Jenner really didn't want to admit she'd missed the concert, but in the end, she had no choice except to swallow that bitter truth whole. She never even thought about asking for a refund.
How could a refund possibly go through? Even with her brown hair, she couldn't imagine that working out. Fainting mid-concert was clearly her own fault.
Still, she decided to give it a try anyway. Of course, she wasn't stupid. She downloaded the international version of Orange Grove and went through the official refund page herself. When she saw that the refund was real, she almost couldn't believe it.
If she had to choose between money and watching her idol live, she'd pick the concert without hesitation. But now that she'd missed it, getting ninety percent of her ticket price back meant she could at least stop the bleeding.
Jenner wasn't naive. She didn't believe some branch office could just decide refunds on its own. This had to be her idol's idea.
What kind of perfect, one-of-a-kind idol would do that?!
After filling in the required information and submitting her request, Jenner felt a weight lift off her chest.
Then she got an idea. She wanted to post about this online—to let that bitch Nassi see just how amazing Chu Zhi really was.
A bit of backstory: Nassi used to be her best friend. They used to talk about everything, but their friendship sank like a rock the moment they disagreed about their idols.
They'd unfollowed each other since then, though both occasionally checked the other's feed out of habit. Usually there wasn't much to see.
But this time, when Jenner absentmindedly clicked on Nassi's alt account, something completely unexpected popped up.
#RefundArranged "I fainted less than half an hour into the Los Angeles concert because of health issues. Thankfully, my idol is Chu Zhi.
But I've been given a refund.
I don't know why, but I suddenly remembered a quote I once read: 'If you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars.' My idol doesn't want his fans to cry, or to lose their stars."
(Attached image)
Jenner zoomed in on the picture and saw the refund confirmation screenshot from Orange Grove.
"Fuck!" That sly bitch! She admired her idol too?
She knew all about Nassi's alt account. Every time Nassi posted, her main account would immediately like it. Anyone with half a brain could tell it was her. Jenner's own alt was much more discreet, completely untraceable.
Still fuming, she typed a sharp reply from her alt:
"You don't even know that quote's from The Gardener by Rabindranath Tagore? You're embarrassing your idol."
That jab would definitely piss Nassi off. Plus, considering Nassi was probably still in the hospital, the reply came surprisingly fast.
"Why should I know where the quote's from? Does not knowing make me an embarrassment?"
"Oh, she dared to talk back? Shameless bitch." Jenner's fingers flew across the keyboard.
"Don't tell me you never studied. The Gardener and Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night are both in the sixth volume of World Culture textbooks. You didn't read any of them?"
It was a low blow and didn't even make sense. True, The Gardener had been added to a lot of English literature curricula recently, but only in the last two years. Nassi had graduated ages ago.
Still, Jenner knew her ex-friend wouldn't think that far.
But what Jenner didn't expect came next—
"Don't think I don't know who you are, Jenner, you bitch!"
Her eyes widened. Wait, how did Nassi know this was her alt? She'd hidden it so carefully!
Friendship drama aside, the hashtag #RefundArranged was blowing up on Twitter. Many of the fans who fainted were talking about it too.
Some fans who'd been hospitalized said they'd received refund emails but wouldn't be applying for them—they said this was their way of supporting their idol.
Netizens started to notice something strange. There'd been over three hundred people who fainted inside the venue and about fifty outside. Based on incomplete stats from social media, almost everyone who fainted inside got refund emails. Those outside didn't—because, of course, they hadn't bought tickets.
At an average ticket price, that refund totaled over three hundred thousand dollars. He was literally giving money back out of his own pocket.
Chu Zhi's act of generosity became a major topic of discussion worldwide.
Back in China, though, it barely made a ripple. To the Chinese Little Fruits, this was nothing new.
Many Chinese fans climbed over the Great Firewall to translate foreign comments. Watching international fans gush in disbelief made them secretly proud.
