The "Great Demon King" community was renamed the "Chu Zhi Community," and it came with a fitting introduction:
[Chu Zhi Community – Bio: Chinese idol superstar, possessor of a soul-stirring voice.]
If the discussions were all hate, it wouldn't be noteworthy—but the community was flooded with praise.
"Oppa Chu Zhi is sooooo handsome! A mysterious Chinese flower boy—oh, Cupid's arrow has struck me! My heart can't resist!"
"The moment Oppa took off his mask, I forgot how to breathe."
"His voice and looks are both mesmerizing. When will Oppa hold a concert in Seoul?"
"Why hasn't Café invited Oppa to join the club yet? Are 3.7 million followers not enough?"
Most of these comments came from middle and high school students deep in idol culture. Dongui Bogam? They didn't care. The origins of Korean medicine? Irrelevant. If they got sick, they'd go to a Western doctor anyway.
As for "disrespecting seniors"? Damn, that was cool! Compared to local celebrities who bowed and scraped before their elders, Chu Zhi's defiance was way more attractive—especially with that face. After years of stanning idols, they'd never seen a local star who could compete.
Take GZ, currently the hottest boy group in Southeast Asia and Korea's domestic chart-topper. Their main vocalist, Jo Kwon, had 1.7 million community followers but a whopping 210,000 paid members.
Since Chu Zhi hadn't officially joined, paid memberships weren't available yet. Still, his follower count already placed him third nationwide, trailing only Choi Young-sik (4.2M) and Lee Jaewon (3.94M)—the two leads from the hit drama Diamond.
The key? Chu Zhi's numbers were skyrocketing. Overtaking the top two was only a matter of time. DAUM's executives saw an opportunity.
But his fanbase wasn't just starry-eyed teens—it included others, like:
"I wish I had the Great Demon King's courage. I just got scolded by my manager, team leader, and senior for taking the fall for their mistake."
"Respect seniors? Bullshit. They're just lazy parasites who exploit us."
"Korea should vanish from this world. This toxic workplace hierarchy is beyond saving."
These were the people drawn by mainstream media's condemnation of Chu Zhi—office workers crushed under workplace bullying, students suffocating in rigid school hierarchies.
Desperation breeds rebellion. Some Koreans did fight back against abuse, but most endured in silence—until they either exploded or withered away. Public figures, no matter how famous, never dared cross the line of deference.
Then came Chu Zhi, who fought back on live TV—not just against one senior, but a pack of them. And he didn't just yell; he out-debated them with razor-sharp logic, dropping phrases like "fueling extreme nationalism" like verbal grenades.
Others came purely out of admiration for strength:
"'Great Demon King' is the perfect name. His Оперная is the most jaw-dropping performance in King of Masked Singers' five-year history."
"Forget his god-tier vocals—just his stage presence alone is untouchable. He clearly held back in Herbalist's Manual—drained the whole Yellow Sea with that sandbagging."
"Music has no borders. Talent is talent. The 'Queen of Spin' only won because the Demon King let her."
"Does liking Chu Zhi make me less Korean? Pathetic nationalism."
This was the same logic that made GZ's new fans stan them after their chart domination. Humans instinctively worship excellence, and Оперная proved Chu Zhi had no rivals—not just among his peers, but even among older generations.
With such a diverse fanbase, Chu Zhi was destined to become Café's top star. In the internet age, traffic meant money.
Korea's web portal market was dominated by Naver, Nate, and Yahoo! Korea, leaving DAUM with a measly 10% share. Without its Café communities (especially for celebrities), it would've died long ago.
But money talks. DAUM's CEO offered Taiyang Chuanhe Entertainment 2 billion KRW (≈10 million RMB) to bring Chu Zhi onboard. Taiyang Chuanhe was shocked—a Korean company actually paying them? Most "huge in Korea" claims from Chinese stars were pure marketing. If they were that popular, they'd have endorsements—like DAUM's offer now.
Still, Taiyang Chuanhe stayed professional, forwarding the contract to Chu Zhi's team without interference. Fei Ge, the ad broker, scoffed at the offer. "Cheap bastards. 2 billion KRW? Barely over 10 million RMB."
But after checking local endorsement rates, he realized that was standard. Even Jo Kwon's ads capped at 15 million RMB, and Gianna Jun (Jun Ji-hyun), Korea's endorsement queen, maxed out at 12 million.
DAUM was offering 10 million just for Chu Zhi to join. Their CEO had likely fought tooth and nail to convince shareholders.
"Their market's tiny. What did you expect?" Old Qian shrugged. "That's why K-stars flock to China—to make money."
"Then we'll milk Korea right back," Niu Jiangxue said. "Fei Ge, push for a higher fee. And clarify the membership profit split and image rights."
Fei Ge gave a thumbs-up. Money talks, but he was a pro at squeezing every drop. DAUM knew this deal would put them in the crosshairs, but profit overrode pride. As the saying went:
"With 50% profit, capitalists grow bold; with 100%, they'll trample all laws."
DAUM wasn't breaking any rules—just capitalism at work.
Meanwhile, Niu Jiangxue updated Chu Zhi: "Southern Weekly* wants an interview about King of Masked Singers. Your Korea explosion is making waves back home."*
Of course it was. Chu Zhi was already China's top idol—the only one who could withstand the K-wave. Every move he made trended.
Now he'd sneak-attacked Korea, not just competing but dominating. Whether it was "national pride" or just a flex, China was hyped. Every major outlet wanted a piece of him, but his team had declined—until now.
"Do it," Chu Zhi said. "They gave me two awards before. This interview returns the favor."
Plus, it'd shut down any narrative control from rivals.
After all, there's always someone plotting against the king.