Chapter 40: Preparation for the Second Performance (3)
Xiang Yueting: “Hey, surprised? Unexpected?”
Song Chengwang leaned against the bedframe lazily: “Been waiting for you for a while.”
Shang Yu: “You’re finally back.”
Ning Sinian smiled shyly: “Ahem, I’m too reserved to say anything more.”
The others: “Yeah, we’re reserved too.”
Shen Xiu: “……”
The scene and dialogue were all too familiar—like they had no regard for his life or safety.
Surprise? More like a shock… Reserved? What a joke!
It’s the middle of the night—don’t they sleep or what?!
And… why did it feel like they had teamed up to assassinate him or something?
With the dorm lights on, Shen Xiu stood by the door, silent and unmoving. He didn’t step inside, just stared at them with a cold, ghostly gaze. The atmosphere turned awkward.
Everyone suddenly felt a bit guilty and couldn’t help but wonder—
Was Shen Xiu angry?
It made sense. The seven of them had clearly conspired together, just to trick Shen Xiu into talking. That really wasn’t very decent of them.
Even though they hadn’t spread any of this outside and no one else would know, with Shen Xiu’s intelligence, he’d probably figured everything out the second he walked in and saw the setup.
But there was no helping it. Shen Xiu was well-rounded and talented in everything—they really had no way of guessing what cards he was holding. The only thing they could do was ask him outright.
If Shen Xiu answered, they’d profit big time. If he didn’t, well, they’d just laugh it off and pretend it never happened.
Even the usually brash and carefree Xiang Yueting could sense something was off. But they couldn’t just keep standing there in awkward silence.
So Xiang Yueting spoke up: “Come in already.”
Shen Xiu heard Xiang Yueting’s voice and thought to himself, ‘Yeah, just standing here at the door is pretty weird.’
Luckily, the livestream was off. Otherwise, not only would his stunned and foolish look be seen by his teammates—it would be broadcast to the audience too.
In short: the scope of his social death had just expanded.
“Mm,” Shen Xiu replied stiffly, his voice tight, as he stepped into the dorm room.
As he walked in, he thought, ‘It feels like my skin’s gotten a lot thicker lately.’
‘Could it be… that going through social death too many times makes you numb to it?’
‘When in doubt, trust your gut—yes, that must be it!’
As he walked inside, he could feel everyone’s eyes on him like shadows sticking close.
Normally at this hour, everyone would already be asleep when he got back. He’d quietly wash up and go to bed too.
Clearly, tonight was not a normal night.
The intensity of their stares made it obvious—something was up. Shen Xiu considered just ignoring them, but then imagined the seven of them staying up all night, standing beside his bed, staring at him.
Just the thought made goosebumps crawl all over his skin.
To avoid such a horrifying scene, Shen Xiu had no choice but to sit stiffly in his chair by the desk, forcing himself to meet their gazes.
“Talk.”
Whatever it is, just spit it out—once it’s over, he can finally go to sleep in peace!
Hearing Shen Xiu’s calm voice, the seven of them all thought the same thing: Yep, Shen Xiu definitely figured out why we’re here.
They exchanged glances, and Song Chengwang looked at Shen Xiu and was the first to speak: “Sorry, but we really had no choice. We have to know.”
Shen Xiu: Know what?
The air suddenly grew thick with silence. No one said anything.
Are they… waiting for me to respond?
Shen Xiu probed gently: “Hm?”
They couldn’t just keep standing there like statues, so Song Chengwang decided to be direct: “Since you’ve already figured it out, we’ll stop beating around the bush and just say it.”
Shen Xiu: “?”
‘How did it go from me knowing nothing to me ‘already figuring it out’?’
Jiang Yanxi cut to the chase: “We want to know—when it comes to the second performance, what kind of musical style are you leaning toward?”
Ning Sinian: “Classical, rock, pop, metal? Or something else?”
Mu Zhenchu: “Come on, just tell us already!”
Xiang Yueting: “Hmm… can we call it begging you?”
Shang Yu: “……”
Weren’t we supposed to ease into this? How did we just blurt out all our cards right from the start?
