Chapter 15: Fans’ Reactions
“Director Liu, tell me honestly—this wasn’t your doing, was it?”
“Director Cheng, I understand you’re anxious, but I must ask you to take that back. Xunying hasn’t debuted yet—no one wants the show to flop less than Xingqiong does.”
“I was out of line, Director Liu. Don’t take it to heart…”
·
The hashtag #StarlightReshoot originally ranked just 47th, a low position on the trending chart, but suddenly “soared” up twelve places within a few minutes.
The way it shot up was so bizarre that without a screenshot, people would’ve thought it was a hallucination.
Talent show bloggers immediately caught the scent of buzz, saved screenshots, and posted on Weibo.
With no episodes airing and no new content to feed on, the starved fans were like sharks smelling blood.
[The leaked post on the forum wasn’t even up for ten minutes before it hit the trending chart…]
[This screams production team hype 🙂 This kind of marketing feels like it raised me as a child.]
[Just wait—they’ll post a clarification soon.]
[The higher-ups already crack down hard on idol shows, banning consumer manipulation and traffic obsession. Starlight still dares to touch the third rail?]
[Maybe it’s Xingqiong’s doing—let the public rage first, then clarify things later, and boom—sympathy boost.]
[Sympathy for who?]
[Xingqiong’s crown prince, of course—Lao Xing. This combo move was obviously designed for him.]
[No way. I’m turning from a casual fan into a hater…]
Unlike the blog comment sections, the reactions from general users on Weibo, who only saw the marketing headlines, were completely different in tone:
[Yue Zhaolin’s joining a talent show?]
[He didn’t dance it right the first time but gets a second chance? Damn, let’s just call him ‘Mr. Reshoot’ from now on.]
[Clearly fake. Do you even know who Yue Zhaolin is? He’s my grandma’s new grandson, my mom’s new son, and even the imagined version of brother in my mind. This means that no matter what he does or doesn’t do on stage, people will still vote for him. Why bother with any shady tricks? Isn’t that just pointless?]
[That’s not true—Yue Zhaolin’s talent is solid.]
[The other trainees are so unfortunate. As a working person, I deeply sympathize.]
[Another rich kid trying his luck in the entertainment industry? I’d rather watch The Breaking Cocoon Project—it may be obscure but it’s genuine.]
The fandom hadn’t quite reacted yet, but casual users pushed the third comment up to the second most liked on the hot comments.
—Because ever since #StarlightReshoot suddenly climbed to the top ranks, the usually peaceful Yue Zhaolin super-topic had attracted many people of uncertain intentions.
Snide sarcasm was mixed into posts that were otherwise expressing affection.
Many fans were new to idol culture and hadn’t gone through this kind of storm before. They tried to reason with those people, only to make them even more aggressive.
They insulted Yue Zhaolin and used his “flaws” to attack his fans, treating the fans’ love as some kind of joke—
Using a tone that sounded lighthearted but was actually crushing, they commented on fan-uploaded videos, edits, and photos in the super-topic.
Those with weaker mental endurance lost arguments, grew anxious, and even trembled with frustration.
The super-topic erupted into chaos.
Moonrise Stirs the Swans sent a message to the Weibo group: “Don’t argue with those people. Just block them and delete their comments.”
Moonrise Stirs the Swans normally didn’t speak much but was known for high-quality content—silent but reliable.
Once she spoke up, the group calmed down quite a bit.
Someone immediately replied: “I don’t even believe that trending topic. Honestly, with Zhaolin on stage, he’d crush everyone else—why bother with a reshoot?”
“Exactly.”
The mood in the group was no longer so chaotic. Moonrise Stirs the Swans began organizing comment control.
With everyone’s spirits united, the group atmosphere improved, but soon someone raised a question:
“Why does the fourth most liked positive comment have 14,000 likes and still can’t climb higher? The second comment even dropped to third place?”
“Aren’t hot comments ranked by like counts?”
