"If I weren't the one involved, I'd actually applaud this marketing strategy," Chu Zhi mused the next afternoon as he pieced together the situation over lunch.
The hype had successfully drawn more attention to the upcoming episode. On one hand, people wanted to see just how badly Chu Zhi would crash and burn—because schadenfreude was a universal pastime, and the spectacle of "how bad can it get?" was irresistible.
On the other hand, thanks to Mango TV's deliberate framing, audiences were now curious about two things: how much backing Chu Zhi really had, and what this legendary million-dollar vocal tuner supposedly working for him looked like.
To be clear, Mango TV wasn't targeting Chu Zhi—they were just milking his controversy for ratings. Or, to put it bluntly, he still had exploitation value.
Ironically, Chu Zhi stood to benefit. At 50% potency, Voice of Despair was more than enough to captivate listeners—otherwise, he wouldn't have secured the third-highest votes in the show's four-season history.
"I thought I was just an emotionless singing machine, but seeing these comments… still stings."
Chu Zhi skimmed through the barrage of insults. Every generation of his ancestors, plus hypothetical future children, had been cursed out with astonishing creativity. The sheer density of "yo mama" jokes was impressive.
"No wonder the original body killed himself. And here I am, a jaded old soul with the emotional detachment of a transmigrator—even I can't handle this."
The terror of online violence wasn't something you could just ignore. Only those who'd experienced it knew how suffocating it was.
"I'm gonna puke. Your existence is an insult to singers."
"You call this singing?"
"Just die already. Why do you cockroaches keep crawling out?"
"I beg for ears that haven't heard Steel Wool Ball's howling."
He needed a distraction. Just then, his WeChat rang—"Disciple of the Big Cat" was calling.
Chu Zhi adjusted his tone before answering. "Xiao Bai."
"Disciple of the Big Cat" was Su Shangbai in real life. After two months of support, calling him "Xiao Bai" (Little Bai) felt natural—though it did sound like a pet name.
"Ninth Brother, you're in Changsha, right? Got time? I've compiled evidence about the smear campaign against you," Su Shangbai said.
"Of course. Where should I pick it up?" Chu Zhi replied without hesitation. This was his ticket to redemption.
"I'll deliver it. You should stay indoors as much as possible right now." Su Shangbai's voice was firm. "Just send me your location."
Thorough. Efficient. Chu Zhi mentally cataloged Su Shangbai as a meticulous ally—the kind who'd advised the original host to clarify the rumors early, which had been the right move.
Yet, in the original host's memories, Su Shangbai barely registered.
After sending his hotel details, Su Shangbai hung up with a crisp, "See you in half an hour."
"Su Shangbai sounds more like a protagonist's name—'Jade City in the heavens, twelve towers and five walls.'" Chu Zhi mused, then searched online for Su Shangbai's career updates.
Su Shangbai had also competed on Future Idol, where he'd met the original body, and finished sixth.
Wait—why was there no recent info?
The only results were about Su Shangbai terminating his contract with his agency. No new music, no performances. His last Weibo post was two years ago. Had he quit the industry?
"Guess the original body really didn't consider Xiao Bai a close friend. Zero memories of his singing skills." Chu Zhi sighed, refocusing on the evidence. It likely pertained to the sugar-baby rumors.
The two nuclear bombs that had destroyed the original host's reputation were: Being a kept man; Secretly married + cheating.
The homosexuality and plastic surgery rumors were just bonus toppings. Once people decided someone was trash, they wanted to believe every bad thing about them.
The secret marriage part was easily debunked—Chu Zhi was only 23 now, and China's legal marriage age was 22. Five years ago? He'd have been 17. "How do you marry at 17? With a fake ID and a time machine?"
"Do people just turn off their brains online?" Chu Zhi took a sip of water to cool down.
While waiting, he logged into China Poetry Network. A notification icon blinked—a site message.
"Let's see if all three poems made the cut."
Only one had been selected for the anthology:
"Only through hell's trials can one gain the strength to create heaven.
Only fingers that have bled can pluck the world's most haunting chords."
The judges loved its stubborn intensity.
Untitled and Passion were rejected—acceptable losses. Short poems weren't like epics; their power lay in fleeting emotions. Anyone could write a great short poem by capturing a momentary feeling. Hence the saying: "Everyone is a poet."
Three site messages:
Trials selection notice.
Bank account linking instructions for the ¥270 prize (combined contest + publication fee).
An invitation from October magazine for submissions.
Not bad for poetry's current market rates—long poems paid a few yuan per line; short poems, a bit more. Without the contest boost, he'd have earned peanuts.
"Trying to make a living off poetry? You'd starve."
The most-viewed poem had 33 reads and zero comments. Depressing. Chu Zhi sighed. "After I Am a Singer, I'll focus on breaking overseas."
With no suitable contests, he submitted two more poems to the Daily Good Poem event—a government-backed initiative so desperate for engagement that it paid ¥300 for the best reader comment each week.
Proof that skilled literary critics were rare alchemists: they could turn words into gold, or poets into legends.
New submissions:
"Wish"
"Let life be beautiful like summer flowers,
And death like autumn leaves."
"Untitled"
"Power believes
The sufferer's pain is ingratitude."
He closed the tab just as the doorbell chimed—exactly 30 minutes later. Punctual.
Su Shangbai stood at the door, every inch the corporate elite: black-framed glasses, tailored attire, hair neatly trimmed. He radiated the aura of a Wall Street trader or a top-tier financial analyst.
"This guy competed on a singing show?"
"Ninth Brother, long time no see. You've lost weight," Su Shangbai said.