Tickets for Tianjin, Phoenix City, Xidu, and Coconut City went on sale one week apart.
No one knew where Chu Zhi's limit really was. What people did know was that the second batch of tickets also disappeared in just two seconds. Shuǐdī Stadium, Wuyuan River Stadium, Xidu Olympic Sports Center, and Phoenix City Stadium together had close to 250,000 seats, but they still only lasted those two seconds.
Well-known music critic Zuo Yangfeixing gave an example. Crimson Boy Band had once sold 60,000 tickets in seconds, but that was just the first show. Their second show's sales were already stumbling.
The industry now had a new understanding of Chu Zhi's die-hard fans. No wonder people said Little Fruits outnumbered fangirl circles. The title of King of This Era wasn't an empty phrase. Everyone in the circle wanted to know just where his ceiling was.
Of course, not everyone could handle it. For example, Gu Peng, who insisted on buying tickets on his own. He'd struck out in both rounds, and in the end, he had no choice but to message the man himself.
Calling was out of the question. For Gu Peng, if it could be explained with text, he'd never use his voice.
Thankfully, each show had more than twenty reserved seats. Chu Zhi knew how to play the social favor game well. Just look at Director Wang Yuan, who'd already gotten tickets for two shows. Being close had its perks.
If it weren't for work, Wang Yuan probably would've gone to all thirty-plus shows.
Plenty of celebrities wanted to attend too. Even the walking dictionary Hou Yubin had called personally, asking for three tickets.
Entertainment companies that had hoped to split Chu Zhi's "inheritance" were left dumbfounded. They'd thought his injury would force him to step back, but his comeback had turned out to be a royal flush.
So they all quieted down. After all, the ceiling really did exist.
"Finally, the ceiling's back. What would this industry even look like without one?" Lin Feifei muttered.
The recent wave of PR fluff had been shameless. Stuff like, "[Meng Wuping's Acting Crushes Lin Xia]"—Lin Feifei nearly gagged reading that. That Meng Wuping who only knew one, two, three, four, five?
Lin Feifei had never felt so insulted in his life.
Sure, Meng Wuping had blown up thanks to a xianxia drama, but he was originally a singer. His acting was average at best. And yet, they dared say he crushed Lin Feifei? They'd even acted together not long ago in a dual-male-lead historical idol drama.
Damn, so unlucky. That's how Lin Feifei felt.
But in the two weeks since Chu Zhi's return, those kinds of puff pieces had noticeably dropped. Not because agencies didn't dare anymore, but because no matter how hard they hyped things up, the moment Chu Zhi stirred, all the heat vanished.
Lin Feifei wanted to go to Chu Zhi's concert too, but filming left him no time, and he didn't have the face to beg for tickets.
Some things you only understand once you've done them yourself. When Lin Feifei held concerts in the past, people always asked him for tickets. Now he realized how awkward it felt. Like how readers complain, "This crappy author only updates 4,000 words a day. What does he even do with the rest of his time?" Then when you try writing yourself, you realize even 2,000 words a day is tough.
Same deal. When Chu Zhi hadn't prepared concerts before, he'd thought, "Isn't it just singing on stage? What's the big deal?"
Reality slapped him hard.
First, you had to decide on a theme for the night. Then decorate the stage and choose outfits based on that theme. Over two to three hours, how many outfit changes should you plan? When should the fan song request segment go? Everything had to be carefully arranged.
He was busy until midnight every day.
Another bright, sunny day came, perfect for lying in bed doing nothing.
On Weibo, Douyin, and other platforms, almost all the hot topics were about him. With the Shanghai concert around the corner, Little Fruits who hadn't gotten tickets grew even more restless.
Because of the anti-scalper system, reselling was impossible. Fans who wanted to spend extra money were left scratching their heads in frustration.
Amid all the "Chu sounds," another piece of news broke out in early October and became a hot topic.
The 2025 Nobel Prize in Literature would be announced at 13:00, September 29, Sweden–Morocco time. Just two days left before the winner was revealed.
Why was it getting so much attention from netizens? Mostly because of media hype—
Southern Metropolis Daily: [Chinese "Nobel Hot Poet" Huainan, Why the Prize Values Him]
Today News: [A Hermit's Romance: From Huainan's New Work Mister Cogito, Discover the Most Mysterious Poet of the 21st Century]
Penguin Hotspot: [Nobel Announcement Tomorrow, What Are Huainan's Real Chances?]
And so on.
