Chapter 153: “Wow.”
The person who spoke was someone both of them recognized.
Qi Xiangjie, the center of Group B from Wanli.
The first public stage performance of Super Rookie featured a total of seven songs. As usual, the songs were divided into different genres. Wanli group was the traditional Chinese style group, and it was the group Xie Xizhao had put the most effort into.
Because many trainees lacked solid fundamentals, the show’s producers, in pursuit of dramatic effect, choreographed dances that didn’t care whether the trainees could survive them.
The mentors were split into roles. Each field had a designated mentor in charge, while Xie Xizhao was responsible for the overall performance. This group was a bit special—Shi Mu didn’t have a background in Chinese dance, so it was Xie Xizhao who helped with everything from choreography to fundamental training.
Based on each person’s strengths, he adjusted the choreography for both groups and personally guided them step by step.
While Qi Xiangjie was still talking, someone had already noticed Xie Xizhao standing at the doorway.
His teammate’s face instantly turned pale, but Qi Xiangjie kept talking: “It’s just the first public stage. Don’t you think his standards are totally inhuman? Fans can’t possibly pay attention to so many details. And netizens love to follow trends—if it weren’t for him leading the narrative, our season’s reputation wouldn’t be this bad.”
That was what he was most bitter about.
In his view, all the criticism and ridicule they were facing in public opinion originated from Xie Xizhao. He was the company’s main push (top pick), and the company had originally expected him to get an A ranking, but the result shocked everyone—
He got a C.
Not only that, he had previously participated in another talent show and had a decent fan base. But just because Xie Xizhao gave him a low evaluation, he immediately lost a wave of fans.
Through connections, he’d heard the company was considering changing their main promoted trainee.
Qi Xiangjie was practically coughing up blood from anger. And over the past few days, while Xie Xizhao supervised their training, the person he criticized the most was also him.
New grudges mixed with old ones—he finally couldn’t hold back his true feelings in the practice room late at night.
He had originally thought it would be fine.
They were just practicing on their own, with no cameras around to pick up sound. And as far as he knew, he wasn’t the only trainee who had complained in private about Xie Xizhao being too strict.
After venting, the suffocating frustration in his chest finally eased a little.
He took a sip of water—only to notice the strange, fearful looks in everyone’s eyes.
A terrifying realization suddenly surfaced in his mind.
He stiffly turned his head—and met a pair of familiar eyes.
Qi Xiangjie’s lips trembled slightly, and his mind went completely blank.
–
In a closed-off environment, the only things that spread faster than the circulating air are rumors.
Half a day later, everyone at the recording base already knew—someone had badmouthed Xie Xizhao behind his back, and the man himself had heard it.
Even though Xie Xizhao didn’t say anything at the time, everyone’s first reaction was:
That guy is finished.
Talking behind someone’s back is one thing. Getting caught by the person you’re badmouthing is another. But the person you badmouthed was Xie Xizhao…
Well, classmate—you’re bold.
Quitting the show, getting shelved, blacklisted, or being turned into a sacrificial pawn by the production team for drama—everyone’s mind flashed with the many possible outcomes awaiting Qi Xiangjie. Along with the schadenfreude, there was also a subtle mix of fear and sympathy.
To be honest, under this kind of high pressure, unless a trainee was already strong across the board and highly self-driven, quite a few of them harbored complaints in their hearts.
They might not have gone as far as Qi Xiangjie, but their thoughts weren’t all that different. At the very least, most still respected Xie Xizhao’s ability. But everything else? Yeah—not so different at all.
First, they just felt unlucky—born at the wrong time, ending up with a mentor like Xie Xizhao, who had such strict standards. If it had been some decorative figurehead who only followed the show’s script, sure, the program might’ve flopped a bit, but at least the public opinion wouldn’t be this bad. After all, everything is revealed through comparison—when someone like the TP is holding down the fort, anyone else is going to look like a loser.
Second…
They were genuinely exhausted.
The trainee phase was just the beginning, and some of them had never gone through any sort of systematic training before.
A lot of people entered the industry carrying dreams of being glamorous stars, ready to bask in the love and admiration of fans—not to actually suffer and grind.
The endless, repetitive practice and “twisted” level of expectations were soul-crushing. Many were truly miserable, barely hanging on with the scraps of motivation they had left. At most, they grumbled in private or muttered a few complaints in their heads. Now, everyone was secretly relieved that, at the very least, their luck hadn’t been as bad.
But two days passed, and they still didn’t hear anything about what happened to Qi Xiangjie.
Everything continued as usual. And one week before the public performance, the people supervising their practice sessions were replaced by Shi Mu and Ni Qinglin.
The two of them were both pretty easygoing, and a lot of the trainees let out a sigh of relief.
But…
“Where’s Teacher Xie?”
During a break in one of the practice rooms, someone cautiously asked Shi Mu.
