Superstar Ch.76

Chapter 76: Youthful Spirit (Third Public Performance)

Lu Xing was fully aware of this fact.

He just couldn’t control himself.

As soon as he stepped off the stage, he headed straight to the restroom. The person in the mirror looked utterly dejected, a far cry from the confident young man he had been when he first debuted. He thought of his former teammates who had already left, the company’s reprimands and urgings, and Yun Pan’s words in the practice room.

Yun Pan had said, “Votes are earned by yourself.”

Lu Xing almost wanted to laugh.

He wanted to ask, ‘Then what about your votes?’

Weren’t they gained through pity?

But in the end, he couldn’t say such things.

Yun Pan was younger than him, stronger than him, and had suffered more than him.

It was Lu Xing who had wasted his time, indulging in the illusion the company had created for him. Compared to the monotonous daily training in the practice room, he preferred meticulously crafting his persona online and in front of fans.

Because he lacked real ability, he rose through fan support and would ultimately fall because of them.

Fans liked him, so he was able to stand in a high position. But in a world filled with countless young, beautiful, and hardworking idols, what right did he have to make them stay?

He couldn’t.

He understood this better than ever.

But there was no turning back.

Slumping against the edge of the sink, he felt as if the road ahead was shrouded in darkness.

Meanwhile, on the other side, Yun Pan dashed into the waiting room like a small cannonball. At least, upon seeing the cameras, he managed to calm down a little. His first instinct was to search for Xie Xizhao.

Xie Xizhao gestured to him, signaling, “Over here.”

Yun Pan immediately ran toward him, but after just a few steps, he suddenly remembered something. Finally, he turned back to greet his teammates before plopping down beside Xie Xizhao, his face flushed with excitement.

“Brother, brother, brother!”

Ai Qingyuan: “Are you laying an egg or something?”

Yun Pan: “…”

He responded firmly, “You’re sick.”

Ai Qingyuan: “…”

Alright then.

To his big brother, Yun Pan was as warm as spring. To him, it was all cold words and sharp remarks.

Kids these days could change faces faster than Sichuan opera performers.

But no matter how many faces Yun Pan switched between, it didn’t change the fact that Xie Xizhao had to head backstage to prepare. Xie Xizhao patted the kid’s shoulder and said, “You were amazing.” Yun Pan’s eyes immediately lit up.

—

After leaving the room, Xie Xizhao went to the restroom for a final check on his makeup and outfit before joining his teammates backstage.

Meanwhile, on stage, the rap group had already begun their performance.

Xie Xizhao peeked at the stage through the curtain backstage.

The angle wasn’t great—he couldn’t see the performers clearly. Only when someone moved to the corner did he catch glimpses of swaying black fabric. But that didn’t stop him and Ye Yiyang from hearing Qi Hang’s completely improvised rap.

The two of them fell into a long silence.

Ye Yiyang clumsily tried to change the subject.

“Uh… Brother Fu is really steady.”

Though it was just a random topic, it was true.

Fu Wenze and Xie Xizhao were both immovable mountains in their own ways. The latter stood out for his overall stage presence and versatility, while the former stuck to a single unyielding style. One approach could easily become repetitive, but if mastered to the extreme, it never got old.

Fu Wenze’s rap skills were honed on the streets—his lyrics and stage presence were both raw and untamed.

What was rare was that even when performing melody rap, he could momentarily restrain his sharp edge. In the rap field, he was a highly professional and versatile contestant—undoubtedly the strongest contender for the rap position.

But Xie Xizhao noticed more than just that.

He could confidently say that Fu Wenze’s overall ability wasn’t inferior to Ai Qingyuan’s.

Both of them had entered the field halfway, trained by major companies. Looking at it this way, the current idol training system was already highly refined.

The only limitation was that Fu Wenze’s comfort zone lay in the mid-to-low vocal range—high notes were beyond his reach.

Yes.

Xie Xizhao was calculating—

He thought it was perfectly normal to be considering his potential future teammates.

It just sounded a little arrogant.

