"A photograph taken in real time—but did you capture any images of them entering the hotel together?" Huang Youru cut straight to the point. "Without follow-up evidence, how can you call this 'reasonable deduction'?"
Sensing her hostility, Manager Zhao dialed back his enthusiasm. "What else could a man and woman be doing at a hotel entrance if not going inside? And what happens after they enter? I trust the public has common sense."
"If twisting black into white counts as common sense, then Manager Zhao is indeed very knowledgeable," Huang Youru fired back, her tone sharpening. Whether she was riled up by the call or inherently combative, her words struck like daggers. "First, a man and woman at a hotel entrance could simply be passing by or parting ways politely. Since you don't even know if they entered, isn't your so-called deduction pure fabrication? The public doesn't think this way—stop projecting your outdated values onto them."
"What you call 'reasonable deduction based on real photos' is actually slander. In my understanding, Chinese people don't harm Chinese people. So, applying that logic, I reasonably suspect Mr. Zhao isn't Chinese."
Chu Zhi nearly applauded. Her rebuttal was masterful—systematically dismantling every argument. On the other end of the line, Manager Zhao fell silent for a long moment.
When he finally spoke, his voice was strained: "No wonder Reporter Huang is Mango TV's star journalist—you're so good at joking with small-time employees like us. Our reports are legally sound speculation. Even the headline—[Who's the Sugar Daddy Behind Rising Star Chu Zhi?]—used a question mark. We merely presented a possibility. How the audience interprets it isn't our concern."
"Reporter Huang, we're swamped here. Sorry." With that, he hung up.
Though Manager Zhao had kept his tone steady, his rage was palpable.
"F*cking bitch, digging up settled matters. Who cares about the truth now that Chu Zhi's already ruined?"
At the Golden Eagle Building set, Huang Youru remained unruffled. Setting down her tea, she addressed the audience: "As you all heard, Gaiqing Media's silver tongue can't mask the fact that they have no evidence and outright slandered Chu Zhi."
Her summary triggered murmurs across the studio.
Onstage, Chu Zhi seemed unusually fragile—his slightly hunched posture as he sat betraying the weight on his shoulders.
Two female audience members who'd initially resented the show for "whitewashing a disgraced celebrity" opened their mouths, regretful of their earlier harshness—but words, once spoken, couldn't be taken back.
"Wait… so the internet's most hated man was framed?"
"I can't believe it—no, I don't want to believe it. I posted nasty WeChat Moments about him. But with all this evidence…"
"Thinking back, none of the Weibo accusations had solid proof. I believed Li Tingyu because her post seemed logical. I never questioned the lack of evidence—or that Chu Zhi couldn't respond."
"So you're telling me Chu Zhi was attacked for months because of two liars?!"
The audience's souls were being grilled.
"After enduring months of wrongful accusations—falling from A-list to a universally reviled scumbag, your life turned upside down—what would you like to say?" Huang Youru asked.
Putting themselves in his shoes, even the most patient audience members couldn't imagine swallowing such injustice without lashing out.
A hundred and twenty-one pairs of eyes fixed on Chu Zhi.
His reply: "I just hope there's less misunderstanding in this world. I wouldn't wish what I went through on anyone—that feeling… it's despair."
——
After the 90-minute recording wrapped, Chu Zhi thanked Huang Youru. Even with Wei Tongzi's request and the show's thirst for drama, their support had been genuine.
"Speaking up for you today made me realize something—it's another form of the same 'protect the weak' mentality that made people side with Li Tingyu. Your case taught me public figures must think twice before speaking," Huang Youru reflected.
Having stayed in Changsha for over half a month, Chu Zhi was finally leaving. He bought an extra suitcase for the materials from his Against the Light album—manifests of each song's creation, lyric sheets, demo tracks—all ten tracks' worth.
Quick note: Standard albums have 10 tracks, but many include Intro and Outro—under-a-minute instrumental bookends. Against the Light's are 59 and 56 seconds, a tradition from 60s-70s rock where openings/closings set the tone.
Returning home felt oddly unfamiliar. Chu Zhi vegged out for a day—spotlight fatigue was real.
"Feeling great, let's go out / Blue skies and ocean breeze."
Even if he didn't actually go out, his mood stayed buoyant despite another bank foreclosure warning.
With I Am a Singer's semifinals and Little Mango Tea Party poised to drop, good news kept coming. Both poems he'd submitted to Chinese Poetry Net—including Life Like Summer Flowers—were featured as "Daily Best," boosting his column's traffic from dozens to hundreds of clicks.
Skimming the comments:
[Often, poetry reflects personal worldviews. This poet says much with few words…]
Probably a paid review (300 RMB per piece). Chu Zhi checked his earnings:
Withdrawable balance: 270 → 772.1 RMB
"Daily Best" came with a 500 RMB bonus. Fair enough—if critiques earned 300, the actual poem deserved more. The remaining 2.1 RMB came from reader "flowers" (1 RMB = 1 flower; 1 flower = 0.7 RMB creator payout).
He submitted two new poems for the next "Daily Best":
[Untitled
Power said to the world, "You are mine."
The world imprisoned Power beneath her throne.
Love said to the world, "I am yours."
The world gave Love freedom to roam her halls.
Untitled
The bird thought lifting a fish into the air
was an act of charity.]
Posting them, he moved on.
"Dream of the Red Chamber's celebrity livestream variety show could be a fan magnet. I'll get on that."
Once his comeback peaked, snagging such gigs would be effortless. But preparation was key.
In his past life, Chu Zhi rarely used Bilibili—and when he did, he wasn't just a lurker but the type who wouldn't even follow creators. The few exceptions? Channels like "Hello Teacher, I'm He Xiaoyu"
When He hit 6 million combined Bilibili/YouTube subscribers, he printed every single username and posed with them—a geek's ultimate romantic gesture. Even Chu Zhi, caught off-guard, became a fan.
Now, he'd replicate that magic.
Abusing fans bred loyalty, but carrots worked better after sticks. To make fans open their wallets, they needed emotional payoff.
He'd print all 20 million pre-scandal follower names. He Xiaoyu's 6 million had covered 46 square meters—so 20 million would need ~150 sqm. His 287 sqm apartment had over 800 sqm of wall space. More than enough.
"If this doesn't reduce my fans to tears, I'll write my name backward."