Whether it was PTSD or situational phobia, one thing was clear—both conditions made sufferers avoid performing.
Yet Chu Zhi had done the opposite: "Though ten thousand stand against me, I will go."
A seasoned alcoholic who saw the video commented: "Twenty years of drinking experience here. I can identify any liquor at a glance. That's Luzhou Laojiao Tequ, a strong-aroma 52% ABV—decent stuff. Chu Zhi downed half a bottle in three or four gulps. A standard bottle is 500ml, so that's half a jin (250ml) in one go. Even in our hardcore drinking circles, that's wild. No snacks, nothing? You don't drink like that—it wrecks your stomach!"
When Little Fruits saw the PTSD analysis and the warnings about alcohol damaging vocal cords and stomachs, they were devastated.
"Awooo! My Ninth Master suffers too much! My heart hurts!"
"Cried all morning—my eyes are swollen. Ninth Master, please take care of yourself!"
"Protect the best Chu Zhi in the world! Hua Liu is the greatest! As a Little Fruit, I refuse to listen to any Korean songs now!"
"Why so much responsibility? The China-Japan-Korea concert is in a few months—let the national team veterans handle it. You don't need to go, Jiu-zai!"
"I'll pay for A-Jiu's nutritionist and therapist!"
The "mom fans" erupted, demanding to fund additions to his team—nutritionists, sleep therapists, masseuses, you name it.
Mom fans were the most heartbroken. Their "child" was impossibly mature yet self-sacrificing, and his talent was so formidable it practically counted as bringing glory to the nation. Unlike student fans, who expressed their love through writing or online posts, mom fans showed love directly: "What do you lack? I'll give it to you."
At first, Taiyang Chuanhe Entertainment didn't notice anything unusual. The hot search trend seemed like great PR—until CEO Huang Bo received several private calls.
He was the CEO, not a manager!
His number wasn't listed for business inquiries. Even industry insiders struggled to get it unless they were high-level.
The mom fans calling him? Not ordinary people. Huang Bo had no choice but to oblige—especially when one caller had ties to the General Administration.
Huang Bo had clawed his way up from nothing in the entertainment industry, founding Taiyang Chuanhe Entertainment through sheer grit. He'd weathered every storm—but Chu Zhi's influence was unprecedented.
"They're really going all out. Ma Weihao, world champion in massage, formerly a skills consultant at Changle Foot Therapy. Morton Winston, a Hollywood A-lister's nutritionist. Damn, this'll cost a fortune yearly."
Ma Weihao was 31; Morton was a British-Chinese mix. Hiring them would cost hundreds of thousands annually—but the mom fans covered it.
Why was this situation almost impossible for other celebrities? Because once you climbed the social ladder, gaining wealth and connections, you saw the industry's underbelly.
Forget scandals—just learning how different stars were off-camera could be disillusioning. (e.g., aloof persona on-screen, foul-mouthed in private.)
But the Acting Emperor, Chu Zhi, was different. He delivered a 360° flawless idol experience—what's that called? Fan service perfected.
Chu Zhi had no private life to undermine his persona. He lived it inside and out. Every time fans, strangers, friends, or even his team bought into his image, it was like honey to him. Even his own team—Niu Niu, Old Qian, etc.—believed he was that rare, genuinely kind and gentle artist. Mom fans couldn't be more satisfied.
Huang Bo couldn't reveal the mom fans' contributions (they'd requested anonymity). So he spun it as a company reward: "For outstanding performance, we're expanding Chu Zhi's team with a masseuse and nutritionist."
Before Chu Zhi got wind of his new team members, a meeting was underway.
Two rules governed business:
—Where there's demand, there's supply—no matter how niche.
—No permanent enemies—only permanent profits.
Everyone knew this. Yet when JYP Entertainment (GZ Boy Group's agency) offered to distribute Chu Zhi's albums in Korea, it was baffling.
Weren't they mortal enemies? Had the company surrendered before the battle?
"JYP's proposal notes 27115 Possibilities is free in China but could be monetized in Korea," Niu Jiangxue said. "Things just got interesting."
"JYP embodies the mercenary spirit. I follow their girl groups—they're too hardworking," Old Qian (precious metal rhodium-cesium-beryllium) said, adjusting his glorious hairline. "Last year's solo debut album sales record was 410K. Ninth Master's Cafe paid members alone are nearing 400K."
"If they'll pay 10,000 KRW monthly for Cafe, they'll spend 20,000 KRW on an album. Sales could hit 400K–500K, smashing solo male records. Money talks—JYP isn't ashamed."
(20,000 KRW ≈ 100 RMB. Despite streaming dominance, Korea's physical album market still thrived—GZ's last album sold over 1M.)
"Releasing albums in Korea means more people hear A-Jiu's music. Good deal," Wang Yuan mused.
The team agreed: Why pass up free money? Korean leeks were thick and begging to be harvested.
Wang Yuan opened Instagram, showing the team Korean comments (translated via app).
Instagram—Facebook's photo-sharing app—was like Weibo + Xiaohongshu. Accounts with 50M+ followers were usually Hollywood stars or U.S.-based musicians, proving America's cultural hegemony.
Oddly, Chinese celebs' Instagrams felt more personal than their corporate-managed Weibos. (Even in this parallel world, e.g., Jay Chou skipped Weibo but posted casual life snippets on IG.)
Chu Zhi was the exception—both platforms were team-run for maximum leek harvesting. His last post (1 day ago):
@eat_a_little_orange: ["King of Masked Singer* performance was subpar."]*
A Korean netizen replied: "PTSD?! That god-tier stage was done while mentally unwell? Unbelievable."