Chu Zhi's name had always drawn attention, so within hours, the discussion spread from Zhihu across the entire Chinese internet. More and more Little Fruits stepped forward, sharing their own experiences. Posts without photos didn't count—because online, if there's no picture, it didn't happen.
Here were some of the posts that came with proof:
ye_azui: [There's one at the Chengdu concert, here's a photo. I happened to sit right behind the empty seat and took this while filming brother Jiu. It's a bit blurry though.]
Morning's First Ray: [I was a volunteer at the Jinling concert. I saw this shark-eagle plushie while cleaning up afterward. Since I'm in a lot of Little Fruits' group chats, I snapped a picture and sent it to them.]
Ground Walker Godgun Invincible: [Hong Kong Coliseum, photo attached.]
fgo: [Aaaaah, I was so curious too! I didn't expect that plushie to appear at every single stop of the world tour. I took this photo because I was curious—why does Jiu-yé always leave a toy in the audience?]
And so on. Since each concert had between fifty to a hundred thousand people, and the plushie stood out so much, it was no surprise fans kept spotting it. Based on what they'd gathered so far, at least twenty different shows across China had clear photos.
Naturally, that sparked endless speculation.
Little Fruits had wild imaginations—if there was something to guess, they'd guess it.
It all started when a Zhihu user named Lu Suizhou reposted a question from a South Korean Q&A site, just because he was curious. He never expected it to go viral and pull in Little Fruits from around the world.
Soon, reports came in from Los Angeles, Berlin, Ho Chi Minh City, and more. After cross-checking everything, fans confirmed at least 80% of the sightings were real.
People flooded the official accounts of Aiguo Entertainment and Chu Zhi, asking what was going on.
Everyone knew Aiguo's official Weibo was usually patient when responding to fan questions. But this time, even after thousands of messages, there wasn't a single reply.
Instead, that afternoon, the account quietly posted:
Aiguo Entertainment Official Weibo: [Congrats to @A_Sapling_Morning_ for reaching the Top 4 on Idols, Charge Forward! Keep up the great work! @IdolsChargeForwardOfficial.]
That was it. On Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram, there wasn't even a single update.
Their silence only made things more mysterious. The less people knew, the more they wanted to find out. After all, curiosity's human nature.
Wang Zexun, who still used 4G and wasn't exactly quick on news, found out two or three days later. By then, the entire internet was buzzing.
"It's weird though. Why does brother Jiu carry that shark-eagle plushie everywhere?" he muttered.
"Wait a sec... why does that plush look so familiar?"
A sudden thought hit him. His chest tightened. He opened his cloud storage and clicked on a hidden album titled Memories I Don't Dare Revisit. It was full of pictures with his cousin, Xiao Ai. He'd uploaded them there because seeing them on his phone made him too emotional.
Honestly, he'd never liked taking photos. But his cousin loved showing off, always dragging him into pictures and asking, "Do I look good in this one?"
Goddamn it, who edits only one person in a photo?!
Among those photos, there was one taken in Xiao Ai's bedroom. Sitting on her bed was the exact same shark-eagle plushie.
"It's probably just a coincidence," Wang Zexun murmured. He remembered that brother Jiu had only taken the tag, not the toy. It couldn't be.
No way.
But even as he told himself that, he still went to visit his aunt the next weekend. She lived nearby anyway.
His aunt greeted him warmly. She looked like she'd recovered from the grief of losing her daughter, but only family knew better—grief like that never really faded. Xiao Ai's bedroom was still untouched and cleaned regularly.
"Sigh," Wang Zexun thought. He honestly hoped his aunt would remarry and have another child, but he also worried she'd forget his cousin if she did. The thought made him sigh again.
The plushie wasn't in the room anymore. He asked his aunt about it, and after thinking a moment, she said, "Oh, that toy? Four years ago, Xiao Yu's idol came by again. He said he wanted to buy one of her toys. She left so many behind, so I gave him one. He's a good idol."
Her eyes reddened as she spoke. In her heart, she was deeply grateful to Chu Zhi, the man who'd made her daughter smile again before she passed.
She blinked away tears and asked, "But why're you suddenly asking about that?"
After thinking for a while, Wang Zexun decided to tell her everything—the online posts, the plushie, and his suspicions. He ended softly, "I don't think brother Jiu wanted any attention. He probably didn't want reporters to disturb you, that's why there's never been any mention of it."
