"Advisor Chu's suggestion will be brought up for discussion in our department as soon as possible."
"Thank you, Director Chen."
"No need for thanks. Supervision in this area does have its shortcomings. We'll try to settle the matter within two days."
"Two days? That seems rather rushed. I wouldn't want this to disrupt your department's original plans."
"The country's digital music industry is growing more and more rapidly. Regulation was already under consideration, and now that Advisor Chu has raised the issue, it is the right moment to handle both matters together."
Today, Chu Zhi had come to Tiantan Road in the Dongcheng District of the capital. The meeting place was a modest two-story building, quite unremarkable from the outside. The person he was speaking with was the head of the Publishing Administration Division.
His official consultant title was extremely useful. Even though his position as a general advisor technically belonged to another system, his suggestions were always taken seriously. This visit was about album certification.
The primary authority for album sales certification worldwide is IFPI (International Federation of the Phonographic Industry). As had been mentioned before, different countries follow different certification standards, and even the executing institutions differ. In China, the certification is handled by the National Bureau, and IFPI recognizes those results.
Perhaps "authorization" is not the right word. The Bureau does not need anyone's authorization. More accurately, IFPI accepts and records the Bureau's certifications in the global database of album sales.
The "five million copies equals half a diamond album" figure that Niu Jiangxue had brought up earlier actually referred to American certification.
Because of the United States' military strength and its position as a global power, its RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America) certification is valued even more than IFPI's. International stars are far more eager to pay the steep price for RIAA certification. Naturally, Brave Niu's first instinct was also to use RIAA's standard.
"In that case, I won't disturb your work further, Director Chen. No need to walk me out, I can find my way."
"When you have time, do come by and guide us more often. Advisor Chu, in the film and television industry, you're highly sought after both in front of the camera as an actor and behind the scenes. I've heard that many productions want to invite you as a historical consultant."
What a pleasant way of putting it—"guidance."
In truth, Chu Zhi's honorary position was nominally on the same level as Director Chen's, but Director Chen held an actual administrative post. There was no real comparison. What guidance could he possibly give?
"I'm hardly a professional in that field," Chu Zhi replied. "Why would they come to an outsider like me? As for a so-called historical consultant, that's just another marketing tactic disguised as authenticity."
Many historical dramas had approached him, claiming they wanted their costumes and architecture to better match history. Chu Zhi had rejected them all without hesitation.
Yes, he had read many history books, and his role as the Emperor Beast gave him some unique insights. But compared to scholars who had devoted their lives to the subject, how could his knowledge measure up?
Leaving the little courtyard, Chu Zhi hurried on to his next appointment.
Why did playing the Emperor Beast always feel so busy, yet when you thought about it, nothing seemed all that critical?
Let's break down an ordinary "busy day" for the Emperor Beast:
7:30 AM – Flight from Shanghai to Beijing. Since he still had events in Shanghai the night before, he couldn't fly in earlier. He landed around 10 AM.
11:00 AM – Commercial shoot for Kenzo at Tiantan Park, lasting about three hours. (The airport was nearly forty kilometers from the park.)
2:00 PM – Appointment at the Bureau.
4:00 PM – Attended the "Understanding the Forbidden City from the Central Axis" press event at the Forbidden City as a goodwill ambassador, lasting about ninety minutes.
6:00 PM – Livestream connection for the Douyin campaign #LaborIsBeautiful, at least requiring a hotel setup.
7:00 PM – Attended the Red Cross "Cleft Lip Angel Growth Fund" charity banquet, lasting about two hours.
10:15 PM – Flight to South Korea for a meeting scheduled the following morning.
At the moment, Chu Zhi was en route to the Forbidden City. For lunch, he grabbed a quick takeaway from a roadside restaurant. Even so, he still picked food he liked: a high-calorie family bucket, extra chili powder, junk food, and a bottle of soda—small comforts in a rushed day.
Even top stars normally didn't keep schedules as relentless as Chu Zhi's.
On the one hand, the Emperor Beast needed to strengthen his presence in the Asian market. On the other, he constantly took part in charity events and cultural promotion.
At the same time, he could not stop moving forward. His core goal was to break into the European and American markets. With more than two hundred employees depending on him, every endorsement and commercial performance mattered.
Events like the Forbidden City gathering were relatively dull, but still valuable. Organized by the Forbidden City Museum and the Dongcheng Publicity Department, the project used the museum's bookstore to promote the "Central Axis" cultural heritage.
It resembled a salon, where experts and scholars gathered to discuss and explain heritage issues. Chu Zhi himself learned quite a bit. Without attending, he wouldn't have known that the Forbidden City housed a library, or that Beijing's central axis had been submitted as a World Heritage application covering fourteen locations.
The Emperor Beast gained knowledge, though little of it was exciting enough to dwell on.
Now, let's revisit a matter earlier overlooked: Chu Zhi's personal merchandise. After separating from Sunagawa and going independent, his merchandise had quietly gone on sale. Official flagship stores were available on platforms like JD.com and Taobao.
Compared to other celebrities' outrageously priced products, Chu Zhi's merchandise was quite affordable—a decision he made himself.
