Many Chinese students studying in South Korea suddenly realized something: a lot of their classmates were asking them to buy tickets for the Strawberry Music Festival. And not just a few—an overwhelming number.
Chu Zhi's popularity in South Korea had grown to shocking levels. Though he wasn't yet at the point where his fanbase outnumbered the entire idol scene, the coverage was still astonishing. Ever since he starred in My Love From the Stars, it felt like seven out of every ten female college students in South Korea had become his devoted fans.
"I never thought I'd be making money because of a celebrity," one student said, baffled.
Another thought aloud, "If Chu Zhi holds more concerts, I'll be rich."
The students weren't exaggerating. South Koreans willing to buy plane tickets just to see a concert usually had solid financial means. A round-trip flight from South Korea to China cost several thousand yuan.
At first, fans only offered a small "thank-you fee" of forty thousand won for students to help them purchase tickets. But soon, major fan leaders began driving the price higher.
[Remember the Li Huizhen album incident? Do you really think you have a 100% chance of grabbing a ticket with Chinese fans around? Student fans are naive.]
The tension between student fans who cared mostly about looks and "Apostles" who valued singing ability had been ongoing, but even student fans had to admit the big Apostle fan was right. Among them was Kim Mina, who had reposted the conversation.
"That's right, the Li Huizhen album incident."
The memory hit Kim Mina hard. Half a year ago, when Li Huizhen released her new album, countless Chinese fans had swept in and bought out the Korean editions. Student fans couldn't compete at all. Li Huizhen herself hadn't even managed to secure a copy, fainted from the stress, and the story made national news.
No, she couldn't just sit around this time. Chu Zhi's festival was coming, and Kim Mina was determined to go. She immediately began making calls.
It wasn't just her. The entire South Korean fan community was on edge. Last time, Chinese fans had managed to snatch one hundred thousand albums in less than thirty seconds. This time, with only ten thousand music festival tickets, the odds looked even worse.
The market quickly turned frenzied. From the initial forty-thousand-won thank-you fee, the price skyrocketed to one hundred thousand won—about five hundred yuan. As the saying went, only Chinese fans could beat other Chinese fans when it came to speed.
For South Koreans, ticket prices were steep. Even the hottest boy groups rarely charged more than one hundred won for a show.
But for Japanese fans, the price was just right. Tickets for their top three music festivals were usually in the five-to-six-hundred range as well.
Entertainment news spread quickly across Japan and South Korea, so it didn't take long for Japanese fans to prepare. Everyone knew there were far more Chinese exchange students in Japan than in South Korea.
Li Cangxing browsed through posts on Mixi requesting proxy purchasing services, along with the overseas student WeChat groups he'd joined—even though he wasn't a university student himself, just a trainee in Japan.
You Became a Star, Right?: "What do I do? What do I do? I really want to see Jiu-yé perform, but on Mixi the thank-you fee is already over ten thousand yen."
"Honestly, I don't think it's worth stressing. You might not get a ticket even if you try."
"I agree. I'm not a Little Fruits myself, but my mom and sister are. They're already asking friends with quick hands to help them grab tickets."
"Don't get your hopes too high. At best, the odds are just slightly better than buying train tickets during the Chinese New Year rush."
Li Cangxing chuckled. "President is amazing. He can even make our people earn money."
"In the 80s and 90s, when Hong Kong was called the Eastern Hollywood, even the biggest superstars weren't this insane," he thought.
For now, his own goal was modest: debut after his trainee years, release a couple albums, and make a name for himself. At Stardust Entertainment, he still had hopes for the future.
South Korea was infamous for senior idols bullying juniors, but Japan was no better. Both countries could compete for who was crueler.
"YYDS, President YYDS!" Li Cangxing said as he took on a Mixi request. Ten thousand yen in thank-you money was too tempting. Maybe he could make some cash if he managed to grab a ticket.
He called Chu Zhi "President" because he was part of the Ninth Overseas Mutual Aid Society.
Before joining, he had endured harsh treatment at Stardust. Unlike South Korea's physical beatings, Japan's bullying came in the form of endless late-night calls—11 p.m., 2 a.m.—asking him to run errands. Already exhausted from training, he could barely sleep. His mental state deteriorated to the point of collapse until the mutual aid group gave him support.
While Japanese and Korean fans burned money for tickets, things in China continued as usual.
"Fei Fei, what do you expect from your new drama?" his agent Brother Xian asked.
Beside him, assistant manager Sister Cui added, "Hopefully it becomes as popular as My Love From the Stars."
"Getting a small hit depends on skill. A huge hit depends on luck. Stars was like your ancestors' grave producing smoke while lightning struck it ten times in a row. It's pure superstition. Let's set a more realistic goal. Half the popularity of Stars would already be a success," Brother Xian said.
Lin Feifei's team had a strange obsession. No matter the discussion, they always compared everything to Chu Zhi. It was as if they couldn't function without measuring against him.
…
Meanwhile, Chu Zhi was preparing for new projects: festival appearances, MV filming, and more. Unlike most idols, his MVs weren't just promotional fluff. They became raw material for fan editors who paired him with every possible "ship"—from anime characters to sharks.
His mother-fan Wang Yuan marveled, "Little Jiu reads so much. Even obscure classics like The Records of Luoyang's Temples. And he actually turned it into a song."
Old Qian added, "Not obscure at all. That book preserves Northern Wei architecture and folk songs. Especially precious for Japan and Korea."
Wang Yuan eyed him suspiciously. "You Googled that, didn't you?"
Old Qian coughed. "…Maybe."
Their pride was real, though. China's cultural heritage was so vast, much of what locals took for granted was treasured abroad. If not for Chu Zhi's song Cold Fireworks, Old Qian would never have known The Records of Luoyang's Temples had already been translated multiple times in Japan and South Korea.
The song's story wasn't in the book itself, but the atmosphere and imagery were drawn from that ancient era. Chu Zhi had discovered it after carefully reading the text.
Filming continued. Wang Yuan often worked overtime so she could free evenings to watch the shoots.
Director Wang was tough, but she brought out the best in actors. Even veteran Liao Dachong admitted, "That movie you did with Director Wang really improved your acting. I can see the progress."
Chu Zhi replied humbly, "I still need your guidance, Brother Liao."
From East Wind Breaks, where he played a poet of the Republic era, to Blue and White Porcelain and Dusty Tavern, where he portrayed martial arts masters, to Moonlight, where he became a war general, his transformations were striking. Shooting Blue and White Porcelain even required wire-work, flying through the air. Since it was his first time, he wasted quite a bit of time adjusting.