"Teacher Chu, aren't you going to wear makeup?" Pang Pu asked when he noticed the guest bypassing the makeup artists and heading straight to the living room.
"Isn't Dream of the Red Chamber supposed to capture the daily lives of celebrities? I don't wear makeup at home," Chu Zi replied. "I'll cooperate fully with the production team, but I remember other stars also appeared barefaced."
Hearing this, Pang Pu nearly blurted out, "No need for that!" But seeing the sincerity in Chu Zi's eyes, he swallowed his words. "Who in the entertainment industry is this straightforward?" Had he never heard of "no-makeup makeup"? Who actually appears on camera completely barefaced? Everyone knew that erratic schedules left many celebrities with terrible skin.
A quick explanation of "no-makeup makeup": The key is choosing a foundation shade that mimics natural skin. Check the veins on your wrist—blue-purple means cool undertones, olive-green means warm, and blue-green means neutral. If you can't see any veins… pinch your wrist briefly and then check again.
Though the livestream hadn't started yet, this segment had to be included in the behind-the-scenes footage. Pang Pu remembered the director Meng Teng's instructions.
"Teacher Chu, if you want to drink, please let me know first. Livestreams generally can't show alcohol consumption," Pang Pu reminded.
"Don't worry, I'll try to control myself," Chu Zi nodded.
"Try to control myself?" Pang Pu mentally noted that this guest might have a drinking problem.
Most livestream platforms banned smoking and drinking outright. If a streamer crossed the line, the platform would immediately shut them down. While Mango TV had some leeway (smoking was fine), alcohol was still a hard no. Chu Zi knew this—back on Earth, many TV shows and movies had to censor drinking scenes, either cutting them entirely or only showing the before-and-after, never the act itself.
That's why he had kept over a dozen empty wine bottles. After all, he'd only gotten drunk three times—the first two rounds of bottles had been thrown away. The neatly lined-up empties? All part of his carefully crafted image. What a schemer.
"This morning, I'll be reading. In the afternoon, I'll try composing," Chu Zi outlined his schedule.
If he was working on music, he'd head to the practice room. Pang Pu was curious why no cameras were allowed inside. A quick look would clear things up.
Once everything was set, the livestream began—technically, the behind-the-scenes footage transitioned into the main broadcast—right at 8:00 AM.
Fans flooded in:
"Ninth Brother, I'm here!"
"Random viewer here—why do people call Chu Zi 'Ninth Brother'?"
"Checking in!"
"Leaving my mark for Orange!"
"Ninth Brother looks a little pale today…"
After breakfast (ramen, of course), Chu Zi resumed studying. He wasn't trying to build a "scholar" persona—his education level spoke for itself—but he wanted to lay groundwork for the future. "Even without a college degree, I'm a lifelong learner. If I ever write a groundbreaking poem, people will know it's legit."
Watching someone read wasn't exactly thrilling content. Aside from die-hard fans, most viewers wouldn't stick around, even with Wei Tongzi occasionally chiming in.
Before long, it was time for lunch.
Today, Chu Zi once again ordered a carb-heavy feast. But Dream of the Red Chamber wasn't a mukbang show, so the on-site writer Frog Sun avoided direct close-ups. The audience didn't notice how much he was eating.
After finishing three meals like this, he'd complete [3 Days of Excessive Carb Loading]—earning three Personality Coins.
"Someday, I'd like to start a Bilibili channel sharing book insights," Chu Zi mentioned as he left the study.
"That'd be amazing! I'd triple-like every video," Wei Tongzi, a longtime Bilibili user, said eagerly. She knew the platform had a love-hate relationship with Chu Zi. Initially, his weak singing skills made him a target for ridicule, but his face frequently appeared in edits like "Watch Daily to Avoid Early Romance" compilations.
After "The Wind Blows the Wheat" and "Against the Light", his reputation had improved dramatically. Chu Zi was now synonymous with gentleness—a rare feat for idol actors on Bilibili.
"Can I ask you something?" Wei Tongzi hesitated.
"Of course," Chu Zi replied.
"I'm in your fan groups, and a lot of fans hope you'll reopen the comment sections on Weibo and Instagram. They also want you to post more updates."
"I'll try to post more," Chu Zi said after a pause. Then, addressing the camera directly, he apologized: "As for reopening comments… I'm sorry, but I'm still a little scared. I need more time to adjust."