But since they were aiming for debut, both the team and the company were crucial. Though Stardust was a cold, ruthless corporate machine, its sheer size and deep foundation made it an excellent platform.

Beyond the company, there were the people he would be spending his days and nights with.

As things stood, Ai Qingyuan was the only one with a truly solid debut position. The others… they had potential, but nothing was guaranteed.

Xie Xizhao genuinely hoped that the people he had faith in would make it.

If he imagined a group with Ai Qingyuan, Qiao Ye, Shi Song, himself, and maybe Lu Xing… and if he ended up being pushed into the leader’s role…

Xie Xizhao found the idea a little terrifying.

He spaced out for a moment. Ye Yiyang kept glancing at him until he finally snapped back to reality. “What’s up?”

“Brother, I’m still a bit worried,” Ye Yiyang said hesitantly. “Are you really going to stick with the original move? It looks really difficult, and if you—”

He wanted to say something but stopped, feeling like it would be bad luck to voice it. He hurriedly spat three times to ward off misfortune.

Xie Xizhao was briefly stunned before he chuckled. “It’s fine.”

Ye Yiyang didn’t say anything more, but his disapproval was written all over his face.

Xie Xizhao had been lost in thought, but Ye Yiyang’s reminder snapped him back to reality. He realized the current performance was coming to an end. Taking a deep breath, he adjusted his mindset.

Then, as the cheers suddenly grew louder, he stepped onto the stage with his teammates.

—

Jing Jin had come to the live performance today with Ming Ling.

The tickets were from the fan support club’s internal lottery. The work chat had spent ages drawing names, and in the end, a few spots were won—hers included. Ming Ling, on the other hand, had tickets directly from the company. Since they were both in A City, they decided to go together.

She had been nervous the entire way.

Could her brother dance Chinese classical dance? Of course not.

Everyone else might be fooled by Xie Xizhao, but family wasn’t so easy to deceive. And precisely because she suspected there was more to this than met the eye, she didn’t even dare to voice her concerns.

It wasn’t that she was afraid Xie Xizhao would mess up—her brother had always been exceptional at everything since childhood.

She was just afraid he would get hurt.

She sat there, anxious and worried, but then she looked up at Xie Xizhao—

And completely forgot what she had been thinking about.

She wasn’t the only one whose brain short-circuited.

Before hearing the name Palace in the Clouds, the audience had already formed an idea of what the performance’s style and visuals would be—most likely something ethereal and elegant.

But imagination and reality were two very different things.

And for Xie Xizhao, that difference was even more pronounced.

Because of the upcoming performances, he had kept his hair black, his forehead fully exposed.

His makeup was minimal, giving him a natural and unpolished look—only slightly enhancing his features and subtly defining his lower lash line. His normally gentle brows and eyes had been lightly outlined, making him look even more like a noble young master from ancient times—refined, elegant, and impossibly distant.

Yet, this noble young master seemed to have no worldly desires—more like an aloof celestial being who had descended to earth.

And complementing that image was his outfit.

Before Xie Xizhao appeared, most people had assumed the costumes would be modern—perhaps with silk fabrics or sleek practice wear suited for dance. But this group had taken a completely different approach.

Their entire ensemble was an updated take on traditional Chinese attire, all in pure white. The sleeves were tapered, and the hemline was shortened slightly for ease of movement.

The loose overlapping collar framed his slender, porcelain-like neck, drawing attention to a strikingly small black mole on his collarbone.

The moment the screen zoomed in on that tiny detail, the audience erupted.

Xie Xizhao didn’t originally have a mole there.

So why did he have one now?

There was only one answer.

In the audience, Jing Jin swore for the first time in her life. “Holy shit! My brother is too good at this! He actually painted a mole there—what the hell—”

How could he be this devious?!

As if he had sensed her thoughts, Xie Xizhao smirked slightly and winked at the audience.

The camera caught it perfectly.

And just like that, the ethereal celestial being transformed into a mischievous little fox.

Once again, in less than a minute, Xie Xizhao sent the entire venue into a frenzy.

Beside him, Dou Yu repeatedly lifted his mic, trying to speak through the deafening screams, only to give up and shake his head with a helpless laugh.

