In the past couple of days, "Orange Garden," "Little Fruits," and "Orange Fans" had become the dominant themes across major online platforms. Their sheer activity level was enough to make other fan groups jealous—thankfully, the hype was still manageable.
Among fangirls, there was a type known as "floating fans"—those who didn't stan any particular idol long-term but hopped onto whoever was trending and caught their eye. Chu Zhi had attracted a lot of these floating fans. After all, what fan wouldn't want to be treated the way he treated his supporters?
But even in the midst of all this heartwarming devotion, there were always one or two… special cases. Not because the people themselves were ridiculous, but because their situations were unintentionally hilarious.
Take the Weibo user "Frosty Rain and Mist" (@青霜烟雨), for example. For five days straight, she posted the same desperate plea:
"My original ID was [Qin Wind Like the Past] (@秦风如旧), and I've been supporting Ninth Bro since two years ago! I wasn't the type to comment much, but I still found my little star in the galaxy ceiling! BUT—BUT—I stupidly changed my username recently! After seeing Ninth Bro's livestream, I tried to change it back immediately, but someone else had already taken the name! What kind of cosmic-level bad luck is this?!
@秦风如旧_ PLEASE, I'M BEGGING YOU—if you see this, could you change your name? I'll pay you! I'm just a little unlucky star, kneeling in humble supplication!"
Weibo's rules stated that regular users could only change their ID once a year. But if you paid 15 yuan for a Weibo membership, you got five changes per year. Frosty Rain was a member, so changing her name wasn't unusual—what was unusual was that after she changed it, someone else immediately snatched her old username.
And honestly, "Qin Wind Like the Past" wasn't even that great of a name.
Netizens flooded her post with suggestions—mostly because, despite how heartbreaking this was for Frosty Rain, the whole situation was unintentionally hilarious. Some told her to appeal to Weibo's support team, while others suggested DMing the current @秦风如旧.
She'd already tried both. No reply to her DMs, and appealing to Weibo was pointless—she was frustrated, but not delusional. She'd changed her name voluntarily, and someone else had registered it fair and square. What grounds did she have to complain?
One user, "Summer of Troubles" (@如多事之夏), suggested:
"What if you tweaked it slightly? Like 'Qin Wind Like Wine,' or 'Qin Wind Like the Past .' with a symbol, or swap a character?"
Frosty Rain replied:
"I thought of that too! But it wouldn't be the same name! If it's not the exact name, it's not the same star in the galaxy!"
Summer of Troubles:
"…Damn. You're right. I have no counterargument."
In her desperation, Frosty Rain made another post:
"@秦风如旧_ PLEASE, I'M BEGGING YOU—let's be friends! If you're willing to go through the hassle of changing your name, I'll pay you 5,000 yuan as thanks!"
5,000 yuan.
To put that into perspective: In Chongqing—one of China's least economically competitive municipalities—the average monthly income was around 4,200 yuan. Frosty Rain was offering more than what many people made in a month just for a username.
Naturally, this sparked a wave of reactions:
"5,000 yuan for a name? That's my entire salary! Is this what rich people do?"
"I get it now. Time to hoard usernames and sell them. 🐶"
"We've gone from 'a single word is worth a thousand gold' to 'a single word is worth a thousand yuan.' Digital collectibles, anyone? Fangirls are truly pioneering the future. 🐶"
"I've discovered the blue-ocean industry of the 21st century."
While many comments were sarcastic, some took a more analytical approach. Like "Train Outside the Window" (@窗外的火车), a well-known virtual economy researcher and Global Times columnist, who decided to weigh in with a very unusual take:
"Let me propose a hypothetical scenario—just for fun. Suppose Chu Zhi remains a top-tier domestic idol for the next 10 or 20 years, and no further names are printed. In that case, these 20 million+ Weibo IDs could genuinely become valuable virtual collectibles. Funny coincidence—that's roughly the same as Bitcoin's hard cap."
(Why did Bitcoin have a cap? Because its algorithm only allowed for 21 million possible solutions.)
Train's long post was clearly riding the hype, but it was undeniably interesting, drawing in even non-fandom audiences.
"Let's evaluate this based on four criteria: longevity, recognizability, portability, and scarcity.
Longevity & Portability: As long as Weibo exists and your account isn't banned, your ID lasts forever.