Moonrise Stirs the Swans replied, “The blogger gave a ‘black like.’”
“Weibo’s hot comment system has a rule—if the blogger likes a comment, that comment’s weight increases.”
“Even if the like count is low, comments at the top are basically all liked by the blogger.”
The group was outraged. “That’s outrageous. Is there anything we can do?”
Moonrise Stirs the Swans said, “There is. Use alternate accounts to like the comment. Since the weight is limited, as long as the like count is high enough, it can push up further.”
“Many people don’t know about comment control. I’ll call people in the super-topic.”
“I have two phone numbers; I can register another Weibo!”
“Me too.”
“I know sellers of fake accounts, but they sell in batches of 20. Would everyone be okay with that?”
“Can you share the info?”
…
Everyone seemed motivated. Liu Li thought this wave could help solidify Yue Zhaolin’s fanbase.
Looking at the vibe in the fan group, everything seemed to be going according to plan.
Suddenly, hurried footsteps approached from a distance. Zou Kang pushed open the door, sounding urgent: “Liu Li, I think that trending topic looks like something you orchestrated…”
Liu Li: “I didn’t buy it.”
Zou Kang breathed a sigh of relief. Liu Li wouldn’t lie—he trusted her: “That’s good. Otherwise, it would be hard to explain to Starlight.”
“But I did give it a little push.”
Zou Kang: “Ahem!”
Liu Li handed over a cup of tea: “If a little push can settle things, why would I let it go?”
It seemed settled, but Liu Li believed Yue Zhaolin’s initial ranking was still subject to change.
“Don’t worry,” Liu Li smiled, “to outsiders, today’s just competition between peers. After all, Starlight really does attract a lot of hatred.”
The blame for the jump from 47th to 12th on the trending list would fall on Starlight’s competitors.
The market is only so big. With Yue Zhaolin, Starlight has drained all the attention—there’s barely any pie left to share.
Taking this opportunity, competitors adding fuel to the fire and trying to drag Starlight down seems reasonable.
After taking a couple sips of water, Zou Kang looked uncertain: “Then who bought that trending spot? The one that was initially at 47th.”
Trending spots in that range during daytime cost about 10,000 to 20,000 yuan.
The budget was too small. Even if competitors didn’t make a profit, they wouldn’t be that stingy.
“I have a lead. But we need to wait for Starlight to find the leak first.”
Looking at the original leak, it wasn’t entirely accurate and seemed deliberately targeted at Yue Zhaolin. Following this logic…
Zou Kang asked again, “When does Starlight plan to respond?”
They definitely will. Involving accusations of faking the show’s results, playing dead is not an option. The higher-ups will probably send someone to investigate.
“Soon, but it’s still being discussed.”
“People nowadays don’t trust lawyer’s letters or announcements. So I suggest releasing a screenshot of Yue Zhaolin’s first preliminary rating.”
One screenshot, plus the caption: “Reshoot?”
Zou Kang thought this was a clever response, worthy of Liu Li. “But will Starlight agree to it?”
Liu Li chuckled, “Why not? It’s perfect to promote Starlight through the marketing angle of a ‘live sensory blogger’—netizens eat that up.”
Unlike normal publicity, this kind of offbeat approach attracts a wider audience.
Xingqiong stands to benefit the most. Liu Li knew they couldn’t take everything for themselves—they have to share some—and said the marketing could be handled by Xingqiong.
Liu Li sipped her tea. She believed the production team would make the right choice.
—
Practice Room A.
The trainees, locked away in closed training, were still unaware of the online turmoil.
Cen Chi spent a moment picking at details in the mirror. Feeling it was about right, he began to warm up his voice, preparing to hum along with the music.
The theme song, Meteor, wasn’t difficult; its melody was catchy. But Cen Chi’s comfort zone was in the midrange—once he hit high notes, it felt stuck.
