A frozen livestream usually meant the server couldn't handle a sudden surge in traffic. But the number of viewers couldn't have skyrocketed that fast—even with aggressive fan promotion, this was absurd.
The real culprit? An avalanche of comments. The moment the audience realized the "vine patterns" were actually millions of fan IDs, the chat exploded. Even casual viewers who hadn't disabled comments found the screen unreadable—flooded with messages like:
"Free albums forever? As a neutral observer, I'm officially a fan. Which other top star prioritizes fans over profits like this?"
"Printing 20 million IDs on his walls? The most romantic gesture I've ever seen from an idol. Little Fruits, you're lucky."
"My mind's blank. Knowing Ninth Brother sees my username every day…"
"SCREAMS How is Chu Zi this perfect? Gentle, talented, AND treats fans like gold?!"
"BLOW UP ALREADY. YOU DESERVE IT."
"Came for the music, stayed for the wholesomeness."
"Sniffles I joined too late—my name's not on the wall. But it's okay! Ninth Brother carries us in his heart!"
"From now on, I'm sticking with Ninth Brother forever!" (This one spammed the chat.)
Mango TV's team scrambled to mitigate the lag—filtering repetitive comments and restricting chat to Level 3+ app users. Otherwise, the broadcast would've collapsed.
After dinner, Chu Zi received a notification: [3-Day High-Carb Diet Achievement Unlocked! +3 Personality Coins. Balance: 5.] Enough for another lottery draw—but he'd save it for later.
Between language studies, he drafted blurbs for each album track:
"Against the Light": May listeners bask in light, unburdened by expectations.
"The Wind Blows the Wheat": A tribute to rural beauty.
"Suddenly Missing You": For heartbroken fans—especially men.
"What I Miss": Ditto, but for women.
"Like Smoke": Cherish fleeting beauty.
"Overworked": A toast to reckless youth.
"Sleepwalking" / "Love's Patterns": Celebrate love's chaos.
"Guji Guji": Ordinary joys.
"Surviving vs. Living": Don't fear mundane life.
("You're Not Truly Happy" was conspicuously absent—he had plans for that one.)
"Wait, do I sound… overly calculating?" Chu Zi mused. But after self-reflection, he decided his sincerity outweighed any scheming.
From his bedroom, Chu Zi retrieved a large bag—price tags meticulously removed.
"I bought some herbal tea for everyone," he told Pang Pu, timing it post-livestream when most crew had left. "You guys work until 11 PM, then return before dawn to set up. Lack of sleep hurts the liver—chrysanthemum and goji tea helps."
Each box contained 18 tea bags. Chu Zi had bought 36 boxes—enough for 648 servings, covering the entire crew: directors, cameramen, tech teams.
Pang Pu stared at the bag. "This is…"
"Just a small token. I noticed everyone looked exhausted this morning," Chu Zi said warmly.
"Thank you, Teacher Chu."
"My pleasure. You've all been so supportive."
(Supportive? Pang Pu wracked his brain. Had he done anything beyond low-key hoping Chu Zi would spiral on camera for views?)
"You looked pale too," Pang Pu deflected. "Your health matters—your fans worry."
"I'll take care of myself," Chu Zi promised.
The tea—[Xiyue Imperial Reserve], worth 6,000 RMB—wasn't extravagant for a star. But the thought was unprecedented. In Pang Pu's decade at Mango TV, he'd received gifts from fans begging favors for their idols. Never from the idol himself.
"Tongzi," Pang Pu called out on the crew bus, "your idol got us tea."
Wei Tongzi blinked. "Huh?"
"Teacher Chu noticed we're overworked. Had it delivered special."
"Ninth Brother…" Her voice wavered. "He's too good."
That night, Dream of the Red Chamber' BTS footage—featuring the wall of IDs—outperformed even K-pop star livestreams. But the real storm was online:
Headlines:
"Chu Zi's Love Letter to 20 Million Fans"
"The Ultimate Fan Service: Free Music + Immortalized IDs"
"How Chu Zi's 'Forest of Fans' Won Future Idol"
"A Dimensional Strike: Why No Celebrity Can Compete With Chu Zi's Devotion"
Even without Mango TV's PR push, hashtags like #NinthBrotherImBack and #ClaimMyUsername trended. Chu Zi's Weibo neared 30 million followers.
Fans who'd left during the scandal fell into two camps:
—The Guilt-Ridden: Now more loyal than ever.
—The Defensive: Blaming the company ("Why didn't you clarify? Made me misjudge him!"), but unable to fully return—pride blocked the way.
Yet Chu Zi's gesture dismantled those barriers.
Why?
Fans are paradoxically easy and hard to please. They'll bleed for an idol's success, asking nothing in return. But when that idol remembers them—when he turns their support into literal walls and galaxies—it's game over.
@SweetPotatoBall: Found my name on Mango TV's HQ pics. Crying. I was a high schooler voting for him during Future Idol—skipped sleep to stream. NEVER LEAVING AGAIN.
@Vechio: Mine's there too… I unfollowed during the scandal. Didn't even rejoin the fandom after the misunderstanding. But he kept me on his wall? I don't deserve him.
@BigTallLeader: He called us a 'sheltering forest'? More like I abandoned him during the storm. #ClaimMyUsername
@YixinFlyForward: FUCK! I changed my username! (Original: "OnlyLoveOranges") BRB buying a VIP rename.
@SummerForest: "HuggingLittleChu" IS ON THE CEILING AHHHHH! Feels like I'm with him 24/7 now!
While other idols treated fans like ATMs ("Buy my merch or GTFO"), Chu Zi operated at Haidilao Hotpot-level hospitality—where customers (fans) were gods.
The "forest" of wall IDs alone triggered massive emotional rebounds. But the ceiling's galaxy? That was the knockout punch.