Chapter 9: Choosing Seats
The illness came too suddenly. Fu Xunying frowned, “He took medicine and got an IV drip, but still hasn’t recovered.”
The assistant who came along looked worried too, almost wishing he could take his place!
— Yue Zhaolin is the company’s treasure. After being eliminated from the talent competition, he was immediately assigned to the film and TV department as a prized asset. Anyone else could get hurt, but he absolutely could not.
Yue Zhaolin twisted open his thermos and took a sip of warm water, lips stained with moisture. “I’m fine. No need to worry about the initial ranking.”
“I’m worried about exactly that!”
Fu Xunying wanted to say more but ultimately held back: “You’re the kind of person who lives like a machine—never tired of practicing for even a day.
“Yet now, one cold has knocked you out.”
In Fu Xunying’s eyes, Yue Zhaolin’s life revolved strictly between the practice room and the dorm—two points connected by a single line, nonstop every day.
It was like he was bound to a system that would shock him if he didn’t study.
No matter what, Fu Xunying admired Yue Zhaolin’s incredible self-control and work ethic.
But now, this kind of person had suddenly become so weak just from a cold.
Fu Xunying’s mind was complicated. At this moment, he wasn’t thinking about the initial ranking results, but about how Yue Zhaolin could get through the recording.
Before the initial ranking, the trainees would also choose their seat numbers themselves.
Since he was sick, the show’s crew definitely wouldn’t force him to stay—he could leave early only after completing his “task.”
Choosing seats and the initial ranking were both major highlights for Yue Zhaolin.
Thinking it through, the production team wouldn’t let Yue Zhaolin—whose popularity even exceeded the show itself—appear too early on camera.
“If you can’t hold on, just leave. It’s enough to record some footage at the start. I’ll get the old man to increase the sponsorship later and push the post-production hard.”
Yue Zhaolin heard Fu Xunying’s “bossy declaration” and smiled with his eyes, gently pinching the edge of his mask.
“Young Master, time to get out of the car.”
Fu Xunying’s eyes widened.
Inside the enclosed vehicle, Yue Zhaolin’s hoarse voice was heavy with breath. “Thank you, but I can still push through. I mean it.”
The company had assigned a doctor to accompany him. If it really got too bad, he wouldn’t force himself.
Fu Xunying muttered, “…You’re so damn tough.”
His mind was stuck on the way Yue Zhaolin called him ‘Young Master’. The moment the car door opened, Fu Xunying jumped out—like someone was chasing him from behind.
Yue Zhaolin took a slow breath, clearing his head a little. Then he pulled on a long down coat that wrapped him from head to toe before stepping out of the car at last.
Suddenly, someone called out to him—
“Yue Zhaolin—!”
Maybe it was the fever, but the voice from the distance sounded muffled, like it passed through a layer of mist.
Yue Zhaolin paused, slightly stunned. He turned his head toward the direction of the voice. The noise grew louder over there.
“Yue Zhaolin, you got this!”
“Yue Zhaolin, you’re the chosen idol! That three-second moment of yours was seriously god-tier!”
“So many people are picking you!”
Despite the distance, the shouts kept coming, wave after wave.
Strangely, Yue Zhaolin seemed to hear every word with perfect clarity.
Blocked by cars and barricades, he couldn’t see their faces—only the crowd shifting and swaying. Still, he moved slightly, trying to get a better look.
From behind the camera, He Jie saw Yue Zhaolin tilt his head around the back of the van, peering through a gap toward their side.
Her hands trembled with excitement, ears ringing from the adrenaline.
The words that had been stuck in He Jie’s throat somehow slipped out. No fancy phrasing—just a simple:
“Yue Zhaolin, you’ve got this!”
Dry and awkward.
Her mind went completely blank. She had no idea what else to say.
Just as her ears began to burn with embarrassment, the person in the camera raised his hand. It looked like he was about to make some sort of gesture—but he stopped halfway.
After a brief two-second pause, he quickly raised his other hand. Both hands came up above his head and formed a heart shape.
Wearing an all-black down coat, even that small motion was easy to see with the naked eye.