Wei Tongzi's heart ached at his cautious tone. She knew exactly why—she'd seen the old comments. They were a cesspool of vitriol, with people hurling insults like they were reading off their family registers.
"Ahem! Teacher Chu, you mentioned your new album blends pop and rock, right?" Wei Tongzi quickly changed the subject.
"Not just pop and rock—pop and pop rock," Chu Zi corrected.
"Pop rock? Is that a subgenre? Rock has so many categories—could you explain for our viewers?" Wei Tongzi seized the chance to let him shine.
"Pop rock isn't really a rock subgenre—it's more of a branch of modern pop." Chu Zi launched into an explanation.
(The following section details rock subgenres, but since it's lengthy and technical, I've condensed it for readability.)
Rock was a broad category. Thankfully, Chu Zi—ever the preparer—had done his homework.
What defined rock? Beyond glam rock (UK) and visual kei (Japan), you couldn't judge by appearance alone. (For example, Secondhand Rose looked undeniably rock, but their sound was closer to errenzhuan—a folk style.) The core of rock was rebellion, hedonism, and decadence, reflected in lyrics. The instrumentation centered on guitar, bass, keyboards, and drums.
—Heavy metal: Max volume, distorted guitars, extended solos.
—Britpop: Less distortion, introspective lyrics (a UK response to American cultural dominance).
—Punk rock: Simple three-chord progressions, raw energy (early Flowers Band by Da Zhangwei fits here).
—Blues rock: Improvised three-chord jams with small jazz ensembles.
—Hardcore punk: If it sounds like chaotic shouting, that's intentional. The louder and angrier, the better.
This was a simplified (and slightly tongue-in-cheek) breakdown. Rock had dozens of subgenres, blending influences from blues, country, and folk. As for "fake rock"? If you believed in "rock spirit," then it existed. If not, anything could rock—even instrumental music (post-rock).
Chu Zi's explanation lasted over 20 minutes, but since it wasn't the most engaging content, I'll skip the details.
He pulled out some sheet music and lyrics for "Overworked"—his new song. The showman was ready.
"Teacher Chu, can we livestream your new song?" Pang Pu asked.
"Of course. It's called 'Overworked'—inspired by my energetic, slightly cringe-worthy student days. I want to channel that vibe."
"A sneak peek for our viewers! Back in my Legend gaming days, I was a grind king too," Pang Pu laughed. "Who doesn't have a spare liver?"
"This is the only place—sponsored by Li Ning's Red Hare sneakers—where you'll see the sheet music, lyrics, and composing process for the new album," Wei Tongzi added, signaling the cameraman, Jelly, to zoom in.
Jelly moved closer, capturing the marked-up sheet music for "Overworked":
[1=G 4/4
Fireworks, like me, shine brightest in the dark.
The sun sets—my time to spark.
It's not that I don't love sleep, or cherish my liver.
I just have too much, too much, too much to deliver.
...]
(Some phones might not display the notation properly, but you get the idea.)
Personally, Chu Zi didn't love this song—it wasn't a hit either. But an album only needed four or five standout tracks to be legendary. Not every song had to be a chart-topper, especially since he didn't have many tracks that fit the theme "Finite World, Infinite Joy."
That said, tastes varied. Some listeners would adore the upbeat "Overworked."
"This sounds amazing!" Wei Tongzi cheered, though she couldn't read sheet music.
Chu Zi opened the soundproof door to the practice room—thicker than a standard door—and flicked on the lights. The others followed, taking in the 80-square-meter space.
At the center stood a full array of instruments: electric piano, drums, guitar, bass, and even a grand piano. The southeast corner housed recording equipment: condenser mics, preamps, vocal effects processors, headphone amps, mixing consoles, and monitors.
Calling it a "practice room" was an understatement—it was a mini studio.
But the instruments weren't what caught Pang Pu, Wei Tongzi, and Jelly's attention. The walls were covered in intricate, vine-like patterns that stretched from floor to ceiling. Up close, they realized the "vines" were actually words—thousands of usernames like "Wangwang Loves Chu," "Nine Bean Paste Buns," "Moonlight," "Holding Up a Starry Sky for You," "Noble~"—woven into designs that resembled blue ivy from afar.
"Holy—!" Jelly swore (off-camera, but audible).
Pang Pu and Wei Tongzi frowned at the breach of professionalism, but when they approached, they gasped too.
"How many names are here?" Pang Pu muttered.
"I don't know the exact character count, but there are 22,548,742 IDs in this room," Chu Zi said, as if reciting a cherished memory.