Lin Xia's fans were furious. Being attacked out of nowhere—with their idol dragged into it—who could tolerate that? They launched a fierce counterattack.
Most Snow Pearls would never admit fault. The only time fangirls apologize is under very specific circumstances: "On behalf of the irrational fans, I apologize. The behavior was indeed excessive, and I'm sorry. But it wasn't our fans who did it, so don't pin it on us…"
The emphasis? "On behalf of"—code for "I didn't do it; I'm just the noble peacemaker."
The remaining Snow Pearls were exhausted. After consecutive setbacks—being despised by outsiders didn't matter to hardcore fans. External hostility couldn't break the group's cohesion as long as they kept "defeating" (or mass-reporting) their enemies.
The one thing they couldn't afford? Losing. And now, against Lin Xia's fans, the Snow Pearls had no fight left. They were about to… lose.
Losing to Chu Zhi's Little Fruits? Fine. But losing to Lin Xia? What kind of joke was that?
The meticulously planned assault lasted two days, ending with Li Xingwei's "top-tier" status shattered.
The "Big Six" top idols remained unchanged—technically, Li wouldn't drop unless he stopped releasing music, endorsements, or concerts.
But was that realistic? How else would he make money? By the next time his weakened fandom power became obvious, his name would quietly vanish from the list. Meanwhile, Lin Xia, having crushed him head-on, was poised to rise.
This battle reshaped the idol hierarchy, sending the fandom world into chaos while onlookers feasted on drama. But inside the Orange Orchard? A completely different vibe. No one even discussed the Li-Lin war.
[Longing for the Prince but Not Daring to Speak]: "Gone. They said restocking will take three days. I couldn't support Ah Jiu with his last album, so I thought I'd jump on this early. Joke's on me—couldn't even buy one!"
[White Robe, Sword in Hand]: "Laughing so hard I'm not laughing. Three days for restock? In Shanghai, it's a week."
[Clouds Flow, Light Flits]: "Hahaha, this is too funny. Just saw Ninth Brother's post telling us to 'buy reasonably' since 'sunglasses aren't edible.' Meanwhile, I bought all three Visual Series models. Gonna rotate them."
Unsurprisingly, this last comment drew collective fury. Countless Little Fruits had failed to snag even one pair, let alone all three.
"Sis, where's your humanity? All 'brother this, sister that' until it's time to buy, then it's every man for himself?"
"Reminds me of that celebrity's iconic line: 'You'd be a great person… if you had any humanity.'"
"Sisters are birds in the same forest, but when endorsements drop, they scatter like leaves."
The Little Fruits were dead set on making their idol's first endorsement legendary. Not even Jesus could change their minds. Their combat power stunned not just other fandoms but even talent agencies. These weren't just fans—they were a force of nature.
For safety, Niu Jiangxue had prepared a "risk button"—a contingency plan in case fan support fell short. She never expected to use it. But having a plan and needing it were two different things.
"Do we have any internal promo plans for the sunglasses campaign?" Chu Zhi asked carefully.
"No. We even asked fan leaders to discourage bulk buying." Niu Jiangxue sighed, equal parts amused and exasperated. "But Ninth Brother, the Little Fruits' numbers are too big. Even if just one-third bought a pair, it'd be insane."
She didn't say the quiet part aloud: After the Dream of the Red Chamber livestream, the fandom's loyalty had been forged into steel.
"Good. No internal pushing." Chu Zhi didn't want to drain the pond for one catch. He preferred sustainable draining.
"Don't worry, Ninth Brother. Our team won't make moves without discussing them first," Niu Jiangxue assured.
"Honestly, daily selfies to engage fans don't even feel like work now." Fans called his nine-grid selfies "fan service," but Chu Zhi had grown used to it.
He couldn't even gauge his true fan count anymore—the Little Fruits' data manipulation was too terrifying. They'd broken Guinness World Records, for crying out loud.
No wonder so many young idols lost touch with reality. When you're adored by millions and bombarded with inflated stats, it's easy to believe the world revolves around you.
"Still not there?"
Chu Zhi shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His backside still ached from the flight, and now the bumpy ride to Sanya's shoot location wasn't helping. March in Sanya was already sweltering. Rolling down the window only blasted them with hot air, so he rolled it back up.
"Xiao Zhu, from now on, pack a lumbar pillow and seat cushion. Ninth Brother gets sore on long trips," Niu Jiangxue instructed.
The assistant nodded eagerly. She'd only brought a neck pillow this time—after Chu Zhi once complained of stiffness from napping upright on planes, she'd made it a habit.
Five minutes later, once the artist had rested, the agent finally brought up business.
"Ninth Brother, Southern Music released the nominations for the Chinese Music Media Awards. We're up for Best Lyricist, Best Arrangement, Best Producer, and Best Composer—four technical categories." Niu Jiangxue scrolled through her packed iPad schedule. "Only 'Best Recording' is missing from the sweep."
The big awards—Best Mandarin Song, Best Mandarin Album, Best Male/Female Singer—were reserved for veterans. Young artists need not apply.
China's authoritative music awards followed a "3-1-4-2" hierarchy—three Tier 1 prizes, four Tier 2. The Chinese Music Media Awards (founded by Southern News) were Tier 2.
But don't underestimate them. To put it bluntly: Neither in this world nor on Earth had any traffic idol ever won—not Zhang Yixing, not Hua Chenyu, not even Cai Xukun.
Why? Because Southern Media was the mainstream giant. Why would they fear offending Traffic Star?
"They're really giving face." Chu Zhi sensed this was his moment. His album's quality, plus Shangbai's earlier introduction to Director Tian, had paved the way.
[Where Wu meets Chu, ambition soars.] He could become the first award-winning top stream solidifying his dual identity as idol and serious musician.
"Southern People Weekly also requested an exclusive cover feature," Niu Jiangxue added, her tone sharpening with importance. "Their coverage index is 78.45—they're called China's 'Time Magazine.' Usually, they feature entrepreneurs or industry leaders. As far as I recall, the only idol ever on their cover was Shen Yun."
That huge? Shen Yun's only standout trait among top stream was his CCTV connections. But upon probing, Chu Zhi learned the real reason:
Shen Yun got the cover not for being a top stream but because of who his father was.
"You want me to accept?" Chu Zhi asked.
"Mainstream recognition is rare for idols. Southern People Weekly's influence factor ranks top 50 domestically—on par with core academic journals. If they're offering, we should take it."
Chu Zhi knew Southern Media had… questionable editorial biases. But he nodded. "Fine, let's do it."
His real goal was People's Daily endorsement. Why chase mainstream approval? Simple—he'd hit the ceiling in the flow world. Time to expand.
Niu Jiangxue had the same idea. She'd been planning their next move when—like a pillow appearing just as you doze off—this ladder materialized.