The explanations from Yu Lan and Wuhai Entertainment in Shanghai only slightly defused the explosive comment section. Their argument was that Yu Lan was polite to everyone—except Chu Zhi, against whom he made veiled jabs. That was just too obvious.
One show, two people got dragged through the mud.
Why was Jo Kwon avoiding Chu Zhi's gaze on the show? Not because he feared him, but because his cafe in South Korea got bombarded by Chu Zhi's fans—the Apostles.
They left outrageous comments like
"Why you targeting the Demon King? Can't stand someone better?"
"It's our stagnation, our Korean pride, that leads to envy."
"Oppa, why do you keep challenging the Demon King when your stage can't compare?"
"I once loved you, Jo Oppa, but your attitude toward Chu Zhi makes others think Koreans are xenophobic…"
The cafe membership that Jo Kwon needed required at least two posts per week from each celeb—and no one made that demand for Chu Zhi or any Hollywood star. Seeing all the hate, Jo Kwon wondered if he was hallucinating. "Do they really hate us Koreans? That is bullshit," he muttered.
Fearing a bigger backlash, Jo Kwon avoided provoking more anti-fan reactions. He didn't understand why a Chinese singer had such hardcore supporters in Korea.
Meanwhile, Chu Zhi's team started getting collaboration offers—seven requests for him to write movie theme songs, each averaging 6.5 million yuan. Capital always chases profit. Wobbly Steps had grossed 400 million yuan in its first week—an epic return for a film made on less than 100 million.
Sure, the director Gao Wang deserved most of the praise, but who wrote the theme song? Spending millions on set design is abstract, but paying for a song by Chu Zhi—his popularity is quantifiable.
This was classic star power: with his existing catalog and just the right offer, Chu Zhi could pick and choose from dozens of potential projects—albums Nightfall, Poetry of Adolescence, and Fantasy Mode still had room left.
A fantasy romance about vampires called Bat was one project in discussion. It promised high-end visuals—but the effects budget looked cheap.
Chu Zhi hummed as he mapped out the melody. "Night Visit the Vampire fits this theme—no angelic purity, no devilish decisiveness. Only human flaws…"
"Song's getting recorded tomorrow."
"Tonight I've got to polish the English version of The Grand Riddle." He planned to finish his poetry tonight. The literary world was harder to break than the music industry—though still, not as easy as pop music.
Fueled by enthusiasm, Chu Zhi worked until 2 a.m., finishing everything. Writing poems was quick—he just needed to prep for Rock Night's performance in the practice studio.
"Nighty-night, little waste," he whispered to the empty room before passing out.
Dawn came again. Skies swapped sunset pink for morning light.
Another 30°C plus day. Heat invaded skin and souls. People felt restless.
Workers on the Third Ring Road, stuffed buses, private cars—the city woke up. Chu Zhi's team departed early, heading for the iQIYI studios.
Producer Che Lun planned to find a challenger for Chu Zhi in Episode 10, but—again—no one stepped up. Why couldn't they find a challenger? Chu Zhi's star had grown too big. Che Lun didn't want to risk a low-profile name. Meanwhile, high-caliber artists wouldn't stoop to be challengers.
So for the second episode in a row, only Chu Zhi went unchallenged.
By rule, two spots are usually empty—but this time only one was empty. "Jo Kwon is on schedule in Korea, so he won't be here this week." That was the official excuse. But unofficially, it probably meant they had renegotiated his contract and excluded him.
They had previously saved him from elimination, and now they clearly preferred Chu Zhi on stage. Che Lun could have done the same if Chu Zhi had conflicting schedules—if Chu Zhi didn't show up, who would watch?
"Chu Zhi, iQIYI has a new show. Are you interested?" Che Lun approached him after filming.
"A new show?" Chu Zhi paused. Wouldn't that be decided by his agency—not him?
"First, I wanted to ask you, Chu Zhi. If you're interested, then we'll speak to your team." Che Lun lowered his tone.
Well, Chu Zhi had been the breakout star of Singer-Songwriter—so he had leverage.
"Sure, Che Producer—I'm listening." He put his phone away.
It was definitely more comfortable talking to Chu Zhi than dealing with someone like Jo Kwon staring down from across the table. Especially when he put his phone away. Didn't people know it's polite to put your phone down while speaking?
"It's a travel-reality show with five or six celebrities overseas," Che Lun explained. "It tests their survival and emergency skills. It's called Stars on the Road."
"Sounds like Divas in the Wild from Earth—pretty interesting. Seems to do well." Chu Zhi was intrigued.
"What's the first destination?" he asked.
Che Lun was happy to explain. So far, everything hinted at attention and curiosity.
"We're thinking Sapporo—it hosted the 1972 Winter Olympics. In Europe most guests speak English, but few speak Japanese. You speak both, so you'd be perfect for this."
Good point—Japanese and English could give Chu Zhi an edge. He nodded slowly.
"It does sound interesting. I'd watch it as a viewer. But Che Producer—you know I only do music shows."
It sounded like a polite decline.
"Chu Zhi, reality shows work faster to win fans. We can do something new. I really think you fit this format."
Indeed, reality shows attract much larger audiences than music programs—Run for Fun, The Dining Room, Keep Running, Ultimate Challenge. They were all reality. Gaining fans was always good—who wouldn't want more?
"But—" Chu Zhi hesitated, frowning.
"Chu Zhi, this collab would be fun. Full disclosure—I'm also the producer of Stars on the Road. I want this."
No wonder Che Lun kept pitching. Chu Zhi's star power held massive commercial value. Once Chu Zhi said yes, sponsors would follow. Money drives everything. Everyone wants to sign off on something profitable. That interest itself signaled how valuable he'd become.