"Why should he be the leader of Gen Z? The representative of the new generation? I refuse to accept it! I, Li Xingwei, absolutely refuse!"
Li Xingwei furiously hurled things around his house. Why at home? Because outside, he had to maintain the image of a sunny, wholesome young man.
What was he throwing? Plush teddy bears. With his income lately, breaking phones would be too expensive.
People always say fame changes you. That teddy bear was the first gift he ever received when he debuted in Japan. It had made him feel surrounded by happiness. Even after returning to China, he brought it back with him. But once he became famous, the gifts fans sent? He didn't even open most of them. Some went straight to second-hand platforms for resale.
In contrast, Chu Zhi treated fans' gifts completely differently—and quite deliberately.
He bought a villa in Shanghai just to store gifts. Every month, he set aside time to open them. But even with that effort, there were still mountains of unopened packages due to his massive fanbase.
At least half of the fans who managed to find the address of one of Chu Zhi's branch offices didn't just order gifts online and send them over. They wrote letters or included handwritten notes, sending them together with the gift.
For those with a return address, Chu Zhi always sent back a letter:
"To my most treasured Little Fruit,
I'm truly happy to receive your gift. I will take good care of it, but truly, just having your company is enough for me.
If you ever feel like giving me a gift again, could you do me a favor and give something to someone around you instead? Your grandparents, parents, or elders—show them a little extra care. After all, I can't be by your side all the time, but they are your family for life.
With gratitude, Chu Zhi"
The content was printed, and the signature was stamped. Just like the printed autographs you can buy online, the only difference was that each letter came with a serial number. The current one was number 7861.
Buying a house to store gifts? Fine. Real estate was still an asset. But sending handwritten responses? People like Niu Jiangxue and the rest of the team didn't get it. It took time, energy, and money. It felt like thankless work.
From a short-term benefit perspective, it really didn't help. But Chu Zhi always looked far ahead. He didn't want young fans to turn against their parents just for the sake of idol worship.
To put it another way, if a teen clashed with their parents over fandom, it could affect their studies or daily life. Wealthy families might weather that, but struggling ones would only spiral. And between a "healthy" Little Fruit and one who's grown up twisted, the former was clearly more valuable.
"Hmm?" Li Xingwei, in his rage, accidentally tore off his teddy bear's ear and immediately panicked.
His outburst stemmed from one truth he couldn't deny—deep down, he had always believed he was the true leader of the younger generation.
Sure, the term "younger generation" could include those born in the '90s. Even those born in '95 still had a claim. But now, singers born after 2000 were breaking out too.
Just recently, a 19-year-old had gone viral with a song called I Don't Wanna Take Exams Anymore, which was now being used in countless TikTok videos.
Chu Zhi, being hailed as the leader of Gen Z, was effectively straddling both the '90s and 2000s. He was encroaching on Li Xingwei's territory.
"Chu Zhi, what do you have on me? The songs that made you popular..."
"Forget the viral tracks. In terms of originality, I created the neo-classical dance track genre. What did you..."
"My vocal technique has been praised by tons of professional coaches. What about you...?"
As he compared himself point by point, Li Xingwei realized—he couldn't win. The only area where he had an edge was album sales. But even that felt like a sore spot now.
What upset him most wasn't the praise Chu Zhi was getting from critics—it was that deep down, he knew it was probably justified. Chu Zhi had really gone ahead.
This guy was dangerous.
Li Xingwei's mood swung back and forth like a pendulum. Just a while ago, he'd felt fine watching Chu Zhi dominate Korean idols. Now here he was, spiraling again. It was like having split personalities.
Top stars like Su Yiwu, Wu Tang, and Lin Xia—those who had both skill and popularity—shared Li Xingwei's resentment. Why should he be the top just because he sings well? But the more they thought about it, the harder it was to argue. In the end, they could only stew in frustration.
If you can't beat him, join him. Singers like Li Fei and Lin Xia, who still had decent relationships with Chu Zhi, ended up liking Left Oxygen Morningstar's post praising him.
Fans like Toffee, Reporter, and Yixin—who would usually start flame wars over whose idol's name came first in a movie's opening credits—were all strangely silent when it came to this "leader" title.
Everyone in fandom knew: once Little Fruits started fighting, it was like NPCs in a video game. Non-stop attacks, as if none of them had school or jobs to worry about.
The key thing was—judging by his output, Chu Zhi might really be better than their own idols.
To the average internet user, this wasn't like that time the Earth's Wang Feng called himself half of China's rock scene and got laughed at. This time, no one really reacted.
The best summary came from a comment by user "Mr. Dongliu":
"Don't go calling anyone the 'leader' of anything. Chu Zhi's songs are fine, but when's the next album? I've been looping the same tracks for months. The only new-ish ones are 'Opera,' 'Compendium of Materia Medica,' 'Chrysanthemum Terrace,' 'Goodnight Meow,' and 'You Are Not Truly Happy'—which wasn't even on his last album—and of course 'Chapter Seven of the Night.'
That's already half an album. Just release it already. It's been six months. Even a donkey in the production team wouldn't dare slack off this much."
That one comment got over 90,000 likes. Not exactly easy to pull off.
Feng Qing Yun Sa:
"Exactly! The guy clearly writes songs fast, probably has tons of tracks in the vault, but just won't release them. What is he even doing?"
Mo o Ke:
"I accept you as the leader of Gen Z in the name of all keyboard immortals. But as part of the deal, take care of your voice! You coughing up blood is breaking my heart. That voice of yours better not get ruined. At least give me a live concert."
Zeng Daren:
"Shut it. I'll give you a number—five albums a year."
Pushing for new albums like this? Even top-tier stars didn't get that kind of attention. Most casual listeners didn't even notice when they released anything.
Put plainly, netizens weren't opposing the "leader" title—they basically agreed with it.
The management team monitored internet trends closely during this promotional phase. Any shift in tone got immediate PR attention.
Seeing the online response, Lao Qian chewed on a toothpick. "Good lord. Five albums a year? Even an ox in the fields doesn't get pushed this hard."
Why was there always something in Lao Qian's mouth? Because his smoking addiction was serious. About one and a half packs a day. But when schedules were tight, he tried not to bother others, so he'd just hold back.
"One album a year is ideal," Niu Jiangxue said. "Otherwise, you're just competing with yourself on the charts. It's not worth it."
She even thought that 25,117 Possibilities had been a waste. Putting Against the Light, What I Miss, Suddenly Miss You, and Wheat Field in the Wind all on one album? A bit too generous.
"Oh right, Sister Niu," Chu Zhi suddenly said. "Brother Zheng Huo invited me to Rock Night. I agreed to go—is that okay?"
"Rock Night?" Niu Jiangxue thought it over. "That's fine. Rock musicians are proud to a fault. If they're inviting you, that means they respect your skills."
"I'm thinking of debuting a new song at Rock Night," said Chu Zhi. "If I'm going, might as well blow the roof off."
"Another new song? Damn, Ninth Master, you're a beast. What song is it?" Lao Qian asked eagerly.