasn't just performance. Chu Zhi sang like someone who had walked through fire, who had seen the other side. That kind of pain couldn't be faked.
🎵 "I can't tie my shoelaces well… they always come loose…" 🎵
There was a tremor in the delivery.
Even if you didn't understand the language, you could picture it—a little girl, shoes caked in mud, stumbling along. Her laces keep slipping, but she rushes to tie them anyway, because her mother, holding a black umbrella, won't stop or wait.
"I used to wish I had that level of vocal skill," Mo Qingqing murmured. "Now… I'm not sure I want it anymore."
Because she knew now—some voices came from wounds too deep to want.
During the song, even the livestream chat fell quiet. Viewers were absorbed, either reading the lyrics or holding back the tightness in their chests.
It wasn't until the shift into the angelic outro that comments began to trickle back:
[QAQ]
[Are you crying? I'm crying.]
[I'm watching on the subway with earphones. Can't cry, can't cry...]
[No one warned me…]
[He's telling himself to live, isn't he?]
The song was six and a half minutes long, but it felt like a century.
After that, Mo Qingqing barely registered the rest of the concert. She had intended to rewatch Li Huai's performance a few times to study his techniques. While not the most technically skilled singer in China, he was undoubtedly the best teacher she'd known—someone she shared a near-apprentice bond with.
But after what she'd just seen… even the Japanese audience was won over. How could someone like Mo Qingqing, who knew Chu Zhi's career inside and out, not be affected?
Feeling emotionally drained, she opened the Orange Home app to check the fan comment section.
"Let's see what chaos the little fruits are stirring up," she said aloud. She loved their wild, ridiculous comments. Every one of them was a character—sweet, hilarious, sometimes a bit too fast on the innuendo.
Like:[Meeting Chu Zhi is like being a Northeasterner eating noodles—no garlic left behind!]
[Chu Zhi and I are both pilots. We're supposed to take turns flying in sequence, per HQ protocol. But today I wasn't feeling well. Chu Zhi overtook me from behind, even though I begged him not to. After landing, I got chewed out by command. I whimpered, 'It was him… he overtook me from behind…' All my teammates backed me up: 'It was Chu Zhi! Chu Zhi overtook her!' (insert dog emoji)]
But today, even Orange Home was filled with grief.
BrokenSwordBurialGround: [I once thought about ending things too… he sang that line eight times. But how many times did he think it to himself? I don't even want to imagine. It broke me.]
MapleFlame: [I work for Taiyang Chuanhe Entertainment, can't say exactly what I do. But I can tell you: Chu Zhi's schedule is always full, even during holidays. Now I understand—it's because "there's nothing left inside him."]
RitualOffering:[I'm just a high schooler. Why do I have to endure this? Nobody told me this concert came with a dragon-slaying sword. When he sang, "People who keep thinking about death must be the ones who lived too seriously," I cracked. I still remember his will. I can't take it.]
LightFallingIntoLife:[He seems normal on the outside, even kind to those around him. But only when he sings does he show his real self. He carries all that pain alone.]
Mo Qingqing didn't scroll any further. She couldn't.
Even someone like her, with a naturally upbeat personality, couldn't take that kind of sorrow in bulk.
"This song starts in the dark, but at least it ends with a bit of light," she muttered. She glanced back at the fan page—thousands of new comments in under an hour.
On Orange Home, the little fruits were the thoughtful type, analyzing lyrics and sharing pain. But on other platforms—Weibo, Douyin, people were raw, impulsive. They couldn't even string a proper sentence together through the emotion.
The hashtag #IOnceThoughtAboutEnding
It was all over the trending charts on both Weibo and Douyin. Nothing else even came close.
The traffic surge was so intense that Central TV's website lagged. Even though it served 150 countries with over 130 million users worldwide, the flood of fan traffic was just too fast.
On the site's real-time ranking, the number one slot read:
Chu Zhi – "I Once Thought About Ending It" [Hokkaido Uplift Concert]
The rest of the top five looked like this:
2. Seventh National Census Announced for Next Year [News 1+1]
3. This Weapon Is the Poor Country's "Atomic Bomb" [Weapons Showcase]
4. In the Deep Mountains, The Five-Legged Pig [What's on Your Plate?]
5. The Most Modest Tomb of the Thirteen Mausoleums [History Speaks]
That number one listing felt so out of place it was almost absurd.