"Xiao Yu…" His aunt took a shaky breath, her nostrils flaring as she fought back tears. After a few seconds, she said, "Before she passed, she kept talking about two things—buying me a massage chair, and going to see her idol's eighth-anniversary concert."
Then, something clicked. "Wait, a few years ago, I won a prize—a massage chair. I thought it was Xiao Yu's blessing from heaven, but could it be…"
"What prize?" Wang Zexun asked.
"The JD company called me to say I'd won, and a few days later, they delivered it. I didn't pay a cent." She even kept the little card, believing it was a gift of luck from her daughter's spirit.
"I shop a lot on JD, so I didn't think much of it," she said, handing him the card.
It read: JD Special Grand Prize: Jiaren Full-Body Massage Chair ×1
"Did you even enter a raffle?" he asked.
His aunt shook her head. "The JD rep said every registered user who's made a purchase is automatically entered."
That made Wang Zexun frown. "That's impossible. JD has tens of millions of users. There's no way they'd do random auto draws like that. If they wanted to give back to customers, there are way better ways. This was clearly a setup."
And he remembered something—brother Jiu had endorsed JD before. It all made sense now.
Hearing that, his aunt started seeing the holes too. She'd never seen any announcement about a raffle on the app.
"If Xiao Yu knew, she'd be so happy," she said, eyes soft. "Both her wishes came true. She saw the concert, and she gave me the massage chair. Chu Zhi's really such a good kid. I'm glad Xiao Yu liked someone like him."
To her, good kid was the highest praise.
Wang Zexun never imagined Chu Zhi would do so much for a fan, quietly carrying that plush to every concert for years.
Online attention rose fast but faded just as quickly. Since there was no official response, the hype around the shark-eagle plushie died down in three or four days. Still, it became one of the four great unsolved mysteries surrounding Chu Zhi.
The Emperor Beast, however, wasn't what anyone would call a qualified capitalist. At least in this case, he hadn't done anything to maximize profit.
He could've easily leaked the story through an "insider" and reaped waves of praise. But he never even considered it.
The "unqualified capitalist" was currently facing a business deal worth billions.
"The company Doumi Music wants to buy the exclusive rights to all of Jiu-yé's songs for five years. They're offering eight billion," the business department reported.
Doumi was a newly merged music app, formed after Baidu acquired Migu Music from China Mobile.
They weren't the first to try buying Chu Zhi's exclusives, but he'd turned everyone down. The only reason this one was being brought up again was because the offer was massive.
Chu Zhi wasn't surprised by the price. He remembered a case from Earth—Tencent had paid 570 million yuan for a three-year exclusive deal with Jay Chou's entire catalog.
That move had helped Tencent Music become the biggest music app in the market. Still, Chu Zhi shook his head.
"Reject it. Exclusive rights mean they'll start locking songs behind memberships. I promised my fans they could listen for free, and I won't break that promise. From now on, don't even bring up this kind of deal."
His word was final. Even if they offered eighty billion—well, there probably wasn't a company on Earth rich enough to do that anyway.
A promise was a promise.
A few quiet days passed in the entertainment world before a new discussion exploded online.
CCTV had streamed a live event where Koo Hyoeon, the president of LG Chem, donated a Tang dynasty replica painting called Letter on Mourning Chaos (Sangluan Tie). The attention it got easily surpassed that of the previous "beast head" donation.
Not because CCTV had done anything special, but because LG had poured money into PR. Headlines like "LG Chem's Admiration for Chinese Culture" and "LG Chem as the Bridge of Sino-Korean Friendship" flooded the web.
WeChat articles and influencer posts followed up with even more outrageous claims: "Koo Hyoeon is a passionate Little Fruit who donated antiques worth billions just to show his devotion," or "Koo Hyoeon took the LG Chem presidency in China just to chase stars."
The donation ceremony itself was boring as hell. There were speeches by the donor, the museum director, and several officials, while the screen time for Chu Zhi and the relic barely totaled five minutes.
Most viewers clicked out after a few minutes. Only a few hardcore fans—true cultivators of patience—managed to sit through the two-hour livestream.
Still, international fans went crazy over it. They loved hearing that their idol had inspired people to donate priceless antiques. Media outlets and marketing accounts pushed the story everywhere—it was too legendary to ignore.
