Chapter 95: Work
Unlike professional streamers, idol group members’ so-called “casual livestreams” were simply a way to interact with fans through streaming platforms. There was no fixed format, nor were there any performance metrics to meet.
Overall, it was just another method to maintain their fanbase.
After briefly introducing the schedule, Miao Haicheng moved on to the details.
“The time has already been announced—tomorrow night at nine. The duration should be around an hour or so,” he said. “Since this is your first livestream, it’s best if everyone appears on camera at least once. But there’s no need to sit in a strict lineup or anything. Just keep it natural.”
“Zou Yi, you’re the captain, so try to control the flow of the stream, alright?”
Zou Yi nodded quickly. “Got it!”
Miao Haicheng thought for a moment before continuing, “As for the content, you can talk about your recent practice sessions so fans know you’ve been busy even though you haven’t been in the public eye. But don’t say a single word about your debut date or debut content. That’s a strict rule for all of you.”
“Don’t let anything slip. It might feel good in the moment, but it’ll bring a lot of trouble later. Understood?”
It had been a long time since Miao Haicheng last managed rookies. Although his current artists—including Ai Qingyuan—seemed well-behaved, he couldn’t help but nag a little when it came to important events.
He had high hopes for The Phoenix and didn’t want something trivial to affect their performance.
Everyone nodded obediently.
Ai Qingyuan, however, couldn’t help but complain, “I’d love to leak something, but I don’t even know the specific debut date or content myself.”
Miao Haicheng: “…”
Well, fair enough.
“He can’t even talk about his thought process,” Miao Haicheng added. Then, something occurred to him. “By the way, where’s Xizhao?”
Today, he had stopped by unannounced to check on the whole group and see how they were doing in their daily lives—basically the idol equivalent of a college dorm inspection. The results left him unsure whether to feel relieved or not.
On the bright side, there were no scandals—no secret hookups, no internal conflicts, nothing that would give him heart palpitations.
But…
As he looked around the living room, which was cluttered with toys, snacks, video game discs, and a group of half-asleep members watching a mindless cartoon, he couldn’t help but feel that he had overestimated their psychological age.
The only one missing was Xizhao. Remembering the song selection meeting from before, he decided to ask.
But the moment he did, his instincts as a manager kicked in, sending an alarm bell ringing in his head. His heart sank for a second—until Zou Yi cut off his train of thought in time.
“I just checked on him,” Zou Yi said. “He’s catching up on sleep.”
“He’s been really exhausted these past few days,” he sighed. “There’s not much we can do to help. Wenze is the only one who can talk to him from time to time.”
Hearing his name, Fu Wenze looked up and said, “It’s fine. He should be better soon.”
“It’s just his usual habit,” he added calmly. “He has to perfect everything. He was like this during competitions too.”
Miao Haicheng actually had no idea what Xie Xizhao was like when competing. That was often the case—people only saw the end result of a creator’s work, never the struggles that went into making it.
After a few seconds of hesitation, he said, “Just don’t overwork himself too much.”
He still had some concerns.
Whenever Xie Xizhao asked for changes, the planning team would be on edge.
What they feared wasn’t revisions—it was having too many ideas thrown in, leaving them to clean up the mess.
Xie Xizhao said he wanted to make changes—but to what extent? A concept revival wasn’t something a single song could determine; it also depended on future developments.
There was no doubt about Xie Xizhao’s talent or aesthetic sense. His stage planning and self-composed songs had already proven that. But still, people found it hard to believe that he was truly proficient in everything.
And producing an album involved a lot of different aspects.
He could handle songwriting and composing, but what about arranging?
Arranging was a highly technical skill.
Even if, by some miracle, he could manage that too—this wasn’t a solo project. What about the group’s overall concept? What about choreography that had to match the song?
In the past few days, the lead planner had already come to Miao Haicheng once, tactfully suggesting that since time was running short, it might be best to finalize the concept first.
But Miao Haicheng had stopped them.
His reasoning was simple: “If we have a better plan, we should go with the better one. The current market isn’t like before—you can’t just throw anything out there and expect people to accept it. If we want the audience to buy in, we have to respect them first. If we take shortcuts and put out something half-baked, the audience’s response will be just as half-hearted.”
