Chapter Sixty-Six: The Turbulence Subsides (Double-Length)

The original title of this song, "Reliance," was Jay Chou's "Exclamation Mark." Zhou Miao made a few modifications; in the original, Jay Chou's pronunciation of "wo kao" comes out more like "wa kao," and at first listen, it even sounds a bit like "wa giao." As a result, what was supposed to be a stirring and passionate song unexpectedly comes across as somewhat comical. Zhou Miao took special care to correct the pronunciation, making the overall momentum of the song even fiercer and more impactful than the original.

Yet after listening, netizens weren't preoccupied with how good the song was or how powerful the arrangement sounded. Instead, they wondered: How is Zhou Miao so bold? Isn't he afraid at all?

The top-liked comment in the replies offered the most perfect answer to this question: "If I could have written a song like this at eighteen, I’d dare to climb onto the heads of the Golden Melody Awards judges and take a dump!"

It was only then that everyone suddenly remembered—Zhou Miao is only eighteen this year! Whose youth at eighteen isn't filled with such unbridled ambition, a sense of righteousness, and an inability to tolerate the slightest injustice? With this in mind, Zhou Miao’s often brash and over-the-top remarks and actions instantly seemed reasonable. Just as the top comment said, if any of them had composed so many popular classics and joined the ranks of top idols at eighteen, maybe they’d be a hundred times more arrogant than him.

After all, what's youth without a little wildness?

With the shift in public opinion, the direction of events began to turn in Zhou Miao’s favor. It was at this moment that Zhou Miao’s almost terrifying popularity with the general public truly became apparent. The words he uttered at the Golden Melody Awards—if any other internet celebrity had said them, they’d have been hounded into silence by netizens. But seeing that the prevailing winds had fully reversed, even those behind the scenes, however reluctant, had no choice but to withdraw for now. Their initial plan had been to use this opportunity to crush Zhou Miao and then extend a helping hand, forcing him into compliance. Who would have thought that Zhou Miao would refuse to play along, forging ahead under pressure and breaking through, while the Golden Melody Awards themselves ended up embroiled in scandal and turning resentful.

Not only did the incident fail to achieve its intended purpose, it actually propelled Zhou Miao’s popularity to new heights—his fame was practically on fire. The most direct measure: Zhou Miao’s Super Topic on Weibo had soared to the very top, leaving the second place trailing far behind.

Of course, part of this surge was due to the Golden Melody Awards incident, but Zhou Miao’s own popularity had already reached the standard of a top celebrity. With his creative abilities, his staying power far exceeded that of any other idol, and with his level of fame, if he so wished, he could easily become the highest-earning entertainer in all of China.

How enviable—how could Zuo Qiu’s luck be so good?

As the Golden Melody Awards controversy gradually faded, Zhou Miao’s life finally returned to normal. He spent the following days catching up on all the coursework he’d missed. Unlike other departments, the composition department had a heavier workload and more assignments.

Fortunately, Guan Yu often gave him extra, in-depth tutoring, so Zhou Miao’s progress was actually faster than that of his classmates—but he still had to make up all the missed assignments.

It had to be said—composition truly is a discipline that requires talent. The same assignment that Zhou Miao completed with ease would leave some students wracking their brains in vain, begging everyone they knew for help or reference materials.

To maintain good relations, Zhou Miao prepared premium tea leaves as gifts for each of his subject teachers. As a public figure, he was destined to miss many classes, so maintaining good rapport with the faculty was essential. The teachers understood and, coupled with Guan Yu’s influence, were happy to accept the tea—at the very least, this meant his attendance grade would not suffer.

Meanwhile, to thank the fans for their efforts in steering public opinion during this period, Zuo Qiu decided to organize a fan meeting for Zhou Miao. The event was set in a grand theater in Beijing, with a maximum capacity of two thousand.

The moment tickets were released, they sold out instantly. Countless fans offered high prices to obtain them, but no one was willing to sell—after all, seeing Zhou Miao in person was a rare opportunity.

On Sunday at 2 p.m., Zhou Miao arrived at the Beijing Grand Theater, only to find the place packed beyond belief with fans. Although only two thousand had secured official spots, at least four thousand more crowded outside, creating such chaos that even the traffic police had to come and maintain order.