“Ahhhhhh—!!”
The screams exploded.
He seemed to want to put his hands down, but couldn’t quite do it. He held the pose for two more seconds.
Then as soon as he moved again—
“Ahhhhhh—!!”
Yue Zhaolin froze once more.
The fansite master with the giant camera, locked onto Yue Zhaolin, looked like she’d found his “on switch.” Everyone around her burst into laughter—he was too endearing.
“Hahahaha—”
In the camera feed, Yue Zhaolin looked startled, a little unsure of what to do, then the corners of his eyes lifted in a smile. Even with the mask on, his amusement was visible.
It wasn’t until Fu Xunying came to tug him away that he finally moved.
Once he disappeared behind the door, out of sight, the fans lost all restraint and started talking excitedly.
“Unreal—those eyes!”
“His personality is so sweet. I thought he’d be the cold, hard-to-approach type, but he’s totally not!”
“He’s adorable.”
“Maybe he only puts on that icy face for the sasaeng fans?”
“I used to say I’d never stan a ‘royal pick’ type… I take it back. How does Yue Zhaolin still radiate that fresh rookie charm?!”
“He’s wrapped up so tightly you can’t even see anything, but his every move is just so cute!”
“Especially when he looked all flustered hearing the screams—my heart melted, seriously, uwu!”
“Didn’t you say you only stan underdog idols?”
“Sigh… I’ve officially fallen.”
—
The Starlight Building.
After passing security, Fu Xunying handed both his and Yue Zhaolin’s phones over to the Starlight production staff.
Collecting phones served two purposes: first, to let the contestants show their true selves without outside interference; and second, to prevent leaks about the show.
Of course, some people definitely didn’t follow the rules to the letter.
After handing over their phones, a group of staff members assigned specifically to the two of them came over—one even pushing a wheelchair.
It was meant for Yue Zhaolin.
Yue Zhaolin: “…”
He hesitated for a moment, thinking ‘Isn’t this a bit much?’—but under the assault of dizziness and a blocked nose, the temptation was too strong. He gave in and sat down.
He heard Fu Xunying chuckle.
The staff wheeled Yue Zhaolin to a second-floor break room. “You both can rest here for a while. Once it’s about time, the makeup artist will come find you.”
For the initial evaluation, most of the makeup was handled by each trainee’s original company, with different styles matching the vibe of their assigned songs.
The production team didn’t get involved.
Because the filming process was so long, patchy or cakey makeup was common. Trainees usually brought their own touch-up kits or asked the crew to help.
But it was different for those under Xingqiong.
They arrived bare-faced. Their dedicated makeup artists would apply makeup at just the right time—so it would look cleaner and wear better.
Yue Zhaolin’s eyelids felt heavy. The moment he lay down on the couch, his eyes closed. But his throat was dry and raw, like it was burning.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw Fu Xunying already having his base makeup done.
The doctor took Yue Zhaolin’s temperature—still no sign of a drop—but his energy seemed slightly improved.
The staff brought lunch—but only for Yue Zhaolin. One glance and it was obviously a bland “sick meal.”
Yue Zhaolin: “Thank you.”
He turned to Fu Xunying. “Have you eaten?”
“Already did,” Fu Xunying replied. “The seat selection part is estimated to take about an hour. Recording’s about to start. Once you finish eating, we’ll be heading over.”
First came lunch, then wardrobe change, makeup, mic setup—everything had to be in place.
“You still planning to wear that?” Fu Xunying asked, pointing at the mask in Yue Zhaolin’s hand.
“It helps stop the spread of the virus,” Yue Zhaolin replied.
Fu Xunying raised an eyebrow. “You’re overthinking it. We’ve been eating and living together, and I haven’t caught anything.”
One of the staff chimed in, “As long as you’re not sneezing, the risk of spreading it is pretty low. When you go on stage, better not to wear it—once you’re seated, do as you like.”
Yue Zhaolin nodded in agreement.
They followed the staff to the entrance of the studio. Before entering the main hall, someone gave their outfits and appearance a final check.
