Chapter 47: Apology
While Xie Xizhao and Zou Yi were chatting, on the other side of the cafeteria, Xi Kai and Yang Yinping were also having their meal.
The cafeteria was noisy with chatter, but the two of them ate in silence.
After they were about seventy to eighty percent full, Xi Kai finally spoke, “Are you going to practice later?”
“Yeah,” Yang Yinping replied.
Then he paused and asked, “Why did you abstain from voting today?”
Xi Kai’s hand, holding the chopsticks, paused for a moment before he resumed eating. His voice was somewhat muffled, “I thought my part was pretty good, but you guys didn’t agree, did you?”
His tone was deliberately light, as if it were just casual dinner conversation.
Yang Yinping remained silent.
After a moment, he asked, “Why do you think he did that?”
Xi Kai thought for a while. “For efficiency?”
Yang Yinping let out a half-smile, half-sneer. “You really do like him, don’t you?”
Xi Kai leaned back and stretched out his words, “Don’t make it sound so—”
He shrugged. “I just think that if he really had ulterior motives, he wouldn’t have let you all vote in the first place.”
He used the word “you all.”
Yang Yinping’s face alternated between pale and dark.
But, in truth, that was indeed what most people thought.
Almost as soon as their small meeting ended, Xia Xize’s companion, Mu Wen, said, “Wasn’t that a bit too much just now?”
Xia Xize didn’t respond.
Yang Yinping didn’t say anything either, but he knew the answer in his heart.
When he had first proposed the redistribution, he had been filled with a reckless passion. What he had wanted was to fight for something, to take one last gamble, and—hidden within it—a silent resistance against Xie Xizhao’s complete control.
But after Xie Xizhao agreed, Yang Yinping suddenly felt like they were the ones b*llying him.
Was it because of his appearance?
…The other party did indeed look gentle and refined, with an easygoing demeanor. Even his voice was soft and warm.
And it was said that Xie Xizhao’s body still hadn’t fully recovered.
Who knew how much time he had spent on these things after finishing the recording yesterday?
Given the workload, it must have taken him until at least the early hours of the morning.
Yang Yinping wasn’t someone particularly sensitive to details. He couldn’t understand why, ever since Xie Xizhao had said that one word—“Okay”—he had been utterly restless, as if…
He thought in disbelief.
As if he had been cursed.
—
Xie Xizhao had no idea that his teammates, due to his “concession,” had fallen into a spiral of self-reflection so deep it was almost absurd.
Although he had said he would let go, the past two days had been extremely busy for him.
First, he had been occupied with rearranging the song.
This wasn’t just a simple rearrangement. The process required considering stage effects, the atmosphere at the time, and all possible scenarios that could arise.
Perhaps because he was a science student, Xie Xizhao always wrote songs starting from inspiration, but his endings were like solving a math problem—each piece clicking into place seamlessly, until the final piece locked in, and the song was complete.
That final piece fell into place on the afternoon of the third day.
That afternoon, Zou Yi forcibly dragged him out of the composition room.
Xie Xizhao was so exhausted he felt like he was floating, but he still held grudges. He grabbed Yun Pan, who was standing behind Zou Yi. “Snitching?”
Yun Pan: “…”
He looked up at the sky.
Zou Yi said, “You need to rest.”
“Yes, Dr. Zou,” Xie Xizhao replied absentmindedly, clearly just humoring him.
“Since you two are here,” he continued, “come to the recording studio with me tonight. Keep an eye on things outside.”
Zou Yi said, “You need—”
Xie Xizhao pressed down on his shoulder.
He spoke calmly, but his tone softened. “If I take the whole day off tomorrow after recording, will that be okay?”
Zou Yi opened his mouth, about to argue.
He had a feeling that Xie Xizhao had figured out exactly how to handle him—but the worst part was, it actually worked.
A moment later, he let out a sigh of resignation and followed Xie Xizhao out the door to the recording studio.
—
The final task of the night was completed at exactly midnight.
As they were leaving, the recording engineer’s gaze toward Xie Xizhao was practically fanatical. Zou Yi glanced back at him, then reached out to steady Yun Pan, who was so exhausted he nearly tripped over his own feet.
Walking beside Xie Xizhao, Zou Yi still hadn’t quite recovered from what he had just heard.
Hearing the studio version of Boundless Sea in person was even more overwhelming than listening to the demo.
Especially since this was Xie Xizhao’s solo version.
“Why did you come to a talent show?” Before he realized it, he had voiced the question lingering in his mind.