She was briefly stunned, then glanced over at a nearby staff member. After getting a confirming nod, she finally explained, “Teacher Xie had something come up unexpectedly. He’ll be back in a couple of days.”
She paused, as if holding something back, and then finally added, “Even though Teacher Xie is away, you all still need to practice hard, okay? Don’t let him down—he really cares about all of you.”
There was more to those words than met the ear. Shi Mu had a gentle and cautious personality—she rarely said anything unnecessary.
But at that moment, none of the trainees caught the underlying meaning. They all had just one thought:
So he’s using “something came up” as an excuse to leave them alone.
…As expected.
He really was mad, wasn’t he?
*
“…It’s not that serious, really, Director Ma.”
On the phone, Xie Xizhao couldn’t help but feel amused and helpless at the same time after listening to Ma Hongping’s long-winded concern, finally interrupting the man’s wild speculation.
He sighed and said frankly, “I’m really not the kind of person who gets angry over a single comment from a trainee who hasn’t even debuted. If I were that easily upset, I would’ve died from rage just reading the internet every day.”
Ma Hongping: “……”
He sounded doubtful. “Really?”
“I mean, you seem pretty invested in them,” he muttered, rubbing his nose. “Being genuinely let down kind of sucks, doesn’t it?”
Xie Xizhao looked amused. “Director Ma, you actually know what it’s like to be genuinely let down?”
Back during the competition days…
Ma Hongping: “……”
Boomerang.
Right on target.
Thinking and doing are two different things—otherwise, why would the phrase “beyond one’s control” even exist in this world?
The past is like smoke, the past is like smoke. Ma Hongping shamelessly skipped over the topic. “So what are you running off for, then?”
God knows how panicked he’d been when he heard Xie Xizhao had taken time off. He was terrified the guy was quitting for good.
If kicking Qi Xiangjie out of the industry was enough to bring Xie Xizhao back, he would’ve immediately forced the trainee’s agency to put out a statement.
Xie Xizhao: “Mm…”
Ma Hongping: “…”
‘I knew it…’
He cleared his throat, just about to offer some comforting words when he heard Xie Xizhao step away from the phone and call out in the distance:
“Sister, can I tell him now?”
After a moment, the voice returned to the phone: “My manager said the contract’s signed. I can talk about it now.”
He mentioned a brand name. “Do you know this one?”
“I do,” said Ma Hongping. “Isn’t that the ridiculously stuck-up luxury brand? The one that insists their spokesperson must have ‘ultimate sexual magnetism’ and ‘unparalleled beauty’ in one? Even one of their own world-class singers got rejected—they said he looked too ugly. He was so pissed he swore off their jewelry forever, hahaha… Wait.”
“…Wow.”
Xie Xizhao politely expressed his surprise.
Ma Hongping: F***!
He said, “…Ambassador?”
“Spokesperson,” Xie Xizhao replied.
Ma Hongping’s voice shook. “For China?”
Xie Xizhao looked up at the ceiling. “Full line. Global.”
Ma Hongping hung up the phone.
In a hotel room overseas, Xie Xizhao stared at his phone, innocent-faced after being hung up on. Someone knocked on his door to remind him it was time to change clothes. He responded, got changed, stood up, and walked toward the sunlit beach to continue his commercial shoot.
—
Was he upset?
Actually, a little.
But not because of Qi Xiangjie. That guy had clearly spoken without thinking. Afterwards, the company came in person to apologize, practically ready to kneel. Xie Xizhao had waved it off, saying, “No need, no need.”
His manager, wiping sweat from his forehead, kept saying the kid didn’t know any better, implying in every way that as long as the matter wasn’t made public, anything could be negotiated.
Which showed that the company did still care about him—to a certain extent, at least. They hadn’t written him off entirely.
That didn’t quite line up with Qi Xiangjie’s own behavior, though.
The latter remained oblivious—his face full of fear, but also defiance. It was the classic problem of a kid born with a silver spoon, spoiled beyond repair.
He thought too highly of himself, convinced the whole world was against him.
Usually, all it takes is a couple of good beatdowns from reality to fix that.
Xie Xizhao didn’t want to be the one to deliver those beatdowns, but he regrettably had to admit: even though he hadn’t planned to hold a grudge, this wasn’t something he could control.
Of course, he wouldn’t blacklist someone over a single comment—even though he did have the power to do so now. But at his level, even if he let it go, others wouldn’t. Some would do it to curry favor, others to eliminate a potential threat.
He put it gently: “Too many people know.”
Qi Xiangjie looked a bit confused, but the company rep understood immediately.
The rep had only come to try their luck, but now they were dead inside. Knowing that Xie Xizhao himself didn’t take offense was already a stroke of luck. They thanked him and left with the boy.
The next day, Qi Xiangjie’s bad-mouthing incident broke out.
