"Airi-chan! Something terrible happened!"
Bang bang bang!
Heavy knocks pounded the door early in the morning, drawing curses from the otakus who'd stayed up late.
"Get up! It's bad!"
The one knocking was Hagiwara Nojiko, a junior employee in Sony Music's Audio and Visual Protection Department.
After two or three minutes, the door of a one-room apartment opened. Airi stood there in black cat pajamas, hair like a messy bush, looking like she'd just crawled out of bed.
"What's wrong, Nojiko-chan? I finally have a day off today," she mumbled sleepily.
"No time to rest! The pillar of Oshushima just collapsed!" Nojiko's voice was so sharp that Airi's eardrums hurt.
"Huh?" Airi blinked. Oshushima? What kind of island was that?
Japan's called the land of a thousand islands. Online, cat island, ghost island, blue island—those were famous. But Oshushima? And what did a pillar collapsing have to do with her?
Nojiko exhaled sharply. "The Ragdoll's been shot! He still hasn't woken up!"
"Shot? That's terrifying."
"Wait, the Ragdoll… you mean Jiu-yé was shot?!" Airi's eyes widened.
Her reaction speed was painfully slow, making it hard for Nojiko to communicate. She'd been using "Oshushima's pillar collapsed" as a metaphor from local mythology—the heavenly pillar where Japan began. What she meant was, "the sky fell." Too bad Airi missed it completely.
Now fear snapped Airi fully awake. She grabbed her friend's shoulders, desperate to know more.
"Nojiko-chan, where did you hear that? Couldn't it be fake? Jiu-yé's such a gentle person, why would anyone shoot him?"
"See for yourself." Nojiko pulled two folded newspapers from her bag: Yomiuri Shimbun and Mainichi Shimbun, two of Japan's top three.
The front pages screamed:
Yomiuri Shimbun: "The Circuit Breaker That Stops Humanity's Suicide, Shot Dead!"
Subheading: [Fortunately, we have Chu Zhi. Unfortunately, we only have Chu Zhi, and now his fate's unknown.]
Mainichi Shimbun: "White House Shooting Victim: Chu Zhi"
Subheading: [Chu Zhi's angelic voice has already made fanatical believers tremble.]
Airi was stunned, muttering "Nani, nani" over and over.
She'd started as an underground idol, later rising through a music video beauty contest to sign with Sony Music. In her heart, Chu Zhi wasn't just an idol, he was the mentor who gave her a chance.
She snatched the papers and devoured every word.
"I'm asking the company for leave. I'm going to New York," she said firmly.
"You can't, Airi-chan." Nojiko shook her head. "The first thing I did was try to book a flight. Even knowing I couldn't help, I wanted to be close to the Ragdoll. But tickets are gone, from Tokyo, from Osaka, everywhere."
The two technically had no reason to be friends—one worked in audio protection, the other was an artist. But they shared one thing: they were both Ragdoll fans.
"Has Jiu-yé made it past the danger yet? Why is there no news at all?" Airi pulled out her phone to search, but all she found were anxious fan messages, no updates.
Japanese fan culture could be extreme. When they heard Koguchi Yoshihiro had also attended the White House event, some left cruel comments: "Aren't you his most loyal fan? Why didn't you take the bullet?" "How come Chu-san's hurt and you're fine?"
That afternoon, thousands of fans gathered at Tokyo Bay to pray together. They even invited descendants of famous onmyoji, who wore blue exorcist robes and dragged a small wooden boat into the water. The boat was heavy, filled with peach branches and court dolls placed there by fans onshore. Dressed in white robes with red skirts embroidered with cranes, the fans held a prayer ritual usually performed for girls on Doll's Day, now repurposed to bless their idol. They hoped the boat could carry their wishes across the sea.
Similar ceremonies appeared along rivers like the Edogawa, Shinano, and Tone.
Japan's obsession with ritual is legendary. They'd rather stick to outdated traditions than change for efficiency—like traffic police still using the old four-man formation for horse carts at busy intersections, even though it slowed cars.
So for fans to break the fixed schedule of prayers and create these sudden rituals was unheard of. Naturally, critics sneered: "Not even if the Prime Minister died would there be this much fuss. And this celebrity isn't even dead."
But it wasn't just about fan numbers.
Songs like Don't Give In, I Once Wanted to End It All, My Everything, and Even If My Hands Are Empty had pierced Japan's oppressive gloom. They'd saved or awakened countless people. Some weren't fans, never even bought albums, but hearing Chu Zhi was hurt, they still wanted to do something.