Xie Xizhao was still yawning.
Hearing the question, he froze for a moment.
Then he thought about it and said, “Maybe… nostalgia?”
Once you turn eighteen, you’ll always long for being eighteen.
He had completed countless tasks in the system, each one increasing in difficulty. But the further he went, the more he missed the beginning—those days when he climbed step by step from a rookie trainee to the top.
Back then, both inside and outside the missions, he had truly been inexperienced.
He had stumbled onto the stage, introduced himself beside teammates who seemed blessed by fate, and, performance after performance, only managed to get a line or two to sing.
At that time, the character he played thought, ‘Someday, I want to stand in that spot too.’
Of course, in the end, that cunning wolf tried to frame the son of destiny—only to meet his downfall, disgraced and forced to withdraw from the competition.
But that day, the faint, beautiful glow of the stage remained in Xie Xizhao’s heart.
He spoke lightly, and Zou Yi, looking at his youthful face, assumed he was just rambling again. Shaking his head helplessly, he didn’t argue. Surprisingly, Yun Pan, who rarely joined in, added, “Brother, even after debuting in a group, you can still have amazing solo performances.”
‘Very good.’
Xie Xizhao thought.
‘If the production team heard that, they’d probably be livid at the sheer, unshakable arrogance in those words.’
He didn’t respond—just reached out and pinched Yun Pan’s cheek.
As they passed the activity building, all three of them unconsciously noticed the light still on in Room 113.
Xie Xizhao slowed his steps.
He had been truly busy these past few days, so it hadn’t even occurred to him to check in on his teammates’ practice. He wondered if they thought he was deliberately acting aloof because things hadn’t gone his way.
As if sensing his thoughts, Zou Yi spoke. “Panpan and I have been in the practice room these past few days.”
“Everyone’s been working pretty hard,” he added.
“If they weren’t putting in effort after getting the parts they wanted, that would be truly pathetic,” Xie Xizhao remarked.
His words were sharp, but he still stopped walking.
“You guys go ahead,” he said.
Zou Yi asked, “You’re going to check in?”
Xie Xizhao didn’t deny it. “Yeah.”
“I’ll go with you,” Zou Yi offered.
“No, you two head back,” Xie Xizhao waved them off. “People are already saying we’re forming cliques. If we go together, it’ll just make it harder to explain.”
Zou Yi was momentarily stunned.
By the time he came back to his senses, Xie Xizhao’s figure had already disappeared through the doorway.
Letting out a helpless sigh, Zou Yi turned to Yun Pan and said, “Let’s go. We should head back.”
—
Xie Xizhao’s words were meant as a joke, but the situation itself wasn’t baseless.
No one had deliberately tried to keep their group’s drama a secret, so within just two days, nearly everyone had heard about how both songwriting teams had ended up in a mess—enough to stir up major gossip.
There were currently two versions of the story.
The first version painted Xie Xizhao as a power-hungry tyrant who had purged dissenters, ruling with Zou Fei on his left and Yun Guiren on his right, as they collectively oppressed the poor, voiceless underdogs. The second version was the opposite—his oppression had failed, and the underdogs had risen up, overthrowing him and seizing control, paving the way for their own glorious comeback.
Both versions sounded plausible.
When Xie Xizhao had lunch with Ai Qingyuan, the latter recounted the gossip with great enthusiasm. Amused, Xie Xizhao casually tossed a chicken drumstick into his bowl.
With a friendly smile, he said, “Eat.”
Ai Qingyuan, unbothered, took a big bite—only to get a mouthful of chili powder.
Even while coughing from the spice, he still found time to ask, “Is it true?”
His tone was filled with blatant schadenfreude.
Xie Xizhao replied, “It’s true.”
Ai Qingyuan froze for a few seconds, his expression shifting into horror. “…Which part?”
Xie Xizhao, perfectly composed, said, “All of it.”
Guang Heng, unfazed, dragged Ai Qingyuan away. As he left, he shot Xie Xizhao a glance as if to ask, ‘Need help?’
Xie Xizhao crossed his arms in an X. No need.
Yun Pan commented, “Brother, you look like a superhero about to shoot laser beams.”
Xie Xizhao responded, “Then today, this superhero is transforming to check your homework. Come on, sing your part for me—let’s see how you’re doing.”
Yun Pan’s face scrunched up in distress.
Even with that expression, he still sang well. Xie Xizhao had already noticed that Yun Pan’s voice was genuinely excellent—no wonder he had been scouted to work before even coming of age.
