"Don't panic, drink some water while it's a 'red rain.'" The Emperor Beast glanced at the two cups in front of him. Both were filled with red liquid.
Huh? Where was the big black thermos? Chu Zhi twisted it open, and a strong scent of liquor spilled across the stage. He tilted his head back and gulped it down. The burn of the liquor was like a blade down his throat, instantly triggering his passive skill.
His state recovered immediately. For him, activating Immortal Wine worked even better than doping.
He was holding a black-glazed, reflective wine jar, with a red paper label stuck on the front, the character "Wine" written boldly on it. It felt light in his grip, no way it was real. If it were a genuine jar that size, it'd weigh more than ten pounds.
The design was styled after a "heroic rogue," chest partly exposed. Well, not that exaggerated. Since the Emperor Beast was playing the bad guy, he still had to keep a mistress in his look. So the collar was just left open a little.
He swung the wine jar around a few times for effect.
But only doing motions felt fake.
At a concert with over fifty thousand people, the top screen showed a close-up of the stage. Unlike the central effects screen, this one broadcast the singer's performance in real time.
After all, tickets in the outer sections cost hundreds, and from that distance, without good eyesight, you couldn't even see the performer clearly. The big screen was their only hope.
Thinking of that, the Emperor Beast poured the liquor from both thermoses into the jar. Perfect.
Within just a minute and a half, the backstage crew had finished setting props: several rows of green bamboo. Up close, you could tell it was plastic, but from the audience's view, it delivered the right "bamboo shadows and slim song" mood.
The opening notes of Blade and Sword, a Dream rang out. Since its release on the album, four dramas had bought it as their opening or ending themes. Three were garbage, but one was hailed as "a legendary wuxia drama of the post-TVB era." It had gone viral, smashing decade-long ratings records when broadcast on CCTV.
So whether you were a millennial or born in the 80s, whether you liked this style or not, the melody was burned into your brain.
Why only the melody? Because most listeners couldn't remember the lyrics, just humming along off-key.
Like Wang Zexun down there, yelling at the top of his lungs: "🎵 I'm drunk in the haze, da-da-da, da-da-da-empty. I wake, mumble mumble, dreams of life and death, empty empty empty empty… 🎵" He was dragging everyone nearby off rhythm.
The fans in the crowd might go off key, but the singer on stage had to hold steady. With Immortal Wine active, Chu Zhi unconsciously layered in the emotions fitting the song.
He activated the Honey Badger Voice! The wild, restless emotion spread through the stadium. Blade and Sword, a Dream was pure wuxia. The backup dancers swung swords in sync with the lyrics, blades flashing across the stage like arrows hidden in the shadows of the jianghu.
🎵 "Come in a rush, leave in a rush, hating that we couldn't meet. Love in a rush, hate in a rush, everything drifts away on the wind." 🎵
🎵 "Laugh loud once, sigh long once, live joyfully once, live sorrowfully once. Who'll share life and death with me?" 🎵
He tilted the jar back, Wuliangye pouring down his throat. Some overflowed, running past his Adam's apple and soaking his collar.
If Immortal Wine gave him one degree of drunkenness before, now it soared to five. Li Bai once wrote that wine turned seven parts into moonlight, and the other three into sword-qi, spilling a Tang dynasty with one verse.
For the Ragdoll, wine became seven parts chivalry, three parts the weary emotions of the jianghu.
🎵 "I cry, tears soak my heart, joy and sorrow mocked by the heavens. I laugh, I go wild, I lose control, heaven and earth rise with storm and cloud…" 🎵
His techniques were smooth, every emotion flowing naturally.
The audience wasn't just Little Fruits. Plenty of casual music fans had fought for tickets too. They didn't follow idols, but they knew a good show when they saw one.
That was what was insane. The tickets sold out in seconds, yet plenty had gone not to hardcore fans but to casuals, simply because Chu Zhi's songs had national-level reach.
"Holy shit, I'm only here for the music. I don't even care about singers. But his vocals are insane. How can he merge the helpless bitterness of the jianghu with its wild heroism so perfectly? Every note screams 'jianghu.' I'm calling him the Wuxia Singer!"
"I wanna smash something right now!"
"Give me a sword, I'll roam the world, singing to my wine."
"I thought the CD version was flawless, but this live performance beats it."
"Every song feels like a textbook. That line 'I laugh, I go wild, I lose control'—I actually heard three different emotions. For context, I can't even tell the difference between lossless and standard audio."
And on it went.
Zhu Zhan was just a pure music fan. If he weren't worried about blocking the view behind him, he'd have stood and stomped his feet. Whatever feuds or grudges were in the lyrics, the rhythm made his legs want to move. He'd prepared himself, thinking live could never beat CD. After all, live shows relied on years of stage experience.
But this? This was flawless.
"No in-ear monitors the entire time. That's Jiu-yé." Zhu Zhan muttered. He'd always hated fans calling singers "yé" like elders, but after tonight, he felt Chu Zhi deserved it.
The wuxia passion ended. Some in the audience still weren't ready to calm down.
The stage crew rushed in with new props. Chu Zhi's costume changed drastically—from a black rogue outfit to an extravagant tuxedo.