Notably, he used the word “audience,” not “fans.”
The Phoenix’s target demographic was never meant to be limited to just fan circles.
The company understood this even better than the members did.
During the final contract signing, none of the agencies had second-guessed the five-year deal, because they recognized the group’s boundless potential.
“Besides,” Miao Haicheng added, “I don’t think Xizhao is the type to create trouble for others.”
—
The words were said, but Miao Haicheng was not a worm in Xie Xizhao’s stomach.
He said that based on the impression Xie Xizhao had given him, which was why he was willing to vouch for him. However, as time went on, he began to feel uneasy, though he didn’t say it out loud.
Since he didn’t say it, others naturally didn’t understand.
Fu Wenze responded briefly, and with a sigh, Miao Haicheng dismissed the meeting.
The next day, the company staff arrived and delivered some live-streaming equipment.
In fact, Fu Wenze’s “soon” wasn’t just talk.
Over the past couple of days, he had visited the composition studio, and what Xie Xizhao was working on was indeed gradually taking shape. But no matter how fast he was, it was impossible to finish it by the next day. So, before the live stream, Zou Yi went to see Xie Xizhao.
When Xie Xizhao heard it was a live stream, he agreed.
Zou Yi thought for a moment and said, “How about this?”
“You just keep doing your work,” he suggested. “We’ll bring the fans over for a quick look in the middle of the stream. Just remember to put away any important documents and drafts beforehand.”
Xie Xizhao chuckled. “Alright.”
It was clear that Zou Yi was looking out for him.
Words alone meant nothing.
Only the reality of the creative process could reinforce the image of a “producer.”
Regardless of whether the company ended up using his drafts, at least he had established his persona. And his efforts wouldn’t go to waste—someone would see how hard he had worked.
In this regard, Zou Yi had always been meticulous.
Xie Xizhao had taken on many tasks related to survival shows and boy bands. His teammates were either the ones doing the b*llying or the ones being b*llied—one way or another, the tasks that landed in his hands were never normal.
For the first time, he truly experienced what it was like to have a healthy team dynamic, and he was quite moved.
He swiveled his chair around, stretched out his arms toward Zou Yi, and said, “Teacher Zou, come give me a hug.”
Zou Yi laughed. “Oh wow, look at you acting all clingy.”
Still, he reached out and hugged Xie Xizhao, ruffling the messy strands of hair sticking up on his head in the process.
Outside the door, Ai Qingyuan happened to walk by. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of them and came to an abrupt stop.
No one knew what went through his mind in those few seconds of silence. After about three seconds, he stiffly asked, “Do you need me to close the door for you?”
Zou Yi: “…”
“What I need is for you to check if the rice cooker is done,” he replied.
Ai Qingyuan: “…Oh.”
Half a minute later, he came running back. “The rice is ready. Can we have cola chicken wings for dinner?”
Xie Xizhao chuckled.
Zou Yi laughed as well and said to Xie Xizhao, “Alright, stop working so hard. A little break won’t hurt. Get up and eat.”
The two of them got up and headed to the dining room together.
—
In the end, Ai Qingyuan got his wish—he had cola chicken wings for dinner.
Fu Wenze made them.
The price? He was pushed to be the opening act for the live stream the next day. And joining him was Zou Yi.
Because Fu Wenze absolutely refused to appear on camera with him.
“He’d rather cook me cola chicken wings than do a live stream with me,” Ai Qingyuan said to Zou Yi. “Do you think he’s secretly in love with me?”
Zou Yi responded objectively, “I don’t know about that. What I do know is that if you keep talking, your cola chicken wings might disappear.”
As soon as the words fell, the equipment setup was complete.
The two of them quickly adjusted their expressions and greeted the camera:
“Hello, everyone, good evening.”
At that moment, the comment section was already flooded with messages.
Shenghong had dropped a major teaser yesterday before going offline, but most fans had guessed that it would be a live stream in the end.
After all, major events usually had some early leaks, and it was standard for idol groups to have regular live streams. There was no reason why a survival show group would be an exception. Timing-wise, it made sense.
The moment the broadcast notification was sent out, the platform nearly crashed from the traffic.
