"Over twenty million IDs?" Pang Pu blurted out, his host instincts kicking in.
"It's a beautiful journey," Chu Zi said softly. "Back then, over twenty million 'Little Fruits' supported me, helping me win Future Idol and become who I am today."
Pang Pu didn't react much, but Wei Tongzi understood all too well. Months ago, when the scandal broke, the fandom had fractured. The company stayed silent, offering no PR defense. A quarter of the fans left, another quarter turned into antis—in short, more than half had misunderstood Chu Zi.
To put it bluntly, the ones who cursed him the hardest fell into two categories: keyboard warriors and ex-fans who turned vicious.
"Did those rotten "Little Fruits" even deserve to call themselves fans?" Wei Tongzi's anger flared partly because she, too, had once been a casual fan who unfollowed him during the scandal. She hadn't stood by him, and now she regretted it.
"But—" Wei Tongzi had so much she wanted to say. Chu Zi noticed.
He smiled gently. "Life is like a train bound for the grave. There are many stops along the way, and very few can accompany you from start to finish. When someone who once walked with you has to disembark, even if it's hard, you should still be grateful. Then wave goodbye."
He began with a quote from Miyazaki.
Jelly, ever the professional, zoomed in on the wall, capturing the tiny usernames that only became legible up close.
"Twenty million Little Fruits were like a forest, shielding me from the storm so I never felt the outside world's cruelty. Even if some of you stopped liking me because I wasn't good enough… I'm still endlessly, endlessly grateful for the love and support you once gave me."
He turned to face the camera directly. "Thank you for once loving me. And I… really loved the version of myself that you loved too."
"Damn, this guy's good." Pang Pu's admiration surged like the Yellow River in flood season. "This man's fan-retention skills are god-tier."
A quiet sniffle came from beside him. Pang Pu glanced over—Wei Tongzi was crying, tears barely held back. As a trained host, she never broke composure on camera unless deeply moved.
"There's one last little secret," Chu Zi said suddenly. Then he turned off the lights.
The practice room, windowless, plunged into darkness. Before Pang Pu, Wei Tongzi, or Jelly could process it, their eyes were drawn to a soft glow.
The ceiling.
Over eight million IDs, printed in special silver-white ink, now emitted a cool, ethereal light. Arranged in swirling clusters, they looked like a galaxy suspended overhead—"The Milky Way turns, a thousand sails dance; the world's curtains sway and fall." Breathtaking.
For a moment, Pang Pu and Wei Tongzi stood frozen, bathed in starlight.
"Camera, camera!" Jelly snapped back to reality, adjusting the lens. The livestream audience had to see this.
After about ten seconds, Chu Zi turned the lights back on. The three of them still seemed dazed, reluctant to leave the illusion.
"I chose the practice room because singing is my passion—and my livelihood. This is the most important place to me," Chu Zi explained. "And I'll never forget the eight million fans on Weibo who stood by me. Their trust was the galaxy that guided me through my darkest path."
Wei Tongzi felt a pang of envy—toward the fans immortalized on that ceiling. But the feeling faded quickly. By that logic, she had been one of those twenty million. In a way, she was up there too.
"Let's start composing," Chu Zi said, sitting at the electric keyboard.
"Teacher Chu," Pang Pu interjected, "could we film these IDs properly? As a special segment for later? I'm sure your fans—and our viewers—would love a closer look."
"Of course. I agreed to this show precisely because I have nothing to hide. Film whatever you'd like."
"Thank you." Pang Pu shot Jelly a look. Film everything during breaks.
"Now, let's watch Teacher Chu compose Overworked!" Wei Tongzi steered the conversation back.
"The intro needs energy—something raw. I'll use the keyboard first, with a touch of electronic rock. Let's pick a gritty synth." Chu Zi, seemingly unaware of how deeply his gesture had moved them, smoothly shifted focus.
The Yamaha Genos in front of him boasted 1,700 instrument sounds and 200+ arpeggios. With external sampling (YEM), it could handle pop, jazz, even traditional Chinese arrangements. Chu Zi, fluent across all 76 keys, treated it less like a keyboard and more like a full synthesizer.
"Next, guitar and bass."
While the synth work was effortless, his guitar and bass skills were rougher. The original "Chu Zi" hadn't played them, and even with borrowed muscle memory, his few hours of practice left him fumbling slightly.
"I'm barely passable at these. Not my strong suit," he admitted. (Though "barely passable" to him still looked impressively fluid to the average viewer.) He recorded the guitar and bass melodies into the keyboard.
"Let's hear the intro… Hmm, something's missing."
"Add drums."
"The chorus melody needs to punch harder."
…
Two hours later, the arrangement was complete.
"I'm obsessed with this melody! When the album drops, I'm buying three copies—one to listen, one to collect, one to frame!" Wei Tongzi gushed.
"Buying three copies?" Chu Zi said calmly. "Actually, I've decided all my future albums will be free. Full releases, including MVs, will go straight to streaming platforms. That way, my Little Fruits can save that 20-30 yuan for an extra lemonade."
"?"
"?!"
The question marks weren't coming from Pang Pu or Wei Tongzi.
Pang Pu's first thought: Is he drunk? But Chu Zi's expression was steady. Whether this was premeditated or not, it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment whim.
"Teacher Chu—" Wei Tongzi tried to protest this financial suicide.
"I know you're a Little Fruit too, but this is my thank-you to them. No objections." Chu Zi shut it down.
In an era where physical albums barely sold, digital albums netted pennies per copy. Take a top-tier Earth artist like Kris Wu—his YOUNG racked up 70 million RMB in sales. After platform cuts, label splits, and taxes, he pocketed maybe 30 million.
Chu Zi was still in debt—he couldn't afford to be cavalier about 30 million. But this was a long game. Free music meant:
Fan loyalty skyrockets → more spending on merch/endorsements (just look at Wei Tongzi's reaction).
Casual listeners actually listen → broader appeal.
Loyal fans = higher endorsement fees. One extra deal would outweigh album profits anyway.
Then why don't other stars do this? Simple. If a talentless idol's music is free… would you still listen?
Bad music won't convert casuals. Might as well milk the existing fans.
Meanwhile, the livestream was imploding. Between the twenty million IDs and the "free albums forever" bombshell, "exploding" was an understatement.
The chat was frozen.