"Boss Su, I have a rather blunt question. I hope you can answer it." The Fortune Southeast Asia correspondent spoke first.
"I'll translate what you really mean," Su Shangbai said flatly. "Your next question will embarrass me. You don't want me to take offense, but even if I do, I'm supposed to endure it. If you really want me to endure it, then stop asking."
The Fortune reporter was at a loss. He hadn't expected that even with his company on the brink of bankruptcy, this young man could still be so sharp-tongued.
"Boss Su, does this mean White Cane Company plans to completely withdraw from the Thai and Vietnamese markets?" The East Asia Brokerage reporter asked directly.
"No. This interview is over." Su Shangbai stood up. "Thank you all for attending the company's press conference."
And with that, Su Shangbai walked straight out.
The financial reporters, still brimming with questions, held up their microphones as if raising blades to stab at their target.
Su Shangbai was one of the biggest names in finance. He might not have controlled the largest amounts of capital, but the sugar industry's influence on the global food system was massive.
Collapsing Thailand's sugar industry had made Su Shangbai the most hated Chinese man in Thai netizens' eyes. But recently, he had been betrayed by the "Sugar King of Singapore." And the betrayal was for a reason that hardly seemed "businesslike." In an interview, the Singapore Sugar King bluntly said, "Chinese businessmen are too shrewd. I prefer working with Indonesian partners."
That one betrayal had left Su Shangbai's company in dire straits. Yet judging from his demeanor at the press conference, he still had cards to play.
Finance was volatile, but compared to that, the entertainment industry seemed relatively peaceful. At least there hadn't been any scandals like Zhou Guowu's downfall.
September 20 arrived. Tickets for the Strawberry Music Festival's Gui City stop opened for presale on Maoyan and Damai ticketing platforms.
Sales opened at 9:00.
By 9:01, they were sold out.
It was like a blink—gone.
The Little Fruits were stunned.
"What the hell is this?"
"Tickets? Where are my tickets? How could they all be gone in a minute?"
"Not even a minute! I just went to the bathroom, and in those few seconds they were gone. At most ten seconds."
"Could it be the app rounds time by the minute…?"
"Are you kidding me right now?"
Ten thousand tickets was far too few. On top of that, Japanese and Korean fans had purchased around two thousand through agents, leaving fewer than eight thousand. For all the Little Fruits who wanted to see their idol live, it was like trying to quench thirst with a drop of water.
Normally, fans treated each other like siblings, hugging and leaving sweet comments in the fan groups. But when it came to ticket-snatching, all bonds were cast aside. Ruthless.
Both Weibo and Orange Home were flooded with complaints. The hashtag #MusicFestivalTicketsGoneInSeconds shot up to trending.
"The backend shows ten thousand tickets sold out in less than ten seconds. That's what you call top-tier traffic. If he ever holds a solo concert, how would anyone even get in?" said Modern Sky's Director Fei, leaning back in his chair.
The Strawberry Music Festival was already one of China's four major music festivals. Its brand was strong, and the lineup solid, so tickets had never been an issue. But this kind of frenzy was unprecedented.
"If only we could book him for more shows." Director Fei sighed. But he knew it wasn't realistic.
He wasn't the only one sighing. Korean and Japanese fans had tried hard, but even with their bulk-buying efforts, they had only managed around two thousand tickets. That wasn't even "too many monks, too little porridge." It was no porridge at all.
Take devoted Japanese fan Ojima Matsushika. He asked four friends to help him snag tickets, yet none succeeded.
"Eh? How is this possible? I'm supposed to be unbeatable at ticket sniping!" Ojima Matsushika stared in disbelief at the screenshots his friends sent him.
So he resorted to the last method—money.
He flexed his financial muscle and finally secured one ticket for 80,000 yen.
"Hahaha! I can finally see Chu Zhi live!" Ojima Matsushika jumped with joy, rushing to tell his mother.
His mother was happy for him, but also worried. Though she believed her son wasn't so different from other kids, his intellectual disability meant remembering things was difficult. She decided to hire someone to accompany him.
Ojima's experience was proof: wealthy Japanese and Korean fans were now relying on money instead of speed.
Meanwhile, one Little Fruits member, Ling Zinan, was over the moon.
"I did it! I, Hu Hansan, got the ticket! Hah! Seventeen years of singlehood trained my reflexes. Who can match me?" Ling Zinan cheered.
"Mom, did you manage to get one too?" he asked his mother.
"…" Ling's mother said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes.
Ever since she had gone with him to a fan festival, then later heard Chu Zhi sing "Often Go Home and Visit" during New Year, she had also become a fan. Five hundred yuan for a ticket wasn't expensive. She had hoped to go with her son.
But reality was cruel.
That night, Ling Zinan was so happy he ate two extra bowls of rice at dinner.
Then he saw a post on Weibo:
"Are overseas fans this crazy? Three thousand yuan for a Strawberry Music Festival ticket in Gui City! My god, too bad I didn't buy. Could've flipped it for more than two thousand profit."
[Image] [Image] [Image]
The pictures were screenshots from Mixi, Café, and Twitter showing desperate buy requests.
"So much money to be made? Damn, why didn't I buy more?" Ling Zinan almost blurted out. But then he remembered—he already had a ticket.
Now he was torn. That was 2,500 yuan profit. And after all, Jiu-yé's performances wouldn't stop at just this one chance.
But still… he really wanted to go. A dilemma.
As ticket resale prices climbed, Chu Zhi's new music video production was also progressing. Fifteen videos, with a total budget over five million yuan.
They weren't being rushed—these weren't the sort of things one could finish in a couple of weeks.
Then came National Day. Chu Zhi arrived in Beijing.
He stood atop a float in the Tiananmen Square parade. Thirty floats in total, the atmosphere electrifying. On the vehicle, Chu Zhi waved with both hands, looking around eagerly. It was a rare moment of unguarded excitement from him.
For the Emperor Beast, National Day wasn't just about the parade. Another important event awaited—his film Shiyi Lang premiered in cinemas, with simultaneous release across Asia and Europe.
"National Day Golden Week is crowded to death. The best plan is staying home, watching Jiu-yé's new movie. That's the life of a god—comfortable!" said Little Fruits member Meng Yu. She had slept until five in the afternoon, after staying up arguing with netizens until six in the morning.
Meng Yu's main job was as a film critic on Bilibili. She was also a level-10 Little Fruits on Orange Home. After grabbing a bite to eat, she headed to the cinema with her boyfriend, Xiao Hu.
"Let's go, let's go." Meng Yu picked up her ticket.
"Hey, when you do your review later, you have to be fair. Don't let your Chu Zhi fangirl filter make you biased," Xiao Hu warned. "Otherwise, one fan review can turn into ten haters."
"Relax. Am I the type to lose my reason?" Meng Yu said. "As a film reviewer, I judge fairly and objectively."
"…"
Xiao Hu thought back to her expression the last time she saw Chu Zhi and could only chuckle helplessly.
"Besides, how can you look down on Jiu-yé?" Meng Yu said. "This film is a collaboration with Director Wang. It almost won Best Actor at Venice. How could it possibly be bad?"
"I just mean, let's be realistic," Xiao Hu replied.
Xiao Hu wasn't into idol fandoms, but he respected his girlfriend's passion.
As they talked, it was time to have their tickets checked and enter the theater.