With the rise of Generation Z, their growing purchasing power has doubled year after year. Many celebrities have learned to play to their tastes, using it as a way to win over this new audience.
The strategies varied. Some declared themselves fans of a certain comic, some cosplayed popular anime characters, while others joined promotional events for Hanfu. Of course, there were a few who truly loved these things, but the majority treated it as business.
Chu Zhi was a little different. He wasn't doing this to grab fans, nor could it be said that he was driven by passion. The title of "Father of the New Chinese Style" from his role as the Emperor Beast was already more than enough. His attitude toward Hanfu was one of respect. He believed traditional culture must be carried forward. That was why he wore Hanfu when singing on stage. To say he loved it deeply would be an exaggeration—after all, even when he performed as Emperor Beast, his knowledge was only a surface-level understanding.
At the meeting, the honorary president sat at the first seat on the left, while the main seat naturally belonged to President Qi.
President Qi, already in his sixties, had served as the head of propaganda in the Ministry of Culture and Tourism before retirement. He was also an academic leader, having been appointed five years ago as a member of the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences—a title comparable to an academician of the Chinese Academy of Sciences. His research focused on the history of ancient clothing and Western Xia cultural history. In short, he was a professional in this field.
Though he looked frail, with sagging cheeks and deep dark circles under his eyes, President Qi often joined senior marathons. His thin appearance came not from weakness but from age.
His personality, however, was fiery. He particularly detested the so-called "chest-high ruqun" sold in the market. There was nothing wrong with merchants making adaptations of Tang-style clothing to attract buyers, nor was there anything wrong with promoting them. But what he could not tolerate was misleading publicity. The public had been made to believe that most Tang women wore this style, when in fact, "chest-high ruqun" was just a modern marketing term. The actual historical forms were very different. President Qi had written countless academic papers criticizing this.
During the meeting, someone raised a topic:
"Our Xitang Hanfu Culture Week—can we have Chairman Chu's support?"
"Director Li, are you planning to invite Chairman Chu to attend and sing a few songs?" someone teased.
"No, no, nothing like that," Director Li of Xitang's Cultural Tourism Office quickly denied with a smile. "We all know Chairman Chu's schedule is packed. We wouldn't dare make such a request. What we're hoping for is simply Chairman Chu's authorization."
The representatives of the member groups were already tugging the discussion in different directions.
In this parallel world, the Chinese Hanfu Promotion Association was a highly official body, almost on par with the National Charity Federation. It was a semi-official organization, with groups from places like Xitang, Pengcheng, and Wuzhen all serving as members.
"What kind of authorization?" asked Chu Zhi.
"Your album, Chu Ci: Ode to the Orange Tree. It has never had a physical release. We'd like to produce three thousand physical copies and include them as prizes for the Culture Week," Director Li explained.
The representative from Wuzhen immediately perked up. That was indeed an inspired idea. The album was already highly praised, its overlap with Hanfu enthusiasts was large, and most importantly, there was no physical version yet. As a prize, it would be unique and unforgettable.
"Album authorization…" Chu Zhi paused, surprised. He hadn't expected such a proposal.
"We know Chairman Chu only releases digital albums, and they're free," Director Li continued. "We promise these copies will only be used as prizes during the event's raffle. No one will need to pay for them. We will never use them for profit."
Printing three thousand physical albums, even with high-quality production, would cost no more than twenty yuan each. At most, sixty thousand yuan total.
"I'll need to discuss this with my manager," Chu Zhi said after thinking it through. He agreed with the idea in principle, but copyright issues were handled by Niu Jiangxue.
"Of course, of course," Director Li nodded eagerly. To show he understood the gravity of the matter, he added, "Copyright is no small thing. Discussion is necessary, absolutely."
Since the Hanfu Culture Week in Xitang was scheduled for early November, there were only a few days left. Settling it early would be best.
Chu Zhi stood and excused himself. "I'm sorry, please give me a moment to make a call."
President Qi immediately replied, "Chairman Chu is efficient in his work. This is also important business for our association."
As head of the union, and an academic leader with real authority, President Qi despised those who treated ethnic culture purely as business. Chu Zhi, however, was a rare junior he truly admired.
Chu Zhi dialed Niu Jiangxue and explained the situation.
"If it isn't for profit, I think it's acceptable," Niu Jiangxue replied. "Physical copies of your Chinese albums have never been released. Many fans want to collect them. Partnering with cultural events like this could be a good way to meet that demand."
Brave Niu Jiangxue was always looking further ahead. While Chu Zhi had only thought of it as satisfying Little Fruits who longed for physical collectibles, she was already seeing a long-term strategy.
"In that case, since you think it's fine, I'll go give them the answer," Chu Zhi said.
"I'll send the album materials to your email right away," Niu Jiangxue told him.
The digital album already had a cover, introductions for every song, and complete content. The only thing missing was the collectible photo cards.
After finishing the call, Chu Zhi returned to the meeting room and delivered the good news. Director Li's joy was plain to see.
"With Chairman Chu's support, our Hanfu culture will surely spread even further," Director Li said, slipping into flattery.
Given that Xitang's events often drew tens of thousands of Hanfu enthusiasts over a single weekend, the album would undoubtedly become a beloved prize.
Not only Director Li but the other member representatives were also tempted. Producing such prizes under Chu Zhi's authorization would not cost much, yet the prestige was immense. Truly, it was a clever solution.
"Thank you, Chairman Chu, for supporting the promotion of Hanfu," President Qi said sincerely.
Director Li then outlined the rest of the Culture Week's plans in great detail. Besides the prize pool, there would be performances, such as a 150-person formation dressed in the military uniforms of the Qin, Han, Jin, Tang, Song, Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties, staged for the media to capture.
Other activities included traditional games like touhu (arrow-throwing), feihualing (a poetry challenge), dice games, and lantern riddles, ensuring tourists would not be bored. China had countless ancient towns, many more beautiful than Xitang, but Xitang hoped to use the Hanfu Culture Week to establish itself as a cultural brand.
The plans sounded impressive. Even Chu Zhi felt a flicker of interest, though unfortunately, his schedule was too tight. If nothing changed, he would be in Japan at that time.
The meeting continued with other discussions, but let us shift scenes to Amsterdam, the Netherlands.
There, Liu Fusu slapped himself several times before swearing he would never touch that poison again. But the next day, he twisted and turned restlessly.
The cravings gnawed at him. At first, it felt like a thousand ants crawling over his skin. Then it grew into ten thousand ants chewing through his bones.
"Forget it," he thought bitterly. "Isn't life meant to be happy? If I can't even let myself feel good, what's the point of living?"
Such thoughts flooded his mind, dragging him close to losing control. But then, an image from a short video flashed before him—the bloody, mangled scenes he had once watched. They had burned themselves into his memory.
In most countries, such content would have been banned for its gore. Yet in Chu Zhi's video, it had been shown completely uncensored. If it had been any other theme or celebrity, the censors would never have allowed it.
It was exactly those blood-soaked images that kept Liu Fusu tethered to reason. His hand, instead of dialing the number of his Dutch supplier, dialed his father's number instead…