Thanks to all this hype, Huainan became the strongest contender for the prize.
"I've never read Huainan's poetry, so let me just ask—does he badmouth the motherland?"
"I skimmed some. Doesn't seem like it. His 巡回 (Xúnhuí, The Circuit) even turned Chinese mythology into an epic. He's a really talented poet. I love this piece:
🎵 From tomorrow on, be a happy man.
Tend horses, chop wood, travel the world.
From tomorrow on, care for food and vegetables.
I have a house, facing the sea, with spring flowers blooming… 🎵
It's written so fucking well."
"My Chinese teacher loved 'Facing the Sea, With Spring Flowers Blooming.' And there's this one too:
🎵 You came from afar, I go to afar,
The long journey passes through here.
The sky holds nothing at all,
So why does it comfort me? 🎵
I always thought modern poetry was just chopping up sentences, nothing compared to classical verse. But Huainan's poems really are romantic. They made me feel the beauty of modern poetry for the first time."
"Holy shit, those lines—'the sky holds nothing at all, so why does it comfort me.' And the whole 'from tomorrow on' bit. I even used them as my online signature. So those were all Huainan's?"
"Mister Cogito, The Great Riddle, and Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night are harder to read, more high-brow. But Stray Birds, The Circuit, and I'm a Willfull Child are perfect for us. Poetry should be like this, not like that blind fool's stuff."
"Say what you want, but dreaming of winning a Nobel without trashing China? Keep dreaming!"
…
Earlier, online influencer-poet Qian Wangyan had tried to step on Huainan for clout, and netizens mocked him for it.
Too much! When Qian Wangyan's fans insulted others, he thought it was fine. But when strangers dragged him, it was like stepping on his tail. He had to bite back.
He wasn't a complete idiot though. He knew he was weaker in terms of raw poetry, so he tried another angle.
Qian Wangyan posted: [What's all the fuss? Do Chinese people really love exaggerating? You really believe online hype? Huainan nominated for a Nobel? Come on. In history, no Chinese poet has ever been nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature. Stop with the fake news just to sell books. Here's some science for you: the Nobel doesn't even have an official candidate list.]
He wasn't wrong. The so-called "Nobel candidate lists" floating around online were just odds published by betting company NicerOdds. They had no official weight at all.
The Nobel Prize for Literature keeps its candidate list sealed for fifty years. Simply put, when people say Haruki Murakami's always the perennial nominee, or that Can Xue and Yan Lianke are underrated writers who've supposedly been nominated, it's all just irresponsible talk. At best, it's what betting sites like NicerOdds in the UK are guessing.
Qian Wangyan was right about some things, but he got one part wrong. Huainan didn't rise to fame because of domestic hype. He was already well-received abroad and only later came back to China with that reputation.
"Hah, don't tell me you think Huainan's like you, all hype and no substance?" [Picture]
"Maybe foreigners hype him up even more than we do? It's like how so much of our culture gets real respect overseas while folks at home just tear it down. That's what a living half-a-million looks like." [Picture]
"Somebody's salty, huh." [Picture]
"Huainan's the real deal. I even heard his poems were supposed to be included in middle and high school textbooks, but since the education department couldn't reach him, they had to shelve it for now." [Picture]
…
All those pictures were from European and American newspapers praising Huainan. And when Westerners praise, they do it straight.
Take The Kenyon Review for example. Founded in the 1930s by poet and critic John Crowe Ransom, it later got acquired by Kenyon College, but the legacy's still there. After all, it's called the finest literary magazine in American history.
"Mr. Cogito Huainan, The Strangest Landscape in the World of Poetry"
[Students don't have to explain why they study, chefs don't have to explain why they cook, housekeepers don't have to explain why they arrange meals and clothing every day, and even writers who "imagine" meals don't need to explain when they started writing.
But we always want poets to answer: "Why do I write poetry?"
Because poetry is the form of writing farthest from cognition, yet closest to the heart.
Perhaps Huainan writes because of "thinking."
From his very first poetry collection, he showed the world a completely different ability: a multi-angled gaze, staring at life, death, and history. Sometimes like clouds in the sky, sometimes like the abyss beneath the earth.
In Mr. Cogito, you can see his reverence for heroes. In a non-heroic age, truth-seeking heroes are mocked and despised. The multiplicity of historical narratives, the suppression of truth by power, and the ambiguity of language make the line between good and evil blurry and indistinct.
Yet facing history's suffering while calmly confronting reality's twists is what Huainan wants to tell us in his poems.