It spread from the forums, amplified by marketing accounts, then landed squarely on the trending list—a full promotional cycle. Even without hard evidence, the public opinion was surprisingly one-sided: he’d disrespected a senior behind his back, wasn’t hardworking, and had questionable character.
Fans were having a meltdown while trying to clear his name. But how do you even clarify something like this? Before long, the production team released a statement saying Qi Xiangjie was withdrawing due to illness—basically confirming the rumors in a roundabout way. His center spot in Team B of Wanli was also reassigned.
It went to a low-key but high-ranking unknown trainee.
The biggest effect this incident had on Xie Xizhao was… he gained a wave of sympathy from casual viewers. After all, his dedication to the show was obvious. Even places that usually loved to throw shade at him were now calling him “addicted to charity.” With the full details of what Qi Xiangjie said out in the open—every angle of his self-sabotage well documented—his fans had no ground to defend him.
Just like Xie Xizhao had told Ma Hongping: he debuted while being hated, walked through storms of public scorn, and had been talked about behind his back too many times to count. If he let himself be upset every time, he’d never make it through.
What he did care about a little was the conversation he had afterward with Ding Yaya.
This was a kid who wasn’t very good at lying.
He said, “Teacher, we all really like you.”
But he couldn’t deny some truths either. Like: “Some people… maybe really can’t handle this kind of pressure.”
*
Xie Xizhao reflected on himself for a moment.
He really was someone who had a hard time tolerating even a grain of sand in his eyes.
He had told Ma Hongping that whether someone worked hard or not was a personal choice. But stage practice was not always something that could be separated so cleanly. Sometimes, he’d just comment on issues without thinking much, and when movements weren’t up to standard, he’d point them out directly.
And honestly, a lot of people did seem very stressed.
Xie Xizhao started wondering—maybe what he considered “help” was actually a burden for some of them.
Maybe he was judging others by his own standards.
When the incident hit the trending list, naturally the other TP members saw it too. He sent a cat meme to the group chat.
Ai Qingyuan replied: What are you doing?
Xie Xizhao: =.= Just… thanks for everyone’s hard work back during the competition.
Every single TP member had been pushed to the brink by him at some point.
Xie Xizhao thought they were all very forgiving of him.
Ai Qingyuan told him he was full of crap.
Xie Xizhao: o.o
Then Ai Qingyuan called him—sounding like he was at his wit’s end. “Are you out of your mind?”
In the background, Xie Xizhao could hear Zou Yi trying to calm him down: “No, Xiao Ai, why are you yelling at Xizhao? It’s not even his fault.”
“It’s not his fault, but if he’s reflecting on himself, isn’t that even crazier?” Ai Qingyuan shot back.
Zou Yi was left speechless.
Xie Xizhao said, “Ai Qingyuan, you’re so fierce.”
Ai Qingyuan: “……”
A moment later, he let out a frustrated damn and shoved the phone into Zou Yi’s hands like it was a hot potato.
Zou Yi took it with barely contained laughter. He said, “Don’t overthink it, Xizhao.”
He paused for a moment, then said, “From what I know about you, you’re not someone who would actually set unreasonable expectations. At least, back when we were in the same group, in the end—everyone managed to do it.”
Xie Xizhao had never held others to the same standard he held for himself.
The goals he set were always ones that could be reached with just a stretch of the hand.
But it was that stretching motion that proved too hard—and so, most people let fear of difficulty drown out their confidence.
Zou Yi said, “I don’t care about anyone else. Every single member of TP really likes you. You have to remember that.”
He said it seriously. Xie Xizhao softly replied, “Okay.”
Zou Yi glanced over and saw Ai Qingyuan wildly making eye signals at him. He cleared his throat and added, “…Also, respect other people’s paths. Uh—like, just… don’t push it too far.”
Ai Qingyuan walked away, finally satisfied.
–
Xie Xizhao repeated Zou Yi’s words to himself, over and over.
He pushed all other thoughts aside and focused earnestly on filming the ad. The shoot itself was tough—challenging in its own way. The director told him they were looking for a kind of holy sensuality.
“We watched your debut MV,” the director said. “You’re the one who best fits that concept.”
What is art?
Art is elusive and undefinable. It’s the blur of illusion in the air, the kind of brilliance that ordinary people might not understand, but still gasp at in awe when it hits them.
For a commercial barely over a minute long, Xie Xizhao filmed for several days. On the last day, he was hauled silently out of the water, wrapped in a blanket, and sneezing. The room was warm, and beside him, Fang Qingqing quietly fed a dozen scented business cards—collected from all kinds of sources over the past few days—into the shredder.
It was a routine by now.
Even back in China, there had been plenty of people offering themselves to Xie Xizhao’s bed. The entertainment industry was filled with beautiful men and women eager to burn off their excess energy. But what they hadn’t expected was that the man with a “clean reputation” in the rumors—really did keep himself clean.