Recognizability: Sure, people can imitate names with symbols or spaces, but the real IDs are the ones physically printed on Chu Zhi's practice room walls.
Scarcity: 20 million sounds like a lot, but compared to China's massive idol market? Not really.
CCTV Finance once estimated 500 million 'celebrity followers' in China—way too high, but even if we conservatively count 150 million (including casual fans), 20 million is a fraction.
Plus, over time, accounts will disappear—people quit Weibo, lose passwords, or get banned. In a few years, maybe only half of those 20 million IDs will still be active."
He even took it a step further:
"What if Chu Zhi goes global? If he becomes an international superstar with hundreds of millions of fans, these IDs could become extremely valuable. Imagine English usernames selling for astronomical prices overseas.
Sure, some might say, 'Buying an ID doesn't mean you were really there.' But what fan could resist owning a piece of history—a name that literally watched over Chu Zhi as he wrote hit songs?
The only downside? Low tradability."
He concluded:
"Of course, this is all hypothetical. No one stays on top in entertainment for decades. Even a few years is rare. As of now, the 'collectible value' is minimal."
This last part rubbed Little Fruits the wrong way. They knew Ninth Bro would stay on his flower path forever!
Meanwhile, at Sun River Entertainment…
CEO Huang Bo and the chubby head of the artist department were not having a good time.
They'd sent Chu Zhi to a variety show, expecting a modest boost in popularity—not this tsunami.
"Wu Tang's online presence can't even suppress Chu Zhi anymore," the department head muttered. "My wife became a fan after seeing that livestream. At this point, an A+ contract won't cut it. We'll need S+."
He was conflicted. On one hand, landing a star like Chu Zhi was a win. On the other, the higher the contract tier, the smaller their cut.
A true capitalist's lament: "Why couldn't he have blown up after signing?!"
Huang Bo shook his head. "S+ might not be enough. We might need to help him set up his own studio."
The department head blinked. "That's… excessive?"
"He writes his own songs. Well," Huang Bo said. He hadn't watched the full livestream, but he'd caught the key moments. "After getting framed, it's like his creative channels exploded. He can compose, write lyrics, and arrange music."
The department head finally understood. Big agencies usually attracted top stars with three things:
—Access to high-quality songs (via industry connections).
—Professional image-building.
—The prestige of a major platform.
But Chu Zhi didn't need the first two. His Dream of the Red Chamber performances proved he could outwrite most of the industry. Even the department head admitted some of those tracks were better than what their company could source.
(Composers and lyricists were picky. Good ones didn't just sell to anyone, no matter the price.)
As for image-building? Whether Chu Zhi's gentle persona was real or not, the department head doubted even their PR team could've engineered something as effective as…
Printing 20 million fan names on a wall.
Was it cheesy? Extremely.
Was it cringe? The department head had nearly dug a three-bedroom apartment out of sheer secondhand embarrassment.
But it worked. Fans loved it.
Chasing idols was like youth itself—full of pointless, awkward, embarrassing gestures that somehow mattered.
So really, the only thing Sun River could offer Chu Zhi now was platform prestige.
Huang Bo suddenly perked up. "His album's free. That's our leverage—he'll need funding for production."
The department head patted his beer belly. "Unless he self-funds…"
Huang Bo opened his mouth to dismiss the idea—who self-funds albums?—but then hesitated.
Given how unpredictably Chu Zhi had acted this past month, even he couldn't tell what the guy was capable of.
Meanwhile, Chu Zhi Himself…
Was busy recording Day 3 of Dream of the Red Chamber, mostly focused on arranging music. Unlike other artists who juggled multiple schedules, he'd spent most of his time at home—much to the relief of his cameraman, Jelly.
Then, out of nowhere—a breakthrough.
After dinner, Chu Zhi lit a cigarette (as usual) and suddenly received two notifications:
[Smoking Emperor]Achievement Unlocked! (Smoked 250 times) → +6 Personality Coins
[Ruthless Spice Devourer]Achievement Unlocked! (Ate spicy food 50 times) → +5 Personality Coins
Combined with his existing balance of 5 coins, he now had 16—enough for three blind box draws.
Staring at the number, a certain TV quote popped into his head:
"Old Li has never fought a battle this well-funded before."