🎵 When Heaven's light points at you—Rise, walk /
So long as there's darkness haunting your chest, beware /
Repeat humanity's ancient curses, fairy tales, and legends /
So you may reach an unattainable good /
Repeat those great words, without cease for a moment… 🎵
If the Swedish Academy were to give this year's Nobel Prize for Literature to a poet, or to a writer rooted in "cognitive history," then Huainan would be the first candidate.]
Compared with that, the domestic reports don't sound so bad.
Qian Wangyan backed down and shut up.
The 2025 Nobel Prize for Literature ended up going to the American writer Roberts Hosein. But as one netizen reminded everyone, "Sure, Huainan didn't win this year, but Roberts has been researching his poetry. In fact, he even published Huainan, Where Two Rivers of East and West Converge this March. You're welcome."
That internet poet's attempt at clout-chasing totally backfired. Instead, he pushed Huainan's name recognition even higher in China. Without him, so many people wouldn't have translated and reposted those foreign articles and pictures.
Online, the little smurf account got a bump in fame. Offline, today was a different story. An important figure was visiting Chu Zhi for a formal meeting, arranged in a private room at Jingxi Hui in the Magic City, right by Starry Sky Plaza.
"I wasn't sure what Secretary Liu likes to eat, so I booked here casually," Chu Zhi said. Though he put it that way, he knew the guest was from Meizhou, so he deliberately chose Jingxi Hui, which specializes in modern Chaozhou cuisine. He wasn't sure how good the food was, but the price and atmosphere fit the occasion.
"Consultant Chu, you're too polite," Liu Ya replied. "I really must apologize for intruding on your rest like this."
About a third into the meal, Liu Ya sipped his oolong tea and got down to business. "Consultant Chu, are you close with the Santander Group chairman's children, Pablo and Monica?"
"Never met them," Chu Zhi answered carefully. "Mr. Pablo and Ms. Monica just appreciate the Spanish songs I've performed."
In other words, they're fans. Liu Ya only asked because during the recent unrest in Bolivia, the Santander Group helped with evacuation.
And just days ago, they sent news of a donation that stirred up multiple departments, especially the Palace Museum and the Nanjing Museum.
If it were a gift between friends, Liu Ya could understand. But purely as fans? That didn't sit right with his values.
"Is there something you need from me, Secretary Liu?" Chu Zhi asked.
"I'll need to trouble you again," Liu Ya said. "The Santander Group wants to donate the Snake Head, and the people in charge are Ms. Monica and Mr. Pablo. The reason given was 'Because of Mr. Chu Zhi, we admire Chinese culture.'"
That back half was clearly tacked on. The real reason was just the first half.
"The Twelve Zodiac Heads from Yuanmingyuan?" Chu Zhi was startled. Then he asked for confirmation.
If it wasn't those legendary relics, the two museum directors wouldn't be running around. Liu Ya nodded.
One of the twelve, the Horse Head, was auctioned at Christie's years ago for over sixty million Hong Kong dollars. Now it'd be worth over a hundred million. Thinking that two fans he'd never even met were donating something like this, Chu Zhi was stunned.
Giving up a priceless cultural relic just to honor their idol? Liu Ya couldn't wrap his head around how wild fandom had become. Business deals with Qatar's natural gas at least made sense as win-win.
"The donation ceremony's scheduled for two o'clock the day after tomorrow," Liu Ya said. "We'd like to invite you to attend. I don't know if you're up for it physically…"
"No problem," Chu Zhi replied.
Liu Ya explained the ceremony would be hosted by both the Foreign Affairs office and the Palace Museum, held at the State Guesthouse's reception hall in the eastern suburbs of Purple Mountain, broadcast live by CCTV. Pretty high-profile.
From an artistic or monetary perspective, the Twelve Zodiac Heads weren't the top relics of the Qing dynasty. But their history gave them symbolic weight. Among the public, they were even more famous than many true national treasures. People had long dreamed of seeing all twelve return.
Seven were already back—ox, tiger, monkey, pig, horse, rat, and rabbit. The rest were missing. Now the Snake Head would return thanks to the Santander Group. Nothing wrong with that.
Dinner wrapped up, the important stuff covered.
Jingxi Hui's dishes weren't heavy in portion anyway, and since both were focused on business, plenty went untouched. After sending Liu Ya off, Chu Zhi, the self-proclaimed Emperor Beast, packed up all the leftovers.