Yun Pan hadn’t received formal training; his talent was raw and natural.
Simply put, he was born for this.
But his presence was low-key, and the second time around, the parts assigned to him were small and scattered—an absolute waste of his ability.
Zou Yi was another case of wasted talent.
That was just how survival shows worked.
Either you had a strong enough personality to claim a bigger slice of the cake, or your skills were so overwhelming that everyone had to acknowledge you—like Xie Xizhao. That, too, was a shortcut to making an impression.
But if you were talented yet mild-mannered, a nice guy without the drive to fight for yourself, you’d get buried.
Silently and effortlessly drowned out.
No one would pity you except your fans.
Neither of them—Zou Yi nor Yun Pan—had ever voiced any complaints to Xie Xizhao.
Thinking about that, Xie Xizhao sighed inwardly.
At that moment, a hesitant voice called out to him. “Xizhao?”
He looked up and saw one of his teammates.
His mind searched for the name, pinpointing it with precision—
Xia Xize.
—
Xia Xize was frustrated.
The kind of frustration that made him want to drown his sorrows in alcohol.
He figured his singing was a mess, and reality had proven him right.
When they split the parts, he had asked for the intro.
It was selfish—he knew he had a good face. If he could open the song, maybe people would remember him.
But he had underestimated how difficult the intro was.
For days, he had been practicing those few opening lines, sweating more and more each time. He had asked Mu Wen for help, but Mu Wen was struggling with his own issues, leaving Xia Xize flailing around like a headless chicken.
To be honest, he regretted it.
Even just singing a couple of filler ad-libs would have been fine.
Better that than ruining the entire performance from the start.
But he didn’t dare say anything.
Everyone knew how tense things had been when they first split the parts. To back out now, after pushing so hard to claim it, would be humiliating in a different way.
All that talk about Xie Xizhao being selfish, all those palace intrigue theories—none of it mattered in the face of real difficulty.
Xia Xize looked at Xie Xizhao, feeling both awkward and lost, before finally squeezing out a stiff, “Good evening.”
Xie Xizhao’s tone remained as usual. “Good evening.”
Then, his next words hit right where it hurt: “How’s your practice going?”
Xia Xize: “…”
He pressed his dry lips together.
Since he didn’t answer, Xie Xizhao simply placed something on the table beside him. “Passed by the convenience store on my way back and grabbed some snacks.”
It was a bottle of vitamin drink and a chocolate bar.
Seeing them sitting on the table, Xia Xize, both hungry and thirsty, instinctively clenched his hands.
A few moments later, he scrambled to shift the topic. “It’s so late—haven’t you rested yet?”
“No,” Xie Xizhao replied. “Just came back from a recording session.”
Xia Xize was stunned.
Then, he saw Xie Xizhao smile lightly. “Hard to sing with just the sheet music and no demo, isn’t it?”
On the surface, the words could’ve been read as mocking.
But Xie Xizhao’s tone was too gentle—so gentle that Xia Xize couldn’t possibly mistake his intention. He realized that Xie Xizhao was genuinely looking out for him—or at the very least, giving him an easy way out.
The days of frustration and regret welled up inside him, and for a brief moment, his nose even stung.
The next second, he steeled himself, shut his eyes, and blurted out, “Xizhao, I was wrong.”
Xie Xizhao: “…”
If Xia Xize had opened his eyes right then, he would have seen that Xie Xizhao’s expression held no surprise.
No cold sneer.
But also, none of the deep warmth he had imagined.
Xie Xizhao’s gaze was calm as he simply asked,
“What exactly were you wrong about?”
Xia Xize took a deep breath and admitted, “I shouldn’t have… overestimated myself.”
“Even though I got more lines, I still couldn’t sing them well. I don’t have that ability.”
There was a barely noticeable frustration in his voice.
He heard Xie Xizhao sigh.
It was a soft, gentle sigh. His thoughts snapped back to reality, and embarrassment suddenly rushed in—embarrassment from revealing too much of his true feelings. But at the same time, that sigh gave him just enough courage to finally open his eyes.
Xie Xizhao…
Xie Xizhao was unwrapping a chocolate bar.
Sensing Xia Xize’s gaze, he looked up and politely asked, “Do you want some?”
Xia Xize: “…”
Alright then.
He really was hungry.
He reached out for it silently.
Yet, at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed.
Xie Xizhao must have thought he was acting strange.
After all, they weren’t close.
