Finally finding a moment to breathe, Chu Zhi glanced around his spacious 200-square-meter house in Shanghai. The Nordic-style decor was topped with a constellation crystal chandelier, and the sloped ceiling was supported by exposed wooden beams.
His gaze drifted downward—the paintings on the walls, the display cabinets filled with curios, and the exhibits in the corners were all high-end. From memory, the coffee table in front of him, a geometric combination of triangles and irregular rectangles, had a steep 90-degree surface, barely functional beyond holding a teacup. More symbolic than practical, it cost 118,000 yuan.
"The sofa is from Germany's UeberStil, with its black-and-white-gray linear aesthetic. I made a lot of money at my peak, but even I couldn't bring myself to buy something like this in my past life."
Behind the artistic coffee table was where the TV wall should have been, but it had been hollowed out into a display cabinet for trophies and certificates: "2018 iQiyi Scream Night Rookie of the Year," "2019 Douyin Star Movement Night Hotlist Star," "2019 Weibo Night Most Influential Artist," and more—all awards only within reach of a top-tier star.
To the left of the living room was a professional vocal studio, barely used. After his rise to fame, his schedule had been divided into 30-minute blocks, with airplanes and company vans becoming his real home.
It was a great place, but it was about to be sold off. Chu Zhi had sorted it out—this house was already slated for bank auction to pay off his debts.
He fetched a broom and mop from the storage room to clean up the vomit from earlier. He couldn't help but admire the original owner—even in the depths of despair, on the verge of suicide, he had kept the place tidy. Takeout containers and trash were neatly packed.
As he familiarized himself with everything, Chu Zhi found a brief suicide note in his phone's memos:
[I'm sorry. I don't think I can hold on any longer. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I wasn't kept by a sugar mommy, and I'm not secretly married. Please believe me. I beg you.]
It was addressed to his main agent, Sister Feng. The original Chu Zhi's parents had been civil servants who died in an operation when he was ten. Raised by his grandfather, he lost him last year to liver cancer. His suicide wasn't just due to his agency abandoning him—it was also the crushing loneliness of having no family left.
"Capital destroys people without shedding blood, making it hard to hold anyone legally accountable," Chu Zhi muttered to himself. He began formulating a rough plan: on one hand, he'd report the slander to the police; on the other, he'd take back everything he'd lost.
First, he needed to earn two Personality Coins and draw another reward as his trump card. From the system's list, eating spicy food and getting drunk were achievable tasks.
Second, he needed a public appearance—not an interview, since his current "speechless" state meant no media outlet would give him a platform.
He had to return to the public eye, or none of this would matter.
"Lastly, if you don't kill the tiger, it'll come back to bite you. I also need to watch out for Da Hua Entertainment. If I were the mastermind behind this smear campaign, I'd keep pressing until the original Chu Zhi was buried for good." His situation was dire—stuck in quicksand, with wolves ahead and tigers behind. Staying still meant death, but moving might hasten it.
[Sorry, bro. Can't help with this one.]
[Let's talk next time. Don't drag me into this—I'm just a program director trying to feed my family. The station head would kill me.]
[Lay low for a while. The internet has no memory. You can make a comeback later.]
...
Chu Zhi scrolled through the WeChat messages and call logs—most went unanswered or were outright rejected. The original Chu Zhi had tried calling in favors, but his so-called friends had all fled. A few genuinely wanted to help but lacked the means.
One message, pinned at the top of his WeChat, stood out. The sender's nickname was "Disciple of the Great Cat."
[Ninth Brother, I looked into it. The 'sugar mommy' exposed online is just a director at a listed company—she doesn't have the connections or money to keep a top star. As for the 'secret marriage' scandal, I couldn't find any info on the woman involved, but I believe you were framed.] —June 14
[Why isn't the company issuing a statement?] —June 19
[The agency's acting shady. If possible, you should address this publicly. I know it takes courage, but letting these rumors fester will make people believe them.] —June 22
And so on. The Disciple sent messages every few days—first analyzing rationally, then shifting to comfort as the situation worsened.
The most recent message read: [If you want, you can visit my hometown. Shaxi Town is quiet, with great scenery. It might help you relax.]
The original Chu Zhi hadn't replied, but he'd pinned the chat to remind himself that someone still believed in him.
From his memories, Chu Zhi knew that the Disciple wasn't a close friend—just a good acquaintance. Yet, amid the online witch hunt, he'd been the most supportive.
"Adversity reveals true friends," Chu Zhi mused.
The second part of his plan—securing a public appearance—seemed nearly impossible under current circumstances.
"But there's a trump card the original Chu Zhi overlooked." He pulled up Sister Feng's number in his contacts.
The first call went unanswered. After waiting over ten minutes with no callback, he tried again. Just as the automated "The number you dialed is unavailable..." message was about to play, the call connected.
"Sorry, I was in a meeting earlier," Sister Feng apologized upfront.
"No worries," Chu Zhi cut to the chase. "Sister Feng, can the agency arrange an appearance for me? Preferably a singing gig."