Such a barrage of questions—Shen Xiu actually wanted to answer. But then he remembered the results of the team vote earlier that day… and honestly, he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.
Look at the other teams—they were seriously discussing and analyzing musical styles. Meanwhile, his team? Still fixated on one thing: “cool.”
Under his leadership, the entire squad—from the captain to the members—had collectively lost face.
Shen Xiu looked at them, their faces practically screaming ‘Say something or we’re not letting you go.’
Under that burning gaze, Shen Xiu gave in and came clean: “Cool.”
An unexpected answer. The seven of them were stunned.
“Uh???”
“What the heck?”
“Cool is a genre now?!”
“I don’t believe it. Shen Xiu, are you messing with us?”
“It really is ‘cool.’”
Saying it out loud, Shen Xiu felt a little ashamed.
Everything revolved around being cool. Lyrics, composition, even choreography—it all served one purpose: to be cool. His team, from top to bottom, was just… that superficial.
Xiang Yueting: “I mean, sure, being cool is a lifelong pursuit, but… what does that have to do with musical style?”
To preserve his teammates’ dignity, Shen Xiu forced himself to say, “Mm.”
The others: “……”
Unheard of!
They were convinced Shen Xiu just didn’t want to tell them and was brushing them off with a random, nonsense answer.
He didn’t even bother making up a decent excuse—just tossed out this weird, cryptic word and called it a day.
But everyone quickly let it go.
Shang Yu covered his face: “Sorry, we were making things hard for you.”
Before the second round’s draw, no team knew who their actual opponents would be.
Since musical style was the foundation for lyrics, composition, and choreography, it was naturally a closely guarded secret within each group. For them to ask so directly—how could Shen Xiu possibly give them an honest answer?
Seeing that Shen Xiu wasn’t willing to talk, the other six didn’t push further. One after another, they apologized to him.
“Don’t mind what we just said—pretend we were just casually asking.”
“If you’d answered, that’d be great. If not, no big deal—it’s totally normal.”
“Shen Xiu, we hope you’re not upset.”
Shen Xiu, the one they were talking about: “…I’m not upset.”
It was just a bit awkward and mildly embarrassing—not exactly suffering.
Hearing his response only made the seven feel more guilty.
That was just how Shen Xiu was—even if he was annoyed by their intrusion, he would still stay calm and restrained, keeping that polite distance.
Since he’d already said so, they didn’t push it any further.
Ning Sinian said sheepishly, “As long as you’re not upset.”
Shen Xiu nodded seriously. “Mm.”
Once he responded, no one spoke again. The eight of them just stared at each other in awkward silence.
Wanting to escape the suffocating vibe, Shen Xiu got up and said, “I’m going to wash up.”
The atmosphere was so weird, so stifling—he was going to hide in the bathroom and stall until everyone else was asleep before coming out!
“Ah, yeah, go ahead.”
“It is really late.”
“Yeah, go, go.”
The small talk was painfully stiff. Shen Xiu thought to himself how unbearable it was—even one more second here would be too much. Under everyone’s gaze, he opened the closet, grabbed his pajamas, and made a swift escape to the bathroom.
Watching Shen Xiu’s tall figure retreat, Mu Zhenchu suddenly seemed to remember something and called out:
“Shen Xiu, aren’t you gonna ask us?”
After all, they had been so bold and shameless in asking him.
Just one step away from reaching the sink and closing the bathroom door, Shen Xiu froze in place. “Hm?”
Ask what?
Hearing the confusion in Shen Xiu’s voice, Mu Zhenchu suddenly had a moment of clarity. “I get it now… In the end, I just don’t know you well enough.”
From the slight rise in Shen Xiu’s tone with that puzzled “Hm,” it was crystal clear—he had no idea why Mu Zhenchu would ask something like that.
It was a naked, blatant expression of ‘what’s the point of asking that?’
Clearly, Shen Xiu was just that capable—so confident in his own abilities that he genuinely didn’t care what musical styles they favored. He thought there was no need to ask.
Mu Zhenchu figured: it was only because he hadn’t spent enough time with Shen Xiu that he would even ask something so silly.
