Niu Jiangxue carried the two trophies—she'd insisted on holding them—murmuring, "I thought winning one would be amazing, but a double? Unbelievable."
Happier than the winner himself, Niu Jiangxue examined the awards. They were gold, uniquely designed: a small golden figure sprinting forward, mounted on a rectangular base roughly the same length.
"A running golden figure—probably symbolizing Chinese music charging ahead. Nice sentiment, but compared to the industry a decade ago, maybe we should take two steps back instead?" Chu Zhi mused silently.
As they headed toward the art museum, they encountered a group of Little Fruits lying in wait—about twenty fans who'd come to catch a glimpse of their idol.
Spotting Chu Zhi, they reacted like Lanling Wang spotting a low-health Squishy Marksman, surging forward in excitement. Niu, seasoned in crowd control, maintained order while Chu Zhi signed for each fan. The process took half an hour.
"Even with a cap, they recognized me?" Chu Zhi marveled. Signing wasn't an issue, but the identification was impressive.
"Boss, you're underestimating your fans. A cap? Try a full mask—they'd still know you from your silhouette," Niu said.
"That's a stretch. Silhouettes all look similar," Chu Zhi doubted.
Niu Jiangxue didn't argue. He doesn't grasp the terrifying acuity of hardcore fans. In her years as a manager, Little Fruits were the most well-behaved fandom she'd ever seen—bar none.
The trophies in Niu's hands spoke volumes. Wang Yuan immediately demanded, "Let me see!"
Niu handed one over. Wang scrutinized the engraved inscription on the base:
[20th Chinese Music Media Awards – Best Lyricist: Chu Zhi (Selected by 100 Media Outlets)]
Once everyone was in the van, Niu Jiangxue called Fei Ge to activate the full PR machine. With Taiyang Chuanhe backed by Douyin, now was the time to leverage it.
The plan was straightforward: flood the public consciousness subtly but pervasively.
The goal? Make casual listeners aware that Chu Zhi had lyrical talent—and was the only top-tier idol whose skill was mainstream-certified.
For example:
In a random short video's comments debating singer talent, a bystander might chime in: "Chu Zhi's lyrics are legit—he just won an award. Last winner was [insert respected name]."
Or under a Douban post bashing idols: "Trash. Learn from Chu Zhi—he's got actual recognition while y'all spin in place."
Key point: Target casuals, not fans. Fans already believed their idol was not just world-class, but universe-tier.
"Big Sis Wang's prayers really worked," Old Qian remarked, calling Wang Yuan "Big Sis"—a nod to her domineering aura (when Chu Zhi wasn't involved).
"What prayers?" Chu Zhi asked.
"Nothing. Winning both Best Producer and Best Lyricist just proves your talent," Wang Yuan deflected.
Victory? That's the idol's skill. Failure? My prayers weren't strong enough. Someone give Wang Yuan a "Best Fan" trophy.
She changed the subject: "Old Qian, that lighter's oddly stylish. Where'd you get it?"
"Ask Boss. He brought it back from Seoul," Old Qian said. The bamboo-shaped lighter was a favorite—when he couldn't smoke, chewing on it sufficed.
"Last time, Brother Qian accompanied me to MBC's ungodly-hour recording. Felt bad, so I got him a little gift," Chu Zhi explained. "Big Sis Wang likes it?"
"Not really, but it's cute. You've got great taste," Wang Yuan said.
"MBC's next recording slot is another midnight special. Gotta trouble Brother Qian again," Chu Zhi added.
Old Qian agreed readily. Normally, he hated overtime—but for a boss like Chu Zhi? Occasional late nights were fine.
The team's excitement over Chu Zhi's wins wasn't just pride. Mainstream validation was a critical first step—one that most "top idols" never achieved.
Breaking the "idol = untalented" stereotype meant higher earnings and longevity.
Casual listener poll: Do you consider Lu Han or Cai Xukun good singers?
The awards sent ripples through the industry.
Most dramatic reaction:
"If I weren't shocked by this news, I wouldn't be gaping like a fish," Lin Xia told his manager, Xian Ge. "I was the one campaigning for awards first! Did they forget who Ma Ka Ba Ka is?"
Hearing the dramatics, Xian Ge relaxed—Lin Xia's mood wasn't that bad.
"On paper, Early Summer and 25,117 are evenly matched. But Chu Zhi winning was inevitable—rumor is, he's got serious connections," Xian Ge lied smoothly.
Lin Xia frowned. "After being bullied into a suicide attempt, he still has pull? Are his backers ghosts?"
"Uh—" Xian Ge choked, then pivoted: "Him winning helps us. Now there's precedent—next year, it's our turn."
This logic soothed Lin Xia, who soon moved on.
Meanwhile, Little Fruits celebrated their idol's victory across hundreds of group chats, buzzing like a festival—until a group admin suddenly uploaded a file:
[File: Ideal University Survey]
@Everyone "Many Little Fruits are high schoolers (or even middle schoolers). Please edit your dream schools in the file. This orange grove survey is mandatory."
Since the groups often hosted activities, most members didn't mute them.
The timing—hijacking a celebration for academics—dampened moods, but fans complied.
Chu Zhi was now blossoming domestically and abroad: holding his own against the K-wave at home while gaining traction in Korea. Unbeknownst to him, "Great Demon King" hype hadn't faded days later.
The epicenter? #MaskRevealers, a Band subgroup of music teachers, hardcore fans, and minor singers who professionally dissected King of Masked Singer contestants to unmask them early.
Over the show's multi-year run, they'd correctly guessed 20+ singers.
A Chinese singer this skilled? Should've been easy prey.
Yet...
Day 1: No leads.
Day 2: Still nothing.
Day 3: Crickets.
Finally, the group posted their conclusion:
[Theory: Is the 'Great Demon King' even Chinese? Could he be an Italian who speaks Mandarin?]
[Primary Suspect: Carmelo Bruni, heir to Italy's bel canto legacy!]
[His vocal technique is textbook dramatic tenor—astonishing range, flawless tone. This isn't pop singing. Asia has no such 'divinely kissed' voices.]