After the audience finally calmed down a little, Dou Yu spoke.

“Who’s the leader of this group?”

“I am,” Xie Xizhao raised his hand.

The beauty mark had been intentional.

His response, however, was casual.

But what he didn’t expect was that this simple action would send the crowd into another round of wild screams.

As soon as he finished speaking, someone in the audience shouted, “Why are you still raising your hand to answer questions? Baby, you’re so well-behaved!”

Xie Xizhao: “…”

Silently, he lowered his hand.

Dou Yu was also briefly struck by how cute that was, but as someone who had seen it all, he maintained his composure and chuckled. “So, Xie Xizhao, do you have anything to say about this stage? Maybe something we should look forward to?”

“If I say it now, it won’t be a surprise,” Xie Xizhao replied with a smile.

Then, after a brief pause, he added, “But it’s definitely something worth looking forward to.”

With just a few words, he had the entire audience hanging in suspense, their anticipation being toyed with like a cat playing with a string.

Dou Yu continued chatting briefly with the rest of the group.

Once the casual conversation wrapped up, Dou Yu stepped offstage. The lights dimmed, and the venue fell into silence once more.

In the darkness, everyone positioned themselves, props in hand, formations set.

For a moment, everything was still.

Then, from the massive screen at the back of the stage, a full moon slowly rose.

At the same time, the music began—soft and distant at first, then gradually growing clearer, filling the entire venue.

It was the sound of the xun.

This ancient instrument, layered over a modern synthesized background, created an ethereal harmony. The sound, balanced between deep and airy tones, was so uniquely rich that it felt like a cleansing wave washing over everyone’s eardrums.

The melody was steady, unhurried, yet irresistibly immersive.

In that instant, the once-lively venue quieted completely.

Everyone held their breath, captivated by the opening notes.

As the introduction reached its brief conclusion, the stage lights slowly brightened.

The glow wasn’t too harsh—just enough to reveal the formation of dancers at the center of the stage.

And the moment the audience saw who stood at the center, countless people felt their breath catch.

The young man’s slender figure stood tall like bamboo, his gaze slightly lowered toward the ground.

Behind him, the full moon on the screen looked astonishingly realistic. The stage lighting mimicked the soft glow of moonlight, casting a sacred, misty sheen on his eyelids and skin.

It lasted only for a moment.

Then, the audience noticed the silk ribbon in his hand.

A white silk ribbon—smooth and weightless, fluttering with his movements.

His motions were as light as a swallow in flight.

The sound of the xun became distinct again. As the melody swelled, the dancers moved, dispersing from their formation in a coordinated yet varied display—each movement different, yet harmoniously arranged, creating a breathtaking scene.

By this time, the cameras had already adjusted their angles.

This was something Xie Xizhao had specifically coordinated with the director’s team.

They would capture the performance from an overhead perspective, framing the intricate formations that rippled across the stage like flowing water.

The entire venue was silent, save for the gentle, unbroken melody.

On the backdrop, wisps of drifting clouds partially veiled the moon, their shifting forms sketching the silhouette of towering mountains in the distance. Beneath the moon, the lone figure of a young man stood—elegant, ethereal, as though he had stepped out of a dreamlike painting.

Jing Jin had been watching the stage intently.

As the prelude and first verse passed, she finally let go of the worry that had been weighing on her heart.

—

Xie Xizhao’s movements were impressively precise.

Though trainees were not professional dancers, and the choreography mostly consisted of fundamental techniques—small jumps, kicks—some still struggled with core control.

It could be said that the success of this stage, at this moment, relied entirely on the atmospheric composition and the presence of two key performers: Ye Yiyang and Xie Xizhao.

The formation of this stage was nothing short of brilliant.

The formations changed frequently, almost eliminating synchronized choreography, yet they never descended into chaotic, unstructured positioning. Visually, everything remained harmonious. No performer was hidden at the back—each had their moment in the spotlight, rotating through center positions as needed.

Creating such a strategic formation to mask weaknesses was not something the show’s choreographers, who had to manage a hundred trainees at once, could have achieved alone.

