The reason for renaming the app to [Orange Home] was simple—several apps already used "Home" in their titles, and this change made it easier for fans to identify and download.
What defines a model celebrity? Someone who refuses to monopolize public resources over personal health issues, standing in stark contrast to stars who splurge on marketing for the tiniest matters. To many, this was a breath of fresh air.
Some netizens had grown weary of celebrities playing the victim—or rather, had been force-fed so much drama by young idols that they instinctively dismissed any hardship as "attention-seeking" without even reading the details.
Chu Zhi's Dream of the Red Chamber livestream had sparked widespread discussion and sympathy, but only for those who actually paid attention. Many just skimmed and clicked away, muttering, "You earn tens of millions—what do you have to complain about?"
But by voluntarily stepping back and half-accidentally becoming a national pride moment, Chu Zhi won over even these skeptics. The man was playing 4D chess.
Chu Zhi's influence over his fans was nothing short of extraordinary. Within two hours of his post, the topic gradually faded from the trending charts.
Weibo's ranking algorithm relied on reposts and discussion volume—hence why data-pumping fans often rephrased the same point repeatedly.
Now, the Little Fruits flocked to download the app, including Zhong Yu, a star reporter from Southern Media Group. Minutes after Chu Zhi's announcement, she sneakily downloaded it during a bathroom break.
Upon opening, the splash screen showed oranges—or perhaps orange dots—converging into a message:
[The world is gentle because of you and me.]
"Me" undoubtedly referred to Chu Zhi, so "you" must mean her. At least, that's how Zhong Yu interpreted it. The interface was clean and intuitive.
First step: register. She set her username as [Feathered Little Fruit], following the standard process—phone number verification, profile picture upload.
Then, a prompt appeared:
[What is your goal?]
Why would a fan community app ask this? Back in school, Zhong Yu could've answered effortlessly. But now…
It wasn't that she lacked goals. Currently, her mission was to crush that sweet-faced rookie reporter who'd been rising in Southern Metropolis Daily. But typing that out felt petty.
After a long pause, she tapped out:
[Complete the Chronicles of Grassroots Entrepreneurs.]
"Grassroots entrepreneurs" was a euphemism for small business owners. Early in her career, Zhong Yu had believed their stories were worth telling—only for her editor to shoot it down. "Young people are sick of inspirational fluff. Even billionaire origin stories bore them, let alone mom-and-pop shops."
By the time Zhong Yu gained enough clout to push the project, she knew it was commercially unviable. Still, typing it now was a silent nod to her younger self.
After registering, she clicked into the [Big Orange Priority] section and found a pre-recorded video from Chu Zhi:
"Hello, Little Fruits! Welcome to our home. Here, I'll share fun updates, and you can relax and enjoy yourselves."
"I'm deeply grateful for your support, but fandom isn't everything—it shouldn't replace life. So let's grow together and achieve our goals." His tone was earnest.
At the end, he leaned in conspiratorially: "P.S. My personal goals are pasted on the ceiling~"
"Ceiling?" Zhong Yu glanced up, then scrolled down to find a hidden tab: [Master the Orange]. Inside was Chu Zhi's roadmap:
[Personal Goals:
Release three free albums so more people hear my music (1/3 done).
Win recognition from China's Big Four music awards (1/4 achieved).
Take music beyond borders—gain Asian recognition.
Win a Grammy.
Global musical influence.
P.S. Steps 3-5 are dreams. Hey, aim high! ]
As a journalist, Zhong Yu noticed fine print at the bottom:
"For our middle/high school Little Fruits: Per artist request, daily browsing is capped at 3 hours (excluding background music). Study hard for your future!"
A central orange model dripped with juice—each droplet a fan's aspiration:
"Pass the grad school entrance exam!"
"Get into Fudan University!"
"Stop sucking at math finals!"
"Nail this project for that promotion!"
[Special Wish: Grow better together with Little Fruits.]
Zhong Yu had filled in her goal half-heartedly, but this display struck a chord. Chu Zhi's plan wasn't some vague inspirational poster—it was tangible, step-by-step.
It felt like her idol was hustling alongside her, surrounded by fans leveling up in real-time.
New "juice droplets" updated constantly, like a live comment barrage of ambitions.
"Growing with your idol—this is celebrity social responsibility at its peak," Zhong Yu mused. As a reporter, she'd covered too many tragedies of fans abandoning studies for stardom. "If all stars guided fans like this…"
Then she caught herself. "No. Chu Zhi's the only top-tier celeb with this mindset. The rest just want to milk fans dry."
Chu Zhi's meticulous planning didn't stop there. Remember the fan leaders who'd surveyed 100+ group chats, collecting 87,000 responses from student fans about their dream schools?
If those students registered with their original phone numbers, they'd unlock a pre-loaded [Orange Orchard] badge, with their submitted school automatically flagged as a goal.
These 87,000 students were the backbone of Chu Zhi's online engagement—the data warriors and super-commenters. Getting "exclusive" treatment sent their loyalty into overdrive.
Casual fans → Die-hards → Passionate evangelists.
As for the 3-hour limit? [Orange Home] was a forum, not TikTok. Most users wouldn't linger beyond an hour anyway. The restriction cost nothing but aligned perfectly with national youth protection policies—another PR masterstroke.
Especially with Chu Zhi publicly sharing his career blueprint, then urging fans to strive alongside him.
Teen fans, rebellious by nature, might resent parents or teachers nagging them to study. But when their idol led by example? That hit different.
The result? Xinhua News Agency officially praised Chu Zhi.