Now, the comment section was so overloaded that messages were lagging. The displayed online viewer count had already reached 46,000. Ai Qingyuan and Zou Yi patiently waited for the staff to confirm everything was running smoothly before greeting the audience again.
“Hello, everyone,” Zou Yi said with a smile. “Welcome to The Phoenix’s channel. I’m Zou Yi, The Phoenix’s leader and main vocalist.”
Beside him, Ai Qingyuan drawled lazily, “Main dancer, Ai Qingyuan.”
Two days ago, The Phoenix’s official Weibo account had released their official member positions.
Aside from Zou Yi being the leader and main vocalist and Ai Qingyuan as the main dancer, the rest of the members’ roles were also confirmed.
Fu Wenze was the main rapper, while Yun Pan held both lead vocal and lead dancer positions.
And as for the most highly anticipated Xie Xizhao, he was directly given the titles of ACE and visual.
The former was expected; the latter immediately sparked controversy.
After winning the vote, some of Xue Zixiao’s fans had gotten a little too full of themselves. When Shenghong announced the official positions, some even accused the company of being petty and unprofessional, suggesting they were throwing shade at Xue Zixiao. That statement, however, only gave Xie Xizhao’s fans the perfect opportunity to counterattack.
The fans, mindful of the unspoken rule that pre-debut idols were still rookies, didn’t launch direct attacks. Instead, they played the innocent underdog card, feigning helplessness.
The accusations had already been ridiculous, but now, with this act, even bystanders found it hard to watch. At the same time, Newstar’s youngest member’s “accidental slip” had quietly spread across major entertainment forums.
As a result, Xue Zixiao’s fans finally snapped out of their delusions. Realizing they had pushed their luck, they wisely chose to retreat into silence.
By the time Zou Yi and Ai Qingyuan started their live stream, the conflict between the two fandoms had temporarily settled. At that moment, their appearance was like an oasis in the desert, instantly doubling the number of live comments.
[Good evening, ahhh!]
[Brother Qingyuan, good evening! Teacher Zou, good evening! Ahhh, I missed you guys so much! Finally!]
“You’re late,” Zou Yi said with a smile. “It really has been a while.”
“Has it, though?” Ai Qingyuan thought for a moment and did the math. “It’s only been… a month?”
[Only?!]
[ONE! WHOLE! MONTH! Do you hear yourself?!]
Ai Qingyuan just chuckled. “Come on, don’t set the bar so high. We’ve been busy preparing for debut. Super busy.”
[Elaborate.]
[When’s the debut album dropping?!]
Zou Yi smiled and gave Ai Qingyuan a light pinch at his waist. Ai Qingyuan coughed. “Uh… that’s classified.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” he quickly changed the subject.
The atmosphere of the live stream turned out even better than expected.
Or rather, no one had anticipated that the best showcase of The Phoenix’s strong team dynamics wouldn’t come from the carefully edited group reality show by Shenghong, nor from the emotional group hug at their debut. Instead, it was moments like this—just their everyday interactions.
Zou Yi and Ai Qingyuan had set a great tone.
In a five-member group, there would always be varying degrees of closeness. Among them, these two were seen as the “least familiar” pair in the eyes of fans.
But once they sat together for the live stream, everyone realized that maybe their so-called unfamiliarity was just an illusion—an effect of all their interactions being left on the cutting room floor.
Between the two, Ai Qingyuan played the mood maker role, bringing up topics, interacting with the chat, and occasionally getting roasted to the point of frustration. Zou Yi, on the other hand, was the one responsible for keeping him in check.
Twenty minutes into the stream, Ai Qingyuan had been manually muted three times and silenced with just a look five times.
The chat had erupted in laughter countless times.
In the end, even Zou Yi was exasperated. He said, “I’m calling Wenze over.”
Ai Qingyuan: “?”
[Sichuan opera face-change moment]
[Doom is upon us.]
[WTF Ai Qingyuan’s expression is hilarious, I just screenshotted it 800 times.]
Half a minute later, Fu Wenze entered to take over for Zou Yi—bringing along a wide-eyed, blinking Yun Pan as well.
“I’ve got something to do, so I’ll be leaving now.” Ai Qingyuan stood up, numb.
