The merchandise came from her haul yesterday: calendars, keychains, orange badges, even life-sized body pillows. The comment section underneath exploded.
[Merch thief?]
[Merch demon, merchandise criminal, an idol who doesn't focus on her career!]
[I think you can't handle so many goods. Sell them on Mercari, don't tell anyone. Send me a private message, I'll carry this burden for you.]
…
Think about it. Even Little Fruits fans in China can't get their hands on this merchandise, not to mention fans overseas in Japan or Korea. No wonder Hashimoto Rimi's bragging stirred up so much jealousy—it was bound to blow up.
For clarification: the word "guzi" is a homophone of "goods." Official anime merchandise is called [official guzi], while fan-made goods are [fan guzi]. For idols, posters or photo sets are [idol guzi].
Fans who buy them belong to the "guzi circle." But when this concept spread to China, the meaning shifted a little—no need to dig into that here.
"I didn't expect you to get so popular, Rimi. You're chasing your idol but also building up your own fame. I'm so jealous," Takizawa Nanako said, her envy written all over her face.
Even though the comments looked like "hate," the thirty thousand new followers proved one thing: a large number of people now knew the name Hashimoto Rimi.
And most of it was positive, since people felt the pleasant surprise of "Wow, she likes Ragdoll too, she's a fellow fan."
"There are just too many Ragdoll fans. Their Twitter account has over twenty million followers. Even if only a small fraction notice me, it's still huge," Hashimoto Rimi analyzed calmly.
"I want to start chasing idols too," Takizawa Nanako muttered.
Then, curious, she asked, "Rimi, how do you manage to snatch every piece of merch? I saw so many comments from fans saying they couldn't get a single thing."
"That's a secret!" Hashimoto Rimi wasn't about to reveal that she put in tons of preparation.
For example: Amazon sales open at exactly 6:00. She placed her order at 5:59. She had quick credit card payment ready. A pile of small tricks added up to miracles.
At the word "secret," Takizawa Nanako's eyes dimmed ever so slightly.
Hashimoto Rimi, meanwhile, was delighted. As an idol, her goal was to get more famous. Fame meant more money. More money meant she could freely buy merch. Wasn't that a kind of self-sustaining loop? A tree planted by chance, yet flourishing anyway.
High Twitter follower counts didn't always translate to real-life popularity, but agencies still used it as a reference.
After all, Starlight Agency was only a small fry in the industry. Even having an artist with several hundred thousand followers was rare.
That night at the theater, Hashimoto Rimi was assigned two extra songs and moved closer to the front of the stage.
For small idols, singing on various stages was normal, though most of the profits went back to the company. In Japan, idols had to climb step by step.
Once you got a little famous, you could sell handshake tickets. Usually a thousand yen for ten seconds. There had even been a case of an otaku buying a thousand tickets just to shake hands…
Back at her apartment, Takizawa Nanako searched online for Chu Zhi's merchandise. What she found horrified her.
A user with the ID [Oshima Nagako] was willing to pay astronomical prices.
An item that sold for 3,000 yen—called a "bath lift"—was now being offered for 60,000 yen. Twenty times the price!
Compared to becoming a star, Takizawa Nanako thought flipping merch for cash sounded much more appealing.
On Japanese internet, "merch robbers" sparked lively debate. But on the Chinese internet, everyone was discussing something else.
The National Press and Publication Bureau had just announced new rules: "Notice on the Certification of Audio-Visual Publication Sales."
It laid out clear standards. In China, twenty thousand sales qualified as Gold Record, forty thousand as Platinum, two hundred thousand as Diamond. Before, "Diamond Record" didn't even exist.
Application channels and verification processes were published openly. Applying required a two-thousand RMB certification fee.
Once certified, sales data would be entered into the [National Audio-Visual Publication Database] and connected to the IFPI global sales database.
Although the bureau had always had a certification system, it had never been made public. That secrecy let "wild" certifications flood the market.
No names were mentioned, but one well-known music platform's shady practices had led to Chu Zhi's album Wild Growth being sold as four separate ones—Wild, Savage, Growth, Bloom—just to inflate numbers. The songs were good, but the manipulation was absurd.
People's Daily reported: "[Thanks! #ContributionToReviewAndCertification#] Chu Zhi @EatABigOrange played a key role in improving the management of audio-visual publication certification. This marks the maturity of our domestic audio-visual market."
The notice itself didn't attract much attention, but Weibo did. Overnight, the credit was pinned on Chu Zhi.
CCTV's news blog even interviewed Tencent Music's director about it.
For the entertainment industry, this was big news. Now, most singers would prefer to get their albums certified.
But younger artists were unfazed. "So what? Platinum certification can't hold us? Are we supposed to aim for Diamond? Plenty of singers can't even sell 200,000 physical albums."
Why was there such a huge gap between Platinum and Diamond? It was frustrating.
It wasn't just the younger generation. Even veteran singers in their forties had to admit defeat. How could they compete when Chu Zhi had stopped being a contestant and was now acting like the judge?
"The sky is vast, the plains are wide, the wind blows the grass, and you see Chu the Cat."