Like Taki Zenjirou, a "net café refugee."
He used to be a company man, working more than ten years under crushing pressure, until he was diagnosed with depression. The company didn't fire him, just cut his pay by sixty percent and pushed him out. He quit. His wife divorced him, took their daughter, and remarried.
Now he lived in a manga café, taking day jobs at construction sites. Net cafés in Japan had private booths with showers, free drinks, comics, internet. A monthly pass cost about four thousand yuan. Add cheap meals, and he scraped by on six thousand a month in Tokyo.
It sounded fine—sleep, read manga, surf the net—but the rooms weren't soundproof. Thin partitions didn't reach the ceiling, so you heard everything, smelled everything. With only three square meters, even lying down straight was impossible. Living there long-term crushed the spirit. Critics dubbed them "net café refugees."
Zenjirou rarely left, except for odd jobs. Only the café gave him a sense of safety. But that day, when he saw the news that Chu Zhi was still critical, he felt a shock. He carefully wrote down the details from a Yahoo forum post:
[Prayers for Chu-san at Shin-Koiwa Park]
"I'll take the Asakusa Line to Asakusabashi, then the JB Chūō-Sōbu Line to Shin-Koiwa. The park's close by."
He couldn't use apps well, so he planned it on the computer, then left. He clutched a bouquet of red garlands, heading to the park.
Even at night, the place was crowded. Most were middle-aged, holding flowers.
Zenjirou bent painfully at the waist to place his bouquet on the grass. He whispered, "Chu-san, I don't know you, but thank you for saving me. Please hold on."
Just as he turned to leave, he heard singing.
🎵I want to give you a gift. In those unbearable lonely nights, it's the starlight far away that still shines bright.🎵
It was Even If Our Hands Are Empty.
He followed the sound. A man in his late fifties sang through tears. His daughter had died a year ago, leaving him hollow. Chu Zhi's song had brought him back.
🎵Though we keep losing, though it makes no sense, though we're rejected, though dreams won't come true…🎵
Off-key, nowhere near the original, but more and more people joined in. Zenjirou sang too.
🎵We still fight, we still believe, we still lift our heads, we keep moving forward!🎵
The voices filled Shin-Koiwa Park.
In Japan, things stayed within control. South Korea, though, went wild. Student fans and Apostle fans, usually at odds, united to petition the Blue House. They demanded the president pressure Washington: whether or not Chu Zhi survived, the shooter had to face the death penalty. D.C. didn't have it, but they insisted he couldn't be left unpunished.
It was typical Korean fervor. Even stranger, they flooded the White House website itself…
Luckily for him, America was a mess itself right now, way too swamped to care about these so-called little things.
"Over four hundred people have already been sent to the hospital from grief. I hope Chu Zhi recovers soon, oppa, saranghae," a South Korean streamer sobbed. Her eyes were red, though no one knew if it was makeup or if she'd really cried that hard.
[It's way more than just a few hundred. My sister fainted too. She didn't go to the hospital, just rested at home.]
[He's an amazing artist. Even though I don't chase stars, that's my honest opinion.]
[I really don't get it. A Chinese guy got hurt, why are people acting like their parents just died?]
[That comment's way too cruel. To you he's just some foreign celebrity, so I get your attitude. But to a lot of people, Chu Zhi's the light of the world. When the light in the dark looks like it might go out, of course people cry!]
[I don't care about foreigners. What I want to say is that Chu Zhi's influence here is terrifying. Every time I turn on the TV or go online, it's all him. Has the world run out of other news?]
[Influence? That word reeks of malice.]
Bullet comments filled the whole screen, endless lines of text.
Just like the chat said, in South Korea right now, whether you liked Chu Zhi or not didn't matter. Every screen, every broadcast, was about the assassination attempt, way more overwhelming than in Japan.
That tied back to how South Korea had built its cultural industry into a national pillar.
"Chu Zhi oppa's the greatest star in the world. I don't know why anyone would do something like this," the streamer cried harder and harder as she spoke, then fainted right there in front of tens of thousands of fans.
Same as in Japan, tickets to New York flights were completely gone. Fans who could afford it were all rushing there.
The flood of people was so huge, both JFK Airport and LaGuardia started feeling the pressure. For LaGuardia it was bearable, but JFK was one of the world's top ten airports. That level of chaos could be imagined.
Even after midnight, the frenzy over the assassination didn't cool down at all.
Time: 3 a.m.