Fu Wenze turned to the chat and asked concisely, “What did he do?”
[He was badmouthing you!]
[He said you’re just a big ice block! And super b—]
[He also said you’re secretly a show-off. You act cool on the surface, but deep down, you’re like a flamboyant peacock—especially around Xiao Zhao!]
Yun Pan blinked. “Wow! So much insider info!”
Fu Wenze: “……”
Yun Pan stared at the chat and said seriously, “But actually, we all really like Brother Xiao Zhao. Brother Fu isn’t exactly flamboyant—at most, he’s just a black peacock. When it comes to Brother Xiao Zhao, the real show-off peacock is actually Brother Qingyuan. He’s lying to you guys.”
Ai Qingyuan: “……”
[I’m laughing so hard it hurts… someone save me.]
And so, just twenty minutes into the stream, #ThePhoenixMentalState officially trended on the hot search list. Under the hashtag, the internet was flooded with real-time clips from the live stream.
As hilarious as the stream was, by the halfway mark, the chat began to grow restless.
It was a harsh reality, but the fact remained—The Phoenix’s popularity was still quite imbalanced. And that imbalance was most evident between Xie Xizhao and the rest of the group.
As a result, a large portion of the viewers had actually joined the stream for Xie Xizhao.
They wanted to see him, but they were too embarrassed to outright ask for him. After all, the current stream belonged to his teammates—it wouldn’t be right to demand they stop everything just to bring him on.
So, when Yun Pan casually mentioned Xie Xizhao again, the chat couldn’t hold back anymore and subtly steered the conversation.
[So… where’s our Teacher Xiao Zhao? QAQ We haven’t seen him all night… Baby, tell Auntie, what is your brother doing right now~?]
Yun Pan noticed the comment and turned to Fu Wenze.
Fu Wenze glanced at the time, keeping his expression neutral. Seeing that the moment was about right, he finally said, “Xizhao is in the composition studio.”
He paused for a second before adding, “Want to go check on him?”
[! YES!]
[AHHH BABY!]
Yun Pan immediately got up from his seat, sweetly waved at the chat, and said, “Then I’m going to sleep now. Good night, everyone.”
[Good night, baby! Drink more milk and grow taller!]
Yun Pan: “Ah.”
“But I’m already 1.8 meters tall.” He said with an innocent expression.
【…Sh*t, almost forgot.】
【Alright, guess I’m the one who needs to drink more milk :）】
Yun Pan slipped out, and Fu Wenze adjusted his phone before holding up the streaming device and heading out. While walking, he casually answered chat questions: “Height? I think we’re all over 1.8 meters, if I remember correctly.”
“Mm, Baidu Baike isn’t accurate.”
“What’s wrong with it? Ai Qingyuan exaggerated—he’s actually only 182 cm but reported 185. I, on the other hand, understated it—I’m about 186 now.”
“Xizhao? He’s around 183 cm. I was next to him when he measured it. He’s pretty honest—if he wears shoes, he’d be a bit taller. Same height as Zou-laoshi.”
“We’re here.”
Fu Wenze stopped in front of the door and explained to the chat, “This is Xizhao’s room. He and I live on the same floor—you probably saw it on the group reality show? Since both of us write music, we were placed next to the composition studio.”
After finishing, he knocked on the door. “Xizhao, we’re live streaming. Can we come in?”
[Wow… so dedicated.]
[Teacher Zou just mentioned it too—Xizhao hasn’t stopped composing even after debuting. Do you think it’s for the debut album? Tbh, rookies rarely get to participate in writing debut songs, but this is Xizhao we’re talking about. Could they make an exception?]
[Probably not, right? How would Shenghong ever let him write songs? Plus, wasn’t there a rumor that ‘Boundless Sea’ got included in the album? That’s already a huge concession.]
[Yeah, but still… sigh QAQ]
While the chat buzzed with discussion, a voice from inside responded, “You can come straight in.”
Chat: !
Fu Wenze pushed open the door, and a warm, golden glow filled the screen.
—
It was a room that wasn’t particularly large.
About the size of an average home study, the left side was filled with various musical instruments and a few small stools. On the right, a semi-circular desk wrapped around the walls, folding at the corner like the layout of a convenience store.