Cen Chi followed a strategy of sheer repetition—if he wasn’t good, he’d just practice more, singing nonstop.
Because of this, a few trainees who came from other practice rooms to ask Class A for dance help were put off and instead turned to Meng Yu.
Meng Yu looked gentle and spoke kindly—in other words: “Seems easy to mooch off.”
Unexpectedly, Meng Yu smiled but politely declined, using that he himself hadn’t perfected his details yet as a valid excuse.
Meng Yu moved to a corner, found an unopened bottle of water, twisted it open, and took a sip to moisten his lips. The sound of footsteps practicing dance echoed nearby.
If it wasn’t Yue Zhaolin, there was no need to get closer.
But…
·
“Splash—”
Yue Zhaolin cupped cold water and splashed it on his face. The icy chill lowered the overheating in his mind. He opened his eyes.
Droplets shimmered on his face and clung to the tips of his eyelashes.
Someone handed him a clean face towel beside him, but Yue Zhaolin didn’t take it—instead, he reached for a fresh one himself.
His bangs were wet; he wiped and pushed them back.
The hand behind him withdrew after tossing away the used towel—but did not retreat in hesitation.
Meng Yu looked at the undisputed face reflected in the mirror and after a pause admitted, “At the Zhaozhou Music Festival, we…”
“I know.”
Yue Zhaolin spoke.
Meng Yu’s voice was somewhat unique—thin and bright. Shortly after the preliminary ratings ended, Yue Zhaolin remembered—they had met before.
Back then, Meng Yu was more normal than now. Now, he lingered by Yue Zhaolin’s side, subtly and vaguely playing up a certain image.
Yue Zhaolin asked, “Anything else?”
Meng Yu blocked his way and said, “Zhaolin, do you dislike me?”
“Move aside.”
Meng Yu: “Sorry, Yue Zhaolin. I’m just riding your wave of popularity.”
“As a solo trainee without backing, there’s no future. I have to climb as hard as I can to get seen by the audience.”
Even if it means selling ‘CP’ vibes.
As long as he’s seen, the chance of debuting grows.
“I’ve positioned our CP as ‘secret crush’—we won’t have much contact, and I don’t need a response from you, so…”
“I just hope you don’t hate me on camera.”
…
With no reply, Meng Yu clenched his hand at his side.
His nerves were taut as a string—then suddenly he heard Yue Zhaolin speak, asking, “What use are you?”
“…What?”
Meng Yu looked up in confusion.
Yue Zhaolin stopped, turned, and looked at Meng Yu: “You ask me for favors, but only you benefit? What about me?”
Meng Yu: “…I can teach you dance moves. Cen Chi is weak at singing—he needs extra time to practice and can’t fully teach you, but I can.”
Twenty-four-hour accompanying practice, professional one-on-one, correcting mistakes anytime. He listed many advantages.
Yue Zhaolin tilted his head slightly, raised an eyebrow, his eyes widened a little, half-smiling.
Meng Yu was momentarily stunned, then immediately realized that teaching only one person with such excessive attention would look way too “ambiguous” on camera.
It was basically no different from actively selling the image.
Thinking it over, the proposal felt more like him asking for a lot while giving little in return.
Yue Zhaolin considered for a moment, then decided he could make use of Meng Yu: “If you can do exactly as I say, then the deal is done.”
Meng Yu’s pupils dilated, joy flooding his whole body. He reached out his hand toward Yue Zhaolin, a smirk tugging at his lips: “I’m with you. Then, it’s a deal.”
Yue Zhaolin didn’t shake. His occasional germophobia flared up again: “Stop smiling like that, you look like a mannequin.”
After saying this, he pulled the door open and left.
Meng Yu was left dumbfounded, turned to the mirror, poked his own face, and muttered, “Really that fake?”
But Yue Zhaolin seemed like he didn’t want to play along…
What a bad temper.
He smiled.
The mirror reflected Meng Yu’s smile—this time, it was sincere.