"My God, I've never seen a celebrity treat fans this kindly." IP: Baxter County, Arkansas, USA
"Chu Zhi's always been known for loving his fans. He even covers round-trip flights to invite them to events." IP: Honolulu County, Hawaii, USA
"Fans fainting isn't his fault. Legally, he doesn't owe anyone a refund. Emotionally, no one would blame him if he didn't. But he still did it. He's a hero for his fans." IP: South Yorkshire, UK
"I couldn't attend because of school, but Chu Zhi's character and music will always be something I respect." IP: Prince Edward Island, Canada
"I used to dislike this Chinese star, thought he was fake. But after reading about the L.A. concert—how long he performed, the refunds, writing songs for fans on the spot—I changed my mind. He's truly one of a kind." IP: Paris, France
Soon, overseas fans started worrying that their idol was losing money from all the refunds. Ironically, most of them didn't earn much themselves, yet they fretted over a Forbes-ranked millionaire's finances. It was kind of absurd—and kind of sweet.
So they decided to help the only way they could: by buying his albums.
The "Refund Incident" boosted Chu Zhi's global reputation overnight and sent both his international albums soaring in sales.
When all was said and done, he didn't lose money. He might've even gained a little.
Was all this part of his plan?
Of course not.
So why did he feel responsible enough to refund those hundreds of fans? Had capitalism grown a conscience? Definitely not.
It was simple. He just felt it was his duty.
First, because this damn face of his was too good-looking for its own good.
Second, because getting a ticket to his concert was supposed to be something joyful. But instead, those fans ended up fainting, losing both the experience and their money. Going from heaven to hell like that—it wasn't right. He wanted to make it up to them somehow.
"I'm such an ethical capitalist," he hummed to himself, quite pleased with his own righteousness.
That mood didn't last long.
The Sun newspaper ran a snarky article mocking his fashion brand "Muzhi Heat." He happened to see it on a plane, one of the five papers handed out by United Airlines.
He wasn't mad.
Nope, not even a little bit.
Not one damn bit.
He calmly called his brand's current design director over WeChat, just to "check in."
The first creative director had been Sai Sandro, then Gao Yuanyao, and now the third, Chizuka Gofuku—a half-Chinese, half-Japanese designer. His father, Chizuka Okami, had been the first Japanese designer ever invited to Paris Haute Couture Week. Gofuku himself was a rare talent, and Chu Zhi had personally recruited him.
"Boss Chu, some designs aren't finished yet, but we can start selling whenever you want," Gofuku said.
Chu Zhi stayed quiet for a few seconds. Truth was, the clothes were ready for sale long ago. Most celebrity brands launched just to cash in, and some were downright shameless—selling ordinary bathrobes for almost a thousand bucks, with the same fabric as a ten-dollar one, and still not offering free shipping.
By comparison, the first two design directors had produced genuinely stylish clothes, far above the usual "idol merch" standard.
Muzhi Heat's only flaw was that its fits demanded perfect proportions. Chu Zhi didn't want his fans to buy clothes they couldn't even wear.
"Keep designing," he finally said.
Sure, he'd cut some grass—everyone in business did—but he also wanted to build something real. He was a Chinese man who refused to lose. And just in case things went south, he already had backup plans to avoid any real losses.
He had enough international influence now to collaborate with other brands or designers. Co-branding was always the easy route.
"By the way," he added, "for our next two collections, I want the designs to feel wild and imaginative. Think classical meets romantic."
"I get it," Gofuku replied. "We'll base them on real body shapes. For the waistline, I want to hide an element of mystery, something subtle and secret…"
He went on explaining his concept in depth. It was clear he had real talent.
The idea sounded great, but the plane's Wi-Fi signal was terrible, constantly cutting in and out.
Chu Zhi managed to listen for half an hour before the call became so choppy that he had to hang up.
He figured they'd talk again in person when there was time. The thought reminded him of his first meeting with Min Jeongbae.
It was summer. Chu Zhi would never forget Lao Qian's face that day—it was pure despair. Lao Qian had been in charge of initial recruitment, and Min Jeongbae had talked his ear off for over three hours straight.
When Chu Zhi looked at Min Jeongbae afterward, the man was still full of energy. His desire to express himself was practically endless.
A few hours later, the plane finally landed.
"Finally off the plane. Ten-something hours in the air, and I'm exhausted," Chu Zhi said, stretching his arms. He turned his head and added, "Come on, Xiao Zhuzi, weren't you starving? Let's grab some noodles or something."
Xiao Zhuzi replied, "Let's find somewhere else. Airport food's overpriced and awful."