"...It's not that I won't help, but in your current state, what program would take you?" She sighed before adopting a brighter tone. "We already agreed—once things calm down, the company will arrange something. Pushing me won't change anything."
"I'm willing to terminate my contract voluntarily—on the condition that the agency arranges an appearance for me," Chu Zhi said.
Under standard contracts, if an artist's personal conduct damages the company's reputation or finances, the agency can terminate the agreement and even sue for losses.
But when Kangfei Entertainment had signed Chu Zhi at the peak of his Future Idol fame, they'd offered generous terms to secure a rising star. One clause stood out: Unless Chu Zhi initiated termination, Kangfei couldn't cancel the contract.
Now, with his reputation in tatters, Chu Zhi was a liability. That ironclad contract had become a burden. Using it as leverage to secure an appearance was his best shot.
Sister Feng fell silent, her words dying in her throat. Only her breathing came through the line.
"...I'll ask Director Zhang," she finally said.
"Thanks, Sister Feng."
The call ended. Chu Zhi opened a food delivery app. This world had its own versions of Meituan and Ele.me. He ordered two bottles of red wine and a spread of Zigong-style dishes.
Zigong cuisine, a branch of Sichuan fare, was famous for its salty-spicy flavors. Beer hangovers brought headaches, but wine was gentler—perfect for earning those Personality Coins.
Half an hour later, the food arrived. Still no callback from the agency. A flicker of anxiety rose in Chu Zhi, but he quickly steadied himself. Negotiations took time.
The delivery guy, out of habit, left the order at the door. For two months, the original Chu Zhi had been too afraid to face anyone—even takeout workers. He'd wait until the coast was clear before retrieving his food.
Before drinking, Chu Zhi downed a glass of milk and some congee to cushion his stomach. Then he dug into the spicy rabbit and frog dishes, the heat searing his senses.
As expected, Kangfei Entertainment had called an emergency meeting. Executives argued loudly, each pushing their own agenda.
"Terminate the contract ASAP—he's dragging down our other artists!"
"What's the talent department doing? A cash cow turned into a liability overnight!"
"Talent department? Don't pin this on us! Where was PR's risk management plan?"
The shouting match lasted an hour, with tea cups being refilled multiple times. Finally, Director Zhang slammed the table.
"I was the one who pushed to sign him. We've made plenty off him these past two years—no losses yet. I'll handle the termination. Find a suitable resource for him."
The room fell silent. With someone taking responsibility, the blame game stopped. Director Zhang maintained his composure, but inwardly scoffed. "These old foxes just didn't want to make the call."
The resource team moved fast. Sister Feng called back as soon as she got the green light.
"The company secured you a spot as a replacement guest on I Am a Singer."
"I'll come in tomorrow to sign the termination papers," Chu Zhi replied promptly.
"Make it tomorrow. You can sign the Singer contract then too," Sister Feng said.
The company wanted this over with—if not for the late hour, they'd have rushed it today.
"Deal." After agreeing, Chu Zhi deliberately softened his voice, injecting a hint of vulnerability. "Sister Feng... was there an issue with the company's crisis management?"
"Our PR protocols are professional. Nothing was mishandled," Sister Feng said defensively. "You were the company's flagship artist—of course we wanted you to succeed. This scandal came out of nowhere. The backlash was beyond anyone's predictions."
"...Okay."
She wasn't about to let the company—or herself—take the blame.
The court of public opinion was fickle and uncontrollable. If anyone was at fault, it was fate. Sister Feng had a whole speech ready about how the company had done nothing wrong, but she held back. Falling from heaven to hell was punishment enough. At 21—barely out of college—he was pitiable.
After a pause, her tone gentled. "I've been your agent for two years. I'll do one last thing for you—pull some strings to ensure Mango TV treats you fairly. At the very least, no malicious editing."
"Thank you." Chu Zhi let his voice tremble, as if on the verge of tears. "You're the only one who's helped me since this started."
"...Get some rest."
"Don't be late to Mango TV. Things aren't like before."
"And don't piss off the music director."
After hanging up, the words "the only one" lingered in Sister Feng's ears. Against her better judgment, she called a producer she knew at the show. Over a decade in the industry had its perks.
Once done, she muttered to herself, "Chu Zhi's singing was always mediocre, and he never showed much creativity. His looks were his meal ticket. Now that his reputation's ruined, even his face is a liability. At this point, no show can save him."
An artist's team typically included a main agent, executive agents, film/TV agents, and commercial agents. At his peak, Chu Zhi had three commercial agents. Unbeknownst to him, his team had disbanded the moment the scandal broke. But that was a story for another time.
Currently, four music shows dominated China's entertainment scene:
—I Am a Singer
—Masked Singer
—Future Idol
—The Voice of China
Kangfei had first tried Masked Singer. The show's production director at Lychee TV had laughed: "Chu Zhi? You're joking. We don't want our show canceled. Cut your losses and move on."
So they'd settled for I Am a Singer on Mango TV—already midway through its season—by trading more resources.