The moment the call connected, all of Liu Fusu's courage vanished. On the other end, his father remained silent, waiting for him to speak.
The only times Liu Fusu ever called his father were when his living expenses didn't arrive on time. Other than that, he honestly never knew what else to say.
All he could hear was his father's breathing—heavy and oppressive. The silence pressed down until Liu Fusu blurted out, "Nothing. I dialed the wrong number."
Just as he was about to hang up, his father spoke. "Is there something you need to tell me?"
"Mm…" Liu Fusu hummed faintly through his nose.
"Have you picked up bad habits from foreigners? Started messing with things you shouldn't?" his father asked suddenly, without warning.
The question left Liu Fusu completely at a loss.
He both wanted to know how his father had found out and was terrified that his father truly knew.
Memories resurfaced. His father had rarely interfered in his life, but there had been one time it went too far. A teacher had asked for a parent to come in, and when they got home afterward, Liu Fusu had been beaten badly.
"Your Uncle Wang's daughter picked up that same thing," his father continued. "But then, after seeing a short video, she realized her mistake. She begged your Uncle Wang to send her to a rehabilitation center. Her idol was the same as yours. The video's creator, the singer Chu Zhi."
Uncle Wang? Some friend of his father's generation. Liu Fusu never bothered remembering those names. He had no idea who that was.
Still, were there really that many people caught up in drug abuse? According to the Ministry of Public Security, there were more than 1.5 million. Out of a population of 1.4 billion, that was one in every thousand people. A shocking ratio. Of course, America had an even worse problem—where drug users outnumbered smokers.
Uncle Wang's identity slipped right past Liu Fusu. What truly caught his attention was:
"You… know I'm a fan? That I follow Chu Zhi?"
In Liu Fusu's mind, his father only cared to confirm whether he was alive. Nothing more.
"I don't want to be receiving this kind of call," his father said with a trace of reprimand. Liu Fusu braced for more scolding, but instead, his father shifted tone.
"But since it's come to this, it's good you called. Don't keep studying for now. I'll arrange for you to return home."
"I just—yesterday…" Liu Fusu said quickly. "If I get checked, it wouldn't make sense."
"Don't worry about that. I'll handle it. You'll come back and go straight into rehab." With that, his father hung up.
The abrupt end wasn't out of anger. On the contrary, his father's expression afterward was complicated, hard to define.
Originally, when a business partner told him he'd sent his daughter into rehab because of a video, Liu's father had been skeptical. A video could have that kind of effect? More powerful than a bishop's sermon? Too exaggerated.
But then his own son called…
Liu's father often delayed transferring living expenses by a day or two. It was his excuse to call, to talk to his son. Yet each time he was met with a careless tone that only stirred his temper, creating a vicious cycle.
"Chu Zhi…" Liu's father murmured to himself, as if trying to etch the name into memory.
Meanwhile, the man being mentioned—Chu Zhi—was buried in endless meetings. Perhaps it was the year-end rush on the new calendar, but every major association seemed to have important conferences.
At present, Chu Zhi held several positions:
Member of the Presidium of the Chinese Musicians' Association
Council member of the Chinese Copyright Protection Association
Honorary President of the Music Composers' Association
Honorary President of the Hanfu Promotion Union
Public Ambassador for the Chinese Ancient Books Protection Association
President of the Ninth Overseas Mutual Aid Society
Of these, the six were the most important.
The copyright and ancient book associations were ones he had personally applied to join. The first wasn't about helping music platforms earn more, nor about making listeners pay extra. Its purpose was ensuring that lyricists and composers earned their fair share. Too often, songs used for profit-making performances left the original creators unpaid.
As for the ancient books, his identity as a singer might have seemed out of place in the association, but Chu Zhi was genuinely passionate about their preservation.
While the Emperor Beast busied himself with meetings, Niu Jiangxue and the rest of the team were equally occupied. They had finalized copyright arrangements for two Korean and Japanese EPs, and revenue streams from karaoke and merchandise were also being tallied.
At the right moment, the song "As Long As Ordinary" was released across major platforms. The Central Publicity Department even designated it as an official "Anti-Drug Promotion Song."
No one knew how many people slammed the brakes at the edge of the cliff after watching Chu Zhi's video. But if even one person had been awakened, then the song had not been sung in vain.
"Chu Zhi! A musician passing on a sense of social responsibility." — People's Daily
As expected, Chu Zhi was once again praised by state media. Viewers were used to it by now. Every year, he received one or two official commendations.
Inside the Orange Home community, however, fans weren't really talking about that. They were far more enthusiastic about something else—academic papers.
It had started with Professor Xiao Yue. Soon, domestic research reports on Chu Zhi multiplied, eventually expanding into what was being called the "Chu Zhi Phenomenon." At first, this phenomenon referred solely to the positive influence idols could have on fans. But as more researchers joined in, the definition grew increasingly muddled.
Other fan communities loved to boast whenever their idol appeared in newspapers. The Little Fruits, on the other hand, were low-key.
"'An Interpretation and Reconstruction of Chu Zhi's Social Image in the Context of New Media: A Literature Review.' This one's from Film Literature Journal. Sounds so impressive."
"I found one: 'Exploring the Collapse of Celebrity Personas in the Social Media Era, and Why Chu Zhi Became Synonymous with Positive Energy—A Comparison.'"
"The core journal still prioritizes 'From Chu Zhi, Rethinking the Communication Path of Celebrity Identity.'"
Many papers were dug up. Not only that, but some Little Fruits said, "Actually, there are lots of foreign papers on brother Jiu. Those who know Japanese or Korean, help us dig deeper."
"Don't forget Russia and Vietnam. Brother Jiu's popularity in those two countries is still sky-high."
The difference in how fans chased their idols really was staggering.
In the age of fast consumption, no single trending topic lasted. Two or three days later, the number one hot search was already taken over by a drama pushing hashtags like #188 and 166 Are So Sweet.
A typical manufactured "sugar drama."
The production team knew well enough that their leads had no real chemistry. So they bought a hot search about how 188 and 166 made the cutest height difference. Those numbers referred to the male and female lead's heights.
Just like that, another two or three days slipped by, and November arrived. The Xitang Hanfu Culture Week began.
Anyone who often traveled to Xitang would know that the local inns perfectly embodied what most people imagined of a Jiangnan water town. Open a window, and there were flowing canals, stone bridges, wooden boats, and antique-style architecture. The only drawback was how poorly soundproofed the inns were. Conversations, let alone applause, carried easily through the walls.
Wang Yue hadn't rested well the night before. She truly didn't understand why, as a secretary, she had to accompany her boss to Xitang just to snatch up physical albums.
Her boss, Zheng Bixian, was a "mom fan" of Chu Zhi. Somehow, she had gotten word that one of the prizes for this year's event was a physical copy of Songs of Chu: Ode to the Orange.
"President Zheng's intel can't really be reliable, can it? If there were such a prize, why wouldn't it be promoted online?" Wang Yue asked skeptically. She had searched for any mention of it online since yesterday, and found nothing.
Exactly. Why hadn't Xitang promoted such a great publicity opportunity?
Because Director Li and the Office of Tourism Development were clever. Every tourist destination had its capacity limits, and Xitang was already at the edge.
So Director Li's plan was to build a good reputation this year, then expand facilities over the next, and only afterward use that reputation to attract more visitors.
After all, printing an album wasn't a one-time thing. They could always print more the following year. Spending a little money to create a big effect.