Nearby, a side hallway led straight into the performance hall.
Even here, they could faintly hear the noise inside.
Fu Xunying leaned over curiously. “Yue Zhaolin, what do you think? By the time we go in… how many people will already be seated? Maybe half?”
“Probably,” Yue Zhaolin said.
He figured, based on usual talent show patterns, both he and Fu Xunying were considered “highlight” trainees—so their entrance wouldn’t be left to chance.
The seat selection followed a first-come, first-served rule—but which companies’ trainees got to enter first? That was another story entirely.
The obvious front-runners and sleeper aces might not go in early—but the ones meant to warm up the crowd? Always.
The first half of the segment could be summed up like this:
— Marveling at how stunning the studio looked.
— Gasping at how dazzling the first contestant was.
— Panicking the moment a big-name company’s logo appeared onscreen, triggering a sense of competition.
And in that last category, Xingqiong and Yue Zhaolin checked every box.
A moment meant to shock the whole room—to send a ripple of awe through everyone—only works if there’s a crowd to witness it.
As Yue Zhaolin stepped through the dimly lit hallway, he began to hear the whispers:
“Is that… Xingqiong?!”
“Wait—is that the ‘God-tier Three Seconds’?”
Yue Zhaolin glanced sideways at Fu Xunying, who was quietly sucking in a breath, then stepped into the studio.
He walked toward center stage.
For the performance, Yue Zhaolin wore a sleek, high-fashion black jacket. On his feet were shoes with a slight heel—each step echoing clearly across the stage.
Especially striking in the sudden hush that fell over the room.
Once he reached his mark, Yue Zhaolin turned with a gentle smile to face the 101 seats that rose like a staircase before him.
A sharp intake of breath—someone gasped.
That small sound broke the strange silence like a crack in glass. Fu Xunying couldn’t hide the proud curve of his lips.
Stunned, huh?
Well, of course—this was Yue Zhaolin.
The two of them gave a polite bow. From where the others sat, it felt like the Xingqiong logo behind Yue Zhaolin was glowing.
He swept his gaze across the room—over half the seats were filled, the remaining ones scattered throughout, in both the high and low rows.
“Seats 10 and 11 are still open. Want to take them?” he asked.
Fu Xunying nodded.
Where he sat didn’t matter to him at all.
Seat 11 was all the way to the right—just a short walk up the steps on that side. As Yue Zhaolin began his ascent, nearly every trainee in the room followed him with their eyes.
The camera positioned by the seats whirred into motion, capturing their reactions in real time.
In the director’s booth, someone finally let out a quiet breath. This was the power of top-tier visuals—he had the entire room under his spell the moment he walked in.
As he passed seat 19, a sharp gasp broke the hush.
The trainee sitting there looked stunned, face flushed bright red. He had been so mesmerized by Yue Zhaolin that he’d nearly tipped out of his seat.
Luckily, someone grabbed him just in time—otherwise, the embarrassment would’ve been fatal.
The one who caught him was a trainee named Meng Yu, according to the name tag on his chest. He murmured something to the boy in 19, but his gaze shifted subtly—locking onto Yue Zhaolin just behind him.
He was sure of it—Yue Zhaolin had seen him too.
That little mishap at seat 19 broke the tension. The room relaxed, and whispers spread like ripples across the trainees.
“We’re done for. Standing next to him, we all look like goblins.”
“That ‘God-tier Three Seconds’… yeah, only someone touched by the divine could pull that off.”
Several of them tried mimicking that now-famous moment from the clip.
“I want to go home.”
“Wait, he’s wearing a mask—does he have a cold?”
The cameras began to sweep again—this was exactly the kind of organic reaction footage the producers were after.
Suddenly, the director noticed a blond trainee seated in the front row quietly rising to his feet. He hunched over slightly, slipping off to the side.
“What’s he doing?”
The show explicitly forbade seat-switching, and none of the trainees had broken that rule—until now.
The director frowned, ready to signal someone to intervene, but then the trainee crouched beside Yue Zhaolin’s seat.
“…”
Well. Maybe the rules could wait a moment.
