The original suicide note was written in the phone's memo app—the handwritten version had been transcribed by Chu Zhi. Light Falling Into My Life was a song he had slipped into the box after receiving the "Random Songs Bundle" from the system. It felt like a contradiction—one note full of despair, one song brimming with warmth.
Chu Zhi's body trembled.
It wasn't for show. There was no act here. This was not a planned performance. It was the kind of trembling that came from peeling back old wounds, from exposing parts of yourself that were never meant to be seen, let alone shared with millions of strangers.
To lay your pain bare—raw, unfiltered, still aching—and let the world stare into it, required more courage than most could summon.
"It's okay. No one's blaming you anymore. Everyone believes you now—that you weren't kept by anyone, that you never had a secret marriage. It's okay, don't be afraid."
He whispered these words in his heart to the original soul. Whether it was psychological or the lingering memory of trauma stored in the body, the trembling slowly eased. His breathing steadied.
And with that came a strange sensation—a subtle, almost imperceptible shift inside him. Something loosened. Something left.
The faint echo that had always existed within him, the quiet residue of the boy who once owned this body, finally faded. Chu Zhi could feel it.
The last trace of the original soul was gone.
The boy who once lived in this world, in this life, had vanished completely. No longer a presence, no longer a whisper. He had been hurt, misunderstood, hated by millions—and then he had tried to leave. But now, at last, the world knew. The truth had been spoken.
And that was one of Chu Zhi's goals all along. To let the world see what that child had gone through. To give him justice, even if posthumous. To let his pain matter.
Gulp.
The quiet was absolute.
The study had never felt so still. Even the simple sound of someone swallowing seemed loud, jarring in its clarity.
Jelly, the cameraman, still hadn't spoken. But his camera hadn't wavered. He was the definition of a professional—his thoughts might have been scattered, his heart thundering in his chest, but his hands never faltered. Every frame, every tremor, every micro-expression was captured and broadcast live to a world that had suddenly fallen silent.
Wei Tongzi opened her mouth, but the words didn't come at first. Her eyes brimmed with tears, the corners of her lips tight with guilt and disbelief.
"Teacher Chu…"
There was heartache, of course. Anyone watching would have felt it.
But there was also something deeper—fear.
Fear of what might have happened. Fear of how close he had come to disappearing forever. Fear that her decision to dig into his past had torn open a wound that never should have been revealed.
She had only wanted to help. She had wanted to show his fans that their idol had fought through depression, that he needed their support.
She never meant to reveal his suicide note.
"It's alright," Chu Zhi said softly, his expression calm. "It's all in the past. I can talk about it now."
"I…" Wei Tongzi felt like she could vomit from self-loathing.
"How could you let him be the one comforting you right now? How selfish are you? she scolded herself again and again. He almost died, and you're the one crying like a child."
The livestream had long since erupted.
"Wuwuwu..."
"Ninth Brother, please stay strong!"
"55555"
"I have so much to say, but I don't know where to start. Chu Zhi always seemed so normal..."
"I just want to hug Orange..."
"No, please no..."
Some viewers attempted to make sense of the diagnosis:
"Auditory hallucinations are a primary symptom of psychotic disorders, typically schizophrenia. In depression, they only occur in extreme cases, usually as fragmented, commanding voices. So Ninth Brother's diagnosis of severe depression isn't exaggerated at all..."
The atmosphere was suffocating. No cue cards could fix this, no host banter could smooth it over. But the program couldn't end here. Someone had to bring it forward.
So it fell to Chu Zhi.
He bore the entire weight of the show in that moment.
"Brother Pang, Tongtong," he said, voice steady, "if you still have questions, just ask directly. Let's not delay the recording."
A quiet ahem came from Pang Pu. He had seen it all before—scandals, meltdowns, backstage breakdowns. But nothing like this. Still, he gathered himself.
"Teacher Chu," he began, voice low but clear, "was that a suicide note?"
Chu Zhi nodded. "It was. I wrote it on August 17th."
He paused, then added, "And yes, I took the pills. It felt like the whole world hated me back then. Everywhere I turned, it was like something was waiting to hurt me. I knew it wasn't true, logically. The world doesn't have time to care about someone like me. But I couldn't help it. That's what it felt like."
He offered a small, dry smile.
It was meant as a joke. No one laughed.
"I kept hoping someone would clear my name. Just one person. Anyone. I told myself, hold on for one more day, maybe the truth will come out. I checked Weibo every morning. Hoping, praying. And every time, all I saw were new waves of hate. People cursing me, tearing me apart. Some posts even quoted my lyrics and twisted them into jokes.
When I finally stopped looking, the headlines still came. I couldn't escape them."
