Superstar Ch.28

Chapter 28: Heartbeat

As night fell, the venue remained brightly illuminated.

Dou Yu stood at the center of the stage, smiling as he held a cue card, his gaze sweeping over the surging crowd below.

To appear more formal, he had chosen to wear a silver-gray suit today. Under the stage lighting, the fabric faintly shimmered, accentuating his striking and refined features.

Many of the fans in the audience had actually come for the mentor panel, and their enthusiastic cheers nearly lifted the roof. Dou Yu raised a hand in a calming gesture before speaking into the microphone. “Good evening, everyone.”

The audience responded in unison, “Good—eve—ning!”

“Welcome to the live recording of Super Rookie’s first performance show,” Dou Yu continued. Then, pausing briefly, he smiled. “Everyone’s really enthusiastic tonight.”

Since this was a live event, the final broadcast would still go through post-production editing. To set the mood, Dou Yu opted for a relaxed opening.

Laughter rippled through the audience in response.

In stark contrast, the large waiting room backstage—where the trainees were gathered—felt much more tense.

This was the same space used earlier for song selection recordings. All the trainees sat on tiered steps, surrounded by a full set of filming equipment to capture their reactions. At the very front stood a massive screen displaying a real-time feed of the stage.

Seeing the packed audience on-screen and hearing the deafening cheers, many inexperienced trainees couldn’t hide their nervousness.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Dou Yu didn’t drag things out. He quickly wrapped up the opening speech, and the three remaining mentors took their seats at the judging panel.

Glancing at the cue card in his hand, Dou Yu announced the name of the first group, already waiting backstage:

“Blazing Flames – Group A.”

He had looked into the show’s director, Ma Hongping, and the assistant director, Cheng Yan. The two had been long-time partners, having previously worked together on a talk show—a prime-time program that had achieved high viewership back in the day.

From Xie Xizhao’s observations, the two were particularly skilled at crafting ensemble narratives filled with passion and intensity.

They expertly balanced elements of friendship, competition, and personal ambition—concepts that often clashed but were inherently interconnected. At the same time, they spared no expense or effort when it came to song selection and stage production.

For this first public performance, most of the selected songs were licensed hits. The performance order, now revealed, had also been meticulously arranged.

Since the goal was to stir up audience emotions, the quality of the first stage was secondary—what mattered most was that the song had to be explosive.

Blazing Flames was exactly that kind of song.

Xie Xizhao sat in a corner, with Ai Qingyuan beside him. Both were watching the live feed.

Ai Qingyuan remarked, “This song is pretty good.”

Almost immediately, the camera panned over and zoomed in on them.

Xie Xizhao: “…”

He simply replied, “Mm.”

Blazing Flames had been the title track of a major boy group’s comeback, known for its dark and sultry concept.

Its strength lay in its ability to ignite the stage—backed by a complex and layered instrumental arrangement.

As for its weakness…

Xie Xizhao stared at the screen.

On it, a group of performers had already assumed their starting positions in the darkness, their silhouettes exuding a stylish, almost faithful recreation of the original.

A second later, the powerful intro blasted through the venue, instantly amping up the atmosphere. Many in the audience waved their banners excitedly. After a brief intro, the stage lights flared to life.

As the cheers grew louder, the camera zoomed in on the center performer’s face.

And then…

Everyone saw the center performer’s seductive smirk.

For a brief moment, the camera froze on his face.

Both the audience and those watching the screen fell into an eerie silence—like a group of geese suddenly strangled mid-honk.

Xie Xizhao silently averted his gaze.

Hmm…

The weakness of this song?

It was greasy.

Overwhelmingly.

Unbearably.

Greasy.

*

Three and a half minutes flew by.

Though the center performer’s opening smile had been borderline unsettling, the overall atmosphere of the group’s performance was solid. Once they finished, Group A returned backstage, making way for Group B.

The two groups were fairly evenly matched. But perhaps because Group B’s style was a bit fresher, they edged out a narrow victory in the final vote.

The center performer of Group B’s team bowed deeply, his eyes shining. Xie Xizhao recognized him—one of the few Class B trainees he had coached. A faint sense of pride stirred within him.

Then came the second group.

Then the third.

After three performances, Xie Xizhao rubbed his temples, feeling a little resigned.

What he was thinking was…

These were still trainees with little experience.

Was the overall effect bad?

Not really.

Whether in the venue or the waiting room, everyone felt the same rush—passion, intensity, adrenaline.

