"Brother Qian, did you get a new girlfriend again?" Chu Zhi asked curiously. "I noticed you've been learning French lately."
Cough cough. "Yeah, I did switch girlfriends," Lao Qian admitted, "but I'm learning French because it feels so artistic."
Looking at Lao Qian's serious expression, Chu Zhi almost believed him.
"Playboy," Xiao Zhu muttered under her breath. She had always found Lao Qian a bit sleazy. He wasn't bad-looking, but his behavior practically oozed oil.
Unfortunately, Lao Qian had sharp ears. "Hey, I broke up peacefully with all my exes. We had good times together. That's not being a playboy," he protested. "It's just like the MV for 'Suddenly Miss You,' right? Thinking back on it might even make me smile. Don't you think so, Ninth Master?"
He suddenly dragged Chu Zhi into the conversation.
"Don't learn from Lao Qian, Ah Jiu," Wang Yuan warned. "When it comes to relationships, pick the right person and stick with them. And if you do date, it's best to avoid anyone in the industry."
"Yes, yes, listen to the queen. She's got a point," Lao Qian quickly agreed, not daring to argue.
"Women would only slow down his journey to stardom," Chu Zhi said to himself. "I'm not thinking about relationships right now. What I want most is for more people to like my songs."
Their manager, Niu Jiangxue, felt completely reassured when she heard that. "This artist was just too reliable. He didn't date, didn't make controversial statements online. If he had any flaw, it was that he didn't take proper care of his health."
When the small talk ended, Chu Zhi picked up a chart detailing venue options for the upcoming fan event. They needed a large space. Most of the locations were big enough, but Chu Zhi, who was familiar with the geography of Mountain City, pointed out a key issue.
"Sister Niu, all these places look good, but there's a problem," he said. "They're all in pretty remote areas. Our fan event starts at 7 PM and lasts a couple of hours. It'll be hard for fans to get a ride afterward. Whether they're male or female, walking alone late at night in a secluded area just isn't safe."
"What if we arranged shuttle buses?" Niu Jiangxue offered.
Lao Qian shook his head. "With 300 fans attending, some will stay at hotels in the city, some might get picked up by friends, and some could be flying out that same night. Organizing buses when everyone's headed in different directions is way too chaotic."
"We absolutely have to ensure the fans' safety," Chu Zhi said. "So we should pick a more central location, even if it costs more to rent."
If cost wasn't an issue, Niu Jiangxue had nothing more to say. "He really loves his fans," she thought. "So willing to spend for them."
They scrapped the current venue list and started over. Meanwhile, Chu Zhi was brainstorming ways to surprise his fans. The event itself was already a surprise, but he wanted to go further.
He would write a song for his fans.
Of course, writing fan-dedicated songs was common on Earth. You could name twenty off the top of your head. But in this parallel world, only four or five singers had ever done it.
Chu Zhi wanted to make a statement. He pulled up a shortlist of reference songs: Li Jian's Thank You, Andy Lau's With You Till the End, Leehom Wang's Our Song, BOBO's Glory, and Chen Chusheng's Turns Out I Was Never Alone. Honestly, he had enough material to fill a whole album.
Wait. That gave him an idea.
"Should I release an entire album just to thank my fans?"
He could call it Little Fruit. That name alone would have fans crying tears of joy. Even on Earth, many singers had written songs for their fans—but how many had ever released a whole album just for them? None!
If he was going to spoil them, he would spoil them to the heavens. That way, Little Fruits everywhere could proudly say, "My idol is the best in the world."
"Stay calm," he reminded himself. "This can't be the second album."
The second album had a specific purpose: it had to cement his title as the Father of New Chinese Style. It needed to be flawless—strong enough to silence both casual listeners and professional critics.
"So the fan album can wait. For now, just pick a single song."
All five on his shortlist were well-known. Our Song stood out as a masterpiece, even without the fan dedication angle. Turns Out I Was Never Alone also fit the mood perfectly. It was a tough choice.
As Chu Zhi struggled to decide, the final hammer of his promotional campaign dropped.
The next day, on the third day after The Singer-Songwriter aired, Southern Metropolis Daily ran a prominent sub-feature titled:
"Has Chu Zhi Already Become the New Industry Leader?"
Once again, he debuted at number one on both the new song and hot song charts. With Suddenly Miss You, Chrysanthemum Terrace, and Chapter Seven of the Night, Chu Zhi has dominated rankings. Music media awards and leaderboard programs have confirmed that Chu Zhi has evolved from a mere traffic idol into a true musician.
Back when he boldly challenged all contestants on I Really Am a Singer, showrunner Wang Ke said of his upset victory, "In him, I see talent and courage. One day, he just might stand at the forefront of the music scene."
Yesterday, the internet gave a fair judgment of the 1997-born Chu Zhi: he is the leading voice of both the post-90s and post-2000s generations.
Among post-90s singers, only Chu Zhi has received recognition from the Music Media Awards.
Mandopop has been stagnant for too long, even getting overshadowed by music from minor Asian countries. Chu Zhi saw this artistic lull and, after intense study, pioneered a new Chinese style. He also carved out a new path for rap. The last time Mandopop had this much energy was two decades ago, when rock music first came to China. Back then, it was Zheng Huo who led the charge.
"Can we say that Chu Zhi has already surpassed his peers of the same age group?" Fans keep asking this question.
"The only thing holding Chu Zhi back is his short time since debut. Give him four or five more years, and he could lead the entire industry. One thing that puzzles me, though—Chu Zhi has no formal training, so how does his singing show such polished bel canto technique?" said Zhang Zhong, editor-in-chief of a major music journal.
The article's structure and tone were classic Southern Metropolis Daily. Southern media outlets were clearly showing respect, even inviting Zhang Zhong to lend his credibility.
In the music field, there were seven core academic journals: Chinese Musicology, Music Research, China Music, Journal of the Central Conservatory, People's Music, Huang Zhong, and The Art of Music.
Unlike weekly columns or entertainment news, core journals represented the forefront of academic study in their field. Zhang Zhong was deputy editor of Music Research, meaning his words carried academic weight. His recognition of Chu Zhi was not about hype, but about legitimate professional validation.
The joint coverage from Southern Metropolis Daily and Zhang Zhong was effectively a seal of authority.
Why go to so much trouble? Why solidify a title that seemed more symbolic than practical?
Chu Zhi had two answers—one for the surface, and one beneath it.
On the surface: it meant more money. Brand endorsement deals could now include lines like, "The leading voice in the industry, beloved by Chu Zhi."
Behind the scenes: it gave him access to official channels. If some government agency needed a popular, young singer for a patriotic event, who would they call first?
Chu Zhi.