Given the MV's explosive popularity online, Bingtang Xueli easily found it and hit play. The lengthy opening credits alone made her itch to nitpick.
Then came the Celestial Emperor, the Drunken Sword Immortal, the Confucian scholar, the Demon-Slaying General, the Demonized Saint, and the Holy Monk—all within a five-minute video. Bingtang Xueli felt like she'd witnessed six cycles of reincarnation.
A testament to her ironclad will as a successful, independent 42-year-old woman, she scoffed: "That's it? Nothing special."
She needed to critique it a few more times. Half an hour later, after multiple rewatches, she casually opened a music app and scrolled through the comments under Like Smoke:
[Lai Xiang Baiwei]: "Came from the short videos. Found the full version. Nine is the literal definition of 'I can be whatever you like.'"
[Yun Yao]: "First meeting and I already want to take you to bed. Sophisticates call it love at first sight."
[Jun Jun Yao Chi Tang]: "Another day of Nine luring butterflies with his looks. Beauty isn't skin-deep—it's bone-deep. Nine's beauty goes straight to the marrow. slurp~"
[DARKSKY]: "No offense, but this man is sick. Diagnosis: Ancient Costume God Syndrome. In modern clothes, he's ethereal. In historical garb? He's celestial."
The comment section was also full of seasoned drivers (both male and female): "The top half is indecent, but watching this MV the first time gave me literary inspiration. The second time, though the inspiration was gone, the 'spring' still flowed." "Damn, with all you men and women here, we couldn't even cobble together a single pair of pants."
Honestly, a comment section wasn't fun without some veteran drivers.
"What's the use of a pretty face?" Bingtang Xueli supported her idol because of Li Xingwei's confidence on stage.
Inner monologue: "I admit your looks caught my attention, but I'm not that shallow."
Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and began researching Chu Zhi's life.
She stumbled upon an old video—Chu Zhi at sixteen, freshly signed as a trainee under Dahua Entertainment, recording a self-intro on his first day in the dorm.
"Hahaha, this is 16-year-old Chu Zhi! Finally made it into the company. I'm gonna be the biggest star—no, the hottest star! Uh… three—no, five years! By 21, I'll be super famous!"
In the video, his teenage features were still soft, though undeniably handsome. His Mandarin wasn't as polished back then, with traces of a Sichuan accent ("this point," "super famous"). The 20-second clip should've ended there, but he suddenly remembered something and added:
"When I make money, I'll buy my grandpa the most expensive walking stick! No way other grandpas get to have cool stuff and mine doesn't!"
Bingtang Xueli almost laughed. She'd heard of people vowing to buy houses or cars, but a walking stick? First time.
Chu Zhi had lived with his grandfather since middle school, so their bond was deep.
Debut, fame, top-tier stardom—just when it seemed like smooth sailing, the sky collapsed. False accusations, I Am a Singer, the Dream of the Red Chamber livestream, depression, a suicide attempt… Six hours passed.
Bingtang Xueli usually took afternoon tea, but today, she was fully immersed in learning about another star.
She realized: If Li Xingwei shone on stage, Chu Zhi was the sun—his warmth palpable to every fan.
It was… comforting.
She still didn't think Li was inferior, but Chu Zhi was undeniably worth liking. She began to understand why the Little Oranges were so fiercely loyal.
"This…" Bingtang Xueli created a burner account and applied to join an Orange Orchard screening group.
The fan questionnaire was easy, followed by three tasks. For someone new to fandom, it might seem tedious, but as a veteran fan leader, she breezed through.
The newly formed fan group, Orange Orchard #46, was nothing like the ones she managed.
[La-la-la~ Another day of loving Nine! Today's my first time volunteering at a nursing home. Hehe.]
[You're awesome, fellow fruit! Senior year's killing me—only ten minutes of phone time a day. All I can do is pick up fallen shared bikes on my way to school.]
[Every little act of kindness counts. Let's all be like Nine and fill the world with warmth.]
[Nine's MV got me so hooked I forgot my homework! Ahhh! I helped my parents cook today… Okay, that doesn't count. I'll do something nice outside tomorrow!]
The group was discussing… good deeds? Bingtang Xueli was stunned. Snow Pears also donated in their idol's name, but it was mostly just throwing money at causes. The Little Oranges' vibe was entirely new.
This unusual dynamic stemmed from Chu Zhi's past actions—his fans wanted to emulate his kindness. Even if only a fraction (like 0.1%) actually followed through, the sheer size of his fanbase meant plenty did. Those who did good deeds inevitably shared in the group, shaping its wholesome atmosphere. Whether this virtuous cycle would last was unclear, but for now, Bingtang Xueli was deeply moved.
Then she looked back at her own group, still obsessing over chart rankings…
"Sigh." For the first time, she felt the urge to quit as group leader.
Bingtang Xueli represented another demographic—those who didn't instantly stan after the MV but were intrigued enough by Chu Zhi's looks to dig deeper.
Li Xingwei's album sales might've profited, but his foundation was crumbling. Chu Zhi was poised to dethrone him as top idol.
—
Midnight. A notification chimed.
Chu Zhi set aside his documents and checked his phone: "Liang Pingbo 0-"
He pulled up WeChat and messaged someone he hadn't contacted in ages:
[Happy birthday, Director Liang! Thanks for your guidance during I Am a Singer.]
Liang Pingbo was currently overseeing rehearsals for I Want to Sing With You. Late-night prep was normal in variety shows. Don't mistake Liang for a Hunan TV employee—he ran his own music company and collaborated with networks. A behind-the-scenes heavyweight, he worked as music director for singing competitions, concerts, even films.
"Huh?" Liang Pingbo was puzzled. He celebrated his lunar calendar birthday, so a solar calendar greeting threw him off.
The sender's note: [Chu Zhi]
"Chu Zhi remembers my birthday?" Liang was shocked. Their collaboration on Singer had been… tense.
Well, unpleasant. Chu Zhi's strong opinions on arrangements left little room for his input.
At most, Liang thought Chu Zhi was decently amiable. Off-camera, they'd had zero contact—exchanging info was just formality.
He checked their chat history. The last message was a voice note from over a month ago, a New Year's greeting he'd skimmed via auto-translate.
Now, listening properly: "Happy New Year! Wishing you success. Working with you was a pleasure."
Compared to this birthday wish, Liang suddenly felt guilty. That voice note clearly wasn't a mass message.
His WeChat handle, Magical Girl Who Moves Heaven and Earth, was his daughter's doing (along with his profile pic of her). Total dad behavior.
[Thanks, Teacher Chu! I celebrate my lunar birthday, but I appreciate it.]
He added a voice note: "Got swamped with New Year messages. Meant to reply, but it got buried."
[No worries. My inbox was flooded too. It's the thought that counts—no need to reply.]
Would the Acting Emperor personally send individualized New Year's greetings? Of course not. WeChat's mass-messaging feature (Settings > General > Assistant) existed for a reason.
Acting Emperor Pro Tip: Voice notes seem more sincere than text, especially with personalized details.
Staff like Liang Pingbo, Sun the Frog, Pang Pu, etc., got one batch.
Artists like Lin Xia, Gu Nanxi, and Koguchi got another. Seniors like Hou Yubin had their own tier.
This was how you balance a bowl of water so evenly it pacifies the world. Chu Zhi's 37 birthday reminders spoke volumes.
In his past life, as a boss, he'd wish all 51 employees happy birthday and give them half a day off.
How do you think he maintained the company's industry-low turnover rate?
Back to work.
"Reading Day Ambassador…" Chu Zhi scanned his list of 60+ charity invitations.