"Three bows, countless tears. Chu Zhi might be the most likable idol in the fan world." —Sina Entertainment
"There are only two kinds of fan circles: people who already love Chu Zhi, and people who haven't discovered him yet." —Sohu Entertainment
"Which idol spoils fans the most? July 9 Fan Festival, the first in the world—eating, drinking, and playing together with fans." —Tencent
"How far would a star go to pamper fans? Writing lyrics, composing, and arranging 'Glory' for fans—thank you for giving me glory!" —NetEase News
These headlines topped the entertainment sections across major portals. Discussion boards and fan forums had been buzzing for days.
Take the Sohu article, titled "Only Two Kinds of Fans." It sounds clickbait, but it was backed by solid arguments:
"The idol industry in Korea and Japan grew out of industrial-scale production, drawing massive attention from Chinese teens. The term idol entered mainstream vocabulary. In today's youth culture, idols hold great influence, and they have a responsibility to guide their fanbase properly.
Mainstream outlets like People's Daily and Xinhua have weighed in on how fans should behave, and what kind of stars are worth supporting.
There are standards for idols, but no true benchmarks—until Chu Zhi appeared to fill that gap. A Chinese idol needs both distinctive talent and proper role modeling.
Chu Zhi guides his fans toward study and healthy living, uncommon among idols. Today he showed gratitude through the Orange Festival, souvenirs, and writing a song for fans.
He is setting a standard for a new generation of idols: great work, positive energy, and admirable character.
Some teens say, 'If you know Chu Zhi, you'll become his fan.' And it's true."
That article read more like an official media release than entertainment fluff.
Independent media also jumped in—reporters interviewed actual Little Fruits, or reposted screenshots of shared fan messages. Their angles included:
"Step Inside the Magical World of Idol Chu Zhi"
"The Orange Festival Souvenirs Revealed—How Much Are They Worth?"
"Chu Zhi Really Cares for His Fans—He Organises Everything Just for Them"
"Why are Little Fruits so united, almost militant? Duh, they have an idol worth uniting over."
They even dug up behind-the-scenes details from livestreams: each bus had a guide to ensure fan safety. After just two hours, self-media outlets had compiled a detailed dossier.
"I am so exhausted," said Li Minjia after checking into her budget hotel. She had washed up and unpacked her little backpack, then discovered something strange:
A message from the fan campaign:
"Thank you Little Fruits for donating RMB 1 million to the Orphan & Elder Care Project.This certificate is awarded by the China Philanthropy Fund, July 9, 2020."
Proof of donation had the official stamp of the China Philanthropy Fund. Many doubted it at first. But after checking online, it was confirmed: at midday on July 9, they had indeed received one million RMB donated by the Little Fruits.
"What in the world? They donated a million in the name of the fans?"
Little Fruits soared with pride.
Li Minjia, who earned barely over 4,000 RMB per month after deductions, had never done charity. Yet just earlier she posted on WeChat Moments:
"Brother Jiu is amazing. I want to help too, so I set up a monthly donation of 50 RMB. It's small, but it's my effort—I've joined Brother Jiu to make the world better!"
The daily active users on Orange Orchard skyrocketed. It might settle later, but this had truly exposed Chu Zhi's fan community to the world.
Many online industry insiders initially wrote off the fan app as forgettable. Instead, it continued gaining momentum.
"Fans are really cute," Chu Zhi said in his hotel, reading messages from Little Fruits. Most told him to take care of himself, not just others.
Should he reply? Maybe. But he thought: better not say anything—like coughing up blood last time, too much is too much. Let the gratitude linger.
He finished translating Stray Birds into Japanese. Last night he asked Koguchi Yoshihiro to introduce him to a Japanese publisher. Personal connections beat research.
He wasn't worried about revealing his identity. With dozens of publishers getting submissions daily and him using the pen name "Huainan," who'd guess it was him?
Yoshihiro himself didn't know any publishers. This was Chu Zhi's first time asking, so if he couldn't please him, he'd make the effort anyway.
In Japan, authors were highly respected. There was a story: a Chinese web novelist, after years of hard work and chronic pain, went to Osaka for a massage. The masseuse was indifferent—until the author stammered in Japanese that he'd written millions of characters. Instantly, the treatment changed. That was respect.
Yoshihiro had called this afternoon with insider tips from veteran authors. After talking, Chu Zhi chose Langzi Publishing Co., Ltd., and submitted his translation. Plenty of time remained—just past 1 AM. He'd grind another two to three hours.