[Where is the bottom line in entertainment? The government must punish immoral celebrities!]
[Buying fame, sabotaging rivals—how Chu Zhi manipulated his way to the top of Future Idol!]
"I started having nightmares. One especially stayed with me. In the dream, I was a kid again. My parents were waiting for me, arms open. I ran to them. But right before I reached them, my mother said, 'Why did you become such a liar? How could you hide a marriage?'
And my father added, 'We failed you. Now go apologize to everyone.'"
Even now, retelling it, Chu Zhi's voice remained even. But the pain behind it was undeniable. That nightmare wasn't just a dream. It was a manifestation of the original Chu Zhi's agony. The one who couldn't speak for himself anymore.
"The nightmares kept getting worse. My body started breaking down. Chest pain. Headaches. I started hearing voices even when I was awake. Whispering. Over and over: 'Just die. Go die.'
I tried to block them out. I used earplugs. I even hit myself, just to drown it all out. But nothing worked. And after two months, I gave up. I wrote the note. I swallowed the pills."
He didn't go into detail. He didn't need to.
Most people didn't know much about sleeping pills, except what movies had shown them. Peaceful. Gentle. A slow fade into sleep.
But reality was cruel.
"In case anyone's wondering," Chu Zhi said, tone quiet but firm, "most sleeping pills contain emetine. It's a vomiting agent. Deliberately added to prevent suicide. You take too many, and your stomach starts burning. Your throat closes up. You start choking on your own vomit.
It's not painless. It's terrifying. I know, because I lived through it."
Wei Tongzi's voice trembled. "Teacher Chu… who saved you?"
"Maybe I didn't take enough," he replied simply. "I woke up choking. Vomiting. Couldn't breathe. That's what brought me back."
He didn't say what everyone was thinking. Maybe the original Chu Zhi had truly died. Maybe the soul standing here now was a replacement. But even replacements remember pain.
"How… how did you keep going after that?" Wei Tongzi asked.
Pang Pu winced. The wording was harsh, even if unintentional. But Chu Zhi didn't seem offended.
"Since we're here," Chu Zhi said, "I want to say something. To all the Little Fruits watching. To anyone watching."
He looked directly at the camera.
"I know how life feels when it gets this bad. When every breath hurts. When every day feels like a punishment. I remember wishing, just once, that someone would save me. Just once. But no one came.
And that's why I want to be that person for someone else. That's why I wrote Against the Light. To tell anyone who's struggling, you're not alone. I care. Even if we've never met, I care."
He smiled faintly.
"You've held on this long. Just a little longer, okay? Hang in there. A few more years from now, I'll invite you to my eighth-anniversary concert. Free tickets for everyone."
Even Pang Pu, who had weathered decades in the industry, felt the tears fall. He didn't wipe them away.
There was nothing more to say.
The next segment had been planned—answering fan questions. But it no longer mattered.
Chu Zhi glanced at the camera again, smile a little brighter.
"Before I came back, I met God. He looked at me and said, 'Go tell the children of Earth—no more suicides. Heaven's full.' Then He kicked me back down."
He laughed gently.
"We're all children of a beautiful world. So don't leave it. Stay here. With us."
The Emperor of Acting took his final bow. His words, earnest and raw, sent shockwaves through the audience:
[User 1]: "I promise! I'm in middle school. My parents fight constantly, and I've been depressed for years. When I begged them to take me to a therapist, they called me dramatic. Mom said, 'We've suffered worse—at least you've never starved.' Logically, she's right. But I still feel so awful, especially when they start throwing things. I've cut myself just to cope. Online, people assume I'm doing it for attention. But I'm not. I've never felt so alone—until today. Hearing you say this... it's like I've found a lifeline. Someone out there believes me. I'll keep fighting. I'll make it to your concert."
[User 2]: "I tried to kill myself last month—slit my wrists. Woke up in the hospital. I didn't want to die anymore, but I didn't want to live either. Calling myself 'worthless' would be an insult to actual trash. I used to have dreams, but I failed so badly I almost died. Now? No courage left. I don't even follow celebs, but today, I'm your fan. How could you still want to help others after all that pain? Most people just give up. You're a good person, Ninth Brother. A really good one."
[User 3]:"Misfortune always targets the vulnerable. I won't share my story, but 'children of a beautiful world' broke me. I'm a 40-year-old man crying at a livestream. No one's called me 'child' in thirty years. I forgot I was ever one. Thank you, Chu Zhi."
Message after message poured in—each from someone who, moments ago, had been sinking in despair. Now, grasping Chu Zhi's outstretched hand, they saw not darkness, but light.
Maybe it was his story. Maybe they'd always wanted to live—just needed a reason.