Shen Xiu: …Hold on a second. I haven’t even said anything. I don’t even understand what Mu Zhenchu’s talking about. And somehow he already “understands”? Understands what??
There was no way he was asking anything now. Shen Xiu was completely baffled, but still forced a stiff line through clenched teeth: “I’m going to the bathroom.”
Afraid he’d hear even more strange nonsense if he lingered, Shen Xiu hurriedly stepped inside, slammed the door shut, and pretended not to notice their gazes still following him through the glass panel.
Inside, he locked the door with sharp, practiced movements.
With the quiet click of the lock, Shen Xiu slumped back against the door, letting out a massive sigh of relief.
Like someone who had narrowly escaped death, he clutched his chest, heart still racing. ‘Phew… that scared the hell out of me!’
Everything that had just happened in the dorm—it was terrifying and baffling. The kind of chaos that would haunt him in his dreams tonight.
…
The others couldn’t hear what Shen Xiu was doing in the bathroom, but when they spoke again, their guilty conscience made them instinctively lower their voices.
“…Do you guys think there’s even a tiny chance that what Shen Xiu said… was actually true?”
“Pfft—please, no way that was real.”
Xiang Yueting said confidently, “Impossible. Absolutely impossible!”
Song Chengwang added, “Shen Xiu couldn’t even be bothered to make up a fake music genre just to placate us—how could that possibly be real?”
Shang Yu analyzed, “It’s clear that Shen Xiu knew. If he casually made up a genre and told us, with his credibility, we would’ve believed him without hesitation. But he didn’t want to lie to us, so instead, he gave us a strange answer. Obviously, Shen Xiu not only didn’t want us to believe it—he hoped we’d realize it was just something he said offhand to avoid making something up.”
Shang Yu’s reasoning was well-grounded and convincing.
“You’ve got a point.”
“Now that I think about it… that does seem to make sense.”
“Man, I almost believed it, so naïve.”
“But really, what good would it do to believe in just one word—‘cool’?”
“Damn, trust Shen Xiu to come up with an answer that’s so vague, even if we did believe it, it wouldn’t help us at all.”
Before Shen Xiu came back, everyone else had already finished washing up. They had to get up early the next day for training, so after chatting a bit more, they all went to bed. No one took Shen Xiu’s earlier response seriously.
Shen Xiu stalled in the bathroom for a long while. When he finally cracked the door open quietly and stepped out, he pretended to glance casually toward the dorm room.
Through the slightly ajar door, everything was silent—clearly, this time, everyone had actually gone to sleep.
They were supposed to turn off the lights before sleeping, but Shen Xiu noticed the dorm lights were still on. Obviously, the others had left the lights on for him.
Sleeping with the lights on was always a bit uncomfortable. Something in Shen Xiu’s heart was lightly scratched—itchy and warm at the same time. He also felt a pang of regret for hiding out so long in the bathroom, making everyone else fall asleep under bright lights.
Not daring to stall any longer, Shen Xiu hurried through the rest of his routine and gently turned off the lights.
Darkness instantly filled the room. Silence settled over the dorm.
—
The Next Day.
Shen Xiu arrived at the practice room at 7:30, and no one else had arrived yet.
According to his plan, today they had to finalize the lyrics, composition, and choreography. The following days would be dedicated to training.
Thanks to the intensive training period they had gone through earlier, Shen Xiu was now capable of handling the lyrics, composition, and choreography all by himself.
But he didn’t think that was a good idea.
They were a team. If he took care of everything on his own, the other members wouldn’t feel involved. When the final piece was completed, it would feel like it had nothing to do with them. No one would feel good about that.
Besides, how could a group project reflect only one person’s ideas? It naturally had to incorporate everyone’s thoughts.
Everyone had already gone through the training, and it was obvious that the program had prepared them for this exact moment. He had even less reason to do it all by himself.
But leaving everything up to chance wasn’t realistic either. It would be a huge waste of time to try to manage it all on the fly.
So Shen Xiu decided to fulfill his responsibility as team leader before the others arrived. Based on everyone’s performance during training, he planned out what each person would be responsible for.
