Chapter 154: “Crying, huh.”
When Xie Xizhao’s plane landed, it was already 8 PM.
A car was waiting at the gate. The driver asked where he wanted to go. He thought for a second. “Let’s go to the camp.”
Fang Qingqing gave him a look.
Xie Xizhao suddenly felt a little guilty and tried to explain, “…Their live performance is the day after tomorrow.”
He still couldn’t let it go.
Fang Qingqing had always felt that there was something about Xie Xizhao that set him apart from everyone else. A kind of raw, instinctive sense of right and wrong. A meticulous way of thinking things through. And a sense of responsibility way above the average.
Stuff like values in film and TV, the influence of idols, how public figures should behave—things that should matter but had long been forgotten by most people in the industry, even by the audience. But he still remembered. And he stuck to it.
Like how he responded to kindness with kindness. Or how, even when facing hostility, he still managed to keep a cool head.
And like now—when everyone else would say he’s done more than enough, he still thought of someone else…
Those other trainees who had absolutely nothing to do with all this.
She said, “Alright then.”
The little prince who could’ve been lounging comfortably in his golden palace was choosing to play savior. She was just on the payroll—of course she couldn’t stop him.
They quickly went over his upcoming schedule, then split up and got into separate cars.
Xie Xizhao dozed off for a bit in the car. By the time he woke up, they were already parked outside the camp.
He thanked the driver and got out, not heading in right away. He stopped by the convenience store near the entrance and bought a pack of throat lozenges.
He tossed the wrapper into the trash by the door. Standing in the dark, he slowly sucked on a candy before finally heading into the brightly lit building where the trainees were practicing.
His thought was: Just gonna take a quick look, then leave.
He wouldn’t be able to sleep without checking in. And maybe, after seeing them, he’d realize they didn’t even need him—and then he could go straight to the hotel and sleep easy.
After all, they were adults now…
Xie Xizhao caught Ding Yaya as he threw himself into his arms.
“Ahhh Teacher Xie! Wuwuwu…”
Xie Xizhao: “……”
Well. That said.
It had only been a few days.
But Ding Yaya, little brother, why are you suddenly acting all soft and clingy?
–
Though… it wasn’t just Ding Yaya who had changed. Xie Xizhao could see it in their eyes.
There was guilt in them. Regret too. And once he gave it a little thought, he could piece together exactly what had happened.
That’s just how people grow—messing up, and then learning how to do better.
Sure, someone else’s advice can help steer you right, but it’s the personal experience that really leaves a mark.
Usually, Xie Xizhao liked to let people bump into a metaphorical wall on their own—a harmless one—so they could learn from it.
But this time? It wasn’t like he meant to let go of the reins.
So the wall they hit… wasn’t something that could be fixed after the fact.
Right now, the most urgent thing was the upcoming performance. He didn’t sugarcoat anything:
“Some of your groups—I can’t save them.”
Can’t save them.
The ones who had kept pushing forward—even if there were a few slip-ups—still had a shot at patching things up.
Like Liang Yi’s group, who just needed to tighten up their choreography.
Like Ding Yaya’s group, who—even though he was crying his eyes out—were actually about 80% ready and just needed some polishing.
And then there was—
Well, he’d thought the “Wanli” group would totally fall apart after one of their members got into trouble.
But under the lead of the new center, they’d actually stuck to everything he’d taught them.
That same night, the new C had even messaged him to apologize. Honestly, kind of unnecessary—since the only one talking smack behind his back was Qi Xiangjie.
But the kid had been calm, polite, and confident. First, he apologized for not stepping in sooner. Then he explained the situation in full, and even said he’d be willing to testify if needed. Finally, he thanked Xie Xizhao—for everything he’d done for them.
Xie Xizhao glanced at the kid’s profile:
Yu Song.
Only eighteen this year.
In the entertainment world, yeah, connections and capital matter—but if you don’t have clarity and brains, the moment you run into someone better, one wrong move and it’s game over. On the flip side, if you’ve got the right mindset, even without a strong background, your time will come eventually.
There were two or three more groups that were basically in decent shape—just needed a few tweaks here and there.
As for the rest? No saving them.
Even Nuwa needed time to patch up the sky—and all she got in return was people roasting her.
On performance night, the remaining stages got completely dragged in reviews. No surprise. Once the show aired, the backlash only got louder.
You reap what you sow. No one really complained. First round of eliminations—half of the 100 trainees were gone. For most of them, their journey through this idol survival show was like tossing a stone into the ocean—no splash, no echo, just… gone.
They’d wasted a golden opportunity.
Some people came to thank Xie Xizhao in private—ended up crying midway.
He sighed and just said, “Hang in there.”
At the end of the day, it’s their life. He couldn’t change it for them. They had to walk that road themselves.
And he got it.
So did the trainees.
The ones who were cut packed up and left. The ones who stayed gathered in the rec room.
Xie Xizhao had specifically asked for this session—no cameras allowed.
He looked around, kind of exasperated. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it to me directly. Stop sneaking little notes into my room… what are you, grade-schoolers?”
