Royal Ch.2

Chapter 2: Masked Style

Not long after, a brand-new account with a premium membership suddenly posted a Weibo in the Starlight show’s fan forum.

The caption was just one sentence, in bold cursive script: “The meaning of pure white camellias — how dare you take my love lightly.”

It came with a picture.

The forum regulars took a closer look — a familiar filter, extreme skin-smoothing, blurred facial features, a deathly pale complexion.

[Oh dear]

[Name, please — I’m about to start my tour (of this drama)]

[It’s like there’s frosted glass over my eyes — I can vaguely make out the face shape and eye shape are decent]

[Sometimes I really want to execute whoever invented this “paper doll” style of photo editing]

[These pictures in the forum all look like they came off the same assembly line, but this one has a better base — if even 50% is real, I’m buying stock]

The original poster replied to that comment: [Go ahead and buy. This guy’s face is god-tier.]

[??]

Buying stock early is one thing, but calling it “god-tier”? Aesthetic standards have taken a nosedive in recent years — the last true god-tier face was from the previous century.

[That’s some heavy hype — might come back to bite you]

Then people looked at this new account called “God Descends Tonight” — though the account was fresh, the way they handled everything was far too skilled. This definitely wasn’t their first time in fandom circles.

[Whose stan is this? Back from the dead again?]

[Sister, we know you want that ocean-view apartment and Xiufen’s not picky, but if you’re trying to stir up hype, at least follow the basic rules. Calling him god-tier is over the line.]

[A few days ago, Fenghua Entertainment tried the same stunt. Turned out the guy’s face looked like a potato dug straight out of the ground.]

“God Descends Tonight” paid for promotion. Comments poured in. After enjoying the kind of attention usually reserved for female celebrities, they posted a second Weibo.

A GIF.

Caption: “Using this face to roast people feels so good. 💅”

The GIF wasn’t too short — about two or three seconds. The angle was from below, and without the heavy “rosy lips, pearly teeth” kind of editing, the person was shown in natural light.

The camera was a bit shaky, but even so, in the focused shot, you could clearly see the face — even the subtle microexpression when he looked up at someone.

[?!]

[Damn.]

[Handsome. Gorgeous. Stunning. This hits hard.]

[A god—he’s a god… but is this really not Xiufen’s dying hallucination?]

[……]

People asked that because most fans like Xiufen had never tasted the good stuff before.

[Tearing up. My bias may not be good-looking, his content is muted for comedy, but he’s still my bias. What can I do but spoil him?]

[This guy’s fan name has been decided.]

[What is it?]

[Little Bodhisattva. Descended to earth for a talent show, here to save the fans from suffering — our Little Bodhisattva.]

That post got mocked for going too far — it reeked of astroturfing by a PR team.

But a lot of people still resonated with it.

[The face is great, but isn’t this guy b*llying his colleague?]

[That condescending look is hot on its own, but wasn’t the person he was glaring at a colleague? Pretty rude.]

[The other guy didn’t even do anything, just came over to say hi, right?]

[Poor dude. Ended up getting b*llied by someone who thinks being good-looking gives them a free pass. Anyone know that guy’s name?]

[Bodhisattva? I’m dying. Since when do bodhisattvas bully their colleagues?]

[Defending a b*lly — y’all better behave at work if you meet someone like this.]

[In a corner where no one was paying attention, this post quietly passed 10,000 shares in under an hour.]

[Now that’s a god-tier face — going viral is as effortless as breathing.]

In the dormitory.

Chu Ran lay on his bed, chatting on voice call with his new girlfriend while leaving comments under “God Descends Tonight”’s Weibo using an alt account.

Chu Ran hated Yue Zhaolin.

He completely ignored the gap between Yue Zhaolin’s talent and appearance — he just thought, personality-wise, Yue Zhaolin was a total fake.

Too clean — made them all look unhygienic in comparison.

Too aloof — never fit in, and if he ever overheard their conversations, he’d pull a disgusted face like he’d heard something dirty.

Even though the company was promoting him, he still pretended to spend extra time in the practice room.

Pretending to be clean, pretending to be pure, pretending to work hard…

In Chu Ran and the others’ eyes, they’d already tallied up Yue Zhaolin’s seven deadly sins.

They wanted to isolate him — but hadn’t found the right chance yet.

But online anonymity finally gave Chu Ran an outlet to vent.

“Dong dong—”

“Yue Zhaolin, are you there?”

It was Sister Li’s voice — the supervisor in charge of the trainees.

Chu Ran jumped in fright, quickly hung up on his girlfriend, and rushed to open the door.