"How Powerful Is Chu Zhi's Global Influence?"
"How Big Is a Star's Prestige? Just Look at Chu Zhi."
"Worth Billions: The Beast Head and the Letter on Mourning Chaos."
"Why Does He Dominate Forbes' Celebrity List Every Year?"
And on, and on.
When you clicked into it, you'd find that marketing articles, while mostly useless, could sometimes be surprisingly insightful.
Take that piece titled "Why Does He Always Dominate the Charts?" You'd think it had some real analysis, right? Nope. The whole thing just praised how much Chu Zhi loved his fans, how amazing his songs were, and how new singers should learn from him to write more catchy, high-quality music instead of taking shortcuts.
If any traffic idol read that, they'd probably explode. Like, "What the hell, you think we can just make viral songs whenever we want?!"
Soon after, state media released an official announcement: Chu Zhi had been awarded the Special Contribution Medal by the National Cultural Heritage Administration. Besides being a huge honor, the medal came with one neat perk—he could visit any national museum in China for free.
"Who'd dare say Chu Zhi isn't the face of our post-90s generation?" someone commented online.
"+1! He's disciplined, talented, kind, and patriotic, totally fits us 90s kids! I mean, I'm like that too, haha."
"I can vouch for that, we 90s folks definitely share all those qualities."
The 80s and 00s generations couldn't stand it, watching the 90s shamelessly praise themselves.
"Hey, what about our contributions back in '99? Who can top that?"
"Shut up, you signed an NDA!"
"So the truth about '99 can't stay hidden forever, huh?"
Comments piled up endlessly.
All jokes aside, the fact that netizens themselves called Chu Zhi the representative of the post-90s generation—and no one objected—said everything about his reputation and influence on the Chinese internet.
There was simply no one else.Because seriously, imagine replacing his name with any other celebrity. You'd instantly get flamed into oblivion by the online mob.
Speaking of "flying high," a plane landed as Chu Zhi arrived in Spring City.
At the airport exit, he was greeted by a face scary enough to make a kid cry—Liao Dachong.
Liao looked terrifying in person. Unlike Wang Anyi, whose sharp features only made her look strict, Liao really lived up to the nickname "Big Bug."
"Must've been a tiring trip, huh? Coming all the way from Shanghai," Liao said with a grin, reaching for Chu Zhi's suitcase.
"I've always wanted to visit Nanzhao and see the scenery, but never had the time. Thanks to you, Liao-ge, I finally got the chance," Chu Zhi replied politely.
Liao looked at the young man in front of him—the same kid he'd watched go from a forgotten star to an international sensation. Yet even with all his fame, Chu Zhi's attitude never changed. He was still just as warm and well-mannered.
"Anyway, thanks for coming to support us," Liao said, patting his shoulder. "If you've got time, have fun here. My crew's covering all expenses."
"Then I've got to thank you properly, Liao-ge," Chu Zhi said with a smile.
One great thing about being the Emperor Beast was that he never forgot a favor. Back when he filmed his MVs and After I Close My Eyes, his acting was terrible, and it was Liao who personally coached him.
Under Director Wang's later guidance, his acting skills had skyrocketed, but he still remembered those early debts. So when Liao called and asked him to cameo, he agreed without hesitation.
Last year, Liao won his third Golden Rooster and Hundred Flowers Award for Best Art Direction, and many in the industry hailed him as the "King of Aesthetics."
Unfortunately, he was so obsessed with visual artistry that he often sacrificed story logic just to create visual spectacle. As a result, his films flopped one after another.
This new film, Yunmeng, was probably his last chance. He'd finally gathered enough investors after years of struggle, and if this one failed too, his directing career would be over. That's why he pulled every connection he had, bringing in veteran actors and big-name stars like Chu Zhi.
After a day of rest, Chu Zhi saw his cameo role—the Bull King.
The story of Yunmeng was inspired by the ancient phrase "mist rises from Yunmengze, waves shake Yueyang City." In the film, Chu Zhi played a bull spirit who'd cultivated for centuries.
The plot was simple. As the Bull King, he led his herd of little bull demons in a dance.
"Wait… is this an Indian movie? Why are we suddenly dancing?" Chu Zhi frowned. So it was a musical?