"You've been whining about being hungry since the walkway. Just grab something to fill your stomach first." Chu Zhi smiled. "Relax, I'm paying. You know what day it is today?"
The sudden question made Xiao Zhuzi's brain go into overdrive. Was it the boss's birthday? No way. Her own birthday? Couldn't be. She didn't even remember the exact date, but she still clearly recalled the tuna-wasabi cake from two months ago.
She racked her brain but still couldn't figure it out, and in the end, Chu Zhi led her straight to the KFC in the terminal.
"It's Thursday, and I'll show you what real power looks like," Chu Zhi said after placing their order.
Crazy Thursday? The moment clicked. Xiao Zhuzi checked her phone—it really was Thursday.
Their voices weren't loud, and both wore caps, so no one around paid them much attention. Especially Chu Zhi, whose face was less than thirty percent visible.
Still, diehard Little Fruits fans had eagle eyes. Not only could they recognize Chu Zhi from the tiniest glimpse, but they could also identify people who often appeared around him—like Lao Qian, Wang Yuan, or Xiao Zhuzi.
KFC wasn't exactly cheap, but in an airport terminal, it was as good as it got.
They ordered juicy double beef burgers, classic chicken wraps, New Orleans grilled chicken sandwiches, a honey-glazed whole chicken, and two large Cokes.
"It's been a while since I've had KFC. It's actually pretty good," Xiao Zhuzi said with her mouth full. Eating with her reminded Chu Zhi of the time he'd had a meal with Luo Jianhui during Journey Among the Stars.
Eating with someone who enjoys their food always makes you eat more.
Chu Zhi was the kind of person who could eat a lot but didn't really enjoy eating.
"Haven't had it in a while? Are you dieting or something?" he asked casually.
"I'm just trying to save up for a down payment in Shanghai. Gotta be frugal," Xiao Zhuzi said.
As his personal assistant, she'd already had three raises, plus bonuses, bringing her annual salary to around 300,000 yuan, with full benefits. That was way above what most assistants made in the entertainment industry, but even then, her pay couldn't keep up with housing prices.
While they ate, Chu Zhi went through some unread emails.
"Decline all the interview requests. It's just a concert, not worth a media special," he said.
"Got it, I'll tell Sister Niu," Xiao Zhuzi replied.
A few state media outlets had requested interviews the moment he returned to China, hoping to tie it into the topic of cultural export. Sure, performing as Emperor Beast at the Staples Center and singing several Chinese songs could technically count as that, but Chu Zhi didn't think it was anything that grand.
Besides, he'd already done way too many state interviews. People's Daily, Reference News, Yangcheng Evening News—each had interviewed him at least twice. Accepting more would just feel excessive.
When Xiao Zhuzi passed the message along, the company had no choice but to turn them down. Other celebrities would've been green with envy, but Chu Zhi genuinely didn't want to deal with any of it.
For most, being interviewed by official media was an honor, a recognition of status. But Chu Zhi? He turned them all down. Calling him the top-tier of Chinese stars wasn't much of an exaggeration.
Just then, his phone rang, the ringtone playing softly:
🎵 "Listen to your mom, don't let her get hurt, if you wanna grow up fast…" 🎵
He glanced at the screen. It was Director Davis.
The moment he picked up, the man's voice came through, urgent and eager. "Mr. Chu, the Matrix production team needs your help."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Davis?" Chu Zhi asked.
"There's been a small issue during filming, so your entry date has to be delayed by about a month and a half," Davis said.
A delay of that length meant rescheduling over forty days of tightly packed plans, with gaps calculated down to the hour. For Chu Zhi's team, that kind of adjustment would be a total nightmare—and a major cause of collective hair loss.
He couldn't just give an answer so easily.
"Mr. Davis, I'll need to discuss the details with my company before I can give you a response," Chu Zhi said.
Davis, on the other end of the line, knew that an immediate yes wasn't realistic for something like this.
"I'm so sorry for the trouble, truly sorry," Davis said repeatedly.
"Everything'll be fine," Chu Zhi replied. He could tell from the man's tone that the director was exhausted.
The call didn't last much longer. Davis hung up after explaining the situation, and it was only later, when Chu Zhi looked it up online, that he found out what had actually happened.
