The second question made Chi Chi think for quite a while before she answered.
"I think I probably could have still made it. I'm quite confident in myself, and I believe I would have kept going.
But— and this is an important but — without brother Jiu, I would've had a much harder time pushing through. Brother Jiu really boosted my motivation to study. Honestly, brother Jiu and VV gave me the biggest drive."
Chi Chi's answer brimmed with self-assurance, but not all the Little Fruits interviewed felt the same. For many, their spiritual pillars played a far greater role.
[ye_azui]: Definitely. Without Jiu-yé, I never would've deleted the game and gone all-in like that.
[NightCat_09]: Jiu-yé set such a strong example for us. He worked so hard, and the discussion board on the app is constantly buzzing. People are always talking about how many practice tests they've finished. Seeing others work that hard creates a kind of pressure.
[FortyFrogs]: If there were no Xiao Jiu... we'd all be lazing around, honestly. At first, the whole 'add a star' goal and stuff like getting into Tsinghua University was just a joke. It felt out of reach. But once we wrote it down, we started wanting to make it real.
Everyone interviewed used online nicknames. There were both male and female fans, though more women than men, and each person proudly shared a photo of their university admission letter beforehand.
Professor Xiao Yue interviewed 200 high school students preparing for the college entrance exam. When asked who gave them the most motivation, almost all of them mentioned Chu Zhi. Reasons included, but weren't limited to: her songwriting, the goal-setting features on her app, her active effort to study alongside fans, the productive environment of the Orange Grove, and the hyper-energetic users in the app's comment section.
By "hyper-energetic," they meant users who acted like they were on a constant adrenaline high:
"Push push push! The weather's great today — why not do two more worksheets to celebrate?"
"Bad weather? It's raining? That's perfect. Stay inside and knock out two worksheets!"
"What? You finished your worksheets for today? Do two more!"
The results were staggering. Over 40 percent of the interviewees got into their dream schools. Another 20 percent didn't make it to their top choice but still got into a good second-choice university.
"None of the top five celebrities in the industry — people like Zhou Guowu or Lin Xia — even come close to this level of influence." Professor Xiao Yue's preliminary research was thorough. He even went undercover into fan groups to observe their atmosphere firsthand, and it was unlike anything he had seen.
In recent years, college entrance exam quotas had been increasing, but the acceptance rates varied wildly from region to region. Some areas boasted rates as high as 80 percent, while others were as low as 20-something percent. Last year, only 41.37 percent of applicants were accepted into undergraduate programs, meaning more than half didn't make the cut.
And yet among the Little Fruits Xiao Yue surveyed, more than 60 percent got in. While part of that could be attributed to continued expansion in admissions, the influence of Chu Zhi was undeniably significant.
Of course, this wasn't a one-man research project. Xiao Yue had two teaching assistants helping him compile the data, which was finalized and sent to him two days later.
"If I hadn't personally followed this investigation from the beginning, I'd never have believed it."
Xiao Yue pushed up his glasses and pored over the numbers again and again. When he got to the final section of the spreadsheet, his jaw dropped. The idol effect had boosted admission success by more than ten percent.
That might not sound like much — but only on paper. In 2020, over ten million students took the gaokao. A ten percent increase meant that Little Fruits had outperformed over a million other students.
No cram school, no nonstop late-night studying, no one-on-one tutoring with a provincial valedictorian could achieve that kind of result.
"'Idol' isn't a label for Chu Zhi," Xiao Yue muttered, stunned. "Chu Zhi defines what an idol is."
Even though he had mentally prepared himself, he was still shaken. He paced his study restlessly.
"Two hundred people isn't enough to make a conclusive case." He knew full well that the academic world was fiercely competitive. To publish this research, he needed a larger, more comprehensive sample.
Since he had already started the interviews, why not go further? He would survey several hundred more students in phases, and determine the full scope of Chu Zhi's impact.
"If the results weren't so terrifying, I wouldn't need several times the sample size just to justify the conclusion," he said, stretching with a wince. His lower back ached from being cooped up in the study all day.