Central TV never had to lean on celebrity culture before. But this time, they couldn't ignore it.
And they weren't the only ones affected. Another artist who dropped his album today—Gu Beisheng, with Passerby/Passing Through—had his entire launch buried.
Even with paid promotion, he couldn't break through. Anyone who crossed paths with Chu Zhi today ended up unlucky.
"I knew it. I freaking knew it."
Back in Japan, Fei-ge, still deep in negotiations for another deal, had been refreshing his phone all day. The moment the broadcast began, he braced for impact.
And now? His WeChat Moments feed was filled with identical posts.
["Because someone like you exists in this world, I've begun to like it just a little. Because someone like you lives in this world, I've started to look forward to it just a little."]
Both posts had the same picture—Chu Zhi's performance onstage. One was from He Yu, the other from his cousin, Jing Jing.
Fei-ge scrolled further. Three more friends had posted the same message. Five people in total, three of whom were industry insiders—like He Yu, a mid-tier singer.
The remaining two? One was definitely a relative. The other was an old college classmate. Fei-ge had never separated his work account from his personal one—brave man.
"What's going on? Why are they all posting the exact same thing?" he frowned. Even coincidences didn't stack five in a row like this.
A quick search revealed the source. Chu Zhi's fanbase, the "Little Fruit," had launched a social media campaign called "Because of You." The message was simple—copy and post this single lyric to your feed to let Chu Zhi know he was that kind of person.
"Chu-ge's popularity is no joke. I've got five fans in my friends list alone?" Fei-ge chuckled to himself.
Anyone willing to take the time to post this clearly wasn't just a casual fan. These were die-hards.
The "Because of You" campaign revealed just how far Chu Zhi's reach extended—quietly but widely. This wasn't targeted emotional manipulation. It was a clean hit, and the pre-launch planning had been solid. Even a simple move from Chu Zhi felt like a finishing blow.
As the whirlwind stirred again around him, Chu Zhi was preparing to reject Lao Qian's latest offer. The script for When I Close My Eyes was still sitting on his desk. On the surface, it looked like a supernatural thriller.
"Wait a minute," Chu Zhi muttered. "This plot feels familiar. Isn't this a little too similar to Farewell My Concubine or even Su Eleven? Has this kind of script appeared on Earth before?"
He asked mentally, "Hey, system bro, help me do a search. You're fast anyway, just zip and we'll have the answer."
[Search fee: 1 Personality Coin.] The system replied curtly.
"Oh," Chu Zhi tapped his chin, "so there really is a similar script, huh?"
[?] The system sent back a question mark, confused.
"If there wasn't, you'd have just said no. But asking for a fee means the data exists. And if it were a flop with limited info, you'd say so outright. The fact you're charging me tells me this has potential."
[…] The system went silent. It clearly didn't want to argue.
Chu Zhi smirked. The system was still young and naive. He had dealt with too many interns like this in his past life as a boss.
"Don't worry, system bro. We're tight. I won't trap you with weird questions. You see, I'm honest with you, right?" he added.
The system gave no reply. And no reply was the best answer—it meant agreement. Chu Zhi nodded with satisfaction. This system really was too easy to read.
"A script that worked on Earth, huh?" He picked up his phone and called Lao Qian to ask if the role demanded intense acting skills. After reading through it, he didn't think there were any dramatic emotional peaks.
Lao Qian had anticipated this question. He had already asked around and responded, "The reason Director Otsuru wants you is because of the fragility and purity you showed during the concert. You give off a clean youthfulness."
Clean youthfulness? Chu Zhi raised a brow. That sounded like a polite way of saying, "You've got the looks."
"One thing to note," Lao Qian added. "The role is a high school student."
"I'm twenty-two. Playing a teenager feels a bit of a stretch," Chu Zhi frowned. "I think I look a little mature for that."
Mature?