Xie Xizhao had no obligation to forgive him. Let alone empathize with how he felt.
Feeling deflated, Xia Xize reached for the chocolate in Xie Xizhao’s hand.
But at the last second—
His hand grasped at nothing.
Xie Xizhao pulled the chocolate back.
“It sticks to your throat,” he said. “Eat it later.”
Xia Xize: “Huh?”
“That part you were practicing just now,” Xie Xizhao said. “Sing it for me.”
He paused for a second. “Wanting more lines isn’t wrong. But giving up before you’ve truly put in the effort—now that’s not something to be encouraged.”
He glanced at the clock. “Half an hour.”
“I’ll teach you how to sing it,” he said. “Then go back to the dorm and rest.”
“The more you stay up late, the worse your voice will be. From now on, stop staying up.”
—
1:00 AM.
Yang Yinping walked out of the practice room.
His mind was completely blank, with only sweat dripping from his forehead as evidence of his efforts over the past few hours.
He hadn’t been practicing singing.
Instead, he had gone to the gym and thrown a few punches.
Xi Kai had said, “Ping, don’t make things difficult for yourself every single day. It’s exhausting.”
Yang Yinping had neither agreed nor disagreed.
Xi Kai had walked away leisurely.
That was just how Xi Kai was, Yang Yinping had thought.
He had looked down on Xi Kai yet envied him at the same time. Without being so fixated on debuting, Xi Kai had no reason to be anxious. If he succeeded, it would be a pleasant surprise, and if he failed, he could take it in stride.
But Yang Yinping had long since lost that sense of ease.
For the past few days, he had been practicing his vocal part.
He could get through it.
But he couldn’t sing it well.
That was what frustrated him the most.
He had realized that he simply couldn’t deliver such a long and complex section in a flawless manner. He would run out of breath, fail to control his endings, or even go off-key.
It was a song that seemed straightforward but actually demanded a higher level of skill.
Xie Xizhao had sung it too effortlessly, giving all of them—giving him—a false sense of confidence.
His mind was in a haze.
Today marked the third day of his practice, yet he was still stuck at the same bottleneck. The frustration gnawed at him like never before. And what unsettled him even more was Xi Kai’s words: “If he had any selfish motives, he wouldn’t have let you vote in the first place.”
Had he been wrong?
Or had they been wrong?
But all he wanted was a chance to prove himself.
Xie Xizhao probably wouldn’t be affected by this one performance, but for them—the nobodies—this stage was everything. For him, it was also his last chance.
But…
Even if he was given the opportunity, could he really seize it?
It seemed like he couldn’t.
Feeling restless, he took a few steps toward the staircase, only to run into a familiar face.
Xia Xize staggered past him, his expression hazy and relaxed, as if he existed in an entirely different dimension. While Yang Yinping was drowning in fire and brimstone, Xia Xize looked like he had just stepped off a secluded island after a sunbath.
Or perhaps, a spiritual awakening.
Frowning, Yang Yinping called out, “Xia Xize.”
Xia Xize finally snapped out of his trance. He blinked and asked, “What’s up?”
Then he took a clearer look at Yang Yinping’s face.
And immediately, his own expression collapsed.
Yang Yinping: “…?”
Xia Xize muttered, “Why are you here?”
Yang Yinping frowned. “This is the activity building. Why wouldn’t I be here? Of course, I’m practicing.”
“How’s your practice going?” Yang Yinping asked.
‘…Unbelievable,’ Xia Xize thought.
It was the exact same question, but when Xie Xizhao asked it, he’d nearly been moved to tears. Yet when the person in front of him said it, all he wanted to do was punch him in the face.
He forced himself to calm down and answered as evenly as possible, “Not bad, I guess.”
Yang Yinping: “…”
Seeing the doubtful look in Yang Yinping’s eyes, Xia Xize immediately exploded. “What do you mean by that?!”
So, he was looking down on him, huh?
Yang Yinping was looking down on him.
Xia Xize’s singing ability was worse than that of a street performer.
He had never expected anything from him.
Of course, he also didn’t care how well Xia Xize could sing.
Right now, he had more important things to worry about.
He took a deep breath and suddenly said, out of nowhere, “I want to apologize.”
Xia Xize: ?
“Huh?”
The moment Yang Yinping spoke those words, he felt an unexpected sense of relief.
He no longer hesitated. Lifting his head, he looked at Xia Xize seriously and said, “I want to apologize to Xie Xizhao. And—”
“We should switch back to our original parts.”