He had a small room at the camp to rest in. Looked empty most of the time, but in reality? It had been way too lively lately. Every now and then, he’d find one of those “little surprises.”
He was seriously developing post-it PTSD.
The rec room went dead silent. The so-called grade-schoolers were all red in the face, trying not to burst from embarrassment.
In the end, it was one of the slightly braver ones who finally spoke up—quiet voice, but loud enough to be heard:
“Teacher Xie… we know we messed up.”
—
Some people realize they messed up—but no matter what they say or do, it’s already too late.
Others realize it too, but still have a chance to fix things.
Even so, at the end of that day, Xie Xizhao said,
“For the second performance round, I’m going to slightly change how I teach you guys.”
He paused, then added, “Except for the big, scheduled classes. If something’s wrong, think it through and come to me with a clear question. If you can’t even figure out what your own problem is… then go sit with it a while until you do.”
He was filtering.
Filtering for the ones who actually needed help in this competition.
Filtering for the ones with insight, motivation—and the stamina to keep going all the way.
No one objected.
After round one’s eliminations, prep for round two began almost immediately.
At this stage, the trainees were like people stuck halfway across a swaying rope bridge—progress bar halfway filled, still nothing but fog ahead.
And once the mid-season rankings aired, that fog finally began to thin out.
The whole situation was becoming clearer. People were starting to get a sense of who might actually debut. Everyone had their own guesses. This was also the point where all the entertainment companies really started putting in work behind the scenes. The vibe between trainees wasn’t as friendly and carefree as before, either.
Outwardly, now that fans had something to latch onto—the “growth arc” narrative—emotions got real. Hope and ranking became the root of all anxiety. At this point, pretty much everyone left was gunning for debut. That early-stage slacker energy? Completely gone. Everyone was tense, giving it their all as they trained for their second performance.
And that’s when someone cracked.
—
The one who broke down was a guy Xie Xizhao actually remembered pretty clearly.
He’d actually been ranking pretty high the whole time, and his skills were solid too—but he made a major mistake during the first performance.
So even though he’d been steady and consistent during practice for the second round, he was still drowning in anxiety.
In front of fans, he always came off as cheerful and smiley.
But that day, after practice ended and everyone left, totally exhausted and heading off to rest, he stayed behind in the studio.
The room was empty. He sat down on the floor in his workout clothes, buried his face into his knees, and got pulled into this overwhelming black hole of emotion—one that felt like it might swallow him whole.
Just as he was about to completely lose it and let out a sob, he suddenly heard footsteps.
He flinched—so hard the tears almost stopped—and looked up.
It was a familiar face.
Years later, when Yin Li had grown into a true, qualified idol and member of a boy group, he would still find himself recalling this exact moment during quiet late nights. The way their eyes met—it burned into his memory like it had been etched there.
Calling it “love at first sight” would be a little too dramatic, but that eye contact, and the short conversation that followed… it honestly became his one and only emotional lifeline for a long time. The one thing that helped him grit his teeth and keep going.
He brought it up more than once in interviews and on radio shows—with this really genuine, serious tone.
But right now, in this moment, he just looked like a red-eyed rabbit that had been totally spooked.
He stammered, “T-Teacher Xie…”
Xie Xizhao, with a candy in his mouth, looked at him and casually said:
“Crying, huh.”
Yin Li: “…”
Even while choking back sobs, he couldn’t help but mentally complain:
Brother… is that really something you say to a person??
Still, grumbling aside, he was kind of embarrassed.
And under that embarrassment… was a whole lot of fear.
Everything that happened before was still fresh in his mind. Everyone knew Xie Xizhao had zero tolerance for BS.
Honestly, Yin Li himself felt kinda pathetic for crying like this. Weak.
A real idol—someone truly qualified—should be able to manage their stress and emotions, right?
He was afraid Xie Xizhao would call him out.
And honestly? If he did, it wouldn’t even be unfair.
It would just… hurt more.
But Xie Xizhao didn’t.
He just sat down next to him, reached into his pocket, and handed him two things.
Yin Li took them. It was a pack of tissues—and a few pieces of candy.
The wrappers made a soft crinkling noise in the dark.
Xie Xizhao didn’t turn the lights on.
The two of them just sat there in the moonlight for a while. Then Xie Xizhao finally spoke up:
“You’ve been having a rough time lately, huh?”
“Is it because you’re too tired?” he asked gently.
His voice was soft. Warm.
And somehow, that was all it took.
Yin Li’s nose stung, and the tears he’d fought so hard to hold back just spilled out again.
He shook his head hard and said, “…I’m scared I’ll mess up again.”
Mess up.
Let down the version of himself who’d worked so hard up till now.
Let down the fans staying up late every night to vote for him.
The pressure felt like a mountain, and it was crushing him.
He thought of Xie Xizhao.
He didn’t know how he did it. From survival shows to acting, it seemed like he was always succeeding. Always calm. Always solid.
Yin Li wanted to be like that too—wanted to be a miracle.
Someone who could keep going no matter what anyone said or what life threw at him.
Someone unshakable.
But then Xie Xizhao said quietly:
“I get scared too.”