It was hard not to think of Indian films whenever a random dance number appeared out of nowhere. That habit came from India's unique movie industry—where songs were added mainly to stretch runtime, and audiences loved it because it meant more time in the theater.
True musicals like Chicago or Singin' in the Rain used dance to express emotion. Liao, however, had far greater ambition—he wanted to create a musical infused with Eastern aesthetics.
After the dance scene came a rather shocking line. The Bull King said, "Why shouldn't I eat beef? I control their lives, so I have the right to consume them."
Even without reading the whole script, Chu Zhi couldn't figure out what message this movie was trying to send.
When shooting began, it started with makeup. This was his first time wearing full special-effects makeup, complete with two horns, a bull's nose, and ears.
Honestly, he felt a little disappointed. He'd expected to wear a full mask or something cooler.
Then again, he understood the logic. If you invited a superstar for a cameo, you had to make sure people recognized him. Otherwise, it'd be like parading around in fine clothes at midnight—what a waste.
"Brave bull, fear no hardship!" he muttered to himself as he looked at his reflection.
Then came the real surprise—three thousand extras, all dressed as little bull demons.
"Damn, they really went all in," he whispered. "The set of Yunmengze looks incredible, and they hired this many extras? Must've cost a fortune."
But with that many people, coordinating everything would really test a director's skill.
Sure enough, the first day was chaos. They spent the entire morning adjusting and rehearsing. It wasn't until four in the afternoon that they finally captured the shot Liao wanted.
The result, though, was breathtaking.
The choreography was inspired by the ancient cliff paintings in Cangyuan, Yunnan—primitive figures dancing with bull heads in hand. Through artistic adaptation, the movements became powerful and hypnotic.
The raw, ancient rhythm fit perfectly with the bull spirits' theme. Wearing his silver armor, Chu Zhi stood at the front, surrounded by deep, resonant "moo" chants echoing through the valley. Even the Emperor Beast himself couldn't wait to see how the post-production would enhance the scene.
"Liao-ge might actually pull this off," he thought.
He'd said he came here to relax, but with such a tight schedule, there was no time to rest. The next morning, he was already flying to Qingtang City.
Came quietly, left in a whirlwind.
And no, he wasn't worried about ending up in one of those "guest star turned lead actor" marketing gimmicks.
Read carefully—it said starring appearance, not starring role. A sneaky trick, sure, but not technically wrong.
If the promotion team ever tried that nonsense, though, it'd basically be career suicide. In today's Chinese entertainment world, no one dared offend Chu Zhi.
"With this much investment, when the film premieres, I'll definitely help Liao-ge promote it," he thought.
A few days later, on January 28th, the Munich concert came to an end, marking the finale of the In Harmony with Chu · World Tour.
A total of 56 shows, over 4 million attendees, and more than 300 global trending topics.
The tour had even expanded beyond its original plan, covering every province, municipality, and autonomous region in China, plus 15 countries overseas.
Speaking of the autonomous regions, there were two fun stories from Tibet.
First, his concert at the Lhasa Cultural Sports Center drew 50,000 fans, earning him a Guinness World Record for the highest-altitude large-scale concert in history.
The energy that night was incredible, the crowd electric. Riding that wave, Chu Zhi performed a brand-new song, "Return to Lhasa".
Chu Zhi finally understood why those traffic-star idols with no real works to their name always held so many concerts. The money was insane.
Starting from October and lasting until January, the whole tour took over four months. Even after deducting ticketing fees, production costs, taxes, and all the random expenses like transportation and logistics, the total profit still came out to about 1.8 billion yuan.
Sound exaggerated? Not really. More than four million tickets were sold, and the average price was around a thousand yuan each. Do the math.
In other words, he'd made four "small goals" in a single month. Of course, most ordinary artists couldn't earn that much since their fans didn't all spend real money, but when it came to traffic idols, milking fans was still a solid business.
The post-tour follow-up kept the company busy too, since it involved settling accounts with several international ticketing sites. That was never simple.
During Old Qian's weekly internal meeting, the feedback department presented the newest reports—basically a summary of what Little Fruits and other fans hoped their idol would do next.
There were all kinds of requests, since everyone loved in their own way. The feedback team had to filter through them and pick out the ones that were actually meaningful and feasible.