However, instead of snacks, the desk was covered with all kinds of papers and sheet music.
It wasn’t exactly messy, but it looked packed with an overwhelming variety of things.
During the group reality show, the cameras had briefly captured this composition room, but back then, they had just moved in, and the place didn’t have much of a lived-in feel. Now, for the first time, everyone got to see the room in its true form.
But that wasn’t the main point.
Almost the moment Fu Wenze’s phone camera turned to face Xie Xizhao, the chat was instantly flooded with countless lines of excited “Aaaaah!”
This was the first time they had seen Xie Xizhao in work mode.
Probably because he was at home, the young man was dressed casually. With the heater on, he was only wearing a plain black T-shirt. The shirt, an oversized fit, had white graffiti-style prints on it.
He wore casual denim jeans on the bottom.
His shirt was slightly long, with part of it tucked into his belt, subtly outlining his slender waist.
Of course, none of this was the main point either.
Fu Wenze raised an eyebrow. “Are you bare-faced?”
“…Don’t look so surprised to see me without makeup.” Xie Xizhao replied. “Aren’t I bare-faced every day?”
Fu Wenze: …
“I thought you’d put in a little effort,” he said.
Xie Xizhao chuckled and deliberately teased, “For you, brother?”
[WTF! It was obviously for ME! Unacceptable!]
[Aaaaah, stop flirting! Baby, mom won’t allow you to flirt with other men!]
[Man’s out here shooting two birds with one arrow. Smooth as hell, flirting with both at once. :） But damn it, I still eat this up. I surrender, aaaaaah!]
Xie Xizhao was indeed just teasing the fans.
After saying that, he laughed first. “Just kidding.”
He stood up, grabbed a chair for Fu Wenze, then sat back down and explained, “I was going to put on a little makeup, but it felt like too much of an idol burden, so I decided against it.”
With a smile, he added, “Showing everyone the real me.”
“You look great,” Fu Wenze said.
He meant it.
And the flood of comments on the screen only confirmed that fact.
By this point, the chat was on the verge of total meltdown.
They had expected to see Xie Xizhao tonight, but they had never imagined they’d see him like this.
A cozy room, a bare face, effortless loungewear, and a relaxed, natural demeanor.
It was clear that Xie Xizhao had just been working.
Nothing about this moment felt staged or performed. His laptop was already locked, the notebook beside him was closed, and even his pen had its cap back on. But anyone could tell—just moments ago, he had been fully immersed in his work.
That subtle shift, the way he had just pulled himself out of intense focus, wasn’t something that could be easily faked.
This was a side of Xie Xizhao they had never seen before—a version of him completely lost in his craft, unguarded and deeply engaged.
Realizing this, something in the brains of certain fans seemed to short-circuit.
And over the next few minutes, that fact became increasingly obvious.
Xie Xizhao had actually been revising a tricky section just before they came in. But since he couldn’t exactly show it on stream, he could only make casual conversation with Fu Wenze. “What were you guys talking about just now?”
“Just random stuff,” Fu Wenze replied. “What about you? Going smoothly?”
Xie Xizhao let out a sigh.
“It’s okay, I guess. The part we discussed earlier—I think your version sounds better, but it feels a little abrupt when transitioning from the previous section. I’m not sure if I should adjust the earlier part or tweak the later part.”
He was genuinely troubled by it, so Fu Wenze offered, “Harmony is more important.”
“Not necessarily,” Xie Xizhao countered. “I think I can tweak the effect a bit more, or maybe just add a transition section. Yeah, something like that. Let me play it for you…”
He reached for his guitar but hesitated midway, fingers pausing for a brief second.
Then, after a moment of consideration, he withdrew his hand and smiled. “I’ll show you after the stream.”
Fu Wenze asked, “You want to take the camera?”
“Sure.” Xie Xizhao agreed without hesitation.
Fu Wenze handed over the phone, and Xie Xizhao adjusted the angle before flipping the screen to check the flood of comments rolling past.
A moment later, he spoke, voice slightly husky, tinged with amusement.
“Wow. Your defenses are way too weak. This is just work talk—what’s so attractive about that?”