Seeing the commotion, Zhou Miao quickly instructed the staff to let as many fans inside as possible, regardless of the official limit—whoever could fit in was welcome.

When Zhou Miao finally stepped out from backstage onto the theater stage, he was utterly stunned by the sight before him. The entire theater was overflowing with people—every seat taken, every aisle packed, the crowd pressing forward so much that it seemed they could climb right onto the stage with just a push.

At that moment, Zhou Miao finally understood what it meant to be the center of attention. The scene was enough to set anyone’s heart racing.

As soon as he appeared, the thousands of fans erupted into screams, so loud that Zhou Miao’s eardrums hurt. “Alright, alright, stop shouting, my ears hurt,” he called out, prompting laughter from the crowd.

Rubbing his nose, Zhou Miao admitted, “Uh, I’m very happy to meet everyone. I’ve always wanted to interact face-to-face, but I’ve been busy and never had the chance. I’ll try to make more time for you in the future.”

“A lot has happened recently, as you all know. I’m very grateful for your support online, so to express my thanks, I’ve prepared a small gift for you—an autographed album.”

At this, he slapped his forehead, recalling, “Right, I only prepared two thousand albums since I thought there’d be two thousand people. I didn’t expect so many fans to show up today. So, those who win the draw can collect theirs first—anyone who doesn’t get one, just leave your address and I’ll mail it to you myself, free of charge.”

“Alright!” “Miao, I love you!” echoed the fans.

Seeing everyone was about to start shouting again, Zhou Miao quickly motioned for silence.

“I also want to take this opportunity to say a few things. I’ve noticed that many of you are working hard every day to boost my stats and rankings on Weibo, almost like it’s a full-time job. Honestly, I get tired just watching, and there’s really no need—none of it benefits me.”

“I don’t need those numbers to prove my ability or popularity. To be a bit braggy, the brands lining up to ask me for endorsements could stretch from here to my school,” Zhou Miao said dramatically.

The fans burst out laughing—imagine how many brands that would be!

“But so far, I’ve only accepted one endorsement—Cute Duo. Partly because I’m too busy, and partly because I’m being selective. So there’s no need to worry about me not getting endorsements,” Zhou Miao continued sincerely.

“Also, apart from my albums, don’t spend a cent on me!” Here, Zhou Miao’s expression grew serious.

“You all know my family’s situation—I’m not short on money. I receive a lot of expensive gifts from fans at the company, but there’s really no need for that. I’ve returned them all.”

“I hope I won’t receive such gifts in the future. I don’t need those things, so please spread the word among yourselves when you go back.”

Zhou Miao’s stance was clear. While the fans understood, they were a bit lost—if they didn’t boost stats, buy rankings, or spend money, what should they do as fans?

The president of Zhou Miao’s fan club voiced this question.

Zhou Miao countered, “Do you really have to do something as a fan? I like many artists too, but I’ve never boosted their rankings—at most, I occasionally check their news.”

“Look at yourselves—you treat being a fan as your main job. That’s exhausting. Just liking someone in your heart is enough; there’s no need to go chasing after them. Besides, you’ll never catch me.”

He paused, asking, “Remember what I once said at a press conference?”

The fans looked awkward—of course they remembered. Back then, his words, “You don’t really think following a celebrity means you have a chance to marry them, do you?” had shattered many hearts.

“I still feel the same. Be rational about fandom—don’t lose yourself in it.”

“Stars are meant to be admired, not chased.”

To further encourage his fans to be easygoing in their fandom, Zhou Miao made a pact: If his Super Topic ranking fell below the top 50, he would release a new song; if it stayed there for a month, he’d appear on a variety show; if it stayed there for a year, he’d drop a new album.

Seeing the fans’ delighted faces, Zhou Miao was deeply gratified. Eradicating toxic fan culture starts with me.

After that, Zhou Miao performed several gentle love songs from his album. He even indulged the fans’ somewhat excessive request to sing “Sweetness,” a song he’d originally meant to retire forever.

