Even though Little Mango Tea Party Invitation was the only interview-style program on Mango TV, hosted by the highly reputable Huang Youru, its average viewership per episode hovered around 14 million—roughly one-tenth of the platform's flagship variety shows. Who's the Murderer, for example, averaged 150 million views per episode, an insurmountable gap.
Breaking into the top five was nearly impossible, let alone claiming the top spot. Mango TV simply had too many hit variety shows: Who's the Murderer (Season 5), Happy Camp, Great Escape (Season 2), Back to Field (Season 3), and Detective Academy (Season 4). These five programs had firmly entrenched audiences, with even the lowest-performing episodes pulling in over 30 million views. Xiaomang Tea Party Invitation was perpetually stuck in sixth place.
But the episode featuring Chu Zhi successfully propelled the show into the top three in terms of popularity on the app.
This surge in viewership wasn't due to stealing audiences from other shows but rather an influx of new users. The app's operations team was even startled—the pulling effect was equivalent to dropping a breakout hit variety show out of nowhere.
What choice did users have? Most casual observers had no interest in downloading yet another app, but Little Mango Tea Party Invitation was an exclusive, in-house production.
The moment the episode aired at 9 PM, a barrage of comments flooded the screen:
"Here to see this—I think the whole 'being kept' thing is fake."
"Let's see how they try to whitewash this."
"Orange (Chu Zhi's nickname), let's just focus on ourselves!"
"I like his music, but not him as a person."
"Just own up to it. It might've been a momentary lapse. There aren't many good singers left in the industry anyway."
"Ninth Master (another nickname for Chu Zhi), we're here for you!"
Casual viewers didn't realize the gravity of the situation, but the comments revealed that Chu Zhi's three-step strategy had completely overturned public perception.
During the interview, Huang Youru's aggressive questioning style made many of Chu Zhi's fans—affectionately called "Little Fruits"—anxious. The comments grew chaotic as fans rushed to defend their idol, while some onlookers chose to block the barrage or simply enjoy the drama.
But as Chu Zhi methodically presented his evidence—class records from school, a three-month itinerary, and full-day schedules—the tide began to turn. Credit had to be given to Su Shangbai, nicknamed "Disciple of the Big Cat," for preparing an airtight chain of evidence. He even anticipated nitpickers, such as those who might argue, "What if Li Tingyu changed her name?"
Comments like these flooded the screen:
"Any connected netizens who can verify this?"
"I don't know about the school records, but Chu Zhi's schedule seems legit."
"It's legit. Back then, he was a top-tier celebrity—reporters camped out daily to track his movements. Plenty of photos can serve as his alibi."
"LOL 'alibi'—we're not in a courtroom here!"
"Is it possible Chu Zhi genuinely didn't know Li Tingyu…?"
If the itinerary was merely supporting evidence, the flight and high-speed rail records were the smoking gun. These documents bore official seals—both airlines and rail services are state-owned enterprises, making forged documents easily verifiable. Even if someone had the connections to fake them, the question remained: if Chu Zhi had that kind of influence, why would he have endured such vicious online attacks?
The casual viewers in the comments dwindled, leaving only the "Little Fruits" expressing heartbreak for their idol and hurling curses at Li Tingyu. The silence from neutral observers stemmed from their initial assumptions—they'd expected Chu Zhi to use the show to whitewash his image or tearfully apologize to salvage his career. Few had considered the possibility that he might actually be innocent. At most, they'd thought Li Tingyu might share some blame, but Chu Zhi would still bear the majority.
No one had anticipated that he was entirely unjust—a classic case of being framed. This wasn't "whitewashing," because whitewashing implies admitting wrongdoing and then reshaping public perception. Chu Zhi was simply proving his innocence. Faced with facts that contradicted their assumptions, many viewers struggled to process them.
Next came the clarification about the "being kept" scandal. This time, there was surveillance footage, and the show even made a live call to expose the ugly truth behind the gossip accounts.
Comments erupted:
"Damn, this 'Manager Zhao' is disgusting. Thank goodness Huang Youru has sharp claws."
"Taking things out of context! The full video shows Chu Zhi dropping someone off at the hotel entrance and immediately leaving. But those scumbags only posted the split-second photo at the door."
"Don't be like Bailamen (the gossip account). Chu Zhi is genuinely tragic—he did nothing wrong but got dragged for two months?"
"Uh… actually, it's worse. All his endorsements and gigs were canceled. Some YouTuber calculated he must've lost a ton in compensation."
One comment, from a user named "Black Leaf Alvin," stood out:
"Falsely accused despite doing nothing wrong—now I understand why Chu Zhi sounded so desperate during the semifinals. Who wouldn't be? Finally getting a chance to sing, only to be drowned in hate. I get it. But how, in those two months of utter despair, did he still manage to write a song like 'Against the Light,' meant to inspire others?
'The Wind Blows the Wheat' is also full of gentle, beautiful lyrics and melodies.
Why? If this happened to me, I'd either become bitter or drown in grief. How did he do it?"
Black Leaf Alvin's question struck a chord, leaving many viewers speechless.
Yeah, why?
Think about it—being be accused by even one person is infuriating, especially when you can't explain yourself. Now imagine ten, a hundred, a thousand, tens of thousands of people accusing you. It's unthinkable.
Soon, the answer came from Chu Zhi's responses to Huang Youru's questions:
"Maybe because I'm Chu Zhi. Or maybe I didn't earn enough trust from the audience, which led to this situation." (On his current circumstances.)
"I hope there's less misunderstanding in the world. I especially don't want what happened to me to happen to anyone else, because that feeling is too uncomfortable." (His message to the audience.)
The comments section exploded with reactions:
"Wuwuwuwu…"
"I'm literally crying…"
"555555…"
"What kind of angel is this??"
One comment, from a user named "Xixi Fell Asleep Again," perfectly captured the sentiment:
"I was once a Little Fruit—I remember clearly that Ninth Brother's (Chu Zhi) old style was electronic dance music. 'The Wind Blows the Wheat' and 'Against the Light' are completely different. It's obvious these songs were written during the two months he was being torn apart online.
After enduring such suffering, he still wrote songs to give others strength. Like he said at the end: 'I especially don't want what happened to me to happen to anyone else.' Knowing how it feels to be misunderstood, he doesn't want others to experience it. Who, in the face of suffering, thinks of others first?
Do people like this really exist?
Yes. Ninth Brother proved it when he sang 'Against the Light' in the semifinals—even for those who hated him, he still wished they could find light.
If anyone is gentle to the core, the first person I'd think of is Ninth Brother.
'Ninth Brother, can you please care about yourself for once?'"
If the broadcast of I Am a Singer's semifinals was like a torpedo explosion, then the airing of LittleMango Tea Party Invitation was the equivalent of 36,000 torpedos detonating in succession.