Lately, two comments had received overwhelming approval from both Little Fruits and regular netizens.
[Brother Jiu, you've got to rest properly and take care of yourself. No matter how busy you are, make time to relax and get some fresh air outdoors. Only when you're well-rested can you create better songs! You've been resting for two days already, right? That's enough, isn't it? When's the next world tour?]
[I heard there were lots of new songs in the concert! I know about Moskau, Kepler, and Kimi ga Suki da to Sakebitai, but I heard there were more. Please release a collection already! The domestic music scene needs that boost!]
Old Qian rubbed his temples and said, "The next tour's still a long way off, let's not talk about that yet. But a new song compilation... that might work."
He turned to Xiao Du. "Go ask Director Wang for the list of new songs performed during the tour. She should've kept track."
A few minutes later, Xiao Du returned from upstairs with the setlist. Across the entire In Harmony with Chu · World Tour, there were thirteen new songs, five of which were in foreign languages.
Titles like Every Kiss, Back to Lhasa, Rong City, and Keep Walking in the Rain stood out. Old Qian personally liked Rong City the most—lately he'd been into folk music.
He checked Chu Zhi's schedule, stayed quiet for a moment, then called Niu Jiangxue, who was still on a business trip. They talked for seven or eight minutes before he hung up.
"His schedule's completely packed. The concert collection won't be recorded until the second half of the year," Old Qian said. "And according to Niu Tou, there's still an international album and another Chinese-language album waiting to be recorded. So yeah, no best-of album anytime soon."
What he didn't say out loud was clear enough—the other fan suggestion wasn't happening either.
By the time February came around, even the Dragon Raising Its Head day had passed before Chu Zhi finally joined the filming crew for The Matrix.
The props and equipment were all back in order, partly thanks to Aiguo Media stepping in and adding extra investment.
Director Davis was on the verge of a breakdown but still followed the production schedule. That alone made the Emperor Beast respect him. Most people would've collapsed under that kind of pressure, but Davis was still pushing forward.
According to Hollywood custom, when a main cast member joined the set, the whole crew usually threw a welcome party. But this time everyone needed to recharge, so the celebration was skipped.
Davis explained the reason and apologized to Chu Zhi. Don't think only Chinese celebrities care about face—Hollywood's just as particular about that stuff.
Chu Zhi didn't mind. The only thing that mattered was doing the job well.
"My acting might not be great," he said politely to the main cast, "so if there's anything wrong with my performance, please tell me directly."
"I watched Unsinkable, your final performance was incredible," said Gregory, whose bald head made him look like a boiled egg. "Humility's a virtue, Chu, but don't sell yourself short."
Gwen, the leading actress, nodded. "I remember that scene vividly. The chill from it practically leapt out of the screen."
"Didn't Unsinkable get you an Oscar nomination for Best Actor? And Eleventh Son got you one in Venice," added Rupert, the actor playing Smith. "That résumé beats most of us here."
They weren't wrong, but Chu Zhi knew better. It was like Liu Shan bragging about fighting alongside Zhao Yun at Changban—he'd been carried the whole way.
During the opening ceremony, everyone had already gotten to know one another, so the conversation quickly drifted off-topic. Gregory began retelling some embarrassing story from the night before, then almost tripped after missing a step.
"Lola's been kicking herself," Gwen said with a laugh. "She couldn't get tickets to the Moscow show. I'm still regretting not buying a scalped one myself. Three thousand bucks and I passed? That was my biggest mistake this New Year."
"Well, it was the concert that shook the whole world," Rupert said. "I was lucky, I actually got tickets."
Before Chu Zhi arrived, Gwen had been the quiet center of attention in the cast—not because of her fame, but because she was beautiful.
Now, every conversation somehow revolved around Chu Zhi.
The next day, he started filming his first scene. It was a tough one right off the bat—his character learning martial arts from Gregory's Morpheus.
"Master Jiang, is my movement too light?" Chu Zhi asked Jiang Xiaogong, the film's martial arts director.
The Matrix team was top-tier, and that included Jiang Xiaogong, known in the industry as the "Father of Korean Action Cinema." Don't get it twisted though, Jiang was actually from Hong Kong, China. It's just that three of South Korea's four leading action directors had once trained under the Jiang family team, so in a way, he'd shaped the whole Korean action scene.
