Chapter 26.1: First Performance (1)
When Lin Jiashi saw Shen Xiu, his heart dropped into his stomach—he was seriously startled, panic flaring in his chest.
For crying out loud, Ke Zi’an, what the hell, man? Whether in the dorm or the practice room, aren’t you usually the first one to open the door? Why would you drop the ball now of all times?
Also, I came here to find Ke Zi’an. Why was Shen Xiu the one opening the door? Since when do team leaders open the door themselves?
Unless… Shen Xiu knew it was him knocking and opened it on purpose just to mess with him?
It hadn’t been long since Shen Xiu had seen right through him in public. Now, facing Shen Xiu’s cold, aloof gaze, Lin Jiashi felt unbearably awkward—like ants crawling under his skin.
With great effort, he finally forced out a sentence: “I—I’m here to see Ke Zi’an.”
The second the words left his mouth, he realized he was stuttering. That only made him more frustrated—Shen Xiu probably looked down on him even more now.
Shen Xiu replied, “He’s not here.”
“Oh… I see. Well, I’ll come back tomorrow then.”
‘Like hell I’m coming back!’
Lin Jiashi spun on his heel and left, absolutely drowning in regret. Shen Xiu hadn’t raised his voice once, but his face was as cold and arrogant as ever.
It made Lin Jiashi jittery, like that tense moment in the hallway was going to replay all over again.
Cursing himself silently, he thought, ‘This is what I get for rushing things. I was too eager to talk to Ke Zi’an and get the scoop on Shen Xiu’s team… But sure enough, haste makes waste. I just got roasted for nothing.’
As he watched Lin Jiashi’s retreating back, Shen Xiu finally let out a long sigh of relief.
The team’s dignity… has been preserved!
But thinking about Lin Jiashi’s unexpected visit still left Shen Xiu uneasy. He made up his mind that after finishing up and leaving for the night, he’d shamelessly ask the show’s staff for a lock.
Just in case—he’d seal their team room shut and cut off all potential paths to pre-performance humiliation!
[“The Conjoined Twins” title isn’t a joke — Baby Jiashi must be missing his little buddy. Blame Shen Xiu for being too scary! Why spook the kid like that?]
[Some of y’all are being ridiculous, seriously.]
[Who was even being mean? Shen Xiu always looks like that. He doesn’t even acknowledge this guy. If Lin Jiashi wasn’t always popping up in front of him, no one would even remember who he is.]
[Stop arguing, sisters. Can we talk about why Shen Xiu locked the room? What the hell is he hiding in there — some kind of secret weapon?]
[Lin Jiashi just visited, and now the door’s locked? So… is this a security measure against Lin Jiashi?]
…
Everyone in Class A was super busy — all of them had been chosen as team leaders, except for Xiang Yueting. Shen Xiu returned to the dorm after dinner and found it completely empty.
He washed his face, grabbed his key, and headed right back to the practice room.
There, he sat in front of the multimedia workstation and started working on a PowerPoint presentation.
Shen Xiu’s wild methods were enough to fluster even the system.
System: [What in the world are you doing now?]
Last time, he broke down the song and choreography with just pen and paper. This time, he’d gone full-on academic with a PowerPoint presentation?
He had even drawn all the stage positions on paper, scanned them, and imported them into the slideshow as images.
System: [I’m warning you — don’t go too far with this nonsense!]
This was supposed to be a boy group survival show! How did Shen Xiu manage to turn it into some kind of research thesis?
But Shen Xiu, still working away, wasn’t listening. Without pausing, he replied:
“How is this nonsense?”
He was a film and media student, for crying out loud — he’d done a ridiculous number of assignments like film critique, scriptwriting, ad production, short drama shoots, video analysis, editing… Even Photoshop posters were part of his toolkit.
He knew what kind of stage left a strong impression. He understood what made a lead stand out visually. And he could pinpoint exactly which roles would be unforgettable at a glance.
‘You think I wouldn’t know what makes a stage impactful?’
He knew what made a great stage. But his team members might not.
That’s why he needed to break everything in his head down into the simplest, clearest pieces — and lay it all out for them to see.
“System, do not question my professional skill. And don’t insult my dream of becoming a director! From this moment on, I am the director of ‘Blood Romance’!”
As a director, it was his duty to make sure his actors understood what story they were supposed to convey. What emotion. What message.
He had to make sure that the audience wouldn’t walk away thinking both they and the “play” they performed were completely awful.
System: […]
So… is this what’s trending now? That if you’re a college student who doesn’t want to become a director, you’re not a real idol?
System: [Fine. You win.]
Shen Xiu was satisfied. And even more focused than before.
He was putting everything on the line — his pride, the team’s reputation. Failure wasn’t an option.
Based on the hours he’d spent analyzing Blood Romance, Shen Xiu had reached some conclusions:
The song leaned heavily toward vocal performance.
The dance wasn’t technically difficult — it was just… cringe.
From the original music video’s awkward characters, to the bizarre choreography, to the performers’ expressions when they sang — everything screamed one word: awkward.