Lao Qian nearly rolled his eyes. He hated it when people had no sense of their own attractiveness. Chu Zhi had great skin and youthful features. Their team's makeup artist always had to age him up for photo shoots. Now he was saying he looked old?
For this role, the makeup would make him look younger. Put him in a school uniform and he'd drop five years instantly. Seventeen-year-old? Easy.
Still, Lao Qian didn't bother to argue. "We'll set up a trip to Tokyo. Try on the look, take a few photos. If it works, then we'll sign."
"Filming will take two months, and it's not a closed set. You'll be able to come and go," he reassured.
The terms were good. Chu Zhi agreed to test the look.
Meanwhile, the broadcast hit Thailand. Their network had edited the episode, clearly trying to downplay Chu Zhi's appeal. They cut his opening remarks and the "Live on" message at the end of his stage, but thankfully left the performance intact.
In the face of true talent, these little tricks were useless. Chu Zhi still gained fans in Thailand. With his skill and looks, it was impossible not to.
The last country to air the concert was South Korea. The state broadcaster, KBS, had stronger reach than MBC, who had previously worked with Chu Zhi. KBS paid better too. With shows like Two Days One Night and Invincible Youth, plus their flagship music program Music Bank, their audience base was solid. So even with little promotion, the Hokkaido Uplift Concert made waves the moment it aired.
In Seoul, the head of Chu Zhi's Korean fan group, Kim Jaehee—ID [Little Golden Devil]—was watching closely. He had once served as Chu Zhi's guide when the singer visited Seoul for a program, thanks to his fluency in Mandarin.
"Damn it. How could Seong Yoon have more confidence than me?" Kim grumbled when he saw that Chu Zhi was performing right after the legendary singer.
He had faith in the "Great Demon King," but Seong Yoon was a decorated vocalist, a true powerhouse in Korean music. The pressure was real.
"No matter what, Chu Zhi can still crush OK Group," Kim consoled himself.
Then Chu Zhi appeared on screen, performing 🎵"曾经我也想一了百了" 🎵 (I Once Thought of Ending It All). Jaehee couldn't understand the Japanese lyrics, but he didn't need to. He was instantly pulled into the spiral of despair, the weight of emotion transcending language.
The feeling, he thought, could only be described by a poem from Korean poet Ko Un:
A dead tree turns a living one pale, spreading sorrow across the land.
One ill person burdens an entire family, an entire village.
Only when the hearse comes can the living breathe again.
Kim felt like that dead tree, standing in the way of all that was still alive. And he knew he wasn't alone. Many Koreans probably felt the same way.
By the time the bridge of the song came, when hope emerged through the despair, the dead tree in him slowly transformed into something whole again.
The ending was powerful. Jaehee was overwhelmed, but not with sorrow—this time, it was pride.
Forget Seong Yoon. Forget OK Group. The Great Demon King had annihilated them all.
"The beast inside me has awakened!" he declared, smashing his thumbs into his phone screen.
[Seong Yoon beat the Great Demon King? Watch the concert again. If your eyes are where they should be, you'd never say that.]
[One ballad made the Japanese cry in wooden sandals. Believe it.]
[Still doubting the Great Demon King? Go cry in your split-toe slippers.]
South Koreans often call Japanese wooden sandals "split hoofs," a term that doubles as a veiled insult. It's just subtle enough to pass, but everyone knows what it means.
Three savage comments in a row. Kim Jaehee felt like he had just gotten a triple kill in a MOBA game. It was glorious.
Nobody saw this coming.
Among the lineup were legends like De Long, Seong Yoon, and Li Huai, along with middle-aged artists from China, Japan, Korea, and Thailand. But in the end, it was a young singer, Chu Zhi, who stole the spotlight.
Was this the power of the "Great Demon King"?
Fans who had gone quiet in the earlier backlash suddenly returned, more aggressive than ever. Korean fans were composed of three types: overworked professionals crushed by the system, those who idolized Chu Zhi's unmatched talent, and diehard looks-based fans.
The third group was the most loyal. But now, the first two were flooding back, joined by a new wave. Together, they looked ready for war.