The live audience screamed until their faces turned red, and the trainees backstage were visibly itching to perform. There was no doubt—the energy in the room had been ignited.

But—

Xie Xizhao mused.

A large part of this was thanks to the songs themselves.

Humanity needs literature and art because they have the inherent power to move people.

A powerful, emotionally charged song could certainly ignite the atmosphere in a live setting. But that effect depended on the unique energy of an in-person audience. When broadcast online, where viewers couldn’t be swept up by the crowd’s excitement, every flaw would be laid bare.

Messy formations, cracked high notes, and group choreography that couldn’t even hold a single full-frame shot.

After several performances, Xie Xizhao had only one thought:

A complete disaster.

He felt like he was being tortured. But with the camera lingering near him, he had no choice but to keep his composure.

Thankfully, the next stage finally didn’t sound like an assault on his ears. As the lights brightened and the center performer began to sing, everyone visibly perked up.

Xie Xizhao lifted his gaze as well.

The current performance:

“Swan in the Rain” – Group A.

Center: Zou Yi.

—

“Swan in the Rain” was a melancholic ballad.

Its lyrics painted a scene of two young lovers who had been separated in their youth, only to reunite years later on a drizzly evening. The “swan” in the title referred not to an actual bird but to the statue at the heart of the city’s musical fountain—symbolizing the love they once shared but no longer dared to confront.

To match the story’s tone, the group’s stage outfits were all variations of pure white.

As the performance began, Zou Yi stepped out from behind a piano, moving slowly to the center of the stage.

Back in the initial evaluations, Xie Xizhao had already thought Zou Yi had a good voice. This stage only reaffirmed that.

With his very first note, Zou Yi set the tone for the entire performance.

His voice wasn’t particularly unique, but it was steady, rich in texture, and carried a natural warmth. More importantly—Xie Xizhao guessed Zou Yi had deliberately trained for this—his youthful voice, tinged with emotion, carried an undeniable sense of storytelling.

Xie Xizhao felt a faint stir in his chest.

But before he could fully process the feeling, Zou Yi’s verse had already ended.

The next trainee’s voice rang out, and Xie Xizhao’s brow twitched slightly.

Ai Qingyuan was much more blunt. He scoffed, “This guy can’t carry it.”

Xie Xizhao cleared his throat.

Before going on stage, Guan Heng had specifically pulled him aside and asked him to keep an eye on Ai Qingyuan—told him to make sure he didn’t say anything too blunt. Editing could only do so much, and they couldn’t always cut out every single comment.

Ai Qingyuan raised a brow.

“Switch seats with me.”

Xie Xizhao: ?

Seeing that Xie Xizhao wasn’t moving, Ai Qingyuan simply took a long stride over him, settling into the seat at the farthest end of their row. Then, he leaned over to say something to a nearby staff member.

A moment later, the cameraman beside them quietly walked away.

Ai Qingyuan returned to his seat, switched off his own mic—then switched off Xie Xizhao’s as well. “Happy now?”

His tone was reluctant, like he’d made some massive concession.

Xie Xizhao: “…”

His lips twitched slightly.

“Zou Yi has a nice voice,” Ai Qingyuan continued, not really expecting a response. After being tormented by the earlier performances, he badly needed to vent. “But his team is garbage. Not a single one of them can follow him.”

Xie Xizhao remained silent.

Ai Qingyuan’s words were sharp, but unfortunately, they were also true.

Zou Yi had set up a strong opening, yet his teammates completely failed to carry that momentum. Some were so nervous they even sang off-key, shattering the mood and tone Zou Yi had worked so hard to establish.

The third member managed to salvage things slightly, but the performance still felt thin.

At moments like this, the downside of a ballad became painfully clear.

The singing failed to draw anyone in, and without the natural energy of an upbeat track, the entire performance felt flat—borderline dull. At least in the waiting room, some trainees who had already performed were discreetly stifling yawns behind the cameras.

By the time the performance ended, the applause from the audience was noticeably weaker.

Xie Xizhao watched the boy on the screen. The trainee was clearly disappointed, but he still forced a smile.

Their group wasn’t one of the show’s key performances, nor did it have any fan-favorite contestants. After a brief critique from the mentors, the next group took the stage.

This one was even more forgettable.

Xie Xizhao’s thoughts wandered.

He found himself counting how many lines Zou Yi had actually sung.

Noticing this, Ai Qingyuan remarked, “You’re wondering why Zou Yi had so few lines?”

“He gave them up himself.” Ai Qingyuan let out a scoff. “His group has a couple of trainees from his own company, plus a few from Class F, I think. I overheard them discussing line distribution earlier—he pretty much handed most of his lines away.”