None of it matched the lyrics. In fact, it clashed so hard that even the performers themselves looked embarrassed.
If they felt that way, how could the audience not want to claw their eyes out?
What Shen Xiu needed to do was simple in theory, tricky in execution:
Take all the bizarre, jarring elements from the original video — the characters, the movements, the scenes — and refine them with thoughtful costuming, props, and direction. Adjust the awkwardness just enough so it melded with the lyrics and didn’t stand out like a sore thumb.
At the very least, by the time the public performance arrived, their vocals and dance had to be smooth, cohesive, and immersive.
As leads, they needed to radiate conviction. They had to pull the audience into the song’s eerie, whimsical night — a place of magic and unease.
Only then would the audience not break out in hives, or feel like they needed to rinse their eyes out with cold water.
He needed to break everything down from the very beginning, piece by piece, all the way to the end — it was a massive undertaking. By the time Shen Xiu finally finished working in the practice room and checked the clock, it was already three in the morning.
Considering everyone in the dorms would already be asleep at that hour, and the air conditioning in the practice room kept the temperature stable, Shen Xiu decided not to return. He simply saved and shut down the multimedia equipment, then slumped over the desk, resting his head on his arms and closed his eyes.
…
The Next Morning.
At seven a.m., Shen Xiu opened his eyes. His limbs moved on instinct as he rubbed his sore shoulders, opened the practice room door, and locked it again before heading toward the dorms.
[Seven a.m.? Shen Xiu came to the practice room this early?]
[Night owl here — Shen Xiu didn’t come back to the dorms at all last night. He’s been in there the whole time. No idea what he was doing.]
[He’s this dedicated??]
[Shen Xiu’s probably trying to revive Blood Romance.]
…
At the same time, Shang Yu had just sat up in bed. His hand instinctively reached out beside him, searching the air for something — and only after grabbing nothing did he suddenly remember: this wasn’t his home, and there wasn’t a housekeeper placing his glasses on the nightstand.
Now fully awake, Shang Yu turned just in time to see the dorm door open. Shen Xiu stepped in quietly.
Their eyes met — Shen Xiu looked startled for a second, then gave him a sheepish little smile as a silent greeting. He quickly made his way to the wardrobe, moving as quietly as possible to grab some clothes before slipping into the bathroom.
He felt relieved. Everyone else was still asleep, Shang Yu couldn’t speak right now, and he’d successfully avoided any social interaction.
Shang Yu’s gaze drifted to Shen Xiu’s bed — the blankets were folded military-style, neat as a brick, and the sheets were perfectly smooth, not a wrinkle in sight.
All signs indicated that Shen Xiu hadn’t come back last night.
Shang Yu: “……”
Great. Shen ‘the Overachiever’ Xiu had just taken his dedication to a whole new level. How were they supposed to survive like this?
[From Shang Yu’s face, I could read the following words: Shen Xiu, you know what? Just outwork me to death already!]
[Shang Yu: Shen Xiu must be a devil, right? He has to be!]
[Shang Yu: What kind of ghost is this? Do you not need to sleep or something?]
Dragging his exhausted body out of bed, Shang Yu really wanted to shake his still-sound-asleep roommates awake and yell at them: How can you sleep so peacefully with a guy like Shen Xiu around?!
After a quick shower, Shen Xiu felt much more refreshed. He finished washing up in record time and exchanged a quiet greeting with Shang Yu before leaving the dorm and heading to the cafeteria.
After eating breakfast at the cafeteria, Shen Xiu went straight to the practice room, disappearing from the livestream audience’s view. From yesterday until now, Shen Xiu had appeared on camera for a total of less than two hours.
[Boss Shen, you are so cold-hearted!]
[Never thought I’d see the day where catching just one more glimpse of Shen Xiu would feel like a luxury.]
[Production team, I hate you!]
…
Starting from 8 a.m., team members began arriving at the practice room.
Aside from Shen Xiu, the first to enter was Xiang Yueting. When he saw the transformed practice room, his eyes went wide: “What the heck happened here?”
If it weren’t for Shen Xiu looking like some kind of untouchable deity, standing in front of the multimedia station completely focused on whatever he was doing, Xiang Yueting would have thought he walked into the wrong room.
Hearing Xiang Yueting’s voice, Shen Xiu looked up and gave him a glance, signaling with his eyes: “Each member’s assigned part is over there.”
Then he lowered his head and continued working.
Xiang Yueting looked toward where Shen Xiu had glanced, still full of confusion, and walked over. In a stack of printed papers, he found the one with his name on it.
After reading through his part, Xiang Yueting went ahead and looked through everyone else’s as well.
It wasn’t hard to see that Shen Xiu had assigned the parts based on the roles they each got yesterday — the werewolf sang the werewolf’s lines, the zombie sang the zombie’s verse, and there were two group choruses.
“Blood Romance” was a group performance centered around a vampire. Other than the vampire having the most lines, the rest of the roles had fairly balanced parts.
The way Shen Xiu divided it all up made perfect sense.