Just like how Qi Xiangjie had never considered that in this world, there could be people who give purely without expecting anything in return.
There were a lot of business cards this time. Xie Xizhao sighed, “Such a passionate city.”
Fang Qingqing commented, “Too bad all those flirty glances were wasted on a blind man.”
Xie Xizhao: “…”
He quietly suggested, “Maybe we should check which hotel gets mentioned the most. Must be really private. We can stay there on our next vacation.”
“No,” Fang Qingqing said firmly as she pressed the shredder button. “You have to understand—if anyone actually managed to get a one-night stand with you, their first reaction would definitely be to brag about it to the entire world. So what’s waiting for you would be countless hidden cameras, and paparazzi camping outside your door snapping away.”
She paused, then added a pitch-black joke: “Even the stalker fans in the bushes won’t let you go.”
Xie Xizhao: “……”
He blinked slowly.
“Don’t underestimate your own charm,” Fang Qingqing said with motherly affection. “You’re a precious treasure of all humanity, Little Xie Xizhao.”
Little Xie Xizhao felt like the world had gone a bit crazy.
He silently went to get some rest. The past few days of shooting had worn him out. The next day, he and his team boarded a plane back home.
Meanwhile, at the same time, the atmosphere inside the Super Rookie production team wasn’t exactly optimistic.
*
The first few days after Xie Xizhao left, most of the trainees actually let out a breath of relief.
It was like a tight string finally getting a break. Some people, shamefully, even found themselves feeling grateful to the unlucky Qi Xiangjie. You know—sacrifice one to benefit the masses.
Their thoughts were simple. At this point, the basic choreography and vocal parts had already been assigned. The rest was just personal practice and team coordination. Besides, they still had other mentors around—so giving both Xie Xizhao and themselves a little breather seemed like the smartest plan.
“Teacher Xie is working really hard too,” someone said.
That was an honest statement.
In fact, they felt quite guilty about Xie Xizhao mentoring them. After all, the same issues had to be corrected over and over again—it made them look like they were really slow learners. They were all seventeen or eighteen-year-old guys, and their pride was still intact. So, naively, they thought: If we just practice harder ourselves, it’ll be fine.
On the first day, someone didn’t even go to the practice room. Spent the whole day lying around in the dorm.
On the second day, the more motivated teams kept rehearsing on their own and started noticing a bunch of problems.
By the third day…
Three days before the performance, all the teams hit a wall.
Some groups had practiced everything perfectly, but wanted to push for even better—and couldn’t find the right direction. Some teams had trainees with weaker foundations who couldn’t keep up with the practice, and their group coordination totally fell apart. Others wanted to rework their choreography, but just couldn’t come up with anything that worked.
They asked for help from the mentors and assistant coaches, but there were fourteen groups in total—mentors and coaches couldn’t do everything. With so many people, they didn’t have time to be familiar with each team’s specifics and could only give the most basic guidance.
Every group was in chaos, and only then did they remember Xie Xizhao.
Xie Xizhao had always been effortlessly competent.
Whether it was vocal, dance, or rap—he was the best of the best. For most problems, you only had to ask him once, and he could give you the most professional answer right on the spot.
And the rarest thing about him was this: he could tailor choreography and arrangements to fit each individual team, even each individual person.
He remembered most people’s names. Knew most of their weak spots. If you asked him something once, the next time you had class, he’d always follow up: “Did you fix that issue from before?”
…He never spared effort or time. In fact, he should have been the busiest person among them all.
Once again, after a full round of guidance, Ni Qinglin didn’t speak.
The practice room fell into silence, and he finally broke the quiet: “How do you think your practice went?”
Everyone’s faces flushed with shame.
He had a good temper and rarely spoke harshly. But when he did, he was very direct.
This was a common scenario in variety shows. But both the speaker and the listeners knew, this was the truth.
They had practiced terribly.
Ni Qinglin didn’t say anything more, just pointed out the issues, and everyone quietly listened. But as the shoot wrapped up and everyone was about to leave, Ni Qinglin hesitated for a moment and suddenly said, “Actually, if Teacher Xie had been here to guide you, these problems would’ve been solved long ago. He’s the most talented ACE I’ve ever seen.”
The trainees froze in place.
Ni Qinglin sighed.
“He really had something urgent to attend to,” he continued. “If any of you think like Qi Xiangjie, then I’m truly sorry for what he’s done for you. With his current status, he could easily earn a publicity fee and leave. If he’s not genuinely trying to make things easier for you, why would he bother with these thankless tasks?”
He paused.
“As far as I know, he was much harsher on himself back then than he is with you now.”
“Think about it carefully,” he said.
He left the practice room.
Silence fell, like a slap across everyone’s faces.
No one spoke again.