Wang Yuan served as the overall manager. She designed the framework: each sales period introduced unique products, never repeating past items.
The strategy of "hunger marketing" combined with reasonable pricing triggered a trending hashtag:
#DoTheyThinkWeCan'tAffordIt?#
The phrase came from a Little Fruits fan's complaint.
User "Dark Love Murder Case": [Jiu-yé's official flagship store is out of stock three hundred days a year! Isn't it time to fix this? At least find another manufacturer to increase production. Otherwise, rival fan clubs will think we can't afford to buy anything!]
This Little Fruits fan even posted screenshots: both JD.com and Taobao stores were perpetually sold out. In one year, they had tried to purchase items more than thirty times—each attempt met with "out of stock."
Over two years, countless fans had faced the same problem, gathering into one giant chorus of complaints.
[Yes, yes, I've left so many messages on the official Little Fruits Weibo account.][At first, I thought the JD.com flagship store was some reselling middleman who couldn't get stock. Turns out it's really the official store…][Fake celebrity stores push unrelated items; real celebrity stores are just empty shelves.][Forget everything else, I waited half a year for the airplane calendar, and then customer service told me it was gone. I cried.]
The frustration had been building for a long time. Within just an hour, thousands of comments piled up under "Dark Love Murder Case's" post, many with pictures of "sold out" pages.
If anyone tallied the numbers, they'd find that instead of three hundred days a year, it was more like three hundred and forty days. New products were always snatched up instantly.
Among the keywords, "airplane calendar" appeared most often.
[Dream on. Only twenty thousand copies were released on the official site, another thirty thousand through other channels. Even on resale sites, there's nothing. Better to plead with the official store. I'd trade my roommate's ten years of singlehood if it meant no more limited runs.]
New Little Fruits fans, like one named Fei Yu, asked curiously:
[Just joined Brother Jiu's fandom. Sorry if this is a silly question, but what exactly is the airplane calendar?]
Veterans explained: it was a commemorative "Air China x Chu Zhi" joint calendar. The photos were stunning, with eighteen shots across twelve months. Who could resist a uniform photo shoot?
[You people keep offering others. That's insincere. I'll do it! I'd give up thirty years of dating just for Jiu-yé Q-version phone cases to stop running out.]
What a ruthless oath.
The topic soon spread to Instagram and Twitter.
Overseas stores like Amazon also showed "out of stock." Demand abroad was even fiercer, especially in South Korea and Japan. Korean fans bought photocards, Japanese fans snapped up figurines. Both groups were already accustomed to purchasing celebrity merchandise.
Part of this success was thanks to Wang Yuan, who was not only the general manager but also the chief designer.
"Only fans truly understand what fans want." Many of her designs hit straight at the fandom's weak spots.
Take, for example, the utterly useless "Bath Reminder Device"—a small black disc that, when pressed, played Chu Zhi's voice saying, "Remember to dry off after your shower." To everyone's surprise, male fans purchased it in higher numbers than female fans. Men, after all, were always fascinated by odd little gadgets.
Altogether, Chu Zhi had released over forty different merchandise items. Very few fans managed to collect them all.
The undisputed queen of collectors was a Japanese idol named Hashimoto Satomi. She owned three sets of the airplane calendar—one displayed, two stored as collectibles.
Hashimoto Satomi came from a fairly comfortable family, but every yen spent on merchandise was money she earned herself as an idol. In fact, most of her income was funneled into collecting.
When she saw the trending topic on Twitter, the urge to show off surged within her—
Mm Hashimoto: [Chu-san, my eternal idol!]
She posted photos of her entire collection.
Whether it was pride or showing off was debatable. But for Hashimoto Satomi, it was both.
Satisfied, she thought to herself, What a deal. She had often bought anime merchandise before, where calendars alone could run from 1,400 to 3,000 yen. Chu Zhi's merchandise was cheaper and no less in quality. She considered it an absolute bargain.
Because of the trending news, more casual passersby learned about Chu Zhi's merchandise, though most didn't care much. The general public wasn't interested in celebrity goods, only slightly curious that they could be sold out for so long.
Back to reality—
"Niu-tou, are there any invitations from European or American shows?" Wang Yuan stretched, having just finished sketching designs for the next product.
"There are, but not many," Niu Jiangxue replied after a pause. "And honestly, the ones that came aren't worth attending."
Wang Yuan's good mood evaporated. She muttered without knowing what else to say.
The resistance of the Western music market to Chinese artists was obvious. From a God's-eye perspective, just compare Maroon 5's Sugar with Chu Zhi's Bones. The latter's numbers were barely half, despite both being pushed hard.
"Don't worry. We still have good opportunities," Niu Jiangxue said. "There's the Qatar World Cup theme song, plus a guest performance at the opening ceremony."
True enough. Still, the lack of recognition for The Man Gazed Upon by God despite its sales left Wang Yuan angry.
If Chu Zhi had been American—or better yet, white—he would have been hailed as a breakout superstar. Instead, most media reports mentioned only the album itself, without a word about the man behind it. Quite telling.