Dream of the Red Chamber was advertised as a 24-hour livestream, but in reality, it didn't actually run around the clock. Once the celebrity went to bed, the screen would cut to black—livestreaming someone sleeping didn't align with proper values.
The show had once invited a female artist, and even if she wore the most modest pajamas, broadcasting her sleep still risked veering into inappropriate territory. So during the "black screen" period, the stream only played behind-the-scenes clips from the day.
For the livestream, peak viewership usually lasted two to three hours starting around 7 PM. The hosts and scriptwriters would advise guests to showcase their most interesting moments during this window. Remember Dai Yang from I'm Really a Singer? As a renowned bel canto singer and member of the national artistic elite, he would perform a stunning piece before every meal, leaving the audience in awe.
But Chu Zhi was different. Even after reminders from the hosts, he stuck to his own rhythm. From 1:30 PM onward, he spent six to seven hours straight in his study composing music—no highlights, just raw exposure.
It left host Pang Pu at a loss. In previous episodes, viewers would flood the chat with requests for the hosts to ask bold, even borderline invasive questions—Does the celebrity have any bad habits? Any weird quirks at home? The hosts' job was to interact with the guest based on audience comments. Both Pang Pu and Wei Tongzi had earpieces to receive instructions from the director and real-time viewer messages.
After dinner, Chu Zhi had just settled onto the sofa when he pulled out a pack of Huanghelou cigarettes.
"I'm going to the balcony for a smoke," he said.
"Teacher Chu, you… smoke?" Wei Tongzi hesitated, wanting to remind her idol to be mindful of the cameras.
"Secondhand smoke isn't great. Tongzi, you don't have to come," Chu Zhi said, standing up.
"Oh, it's fine! I'm not sensitive to smoke," Wei Tongzi quickly replied, following him anyway.
The cameraman, Jelly, didn't need to tag along—the balcony already had fixed cameras. With a seamless switch, the livestream cut to Chu Zhi leaning against the railing, a cigarette between his fingers, wisps of smoke curling into the night air.
His gaze seemed heavy with unspoken thoughts as he looked up at the distant sky. The evening breeze lifted his bangs slightly, revealing his forehead—his hairline was low, so even with his fringe pushed back, he didn't look like he had a "fivehead."
Instantly, the chat exploded:
"How does someone look like this? Are these facial features even real?"
"I usually hate men who smoke, but Brother Jiu is the exception."
"People keep saying 'CGI face'—now I get it."
"That brow bone and nose bridge… I'm jealous."
The scene was undeniably beautiful—both the man and the backdrop.
Wei Tongzi, standing there, thought to herself: "The stars and moon pale in comparison, so they've hidden themselves away." She barely maintained her professionalism, resisting the urge to swoon openly.
"He looks so melancholy… What is Teacher Chu thinking about?"
She saw deep sorrow in his eyes.
Who says human emotions aren't universal? At least fans could project their feelings onto their idols—though the details might differ. Wei Tongzi assumed he was pondering life's big questions: the future, existence, something profound.
In reality, Chu Zhi was just lamenting his situation. "If I hadn't transmigrated, I'd probably be eating hotpot right now, singing karaoke, maybe even with a model by my side. Instead, I'm here…"
To lighten the mood, Wei Tongzi asked, "Were 'Backlight' and 'The Wind Blows the Wheat Waves' written in this study too?" It was a subtle way to promote his new album.
"Lyrics need a lot of revision. The current drafts still need a couple more days of polishing," Chu Zhi said. Then he added, "Actually, I'd love to have fans suggest names for the album."
Predictably, the chat lagged from the flood of messages. Naming their idol's album? This was next-level fan engagement—if you weren't excited, you weren't a true fan.
"I'll definitely submit an idea later!" Wei Tongzi said eagerly.
Chu Zhi nodded. "Good."
"We're all looking forward to your new album," she said, then smoothly added, "Just like we're excited for Li-Ning's Chitu running shoes!"
Ah, yes—the show's sponsor, Li-Ning, couldn't be forgotten. Wei Tongzi had remembered her duty to plug the brand.
"Staying true to the mission. Good."
After finishing his cigarette, Chu Zhi turned to leave but paused. Facing the balcony camera, he said, "Smoking isn't good for your health. I hope our Little Mangos can avoid it if possible—especially minors. Don't pick it up."
Back inside, he returned to his study to tweak lyrics while Wei Tongzi occasionally relayed questions from the chat.
Meanwhile, Pang Pu was waiting for his staff meal. The two hosts took turns eating, similar to shift workers in a factory—though not nearly as exhausting. When off-camera, they could step away to discuss the livestream's direction with the scriptwriter, Frog Sun.
A few minutes later, a fragrant braised pork rice arrived.
"Teacher Chu is a real one. A beacon of honesty!" Pang Pu couldn't help but remark between bites.
Cameraman Jelly nodded in agreement. Smoking and drinking without a hint of pretense? If the production team didn't milk this for hot searches, they'd be wasting golden material.
Like a candle, burning himself to brighten the show's ratings.
Frog Sun stayed silent. Though he hadn't interacted much with Chu Zhi, their dinner together had convinced him the man was highly perceptive—not the type to act recklessly without reason.
Seeing that neither Jelly nor Frog Sun responded, Pang Pu didn't push further. Some people just didn't like talking during meals. Instead, he texted Xiao Gu, who was currently in Seoul for work.
[Pang Pu]: Landed yet?
[Xiao Gu]: Just checked into the hotel. We're right next to YG Entertainment—convenient for tomorrow.
[Pang Pu]: Low-key jealous. Even though filming Chu Zhi is more interesting than expected, I still wanna be in Seoul!
[Xiao Gu]: No shot, lol. The number of Chinese tourists here is insane—most are here for Princess Group's fan meet in two days. If our crew hadn't booked early, we'd be screwed.
[Pang Pu]: I'm not a fan of Korea either, but their idol groups' singing and dancing skills are legit. Puts our lazy domestic entertainment industry to shame.
They didn't chat long—Pang Pu had to return to relieve Wei Tongzi for her meal break. "You can't actually eat beauty," after all.
By 11:30 PM, after Chu Zhi finished his workout, showered, and went to bed, the livestream finally cut to black. Five minutes later, behind-the-scenes clips began playing—like the crew helping with food deliveries (Chu Zhi ordered takeout for both lunch and dinner).
Veteran artists like Dai Yang, with their life experience, would cook elaborate meals on camera. Even younger actors and dancers felt compelled to showcase their culinary skills—the ideal modern man.
But Chu Zhi? Too naive. The Oscar-worthy actor could cook—stir-fried potatoes and tomato-egg dishes were within his skillset. He'd struggled in his early days and knew how to fend for himself. But ordering takeout wasn't about convenience.
His brand was singer + idol—the former required great work, the latter a flawless face. Everything else was optional.
Would you rather date an average guy who cooks or a goddess like Liu Yifei, who's never touched a kitchen?
Or an average girl who cooks versus a takeout-dependent heartthrob like Hu Ge?
The answer was obvious.
More importantly, Chu Zhi understood that idols needed to have flaws—something for fans to fret over. If he were perfect at everything, he'd just be the "mature, dependable" type who got no sympathy.
As the B-roll played, viewership dwindled. The Little Fruits gradually logged off.
The crew packed up hastily. Unlike some reality shows, they didn't stay overnight at the celebrity's home—their staff hotel was nearby.