Soft electric guitar, electric bass, snare drums, flute, synth bass, piano, cello, shamisen—over a dozen instrument tracks blended into a lively, dynamic soundtrack.
How to describe it? The arrangement felt impulsive, even chaotic, but it was addictively satisfying.
🎵"On stage they twirl the spears with flair, the crowd claps in awe with the erhu in the air."🎵🎵"No one spins the spear quite like she can, a warrior girl who stuns the whole clan…"🎵
Incorporating Peking opera elements into the dance, the choreography featured the acrobatic floor work known as tanzi gong. With a spear in hand just like the lyrics described, Chu Zhi spun it with dazzling grace, drawing gasps and cheers from the crowd.
The choreography was razor-sharp, syncing perfectly with the lyrics. When the line "Where am I really?" played, he froze mid-split. And at "Spin the spear!" he flicked the shaft into a glowing flourish, touched the tip to the floor, then flipped forward with practiced power.
Half a month of rehearsals hadn't gone to waste. They didn't just match the lyrics, they hit the beat.
Of course, the split and somersault sections were pre-recorded for safety.
The vocals switched freely between male and female, full of rhythm and swagger:
🎵"One grain of rice, one bed, one wall, one window wide—I scatter moonlight far and wide."
"I once sowed a field of sorghum alone, in Beidahuang's winds, one bowl of hot soup warmed me through the night…"🎵
Actors like Lee Joon-gi and Björn Anderson had androgynous beauty. Especially the latter—just looking at him made some feel the urge to smash the illusion.
Chu Zhi didn't fall into that "beautiful boy" category. His looks were striking in a different way.
People often say, "individually the features aren't much, but together they're pretty." Not Chu Zhi. Each feature was already outstanding on its own. That meant no matter if he dressed as the warlord from Peking opera or played the tragic beauty Yu Ji, he stood out like a blazing torch.
He opened with the warlord's intro, let Yu Ji sing the chorus, then wrapped the rap with his natural tone. The ending was a soft female vocal:
🎵"Waist turning in sync with the horse stance strong, spinning that spear like no one else can. Now sing the tale of Yu Ji and the King!"🎵
As he twirled back for the final spear flourish, Chu Zhi's moves were clean and decisive. The tip of the spear snapped into place like a dragon's strike.
"Whew—" Chu Zhi exhaled hard. He was exhausted. The reworked opera costume was designed for quick changes, but it was hot as hell. Add the wig on top, and it felt like performing in a furnace. Once the set ended, he stripped the costume and wig off completely.
Wearing it was like wrapping himself in burlap. Not a breath of air got through.
At first, only Rou Rou and a few others were filming with their phones. Most were simply caught in the moment, eyes wide as they soaked in the performance.
But as soon as the dance started, over 80% of the crowd had their phones raised, especially when Chu Zhi began to sweat profusely.
"Let's take a photo together," he said.
Chu Zhi approached the audience. Since he hadn't brought his own phone, he borrowed one from a fan.
He opened the wide-angle camera and posed with everyone. Because of the lens distortion, the Emperor Beast's face filled most of the frame.
"Thanks." Chu Zhi handed the phone back. "Make sure to send me the photo later, so I can share it with the other Little Fruits."
Little Fruit Qi Qingqing took her phone back, still stunned. From the moment her idol reached out to her, her brain had gone fuzzy.
It wasn't until thirty seconds after her phone was returned that Qi Qingqing finally came to her senses. She wanted to scream. She really did. But noticing the crowd, she slapped a hand over her mouth.
Peeking at the group photo in her album, her heart thudded violently.
Aaaah! From this day on, Qi Qingqing swore to herself: if anyone dared to talk bad about brother Jiu, they were her sworn enemy!
Hmm? Why did she suddenly feel a chill on her back? Qi Qingqing glanced around. The other Little Fruits were all staring at her. No—staring at her phone.
"Ahem." She quickly tucked the phone away and stared straight ahead at the stage, acting as if nothing had happened.
"I once interviewed a veteran Peking opera performer," said Kun Yun, clapping. "I know a bit about the basics. Just now, the dance included tanzi gong and bazi gong, right?"
Chu Zhi nodded. Singing and dancing was exhausting enough. The large movements left him breathless. He hadn't fully recovered yet.
"Tanzi gong and bazi gong are foundational to Peking opera. They usually take four or five years to learn. I'm shocked. That performance just now was flawless," Kun Yun said. "You must have practiced this for ages."
"Not that long." Chu Zhi wiped some sweat from his temple. "I just didn't want to let the fans down."
"How could anyone be disappointed? This was an amazing surprise." Kun Yun turned to the crowd. "What do you think? Was it disappointing or amazing?"
"Definitely amazing!"
"That dance was insane!"
"I don't believe he didn't train hard for those spear moves and flips!"
The Little Fruits shouted out in unison.
Even the older audience members, who might not enjoy the musical style of Daomadan, could still appreciate the choreography. The fusion of martial artistry and traditional technique had a visual impact that even a layperson could feel.