When the singing ended, staff brought out large boxes filled with albums. Fans lined up to collect theirs, get them signed, and take photos with Zhou Miao.

“Miao, can I give you a hug?” one fan asked.

Zhou Miao looked helpless—by the time she asked, she was already hugging him. If he said no, would she give the hug back?

After the first, more followed. The addition of a hugging session slowed things down, but the fans waited patiently. Waiting a bit longer for a hug was more than worth it—what a great deal!

The fan meeting lasted until eleven at night before finally ending. Zhou Miao was numb from all the hugs, his clothes saturated with every possible perfume scent, making his nose itch.

Meanwhile, the fans Zhou Miao had assigned “secret missions” began spreading his instructions throughout the fan groups after the meeting ended. The fan club president, in particular, posted a public announcement in all major chat groups—daily ranking work was officially canceled, and all ranking staff were now off duty.

At first, fans were shocked, thinking the president’s account had been hacked, but once she explained what happened at the meeting, everyone understood.

Miao is really a good person!

Fans aren’t born to be martyrs—working to boost rankings every day is exhausting, and they only endure it to support their idol. Now that Zhou Miao himself has said there’s no need, and even set “KPIs” that reward fans for doing less, everyone was ecstatic—who wouldn’t rather take it easy?

Soon, news of Zhou Miao’s “reverse ranking” request hit the trending topics, causing fans of other celebrities to feel both envious and bitter. Who wouldn’t want to be a laid-back fan? Unfortunately, sometimes it’s not that they don’t want to slack off, but their own idols are the ones urging them to work harder.

Some envied, others fumed. Many die-hard fangirls accused Zhou Miao of putting on a show and morally coercing other stars—utter shamelessness!

But Zhou Miao’s fans didn’t even bother responding. They were too busy spreading the word to casual fans, eager to drop those rankings as fast as possible.

After a tiring day, Zhou Miao returned to the company, collapsed in a lounge chair, and didn’t want to move. Yang Xiaoya was massaging his muscles with all her might.

“Boss, does that feel good?”

Zhou Miao grimaced in pain. “Were you a steelworker in your past life? Why are your hands so strong?”

“You’re just too frail.”

“Shut up!”

Gu Zhiyin pushed open the door, smiling. “Today’s fan meeting went well. Thanks for your hard work.”

“I’m exhausted. I signed so many autographs that my hand’s shaking. Next time, get me a custom stamp—for future signings, I’ll just stamp it.”

Yang Xiaoya nodded seriously, as if actually making a mental note.

Leaning against the table, Gu Zhiyin said, “Zhao Jingya has replied. She agreed to your terms and wants to know when you’re available.”

“No rush. I’ll pick a good reality show for her and see how I can really mess with her,” Zhou Miao perked up.

So, you’re rich, huh? A little princess, huh? Here to experience life? Want to be an idol?

Seeing Zhou Miao’s mischievous grin, Gu Zhiyin suddenly had a bad feeling.

“How about ‘Back to Field?’ Nah, too easy. ‘Extreme Challenge?’ Still not extreme enough.” Zhou Miao scrolled through his phone, shaking his head in dissatisfaction. “Too bad ‘Transfiguration’ is off the air, or I’d love to take her to a rural village and have her haul manure.”

Both Gu Zhiyin and Yang Xiaoya broke out in a cold sweat—he was ruthless! No matter what, Zhao Jingya was still a delicate beauty, and he wanted to send her to haul manure in the countryside!

Hmm? Zhou Miao’s eyes suddenly lit up as he spotted an intriguing show and clicked for the details.

“Drink… urine? Eat worms? Filter water with socks?” Zhou Miao’s eyes gleamed brighter with each word.

Each repulsive phrase he uttered made Yang Xiaoya edge farther away—what on earth was he looking at?

Meanwhile, Gu Zhiyin was racking her brain, trying to recall if Zhao Jingya had ever offended Zhou Miao—he seemed intent on making her life miserable!

After reading the synopsis, Zhou Miao nodded in satisfaction, pointed at the phone, and said, “This is the one. Help me schedule with the production team.”

Gu Zhiyin leaned over to look—the screen read: “Wilderness Survival.”