Chu Zhi arrived in Baotou to shoot an ad. If it felt like he was filming commercials every week, that wasn't far from the truth. The Emperor Beast currently had thirteen domestic endorsements, eighteen international ones, not counting portrait licensing. And most brands signed on for long-term deals.
Take today's shoot with Anta. It was for their summer theme, "Gallop Across the Grasslands, Passion of Summer." A few months later, there'd be another one for winter.
During the two-day shoot, Chu Zhi spotted a horseback riding field nearby. His interest lit up. After a few quick lessons from local herders, he felt confident enough.
Mounting the horse, he shouted, "I am Lü Bu of Baotou, Lü Fengxian! State your name, challenger!"
Of course, such antics needed a partner. Fortunately, Lao Qian was there.
"I am Yuan Shao of Zhumadian! I care not who your grandmother was!" Lao Qian bellowed back.
The two rode in circles, chasing each other. Don't be fooled—at best the horses were trotting. But the two men laughed like children.
"Two complete idiots," Wang Yuan muttered on the side.
Zhuzi added, "A man remains a boy at heart till death. Still, I didn't expect Brother Qian to play along like this."
Neither of them understood what was so funny. Just swapping ancient place names with modern ones—what was the joke? Zhao Zilong of Shijiazhuang, and so on.
But Wang Yuan didn't press it. It was rare to see Xiao Jiu this relaxed. Most of the time, Chu Zhi was stuck in work mode. It was good to see him unwind.
The day after tomorrow, they would head to Vietnam. Wang Yuan worried that Chu Zhi might get nervous. A 70th anniversary celebration was a massive event. State leaders would definitely attend.
"Maybe Jiu-yé will even make the evening news this time," Wang Yuan thought, half-joking but half-serious.
Meanwhile, in Vietnam, preparations for the event were underway. The celebration would be held at Baicao Park No.1, also known as the Presidential Palace.
"Over 360,000 people have left messages on the Ministry of Culture's website, requesting Chu Zhi attend. Why does a foreign singer who's never even been to Vietnam have such massive popularity?" Minister Phan frowned. "The report you gave me says it's because he's handsome?"
What nonsense. He hadn't even read the rest—only the first line.
"…"
Secretary Nguyễn knew exactly what happened. His boss hadn't bothered to finish reading. Calmly, he said, "That report was my mistake, sir. But it's true that all cosmetic clinics in Hanoi use Chu Zhi's appearance as a standard. Among students and white-collar workers, his recognition is extremely high."
"He is handsome, yes, but not to this extent," Minister Phan muttered, still staring at Chu Zhi's photo.
Secretary Nguyễn agreed. As an ethnic Kinh, he resented using a Chinese star as a beauty benchmark. It felt like blind worship of the foreign.
"Should we adjust publicity?" Secretary Nguyễn asked, hinting at lowering the hype.
Minister Phan didn't look away from the photo. Suddenly, he asked, "Aren't my eyebrows very similar to this Chinese star's?"
"?"
Secretary Nguyễn froze but answered smoothly, "Exactly the same."
"Too similar," Minister Phan nodded. Then he asked, "What were you saying about publicity?"
"Whether to let VTV promote Chu Zhi's attendance more, to show the public you respect their wishes," Secretary Nguyễn explained carefully.
"You handle it," Minister Phan said, satisfied.
Secretary Nguyễn took a deep breath and walked out. He wanted to slam the door to vent his frustration, but restrained himself.
Eyebrows alike? What nonsense. He could only curse silently in his heart.
The 70th anniversary of China-Vietnam diplomatic relations was approaching. Meanwhile, another international event opened in Nansha: the International Finance Forum (IFF).
The IFF headquarters were based in Beijing, with over twenty UN member states participating. It was the largest unofficial finance summit in the world.
Naturally, many top scholars attended.
Among the audience was Su Xuanmian, a popular financial content creator online. Known for making economics easy to understand and full of practical insight, he had quickly risen into the top 100 influencers in the field.
"IFF is a global financial diplomacy and strategy think tank for emerging economies. I'm heading inside now. No filming allowed, I'll update later," Su Xuanmian said, switching off his phone to record for later rather than livestream.
Inside, he took his seat.
The keynote was delivered by Lane Parra, a world-renowned economist, former senior advisor to France's Ministry of Finance, now head of the UN ESCAP division for Development Financing and Macroeconomics.
The long list of titles didn't matter. What mattered was that Lane Parra was a heavyweight.
His talk explained how the world's financial centers always shifted in stages, and these transitions were irreversible. Environment shaped national character, and national character determined the pace of change.
Venice in the 13th century. Amsterdam in the 17th. London in the 19th. New York in the 20th. And now, the center was moving eastward. In fact, it had already begun shifting toward Asia at the end of the 20th century, only to be interrupted by the United States.
Then Lane Parra said: "Not only finance is moving east. The cultural center is also shifting. For example, the famous singer, Zhichu."
"Huh?" Su Xuanmian froze. He had come to hear about global finance—yet here was his idol's name being mentioned.