Place: Overseas
People: enough to trigger anyone's crowd phobia
Among international students and businesspeople, Chinese were always the largest group, so 38th Street in New York was jam-packed, a third of the crowd made up of Chinese.
"I'm Smith, live at the scene for the Chicago Tribune. Behind me you can see the Langone Medical Center overflowing with people, all waiting anxiously for news about the victim's condition."
"There are tons of traffic police here trying to keep order, but it's not helping at all."
"It's way too packed…"
Langone Medical Center was NYU's affiliated hospital, located right on 38th Street. American streets were usually numbered, with big names like Fifth Avenue just standing out because there were already One through Four. After that, the streets switched to names.
The Chicago Tribune reporter wasn't paying attention to the chaos, so his mic got knocked right out of his hand. Bending down to pick it up was impossible in this crush. Smith was trapped in the crowd, the scene intense enough to warn off anyone with a weak heart. To describe it simply—
人人人人人人人人记者人人
人人人人人人
Terrifying.
(When you look at the block of text as a whole, it forms a picture. You see a solid mass of the character "人" (person), with the word "记者" (reporter) trapped right in the middle. It's a way of saying: "The reporter was completely surrounded and swallowed up by the crowd." )
Fans had surged all at once because word spread that the surgeon who'd operated on Chu Zhi had just stepped out. Everyone wanted news immediately, so the crowd exploded.
"The world can't go on without Jiu-yé, just like the West can't lose Jerusalem!"
"Please let it be good news, I came all the way from Canada just to hear good news!"
"Ughhh, getting shot must've hurt so much…"
"People kept telling me the world was ending. I never believed them. But the moment brother Jiu got shot, I knew this was it. This is the end of the world."
The director of Langone Medical Center had one good piece of news and one bad one, but he didn't know which to deliver first. So he said them together: "The surgery was a success, but the patient hasn't regained consciousness. Because the bullet hit his lung, oxygen supply to the brain was cut off. Some necrosis has occurred. He could wake up the very next second… or never again."
If New York hadn't deployed enough staff to control the crowd, tonight would've ended in a deadly stampede. When grief cuts that deep, people lose awareness of everything around them. And Little Fruits were drowning in grief.
The next day arrived.
Reporter Joseph had become the hottest journalist in the world. That day's New York Times front page carried a photo he'd taken: Chu Zhi lying in a pool of blood, eyes dim, lips pale.
The shots that had gone online last night were just blurry captures of him collapsing. Joseph wasn't stupid. He'd kept the perfect shot in reserve. If he wanted to win a Pulitzer, publishing it on the Times front page was the way.
Getting shot should've been nothing but tragic, but… Chu Zhi's looks were too striking, and Joseph's composition was too flawless. The photo's balance, the lighting, everything screamed art.
It brought to mind John Everett Millais, the Pre-Raphaelite painter, and his masterpiece Ophelia, often called the most beautiful drowning in art history. Chu Zhi lying in blood looked even more haunting than the oil painting, the crimson soaking his white shirt gleaming like crystal under sunlight, blindingly vivid.
One art critic once said of Ophelia: "When I look at this painting, my heart trembles. The beauty makes me forget she's on the brink of death. Then I remember her tragic fate, and sympathy overwhelms me."
Swap the painting for a photo, swap the heroine for Chu Zhi shot and collapsed, and you had exactly what readers felt staring at that New York Times cover.
The truth was simple: you don't realize how important a lightbulb is until it goes out. Same with people. Only after someone falls do you see just how many hearts were tied to them.
China's Ministry of Culture was tallying condolence letters.
From the moment Chu Zhi was shot until today, princesses and princes from nine royal families—Japan, Saudi Arabia, Thailand, Qatar, Spain, and others—had posted messages of concern on Twitter and Instagram. Out of the 25 royal families left in the world, nine had spoken up.
Even more astonishing, princesses from Qatar, Spain, and Saudi Arabia had flown to Washington already.
Royal posts were private gestures. But condolence letters from over thirty countries, delivered through embassies, were formal. Argentina, Brazil, Russia, Japan, and more. Chu Zhi's influence ran deep everywhere.
No exaggeration, this level of treatment was usually reserved only for politicians who'd changed the world order. Actually, to be precise, it wasn't "usually," it was "always." For centuries, states only sent official letters like these when a major politician was wounded or dead.
Chu Zhi was the exception. Take Argentina, for instance. His rendition of "Don't Cry for Me Argentina" had cemented him in the hearts of its people, almost like their First Lady.
Or Russia. Wherever he went, he'd sing "Katyusha", and now that he hovered between life and death, for Argentina and Russia not to send anything would've been stranger.