Why extravagant? Tassels dangled everywhere, rhinestones glittered on the chest, knees, elbows, and collar. On his head was a tall top hat, with strings of clear beads hanging like droplets, circling the entire brim. Each strand reached down to his chin, blocking his sight.
The next two songs were massively popular Japanese tracks in China: Fireworks (Uchiage Hanabi) and LOSER.
The outfit matched the mood. These were tragic songs. During the choruses, the stage lit up with digital ripples, simulating stormy rain.
Light shining through the beads created a curtain of water. The rhinestones glittered like he was being drenched in downpour.
The backup dancers performed specially choreographed modern dance pieces. Every detail screamed effort.
"This concert's scale feels like the New Year's Gala on Litchi TV. Are shows this advanced now?" Yan Xin asked.
Yan Xin, head of Su Commerce Group and a top-10 female billionaire on the Hurun list, was also Wang Yuan's best friend. She'd long since been pulled into the Little Fruits. Volunteering here let her sneak in, and she was loving it.
"Just the dancers alone, there are four troupes. The props, the lighting design—it's even stronger than Litchi TV's New Year concert," she added.
She'd been front row at that event once, thanks to her company's clout.
"Brother Jiu's concert's an exception," Wang Yuan explained. "Other singers also use dancers and lights, but not on this level. His songs span classical, modern, martial arts with wire-work—you can't cover it all with one troupe. That's why he hired four."
"As for the lighting, props, and effects, this concert's cost is three times the norm. No other star would dare."
Yan Xin suddenly realized. "So he's the most fan-loving singer out there."
"Of course. Just look at the Little Fruits smiling down there."
If the Emperor Beast had heard, he'd have been confused. A normal 80,000-seat concert cost four to five million yuan to stage. With average ticket prices at 1,000 each, sales were eighty million. Even deducting taxes and expenses, profit was still close to fifty million.
"Spend according to what you earn"—that was his principle. If he made this much, he'd go all out. Simple.
"Still, can his body handle it? Even the dancers are panting, and they take turns. He hasn't rested once. And it's only been four months since his gunshot wound. Is he really okay?" Yan Xin frowned.
Wang Yuan's smile faltered. She sighed. "Brother Jiu's always this serious about his fans. Once he decides, we can't stop him."
They both turned toward the brightest figure on stage.
The Japanese songs ended. His outfit changed again, this time into something surprisingly plain: a brown parka, tan hiking boots, a climbing stick in hand.
What?
Then a Little Fruit shouted, "Journey Among the Stars! A sea of stars!"
The spark caught, and the whole crowd roared: "The Brightest Star in the Night Sky!"
The sound shook the heavens.
Which Chinese song of his was most famous? Debatable.
But which one was dearest to the Little Fruits? No question. The Brightest Star in the Night Sky. They even called it their "love song," the moment they bonded with him—one-sided or not.
🎵 "The brightest star in the night sky, awooo—" 🎵 He handed the mic out. Some froze, others joined in.
🎵 "The brightest star in the night sky, awooo-ooo—" 🎵
Normally howling like a husky in public would be embarrassing. But when tens of thousands did it together, the vibe was magical. Soon half the stadium was howling.
🎵 "Awooo-ooo~" 🎵
Chu Zhi raised the key higher. They howled harder.
Outside the stadium, passersby froze. What the hell? Everyone inside was howling like wolves?
As the key climbed, the crowd struggled to keep up. Then they realized: with each howl, the effects screen above showed a galaxy. Stars twinkled, lights dimmed.
🎵 "The brightest star in the night sky, can you hear, the loneliness and sighs of the one looking up?" 🎵
🎵 "The brightest star in the night sky, can you remember, the figure who once walked with me, now gone in the wind?" 🎵
It became a chorus of 80,000.
On screen, the galaxy zoomed in. One tiny white dot: Earth. Another, labeled Little Fruits Planet. A faint line connected them.
🎵 "Whenever I can't find meaning in life, whenever I lose myself in the dark night, brightest star in the night sky, guide me closer to you." 🎵
The louder they sang, the brighter the line grew. Notes floated from Earth along the line toward Little Fruits Planet.
Mom-fans in the volunteer section screamed along, desperate to see what would happen when the notes arrived.
🎵 "Brightest star in the night sky, do you care if the sun rises first, or disaster comes first?" 🎵
Their chorus even drowned him out.
On screen, the barren Little Fruits Planet slowly bloomed. Grass and trees sprouted where the notes landed like rain.
Tears filled countless eyes. It really felt like their voices had given life to a dead world.
"It's your voices that turned this planet from barren to alive," Chu Zhi said. "This is the theme of my world tour. When the tour ends, Little Fruits Planet will become the most, most, most, most, most beautiful planet—five 'mosts,' because it's important."
He continued: "Remember when we stopped shouting like children? When all our little emotions piled up into mountains we couldn't hold back? We all face life's pressures, so I know you can't stay kids forever. But I hope that childlike side of you will always remain, remembered, never lost."
"Little Fruits Planet is where it'll be kept. The planet will open on the Orang Home app. There, you can preserve your inner child forever."
He looked serious. "As long as the internet exists."
The first resident of Little Fruits Planet was Ai Yu's account, [Remembering Chu on the Ninth of September].
Even Wang Yuan was shocked. She hadn't known he'd launched this plan.
===
This was freaking romantic
(≧﹏≦)