Xie Xizhao understood immediately.

His gaze lowered slightly, and he let out a quiet sigh in his heart.

His expression must have been obvious, because Ai Qingyuan asked, “You think he’s being too much of a saint?”

Xie Xizhao didn’t answer directly. Instead, he simply said, “Being a saint shouldn’t be a bad thing.”

Ai Qingyuan was briefly taken aback.

Then he shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“But I still think,” he added, “giving more lines to people who can’t handle them only ruins the song. As the center, he didn’t need to do that.”

This topic was briefly mentioned but quickly dismissed due to Xie Xizhao’s silence, becoming nothing more than a trivial matter.

—

Time passed in a blur.

In the blink of an eye, the first half of the performances had concluded.

The production team had scheduled a short break in between. Through the screen, the audience could be seen chatting amongst themselves—mostly young women dressed up beautifully for the occasion.

There were no seats at the venue, and by now, many were feeling the heat, their makeup slightly smudged.

Staff members moved through the crowd, distributing bottled water.

The recording in the waiting room had also been paused, allowing everyone to freshen up. Some touched up their makeup, while others drank water to stay hydrated.

Ji Yan had just finished his performance. When he returned from outside, he carried several bottles of water in his arms. As he made his way through the room, he passed them out one by one. The last two he kept for Xie Xizhao and Ai Qingyuan.

Ai Qingyuan declined, while Xie Xizhao accepted one with a quiet “thank you.” Twisting off the cap, he tilted his head back.

He only took a small sip—just enough to moisten his throat.

“The next group should be you guys and Brother Heng, right?” Ji Yan lowered his voice.

After two consecutive ballads, the next performance had to change the mood. And usually, the production team wouldn’t schedule a group with popular contestants too late in the lineup, when the audience was already drained.

Xie Xizhao gave a slight nod.

The staff had just informed them to head backstage—their group was up next.

“I’m going to wash my hands,” he said.

Ai Qingyuan, who had been distracted for a while, merely responded with a half-hearted “Mm.”

From the moment the break started, he hadn’t spoken much, revealing a rare trace of nervousness.

Xie Xizhao got up and made his way to the restroom.

The hallway was bustling with people coming and going, but the area by the sink at the end remained quiet. He turned on the cold water and washed his hands, finally feeling his mind clear a little after being buzzed with noise in the waiting room.

Soft footsteps sounded nearby as someone walked out from inside.

When he looked up, the other person smiled.

“What a coincidence,” he said.

Xie Xizhao also smiled and stepped aside. “I’m done.”

Guan Heng washed his hands, and the two walked back together, parting ways at the end of the hallway.

The draw results were in—Guan Heng’s group would go on stage first.

Xie Xizhao said, “Good luck.”

Guan Heng patted him on the shoulder, then turned and walked toward the backstage.

Although they had joked before about watching each other’s performances, deep down, everyone knew that the only stage they wouldn’t be able to see live was each other’s.

Even so, while waiting backstage, Xie Xizhao could still sense the quality of Guan Heng’s performance from the enthusiastic cheers of the audience.

Ai Qingyuan stood beside him, his expression tense.

Xie Xizhao asked, “Nervous?”

Ai Qingyuan: “…”

“Of course!”

He looked at Xie Xizhao as if seeing a ghost. “You’re not nervous?”

“Not really,” Xie Xizhao replied.

His fingers instinctively reached into his pocket before he remembered that the dice had already been put away.

Lifting his gaze, he saw the faint light behind the curtain.

Ai Qingyuan studied his profile, watching his trembling eyelashes, then snorted. He thought Xie Xizhao was just putting on an act—who wouldn’t be nervous before going on stage?

He decided not to call him out and instead focused on taking deep breaths to relax.

Xie Xizhao remained where he was.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds outside.

The chorus, the climax, the final line.

Familiar lyrics and melodies flowed through his mind, but what played clearly in his head was the stage they had perfected during their final rehearsals.

Then came the ending, the curtain call, and the self-introductions starting anew.

The moment Guan Heng’s group exited amidst the cheers, Xie Xizhao opened his eyes. The slight tremor in his body, stirred by excitement, gradually settled with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

He spoke. “Let’s go.”

Then, after making one last adjustment to his earpiece, he walked toward the stage.

Lifting the curtain, the crowd was still buzzing. As he raised his gaze, looking toward the audience, countless eyes fell upon him.

And with them, so did the light.

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