"Warm this up later, then order six jin of bullfrogs for dinner. That'll cover today's carbs."
Usually he'd order eight jin just for himself. With the leftovers substituting two, it was badass and frugal. Saved enough to buy two tea eggs.
Liu Ya rushed to Hongqiao Airport and caught a flight back to Beijing. As the plane lifted off, he couldn't help but marvel. Since when could a celebrity actually help the country? It sounded absurd, but Chu Zhi really did.
Especially in Asian diplomacy, things that could go either way often got pushed through thanks to him. Neither the state nor Chu Zhi publicized it, but the truth was there.
At least in Liu Ya's eyes, Chu Zhi never used his honorary post for gain. On the contrary, he gave a lot back.
Back to real business. As Liu Ya's flight was still in the air, donors Monica and Pablo were landing at Capital Airport.
They'd been set up with a local guide to visit tourist spots like the Great Wall and the Palace Museum, but they refused. Too excited to do anything, they holed up in their hotel.
They couldn't help it. Soon they'd finally see their idol face-to-face.
"I read online that brother Jiu really has a strange fragrance," Monica said. "It's the same as Irargi in mythology."
She was referring to an obscure Basque myth, popular only in parts of central Spain and southwestern France. Irargi was the name of the moon god, said to carry a fragrance that soothed all who smelled it. That was why everything in the world could fall asleep at night.
"A photo, an autograph, I need a picture with brother Jiu. They'll all die of envy," Pablo grinned. By "they," he meant their friends at the Pomegranate Flower Club, fellow Little Fruits.
"Online I also read that brother Jiu's pupils are everyone's envy. I have to see them up close," Monica added.
"Snap a close-up with my phone, make it my lock screen. How about that?" Pablo mused aloud. "Xiao Mache will definitely beg me, 'Mr. Pablo, please send me a copy!'"
"I'm so nervous. What should I wear? I can't make a bad impression on brother Jiu." Monica was stressed. She'd only brought three suitcases with her but felt like she had nothing decent.
"If brother Jiu has time to share a meal, this trip would be perfect," Pablo said.
You could tell they weren't really talking to each other. They just rambled out their own fantasies.
But they had one thing in common: they both thought time was crawling.
Two days to go.
What could happen in two days? The Emperor Beast wrapped up his Japanese translation of Shenyi Jing.
Oh right, forgot to mention. He'd been working on translations just to pad his own bio with another title: "translator."
Selected Works of Bai Pu (Japanese and Russian editions), Selected Stories from Flowers in the Mirror (Japanese and English editions), Youyang Zazu Vol. 1 (Japanese and French editions), and now the Japanese edition of Shenyi Jing. He only had bits of time between his busy schedule, so he chipped away at them little by little.
Because Flowers in the Mirror had passages that were nearly impossible to translate, he cut them, hence "Selected Stories." Youyang Zazu couldn't be done in a single volume, so he planned for two, though the second was still stuck. Tang dynasty's Youyang Zazu was full of bizarre records. Like one passage describing the moon—it said the moon was a sphere, with pits on its surface being patched up by over eighty thousand households. The imagination of the ancients really was something.
Anyway, compared to his poetry, translation hadn't made much of a splash. Total global sales for all these editions combined didn't even hit fifty thousand. The silver lining was professional recognition. One chapter from his French Youyang Zazu, "Strange Instruments," got included in a university French curriculum.
"Eh, should I just agree to it?" Chu Zhi wondered.
Earlier this year, a publisher approached him. A talented mangaka's work, The Hypocritical Minister, was being adapted into an anime. They wanted to collaborate with the great poet Huainan. Kyoto Animation hoped Huainan could translate Yuewei Caotang Biji into Japanese as a tie-in.
"Forget it, there's no need," Chu Zhi shook his head.
Early to bed, early to rise, stay healthy.
And just like that, the day of the donation ceremony arrived.
===
Facing the Sea, With Spring Flowers Blooming (面朝大海,春暖花开) – iconic modern Chinese poem, written by Hai Zi (海子, real-life poet, 1964–1989).
Yuewei Caotang Biji (阅微草堂笔记) — Qing dynasty collection of supernatural tales.
Shenyi Jing (神异经) — an ancient Chinese geography and mythology text.
Youyang Zazu (酉阳杂俎) — Tang dynasty miscellany of strange records.
Flowers in the Mirror (镜花缘) — Qing dynasty novel by Li Ruzhen.
Bai Pu (白朴) — Yuan dynasty playwright and poet.