It could only have been Xie Xizhao who put in the effort to refine it.

And from the very beginning of the performance, his dancing ability reassured everyone who had worried about him.

One of the most critical aspects of dance was core strength.

His core was incredibly stable.

So stable that even during grand jetés and pirouettes, he executed them with effortless grace. He and Ye Yiyang handled nearly all the advanced moves, yet Xie Xizhao appeared even more controlled than Ye Yiyang.

And then there was his physique, accentuated by his costume—

A slender yet powerful waist, flexible and strong. When he bent backward in expansive, fluid motions, his lines were strikingly precise and seamless.

There was an almost breathtaking beauty to it.

It took Jing Jin only half a minute to transition from anxious worry to complete captivation. On one hand, every movement made her think, ‘That’s so difficult! Please don’t get hurt!’ On the other hand…

Beauty and music were inherently infectious.

What stood out most about Xie Xizhao wasn’t just the complexity of his moves but the sheer immersion in every motion.

In the first two performances, he had placed great emphasis on interacting with the cameras. But for this third stage, where he didn’t have to sing or rap, he was entirely focused on the dance itself—his gaze even slightly lowered in concentration.

His posture was as elegant as a crane’s, his movements executed with both strength and restraint.

His landings were steady, yet when he raised his arms and spun, there was an undeniable sense of weightlessness. He had truly achieved the perfect balance of power and fluidity, delivering a visual masterpiece.

The audience was already overwhelmed with emotion, and even in the waiting room where the trainees were gathered, everyone—whether they specialized in dance or not—was watching intently. It no longer felt like a competition between rivals but more like witnessing a piece of art unfold.

Even Ai Qingyuan, who had just been bickering with Fu Wenze, had fallen silent. It was only during a brief pause in the music that he finally spoke:

“How long must he have practiced for this?”

As a dance-focused trainee himself, Ai Qingyuan knew exactly how much repetition was needed to reach this level of precision. There was no way Xie Xizhao had achieved this without drilling each move hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

“He’s barely been in the dorms lately,” Fu Wenze replied.

He paused for a moment before adding, “But he looks a bit too thin.”

Ai Qingyuan: “…”

Too thin?

Then what did that make his own stage presence?

Fu Wenze gave his verdict: “Weak.”

Ai Qingyuan: “…”

Alright then.

Half of the blame had to go to Qiao Ye.

He grumbled internally, but for some reason, Fu Wenze’s words planted a seed of doubt in his mind. As he continued watching, he started feeling a vague sense of dissatisfaction. It reminded him of how he had felt watching Ye Yiyang and Qi Hang’s stage in the second performance round.

It was undeniably beautiful—ethereal and graceful—but in a competitive survival show like this, it seemed to be lacking something.

Fighting spirit?

Ai Qingyuan thrived on competition.

Had he lived in ancient times, he would have been the type of general eager to charge into battle. Yet, despite his instinctive pursuit of strength, he couldn’t fully agree with Fu Wenze. He couldn’t quite explain why, but there was something about Xie Xizhao’s soft, fluid approach that felt just as powerful in its own way.

Especially since he had taken “elegance” to an almost transcendent level.

But if there were a shift in intensity midway through the performance…

Thud, thud.

The sudden sound of drums in the accompaniment jolted Ai Qingyuan back to reality. It was only then that he realized the song had already reached the interlude—the specially choreographed center position solo.

Without him noticing, the music had seamlessly transitioned from a slow tempo to a faster pace.

Two more drumbeats followed.

The lingering sound of the xun abruptly stopped, leaving a fleeting moment of silence.

Then, in the next second, every trainee watching in the waiting room widened their eyes in shock—some even cursed out loud. Outside, the audience erupted into deafening cheers, reaching the highest peak of the night.

No one had noticed before, but the sash around Xie Xizhao’s waist wasn’t just for decoration—it concealed a soft sword.

His solo was a sword dance.

As the drumbeats resumed, the blade left its scabbard, flashing with a cold, sharp glint.

It was the true embodiment of youthful spirit and ambition.

<< _ >>