Ironically, Korean stunt teams were now coming to China for work, and many low-budget films preferred to hire them.
"Your movements lack flow," Jiang said, demonstrating a clean, sharp combo.
Chu Zhi practiced for over ten minutes before his form finally looked smooth and precise.
He might not have been a professional martial artist, but as a worker, he was definitely professional. No matter how tiring or painful it got, he'd grit his teeth and push through.
Even for wire scenes, the Emperor Beast didn't use a stunt double. Gwen didn't either, but Rupert did—he had an old back injury and couldn't risk heavy stunts.
Chu Zhi did everything himself and paid the price. By the end of the day, he was sore all over, with faint rope marks on his arms and waist.
"Six," he groaned, taking the water cup Bamboo handed him, "if I ever do another action film, I'm a damn dog."
Too bad he hadn't drawn the Bat's Back enhancement earlier—his body wouldn't be half this sore right now.
He briefly considered opening another blind box to gamble for a physique-boosting item. Then he shook his head. Forget it. Better to just train on his own.
By six-thirty, the crew wrapped up for the day.
Chu Zhi found Jiang Xiaogong. "Uncle Jiang, do you have time? If you're free, I'd love to treat you and the team to dinner, maybe ask a few questions too."
Inviting more than a dozen members of the Jiang team for dinner, Jiang naturally agreed. Who'd pass up the chance to befriend a global superstar?
Nowadays, martial arts and wuxia films were nearly extinct. Even though the Jiang family team was one of China's three great stunt schools, business was rough. Jiang was already in his sixties, but he still carried himself with humility.
The older man's politeness meant the younger couldn't act proud. And Chu Zhi was never the arrogant type anyway, so their conversation went smoothly.
The Emperor Beast had a knack for dealing with seniors. Before long, the two were calling each other "Uncle Jiang" and "Little Chu."
They chose a Cantonese restaurant on Dexin Street for dinner. Anyone who'd studied in Australia would know that Sydney's Dexin and Sea Streets made up Chinatown. The food wasn't exactly authentic, but it was close enough to home.
After a few rounds of drinks and several dishes, Chu Zhi finally spoke. "Uncle Jiang, there's something I'd like to ask your advice on."
===
1. Mentioned Title: "芝加哥" (Zhijiàgē)
Original Song Title: "Chicago"
Artist: Sufjan Stevens
Note: This is the title track from Sufjan Stevens' 2005 indie-folk album Illinois.
2. Mentioned Title: "雨中曲" (Yǔ Zhōng Qǔ)
Original Song Title: "Singin' in the Rain"
Artist: Gene Kelly
Note: This is the iconic song and dance number from the 1952 classic film Singin' in the Rain, performed by Gene Kelly.
3. Original Song Title: "回到拉萨" (Huí Dào Lāsà) - "Returning to Lhasa"
Artist: 郑钧 (Zhèng Jūn)
Note: This is a famous 1994 rock song by Chinese rock pioneer Zheng Jun, evoking the mystique and beauty of Tibet.
4. Original Song Title: 克卜勒 (Kèbǔlè) - "Kepler"
Artist: 孙燕姿 (Stefanie Sun)
Note: This is the original version by Stefanie Sun. As previously mentioned, S.H.E also have a song of the same name, but this specific reference is for Stefanie Sun's hit.
5. Original Song Title: 君が好きだと叫びたい (Kimi ga Suki da to Sakebitai) - "I Want To Shout That I Love You"
Artist: BAAD
Note: This is the famous opening theme for the classic anime Slam Dunk.
6. Original Song Title: 处处吻 (Chǔchù Wěn) - "Every Kiss"
Artist: 杨千嬅 (Miriam Yeung)
Note: This is a popular Cantopop song by Hong Kong singer Miriam Yeung.
7. Original Song Title: 蓉城 (Róng Chéng) - "Rong City"
Artist: Zhao Lei (赵雷)
Note: This is a folk song by Chinese singer-songwriter Zhao Lei. "Rong City" is a poetic name for the city of Chengdu.
8. Original Song Title: 淋雨一直走 (Lín Yǔ Yīzhí Zǒu) - "Keep Walking in the Rain"
Artist: 张韶涵 (Angela Zhang / Laure Shang)
Note: This is an inspirational pop anthem by Taiwanese singer Angela Zhang.