Even if the letters were full of diplomatic clichés, they still required official replies.
Meanwhile, China also had to confront America: You invited him, the guests were yours, the venue was yours. There's no escaping it. Responsibility was entirely on your side.
The UN hadn't sent a message. Understandable. At the end of the day, Chu Zhi was still a singer. For an institution like the UN, condolences were inappropriate.
As for Langone's updates, the Ministry got them immediately: surgery successful, patient still unconscious. They were already debating whether, once he cleared the danger zone, they should fly him back to China. Not because they doubted Langone's ability—it was one of the top five hospitals in the world—but because they feared more accidents. In China, at least, he'd be safe.
===
1. The Onmyoji (陰陽師)
An onmyoji was a practitioner of Onmyōdō (The Way of Yin and Yang), a complex Japanese esoteric cosmology that blended natural philosophy, occultism, Taoism, Buddhism, and Shinto influences.
Historical Role: During the Heian period (794-1185), onmyoji were highly respected government officials. They were astronomers, calendar-makers, and diviners for the imperial court. Their primary role was to maintain harmony between the human world and the unseen world of spirits (kami and yōkai). They determined auspicious dates for events, warded off curses, and performed exorcisms.
Powers and Purification: A key part of their work was purification (harae or ōharae). They were called upon to pacify angry spirits and cleanse places or people of spiritual pollution (kegare). The "blue exorcist robes" mentioned connect to this tradition, as specific colors (like blue/green for east, white for west) held symbolic meaning in Onmyōdō rituals.
Famous Figure: The most famous onmyoji is Abe no Seimei (921-1005), a legendary figure who appears in countless plays, novels, and movies (like the Onmyoji film series). The "descendants of famous onmyoji" in your text are likely invoking his lineage, suggesting a ritual of great power and authenticity.
2. The Ritual Itself: A Blend of Traditions
The ritual described is not a single, standard ceremony but a powerful, creative fusion of several traditional practices, repurposed for a very modern goal: blessing an idol.
Part A: The Core Act - "Nagashi-bina" (流し雛)
This is the most direct inspiration for the scene with the small wooden boat.
What it is: Nagashi-bina is a specific Doll's Day (Hinamatsuri, celebrated on March 3rd) custom. "Nagashi" means "to flow" or "to set adrift," and "hina" refers to the dolls.
Original Purpose: People would make simple paper dolls (katashiro), rub them against their bodies to transfer their sins and misfortunes, and then set them afloat on a river or out to sea. The flowing water would carry the impurities and bad luck away, purifying the person. It was a form of symbolic exorcism.
Repurposing in the Text: The fans have taken this concept of "carrying away" and inverted it. Instead of sending away bad luck, they are loading the boat with offerings (peach branches, court dolls) and using it to send their wishes and blessings across the sea to their idol. The boat becomes a vessel of positive energy, not a scapegoat for negativity.
Part B: The Offerings
Peach Branches: In both Chinese and Japanese folklore, the peach tree is a powerful talisman against evil. In the Japanese myth of Izanagi and Izanami, Izanagi escapes the underworld by throwing peaches at the demons chasing him. Including peach branches is a clear act of spiritual protection for the idol.
Court Dolls: These are direct references to the elaborate dolls displayed during Hinamatsuri, which represent the Emperor, Empress, and their court. By placing them in the boat, the fans are bestowing upon their idol the highest possible status and blessings of health, happiness, and a prosperous "reign."
Part C: The Attire and Performance
White Robes with Red Skirts: White is the color of purity in Shinto, worn by priests during rituals. The red skirts (likely hakama, pleated trousers) embroidered with cranes add another layer of meaning. The crane is a sacred bird in Japan, a symbol of longevity, good fortune, and happiness. The fans are not just participants; they have become ritual priests themselves, dressing in a way that signifies the purity of their intent and the lofty nature of their wishes.
Synthesis: What is Happening in this Scene?
The fans, guided by a symbolic descendant of a great spiritual master (the onmyoji), are performing a large-scale, syncretic prayer ritual. They have created a new tradition by combining:
The Purification Framework of Onmyōdō: Led by an exorcist to ensure the ritual's spiritual efficacy.
The Symbolic Vessel of Nagashi-bina: Using the boat as a vehicle to transcend physical distance.
The Protective and Auspicious Symbols of peach branches and cranes.
The Blessing Energy of Hinamatsuri: Repurposing a festival meant for the well-being of girls into a festival for the well-being of their idol.