The Matrix film crew had suffered a warehouse fire, caused by the manager's negligence.
So that was why the schedule was pushed back by a month. A fire meant that all the props and other stored materials had to be remade from scratch. That was no small task.
It should've been huge news, but the aftermath of Chu Zhi's Los Angeles concert completely overshadowed it, so barely anyone paid attention.
In truth, plenty of other things were happening quietly around the world, while certain countries were making a big deal out of them.
For instance, in Japan, the single Come On, Sweet Death had just been released by Yamaha Music Publishing and was taking the country by storm.
The Japanese Little Fruits were on fire. They even launched something called the "Attack on Setsukawa Matsuyama Campaign" across Japanese internet platforms. The target was none other than the Oricon charts, Japan's iconic ranking system that had been around since the 1960s, holding more authority locally than Billboard ever did.
Chu Zhi's album had already landed among the Top 50 Best-Selling Albums in Oricon History, an incredible feat on its own. You could check the ranking from a year or two ago to see just how well he'd done.
This time, though, it was his first-ever physical single release, and his Japanese Little Fruits were determined to push him into Oricon's Top 50 Best-Selling Singles in History.
The current record holder was Setsukawa Miyauchi, whose single from the 1970s had sold a staggering 4.61 million copies, a number untouched for half a century.
In second place was Matsuyama Norimasa with 3.72 million sales. So "Attack on Setsukawa Matsuyama" literally meant they were trying to make Come On, Sweet Death surpass those two legends.
And the Japanese fans were absolutely insane about it.
Even crazier than the most obsessive fangirls in China.
Take two examples, one big and one small.
The Chu Zhi Ultimate Support Club had over four thousand members, and together, they crowdfunded enough to buy 150,000 copies of the single. That's an average of more than thirty copies per person.
Each single cost 1,800 yen—about 92 yuan—so that fan club instantly became legendary. Totally insane!
That was the large-scale case, purely because of the sheer number of participants.
The smaller case? A Tokyo office worker got into a literal fistfight with her boss after asking to get her salary in advance so she could buy fifty copies of the single. The boss refused, and things escalated from an argument to a full-on scuffle.
Even when Li Guixun, the head of Aiguo Media's Japan branch, urged fans to calm down, it didn't help at all. When Japanese fans went crazy, they didn't care about family, work, or anything else.
The uproar got so big that even sociologists began weighing in. One of them, Aoyama Tetsumasa, a respected figure and advisor to Japan's Ministry of Finance, published an essay titled:
"Don't Lose Yourself in Fandom."
[Fandom culture is now thriving in our country, closely tied to the structure of our national psyche, which I won't discuss in depth today. I divide fans into two main types.
The first are those who project their desire for success onto the artist's physical existence, creating a distorted sense of "self." For that imagined "self" to succeed, they're willing to devote all their time, energy, and resources.
The second type views the artist as an idealized lover or aspirational figure. By projecting themselves into the artist's world, they experience emotions like affection, admiration, or even redemption.
However, when this emotional support surpasses one's actual limits, the result is a collapse between their "self" and the artistic ideal. True fans should remain grounded while supporting their idols.]
Aoyama's piece was academic and philosophical, the kind of writing that felt more like a thesis than an opinion, though at least he was polite about it. Others weren't so restrained, flat-out calling Japan's modern generation "useless trash."
Regardless of the criticism, the "Attack on Setsukawa Matsuyama" campaign was wildly successful. Come On, Sweet Death sold 2.13 million copies on its first day, then broke 3.2 million within two.
Meanwhile, digital downloads also shattered records, reaching 4 million in just forty-eight hours, making Chu Zhi the first artist born in the Heisei era to surpass that mark.
Yamaha Music's president, Maya, stared at the sales report in shock. Come On, Sweet Death was a good song, sure, but this? This was ridiculous!
In his opinion, its popularity couldn't even match Fireworks, yet the numbers were literally chart-defining.
Just then—
Knock, knock!
The sharp sound of someone rapping on the door broke his daze. Maya quickly composed himself, making sure no one would see his astonished expression. He couldn't let outsiders think he'd never seen success before.
===
"If you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars." — from The Gardener ("飞鸟集" Fei Niao Ji) by Rabindranath Tagore.