"Wait—so Teacher Chu, did you start smoking and drinking during that period to cope with the public pressure?" Pang Pu suddenly realized.
"I started smoking earlier. The nightmares drove me to cigarettes—tobacco helped a little." Chu Zhi seemed hesitant but continued, "As for drinking... alcohol numbed my mind enough to drown out the voices."
"Of course you couldn't hear the hallucinations when drunk—you were unconscious." Wei Tongzi's heart shattered further. She wanted to ask if the voices still haunted him, but bit back the question. "He still has nightmares. Still smokes and drinks. The symptoms are clearly still there."
Severe depression isn't something you can just "snap out of." Hallucinations and nightmares are physical manifestations of the damage. Many never escape its grip—not because they refuse to move on, but because their brains force them to relive their worst memories on loop.
"I might sound like a broken record, but I'll say it again." Chu Zhi's voice was firm. "Alcohol destroys your liver. Smoking destroys your body. We should cut back as much as possible. I want to set an example by quitting, but... progress has been slow."
Online, many had accused Chu Zhi of hypocrisy for preaching sobriety while indulging himself. Wei Tongzi had once defended him against such comments. Now, she wanted to scream: "Who dares call him a hypocrite now?"
"I owe special thanks to my friend Da Mao—Su Shangbai." Chu Zhi said. "He's been my rock. The evidence presented during Little Mango Tea Party? All gathered by him. Without Da Mao, clearing my name would've been far harder."
"Su Shangbai?" Pang Pu felt the name was familiar.
"Wait—is this Su Shangbai the newly appointed director of Guangxi Datang Co.?" Pang Pu blurted.
Guangxi Datang, with a market cap of 4.87 billion on the Shenzhen exchange, was China's second-largest (and the world's fourth-largest) sugarcane refiner—producing 150,000 tons of white sugar annually, plus 320,000 tons of raw sugar and 110,000 tons of bagasse pulp. Household names like Hsu Fu Chi and Want Want sourced their sugar from them.
Though its valuation paled next to Want Want's HK$100 billion, Datang was a heavyweight in light industry—a state-backed enterprise and one of only two sugar companies approved for postdoctoral research stations.
Recently, rumors of a leadership shakeup had tanked its stock. Chairman Su Rui had even held a press conference to deny plans of retiring or passing the baton to his children. Pang Pu, an amateur investor, had followed the drama closely.
"Could it be the same person?" The name was uncommon, and the resources to gather evidence suggested high status.
For a split second, Pang Pu considered fishing for insider trading tips—but quickly dismissed the thought. They had a show to run.
"We must cherish our health and lives." Pang Pu steered the conversation back. "Teacher Chu debuted over two years ago—next March marks three years. That means we've got about five years until his free concert. Hang in there, everyone!"
He gestured to the prop beside them—a mirror-shaped blackboard labeled Fengyue Baojian ("Mirror of Romance"). The ham-fisted Dream of the Red Chamber reference made Chu Zhi question whether the scriptwriters had even read the novel.
"Tongtong, you write." Pang Pu handed her a marker.
"Why me?"
"Your handwriting's prettier. You've got that top-student vibe." Flattery worked.
Time constraints limited them to two viewer questions:
—When's the new album dropping? I can't wait!
—If "You're Not Truly Happy" isn't on the album, can you sing it live?
As Wei Tongzi scribbled on the board, she muttered, "Why go through this charade? Just ask directly."
"Should I call Director Meng Teng to discuss?" Pang Pu joked.
"...Never mind." Her handwriting was, in fact, atrocious.
"I haven't written by hand in ages. It used to be neater," Wei Tongzi lied, embarrassed in front of her idol.
Chu Zhi answered: "The album's set for release on New Year's Eve."
"Remember to listen! Teacher Chu's songs are amazing," Wei Tongzi interjected.
"Second question—sure." You asked for this. "No accompaniment though. It'll be acapella."
Only skilled vocalists risked unaccompanied performances. Chu Zhi wasn't one—but with Voice of Despair, the lack of instrumentation actually helped.
Out of kindness, he dialed his ability down to 60%—slightly stronger than his I Am a Singer performance of Deserted Island. You're Not Truly Happy was steeped in sorrow before its hopeful turn, and with the Live broadcast room's somber mood, 90% might've driven viewers to self-harm.
"Crying in the crowd,
You just want to fade into transparency.
You'll never dream,
Or feel pain,
Or heartbeat again.
You've decided,
You've decided,
Enduring in silence,
Fists clenched around yesterday..."
Three lines in, it was clear Chu Zhi hadn't rehearsed—at least two-and-a-half lines were off-key.
Yet the rawness fit. He softened "silence," emphasized "clenched," and twisted "hurts" until it resembled "shinobi."
"The deeper the scars carved into your palms,
The more they bleed.
You're not truly happy.
Your smile's just a disguise.
You've sworn off hatred,
And love alike,
Locking your soul
In an unbreakable shell..."
He might as well have been singing his own story.
Where Deserted Island had conveyed the despair of losing a loved one, You're Not Truly Happy was about fear—the terror of being hurt again. His voice trembled with caution, the kind that builds walls to avoid pain.
Like the poem: You say you refuse to plant flowers,
For fear of watching them wilt.
So to avoid all endings,
You reject every beginning.
"No more hate. No more love. A soul forever imprisoned." Wei Tongzi knew then—he hadn't healed.
"The world laughs,
So you laugh along.
When survival's the rule,
Not your choice..."
Cameraman Jelly, who'd always found Chu Zhi's smile captivating (more so than online darling Li Xingwei's "angelic grin"), now understood: "That smile was for others. He kept none of it for himself."
"A saint. A genuine one," Jelly thought. Not the performative kind.
"You're not truly happy.
Your wounds never fully close.
I stand at your side,
Yet an ocean divides us.
Must we cling to regrets until we're old?"
Suddenly, the melody surged—
"You deserve real joy.
Tear off that mask.
Why must you be punished
For what you've lost?"
"Can't we let the sorrow end here—
And start living anew?"