He was exhausted, yes. But Xiao Yue believed that once his findings were published, the entire country would gain a new perspective on the idol industry.
Other celebrities might say, "My fans supported me by spending tons of money." But in Chu Zhi's case? "My fans got into college for me." Now that was prestige. Xiao Yue understood that clearly. This man had been dismantling the domestic entertainment industry from a higher dimension — and each time, he did it more ruthlessly than before.
If things kept going this way, he might even be written into the annals of entertainment history. The thought made Xiao Yue chuckle to himself.
"Something amusing crossed your mind, Dad?" his daughter, Xiao Qing, asked. "You should go out for a walk. You've been holed up in here for four or five days. You're going moldy."
"Did you hit that little goal you set for yourself in the Orange Grove?" Xiao Yue countered, raising an eyebrow. "I seem to remember someone claiming she was going to work hard alongside her idol. Or was that all just talk?"
Oof. That one hit home. Xiao Qing instantly went quiet and turned to retreat into her room. The door slammed shut behind her in protest.
Back in Incheon, the subject of Xiao Yue's research, Chu Zhi, was in the middle of filming. But the first two days of the shoot were plagued by unexpected chaos. Too many fans had shown up, overwhelming the set and making it impossible to start filming.
Chu Zhi's road manager, Lao Qian, did everything he could to control the situation, but the frenzied apostles were unmanageable.
So the crew posted an announcement on the drama café's official account:
[Actor Chu Zhi is currently filming My Love From the Stars. Thank you to all the fans who visited the set, but large groups of people are affecting the filming schedule. We kindly ask for your understanding.]
The post was ordered by scriptwriter Ryu Tae-seok. In South Korea, scriptwriters held some of the highest status in the industry — even lead directors could be replaced, but never the writer.
Ryu Tae-seok was famously known as the "man of ten thousand tears," a nickname that implied his scripts were incredibly moving.
Regardless of his talents, his way of handling this situation left Chu Zhi speechless. Was he serious? Didn't he understand that an announcement like this would only make things worse?
He wasn't wrong to sense trouble. Apostles who hadn't known Chu Zhi was filming in Korea now had confirmation. Even though the location wasn't stated explicitly, the fact that people had visited the set made it easy to find with a quick search online.
And so, by the third day, the Incheon Metropolitan Museum — their filming location — was surrounded on all sides. It looked like a zombie siege. The rented perimeter was basically meaningless now. The museum's security guards were visibly hesitant. The director kept ordering them to maintain order, but what good would that do against a tidal wave?
The apostles raised their signs high:
[Love Chu], [The Great Demon King is Unmatched], [Only Chu Zhi in My Heart].
Chu Zhi could feel it clearly. This was even more overwhelming than when he had been mobbed in Otaru.
"Ahhh!"
"Oppa, I love you!"
"I came all the way from Jeonju to see you. I really, really like you!"
Korean fans usually weren't this wild. They weren't sasaengs and didn't typically disrupt their idol's schedule.
But Chu Zhi had made so few appearances in Korea. Not just meet-and-greets or fan events — even his trips here could be counted on one hand.
And now, at the peak of his popularity in South Korea, the Great Demon King had finally returned. The apostles, unable to contain their devotion for so long, had finally found an outlet. What else could you expect them to do?
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爷 (yé) = "Lord," "Master," "Boss," or "Sir"
More formal, respectful, and slightly majestic.
Often used for powerful, cool, or authoritative figures (e.g., CEOs, mafia bosses, noble characters).
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"sasaengs" (사생팬 in Korean) refers to obsessive, invasive fans, particularly of K-pop idols, actors, or other celebrities. It comes from:
사생활 (sasaenghwal): meaning "private life"
팬 (paen): meaning "fan"
So sasaeng fan literally means "a fan who invades someone's private life."
Sasaengs are known for extreme and often disturbing behavior. They're viewed extremely negatively, both by the general public and by the celebrities themselves. It's considered a form of harassment, and many idols have spoken out against it.