His mind spun quickly. “Sister Li, Yue Zhaolin is in the practice room. I just came back to change clothes… How about I go with you to find him?”

Sister Li: “Okay.”

On the way there, Chu Ran put on his good-boy act, casually asking about the Starlight talent show, fishing for any extra information he could get.

Sister Li wasn’t stern — her voice was gentle, but carried a quiet authority.

Chu Ran didn’t dare push too hard.

They arrived at the practice room, one after the other.

Through the glass panel in the door, Li Man saw a figure inside practicing in front of the mirror.

He was still singing.

Because he was singing and dancing at the same time, it was normal for his voice to tremble or break.

But with enough training, ninety percent of that instability could be eliminated.

Before joining the company, Yue Zhaolin had started from zero.

He couldn’t sing, couldn’t dance, couldn’t rap — not even a little.

Yet within a single month, he had transformed himself into at least a passable pretty face.

Talent shows were a business — but sweat and effort were also a kind of currency with a clear price tag.

There was a clear difference between someone who had trained and someone who hadn’t.

Sister Li pushed open the door.

She saw sweat dripping from the tips of Yue Zhaolin’s messy hair onto his lashes, then falling onto his flushed cheeks.

Li Man, for a moment, mistook the sweat for tears.

She thought to herself, President Zou wants him to go into acting after the show ends — that might actually work out.

Li Man said, “Chu Ran, you go ahead and practice. Zhaolin, come with me.”

“I…” Chu Ran had dug himself into a hole — he wanted to go with them, but he’d already told Sister Li he was here to practice.

He couldn’t just follow along now — that would be admitting he lied.

Break room.

Yue Zhaolin’s throat was bone dry, but he knew better than to drink water immediately after sweating so heavily.

“Sister, let me eat a banana first,” he said.

Li Man nodded.

Once she saw that he’d mostly recovered, Li Man got to the point.

“Next week’s Zhaozhou Music Festival — Actual will be performing too.”

Yue Zhaolin knew Actual. They were Xingqiong’s second-generation boy group. Four years into their debut, still maintaining solid popularity among fans.

“Zhaolin, you’ll go too,” she said.

Yue Zhaolin looked up.

Li Man met his gaze and spoke gently: “You’ll be performing as a backup dancer for Actual. I’ll send the setlist to your phone later.”

Yue Zhaolin nodded.

Having seniors bring juniors along — a common tactic in entertainment companies.

But using a senior’s stage as a stepping stone was also the fastest way to provoke hate from their fans.

Once he stepped on that stage, two characters would be branded on Yue Zhaolin’s forehead:

Royalty.

By then, he’d be the target of endless hate, arrows of resentment flying his way.

But he understood — getting hated was part of the company’s plan.

Infamy is still fame.

In showbiz, what people feared most wasn’t being criticized — it was being ignored.

Yue Zhaolin had a thick skin. He always had — even back when he was a girl.

Years of poverty and b*llying had forged a strong heart.

He wasn’t afraid of being hated.

He just thought — the original offer of 500,000 yuan had been too low.

He’d been too green, taking the windfall right away without negotiating.

Now, in hindsight, he regretted not asking for more.

Li Man said, “The Zhaozhou Music Festival is massive. It can hold over 100,000 spectators. Zhaolin, you need to get used to that kind of attention.”

During evaluations, the way Yue Zhaolin instinctively avoided eye contact had left an impression on Director Liu and the others.

This music festival would serve as exposure therapy.

Yue Zhaolin: “Okay. I’ll get over it.”

Li Man added, “There’s someone else who’ll be on stage with you. His surname is Fu. Fu Xunying.”

Now he’s the real deal.

A true member of the upper class.

“He’s not difficult to get along with,” she said.

Most people from wealthy families — no matter what they actually thought — knew how to maintain appearances.

Yue Zhaolin said, “Alright.”

“Zhaolin.”

Li Man paused, then called out to him again.

“Yeah, Sister?”

She smiled once more and said, “Don’t pay too much attention to the posts online. Keep your mind steady.”

A single post from “God Descends Tonight” was enough to stir up chaos in the Starlight supertopic.

Add to that the company’s hired internet promoters fanning the flames, and Yue Zhaolin’s personal information gradually began to “go public.”

Candid photos, videos, personality, past — a full-spectrum search and trial.

And all of it was focused on one person only: Yue Zhaolin.

Sister Li didn’t know what kind of environment Yue Zhaolin had grown up in, but she could tell he was different from the other boys.

Once he truly entered the entertainment industry, would that difference remain?

She wasn’t sure.

But she looked forward to finding out.

The music festival was just a week away, leaving Yue Zhaolin very little time to prepare.