He sat down in front of the multimedia console, uncapped his pen, opened his notebook, and began to write…
In less than five minutes, Shen Xiu had finished drafting the workflow.
When it came time to decide on the song’s theme, Shen Xiu lowered his gaze, his eyes unfocused, staring blankly at the empty page.
After learning countless songs over the years, Shen Xiu had realized that—just like film and TV—a well-written and well-performed song carried powerful emotional impact.
If… under the condition that it didn’t go against the stage effect the team wanted… the song they created could have some kind of purpose or meaning… wouldn’t that make it even more worthwhile?
As that thought took root, the dazed look in Shen Xiu’s eyes began to clear. He lowered his head and started writing—the theme and story concept for their second performance song.
The trainees at the training camp all knew Shen Xiu was a “hardcore overachiever.” If he was ever late to the practice room, the sun would probably rise in the west. So with a team leader like that, no one dared to slack off. Before 9 a.m., the whole team had already assembled in the practice room.
Shen Xiu capped his fountain pen and looked up, seeing that everyone had arrived.
The ones who’d come in early had seen him quietly writing with his head down and didn’t dare disturb him.
Only when he finally stopped writing did someone speak up.
Yuan Jiafei asked, “Captain Xiu, is there anything we should do?”
“Whatever it is, as long as it’s assigned by Captain Xiu, we’ll get it done for sure.”
“Captain Xiu, we can do anything!”
Teacher Xue’s words had planted a seed of unease in their hearts. If they didn’t do something, they’d feel guilty and anxious.
But when it came time to actually do something, they couldn’t help but panic.
Even though Shen Xiu had told Teacher Xue that the team would work together, they all knew full well—they weren’t even on the same level as Shen Xiu. They were worried they’d just end up getting in the way, which made them nervous and hesitant.
“I do need your help.”
Though Shen Xiu’s voice was cool as always, the fact that he said he needed them—well, that alone made everyone light up with happiness and relief.
Seeing the obvious relaxation on everyone’s faces, Shen Xiu’s own tightly strung nerves eased.
He’d guessed right. As long as everyone had at least a little bit of skill and tasks were assigned wisely, no one would be dragging the team down. In that case, giving them a sense of involvement really did lift morale.
—
Meanwhile, viewers who had just entered the livestream of the practice room quickly noticed something strange.
[Wait a minute, where’s the sound? Is something wrong with the livestream equipment? Why is there no audio at all? @ProductionTeam get in here and fix this!]
[Stop yelling, sister. When the livestream for the practice rooms suddenly turned on at 7 a.m. and I saw Boss Shen in there, I was so happy. I actually thought the production team was finally doing something right—like, wow, they didn’t turn off the livestream for once! But then I realized there was no sound. And not just for Boss Shen’s room—none of the team practice room streams had sound. That’s when I knew. The production team is pulling something sneaky again.]
[So… instead of shutting down the livestream this time, the production team’s new trick is to let us see the practice rooms, but not hear anything?]
[Looks like it.]
[Dear production team, I do think you’re great—but now that I can’t hear Captain Xiu’s voice, all of my good qualities have temporarily vanished. Do you see this broadsword I’m holding? It’s forty meters long, and you’re not allowed to run even one meter, you hear me?]
[Aaaaah what are Boss Shen and the others talking about?! This curiosity is killing me—how is that fair to us?! @ProductionTeam]
[Where is my royal lip-reading translator?! This is treason. Why aren’t they at court yet?!]
The bullet comments were filled with complaints, but not a single viewer left the stream. Even though the livestream had no sound, the viewers were still wildly engaged, trying to guess what was happening.
The assistant director, who had been in charge of muting all the livestreams, let out a sigh of relief when he saw viewer numbers hadn’t dropped.
But he also felt that if Director Shi pulled this kind of stunt again, it might actually shave years off his life!
…
Inside the practice room.
Under everyone’s watchful eyes, Shen Xiu began tearing a few pages out of his notebook.
Watching him do that made the group curious and nervous all at once, their eyes anxiously following his every move.
Ahhhh this is so nerve-wracking—what kind of tasks is Shen Xiu going to assign them?!
