Peking opera performer Wang Ti posted: "...My teacher said Chu Zhi's Qingyi performance still lacks precision in vocal control and footwork. But with just a little training, he could outperform my teacher. Those were her exact words."
Opera actor Hao Chuan followed up: "What did I just witness?!"
Wu Yuxi: "Honestly, Chu Zhi's singing career feels like a waste of talent."
Zhang Lidi: "I apologize. I may not be fully updated on the whole 'opera revival' movement, but the moment Mr. Chu opened his mouth, I was stunned."
Surprisingly, the first to be shaken weren't the audience, but the opera professionals themselves. Casual viewers were dazzled by the spectacle. Insiders, though—they saw the substance.
Peking opera had evolved over generations. With the rise of film and variety shows, it hadn't produced another sensation who could shake the capital. But thanks to modern medicine and a growing understanding of human anatomy, training in opera had become increasingly refined. Scientific methods were now used for everything from vocal techniques to core training.
It was like watching a sprinter from the 1940s. Their methods might look unpolished to modern athletes—awkward starts, strange arm movements, and less structured practice routines. But some still broke the ten-second barrier. That was terrifying.
That was exactly how today's opera performers felt watching Chu Zhi's two short Qingyi performances: unpolished, yes, but astonishingly good. It defied logic.
Among the Peking opera scene's most popular faces was Ba Ying, widely beloved on iQIYI. Another rising star was a young woman who performed laosheng roles and had gone viral through variety shows.
"Ahem, Mr. Chu Zhi_@EatingABigOrange, could you sing 'The Unicorn Purse' sometime? I really love that piece."
The fools were still reeling. The smart ones had already started tagging Chu Zhi with song requests. That was the kind of fast-thinking that had made Ba Ying a prodigy since childhood.
When he sent the performance video to his master, Master Hu—the third-generation inheritor of the Mei school—even Hu offered rare and glowing praise. In fact, he was so impressed that he planned to send it to the current head of the Cheng school's Qingyi line.
Meanwhile, in the shadows, those who had been waiting gleefully for Chu Zhi to fall from grace—the "rats in the gutter"—braced for the satisfying crash.
But when the episode aired, all they got was an avalanche of praise.
Praise wasn't the problem. Throw enough money around, and even the worst performance could be hyped as an "acting breakthrough" or "deeply emotional dialogue."
But true quality? Anyone could see it.
He's only this good because of a fat budget, right?
Chu Zhi's fans—his "Little Fruits"—had always supported him. But even they thought his appearance would be a stylized nod to opera. No one expected a genuine Cheng-style Qingyi performance that left even professionals applauding.
It was like Wu Jing tap-dancing on a milk-tea commercial: absolutely wild.
"You can always count on Ninth Brother's skills. Handsome, kind to fans, and so ridiculously talented. How can one person be like this?"
"My grandpa's in his seventies. He never cared for pop stars, but after hearing 'The New Drunken Concubine,' he came over and asked me what the song was called. Said it was beautiful. I never imagined I could find common ground with my grandpa through music."
"I wasn't a fan before. I was a die-hard opera fan. I was furious when I saw the promo—thought this was some pop clown trying to mooch off our tradition. But after watching it... turns out I was the clown. His movements were like flowing water, and he was so beautiful I couldn't breathe."
"Sniff... my tears of emotion just slipped out through my mouth. Sob sob sob... Ninth Brother works too hard... I'm so touched."
"Sis upstairs, is that really emotion? Let's be honest, you're just thirsty for his body. How can you be like this? Isn't it unfair to call my husband hot in public?!"
"Girl, go eat some weird-flavored beans and chill..."
Chu Zhi's performance as a Qingyi didn't just attract new fans. It was a full-blown conquest. He had even ensnared young people who'd never cared about celebrities.
More importantly, his name recognition was exploding. Li Yugang might not be as well-known among Gen Z, but among the older generation, his name had real weight.
Put another way, stars like Lu Han or Zhang Yixing might dominate traffic metrics, but in terms of national familiarity, someone like Jet Li still outclassed them.
National familiarity comes in two ways. One, you grow old alongside your fans—like Andy Lau, who's been consistent for decades.
Two, you create something that even your parents and grandparents enjoy. That one's rare. There's a group that actually pulled it off: Phoenix Legend.
Maintaining popularity while expanding your reach—Chu Zhi was navigating that path with steady precision.
Wang Ti, who was both a fan and a trained performer, didn't even watch the remaining four acts in the show. Her feelings were already boiling over.
"Ninth Brother's vocal studies go way too deep. His learning ability is just insane. No wonder those online rumors say, 'Chu Zhi only sleeps four or five hours a night and spends the rest of the time studying.'"
At first, Wang Ti had dismissed those rumors as delusional fan exaggeration. But now she believed them.
Even with talent, a performance of that caliber demanded ruthless training. After watching the finals, she felt it in her bones. If someone told her that Chu Zhi stayed up all night studying, she'd believe it without hesitation.
"But only four or five hours of sleep a day... how is his body holding up?" she wondered. His depression surely hadn't gone away completely.
The Chu Zhi she was worried about, however, was doing just fine. In fact, he was still grinding—sorry, studying. He was buried in work, pen flying across the page.
Anyone who entered Chu Zhi's study would be stunned. His system-generated knowledge packs were too complete. Each song even had actual handwritten drafts.
With his recent lucky draw, Chu Zhi had acquired a "Dead Pig Miracle Pill" that extended his study sessions from three hours to five. Of course, he still took breaks for rest and fun.
His idea of fun was a bit unusual—reading how people praised him online. Especially the heartfelt messages from fans who worried about him. Feeling like an emperor beast in disguise, Chu Zhi read the compliments, refreshed, and went right back to studying.
"All right, done. That's enough translation work for today. I'm wiped out." Chu Zhi stretched and leaned back in his chair.
In addition to studying Chinese culture, he maintained fluency in English and Japanese by occasionally translating classical Chinese literature into both languages.
His current project? Bai Pu's selected plays—he was working on an English version of On the Wall, Atop the Horse.
To be honest, Chu Zhi knew many celebrities tried to fake a "genius scholar" persona. Weak. Give him a few more years of quiet development, and he could become a full-fledged poet or literary scholar.
"Let's see what my darling little fans are up to today," he said, checking the updates on Orange Home.
He saw many who had made good on their wishes—last month was exam season, and quite a few Little Fruits had passed their high school or college entrance exams and returned to collect their stars.
Not a huge number yet, since the app hadn't been out long. But next year? The numbers would grow.
"Oh right, I think I just figured out another way to win hearts," Chu Zhi mused. In a few months, he would write a song dedicated to students preparing for their entrance or art exams.
Songs like "Dream Chaser's Heart," "Snail," or "My Future Is Not a Dream" came to mind. He rubbed his chin. Yes, that could work. That could really work.
He logged into his alt account and browsed Weibo—
"You might not know this, but even I have to admit, Chu Zhi's looks are on another level."—Posted by Hong Kong-based Chu Zhi.
"There's a soul behind those eyes. His beauty seeps into your bones."—Posted by Lake City Chu Zhi.
Both had posted screenshots of Chu Zhi in his Qingyi costume. Chu Zhi rubbed his chin again. On Earth, "Daniel Wu" had become synonymous with male beauty—a name turned into an adjective.
And now, "Chu Zhi" was following the same path.