He’d barely gotten familiar with the choreography before he was pulled into rehearsals.

Busy memorizing movements and stage positions, he didn’t even have time to glance around.

During rehearsal, Yue Zhaolin met Fu Xunying.

The two were about the same height.

Fu Xunying’s features were sharper — in professional terms, the kind of striking face that grabs your attention instantly.

Their interactions were minimal.

Even after adding each other on WeChat, they had nothing to say.

Yue Zhaolin had a gut feeling that Fu Xunying didn’t like him much.

Still, although distant, Fu Xunying wasn’t hostile — just cool.

He communicated just fine.

As long as someone understood human language, Yue Zhaolin didn’t care much about how warm they were.

Yue Zhaolin never wasted energy on overthinking.

Then one day, Yue Zhaolin saw Fu Xunying glancing at him through the mirror in the dance studio, with a face full of confusion — and envy.

“……”

Fu Xunying turned his head away like he’d been burned.

Yue Zhaolin instantly understood what he’d been looking at — he was a “naturally rendered character”: not only good-looking, but with great physical endurance.

Fu Xunying, on the other hand, wasn’t.

He’d debuted by skating through, never intending to work that hard.

But with Yue Zhaolin as a side-by-side comparison, Fu Xunying couldn’t help but feel that creeping fear of being effortlessly outshone.

So, he started taking practice more seriously.

Even when he’d sung himself hoarse, he wouldn’t pant in front of Yue Zhaolin — that would make him look weak.

Yue Zhaolin glanced at him but said nothing.

After all, a modeled character and a regular person weren’t the same.

He wouldn’t mock Fu Xunying for it.

He was just… really kind.

Fu Xunying felt like there was a breath caught in his throat — he couldn’t swallow it down, but he couldn’t let it out either.

And now he was supposed to play up some fake bromance chemistry with this guy for the show?

Who the hell came up with this storyline — were they insane?

Fu Xunying clenched his jaw.

No way — if they appeared on screen together, wouldn’t he just get completely overshadowed?

But human nature gravitates toward the strong.

Despite the sense of crisis Yue Zhaolin gave him, Fu Xunying couldn’t help but respect the guy.

Yue Zhaolin was a physical beast — pure endurance monster.

Fu Xunying’s internal struggle wasn’t visible to outsiders, but the five members of Actual — his group — were feeling something eerily similar.

They had no problem bringing in a rookie. It was the company’s arrangement — they followed orders.

But the moment the five of them laid eyes on Yue Zhaolin, an unspeakable pressure washed over them — like a crashing wave obliterating the ones before it on the sand.

Even without makeup or stage lighting, Yue Zhaolin shined.

He didn’t look like someone using the stage to ride the hype — he looked like someone here to take the crown.

Their manager whispered comfortingly: “I checked — he won’t be showing his face.”

“Not showing his face?”

“Mhm,” the manager nodded. “The two newcomers will wear masks.”

Shen Zhu, one of the members, felt even more uneasy.

“Are we talking full-face masks or half-face? Actually… forget it. Don’t tell me—”

What was the point of masks?

There was a whole niche of fans whose k*nk was exactly that — masked beauties.

Full face, half face — it made no difference.

As long as Yue Zhaolin wasn’t bundled up like a giant bear, he’d definitely attract attention.

And there was no way the company would let him look like a bear.

When all five members were ready, mics on and makeup done, they stepped out of the dressing room toward the backstage area — and saw the two people waiting there.

Both wore black masks reinforced with a structured frame around the mouth, covering everything from the bridge of the nose downward.

The masks were intricate — custom-made by the company to perfectly fit their facial contours, exposing only their eyes and brows.

The upper half of their faces had no makeup, but their hair had been carefully styled.

Trainees who were about to debut weren’t allowed to cut their hair on their own —

they had to keep it long and let the company decide their hairstyle.

So both Yue Zhaolin and Fu Xunying had slightly overgrown hair that partially covered their faces.

With a little styling, they gave off that classic “half-concealed beauty” vibe — like a pipa player shyly hiding behind their instrument.

They wore matching outfits: black, one-piece utility-style jumpsuits. Though loose-fitting by design, the cut actually flattered their figures — broad shoulders, narrow waists, long legs. On the right people, these clothes looked incredible.

Unfortunately (or fortunately), Yue Zhaolin happened to be exactly that kind of person.

“Heh… masked secret agents, huh…” Someone muttered, half-joking, half-miserable.

Yue Zhaolin acted like he didn’t hear it.

This way, it’d be even easier for people to call him “royalty” when it came time to judge him later.

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