Qi Qingqing's dad didn't get the fuss. But then someone behind him shouted so loudly it startled him.
"Of course we're excited! Didn't you hear before? Brother Jiu couldn't dance at all!" Qi Qingqing replied.
Hmm—he really hadn't noticed. But now that he thought about it… seeing that stage just now, even he had to admit, it was impressive.
That's why the fans were so touched. Their idol cared. Everyone in the fan scene knew how it went—agencies would pretend to gather feedback, but never actually read it.
In the past, fan girls would make excuses. "Our idols are too busy."
But then Chu Zhi came along and showed them. No matter how busy you were, if you wanted to, you could make time. Not just that, he actually put in effort.
It was like standing beneath a waterfall of emotion, being drenched head to toe.
He took selfies with fans, performed in women's costumes, danced, dropped a new song, wore traditional outfits—every single request from the comment section had been fulfilled.
The Orange Festival continued. The fourth segment was "Sharing Achievements," where fans shared their proudest accomplishments from the past year.
"At Orange Home, I placed a wish star for myself: for my music to be recognized globally. I haven't reached that yet, but I have two things I'm proud of," said Chu Zhi.
In just under three years, Chu Zhi had risen to Asian stardom and gained a serious following in Japan, Korea, Thailand, and Russia. That was already phenomenal.
Don't compare him to Justin Bieber or Taylor Swift. Western pop stars could rocket to fame in two or three years, but for an Asian artist—especially someone from China—it was incredibly hard to break into Western markets.
But the Emperor Beast had confidence. Just like Queen only needed one hit, or MJ who danced and sang like no one else—Chu Zhi's strategy was to cement his foundation in Asia first. Once he hit the ceiling there, then he'd head west. By the time My Love from the Star aired, that goal would be in reach.
The big screen displayed his personal roadmap:
Chu Zhi's Goal Planning
Step 1: Release three free albums to let more people hear my music. (2/3 complete)
Step 2: Receive recognition from the four major domestic music awards. (3/4 complete. Only missing the Chinese Song Music Festival)
Step 3: Gain recognition across Asia. (Complete)
Step 4: Win a Grammy.
Step 5: Achieve worldwide musical recognition.
The fans were stunned. Their idol had never stopped striving. And even so, he still felt it wasn't enough.
If Chu Zhi could work this hard, what excuse did any of them have?
"The first achievement is winning 'Most Popular Work' at the China-Korea-Japan showcase. The second is at Orange Home: over 870,000 Little Fruits placed 940,000 wish stars," he said.
Those numbers included high school and college students who had reached their entrance exam goals.
"I'm really proud," Chu Zhi said.
As soon as he finished, a fan with no stage fright stood up.
"That includes me!" he shouted. "I got into Lu Xun Academy of Fine Arts!"
All eyes turned to him. And as the saying goes—if you're not embarrassed by your cringe, others will join you.
Sure enough, more voices followed.
"I got into my dream school!"
"I passed my Level 4 culinary license three months ago!"
"I lost ten pounds!"
"Mine was to find a partner. I did!"
"What? So many people actually completed theirs? I thought I was the only one. Turns out I'm the clown…"
"For Jiu-yé, it's time to hustle!"
"Already trying my best, don't rush me!"
One voice after another. Out of the 300 fans at the event, nearly ten percent had fulfilled their wishes. Many others hadn't yet, but the energy in the air pushed them to keep going.
Sure, most young people drift between aimless laziness and spurts of motivation. Who knew how long this boost would last?
But that was life—finding the next wave of momentum. And the Emperor Beast? He always came back to water the fields.
The final event was a group singalong of The Brightest Star in the Night Sky. After more than three hours, the Orange Festival drew to a close with hundreds of voices in harmony.
"What do you want for dinner? I'll treat you," a mom whispered after the song ended.
"What do you mean?" her child, Ling Zinan, replied. "There's dinner included in the festival. And prizes after."
Good grief. That was all she could think.
Just as her child said—Chu Zhi himself had mentioned dinner was available if people had time to stay.
"Don't forget to redeem your gifts," Chu Zhi reminded the fans. "Those who solved the Orange Riddles earned Orange Coins."
The artist stepped off stage. Kun Yun smoothly took over. Then the staff wheeled out a giant pumpkin carriage covered in red cloth.
"Watch closely. Here's your prize," Kun Yun announced, dramatically yanking off the cloth.
Inside was a treasure trove of merch—signed books, numbered orange pens, starry-covered notebooks, chibi Chu Zhi keychains, phone cases, scarves, hats, T-shirts and more.
Each item had a tag showing how many Orange Coins it cost. But the prices…
"Holy crap. Are these prices right?"
Ling Zinan gawked. A keychain or phone case cost only one Orange Coin. Even the most expensive, a personally signed book, cost just ten.
He had expected some money-grabbing scheme where dozens or hundreds of points were needed. But this? This was too generous.
"I swear, I regret everything. Why didn't I answer one more riddle? I could've had the signed book!" Ling Zinan muttered. He had thought he was being smart by not wasting time. Now he just felt like a fool.