Chapter 17: …just like it made them happy, too.
[59F] Yue stans argued for ages — “Tide will retreat,” “Snow Pearl sounds fragile,” “Moonlight already means something in the Moonlight fandom.” They weren’t happy with this or that name. But honestly, even with all the drama, you can still feel the love in the name debates.
[60F] Speaking of which, I’m super curious — has Emperor Yue’s nickname been finalized yet?
[61F] Most people just call him “Moon.” The emoji is that crescent moon with a star.
There’s also “Star,” but that one came from a hater nickname “Xing” and didn’t really catch on.
[64F] I used to stan a bunch of celebs and ended up heartbroken every time — totally gave up on fandom life. But I secretly stalked Emperor Yue’s supertopic and… not gonna lie, I caught feelings again.
The vibes there are immaculate.
Sure, there are some clout-chasers and clueless newbies, but they’re out here learning to edit videos and make banners, doing their best. It’s actually kind of touching.
[65F] Bro, stop pretending to be a random passerby. No one cares what you’re called, okay?
[66F] Can you all take the fight somewhere else, maybe open a new thread?
[68F] My feelings are kinda similar to OP’s — wanted to hate, just couldn’t.
Yue Zhaolin’s face is seriously unreal. One look and my heart melted.
Especially that “God Gazes Back” photo — it’s my wallpaper now. He’s in the center and totally my aesthetic.
[70F] Don’t you kinda feel bad for everyone else now?
They’re just there to make the royals look good… I actually feel for them. Any recommendations for who to stan?
[75F] Not long ago they were leeching off Yue Zhaolin’s fans, hyping up “God Gazes Back,” and now they’re just a sad little group. I’m crying from laughing.
[78F] Not even trying to hide the troll energy anymore, huh?
[79F] Honestly, Yue Zhaolin’s face just screams “sharp and petty.” No idea why people are hyping him so hard.
[80F] Hey momo upstairs, you sure keep yourself busy, huh? First you said C-ent is doomed, then you’re pitying trainees, and now you’re analyzing facial features?
[81F] Do people seriously think this is just hype? I don’t buy it — I don’t think the big shots are that bold. Isn’t the higher-up cracking down hard on talent shows?
I remember there was a memo saying “entertainment above all else” is strictly banned. Isn’t this like playing with fire? Seems way too risky.
[84F] Yeah, it all feels a little off this time.
But honestly, this “suicidal promo strategy” is kind of a thing now — companies leak bad stuff themselves and then whitewash later to get attention.
I’ve fallen for it more than once.
Getting all riled up and joining the hate, and then suddenly the celeb’s all cleaned up and there’s that one top comment: “If you’ve never hated xx, you won’t reincarnate looking like this.” I swear it’s all scripted.
[87F] Agree with 84th floor. The moment I saw that classic hot comment format, I choked a little.
And after a while, they always drop the retrospective drama post: “xx’s debut was full of storms and blood,” “Rumors debunked,” “Turned fate around amidst endless hate.” I can already see it coming. Who else gets it?
[88F] So real. It happens in both C-ent and K-ent, over and over. Reminds me of the days when netizens stabbed me in the back, lol.
[92F] Y’all chill — in a bit they’ll post a clarification “for fans only” like clockwork!
[95F] 92nd floor Uh-oh, you forgot to clean up your own profile. Gave five stars to Actual: The Group Reality Show — who could it be, so mysterious~
Can’t handle how good Yue Zhaolin is, huh? Been bitter about it for a while?
Finally found your chance to stir up drama in the forum, didn’t you?
[96] Yue Zhaolin stepping on his seniors to rise up — no shame at all. His fans are just as shameless. Not even a hint of gratitude, just a bunch of ungrateful brats!
[107F] Hey OP, get back here quick! If a fight breaks out, this thread’s toast!
—
Meanwhile, at the Starlight Building—
A staff member called Yue Zhaolin out of practice and brought him to another room to shoot a promo.
More specifically, it was a sponsor plug — just a short spoken ad spot.
The client was a sparkling water brand. They’d already coordinated with the show and with Xingqiong, and they specifically requested Yue Zhaolin for the shoot.
The line was simple:
“With LightFizz, chase Starlight every Friday night.”
The filming wrapped up quickly.
Zhaolin drank quite a bit of the sparkling water, and during practice afterwards, it had a weird effect on him — he started burping. Not loud burps though.
More like — every time he burped, his body gave a little twitch. Then another.
A staffer took him to the break room. But the disposable cups were out, so they told him to wait there while they grabbed more.
The door was left open, but Yue Zhaolin was standing quietly in a corner, easy to miss at a glance.
Just then, two other staff walked by. They peeked in, didn’t spot anyone, and leaned near the doorway to chat in low voices.
“You see that trending post?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“Yue Zhaolin hasn’t even debuted yet, and his fans can already push a comment to 70k likes. That’s crazy.”
“He’s really living the dream. Some brands only care about traffic, and those 70k likes? Basically free advertising.”
“Ugh, so jealous.”
“Well, the guy looks good. Could you lie on an operating table and come out looking like that?”
“Guess I’ll just keep dreaming… Anyway, the supervisor’s calling, let’s go.”
…
As the sound of their footsteps faded away, Yue Zhaolin stepped out from the corner. “…”
He hadn’t caught much, just a few keywords: trending, comment control, seventy thousand.
Something was going on outside — and it probably involved him. Odds were, it wasn’t good.
Comment control…
They’d covered this during company training. Controlling the narrative was a way to build fan unity.
But for fans, it could be brutal.
When the idol stays silent, and fans are left to fight off hate on their own — giving their time, their energy — and maybe getting nothing in return.
The fan chat groups would grow quiet. Just one purchase link after another, and endless repost requests with links needing upvotes.
This was normal in fan culture. Everyone did it.
…
Yue Zhaolin frowned slightly, unconsciously biting the inside of his lower lip.
He didn’t know what exactly had happened — but he knew one thing:
They were doing it for him.
He looked down toward his chest. His heart was pounding, like it had just overheard some massive secret.
Full, overwhelmed — like a restless balloon inside him.
“…” He suddenly really wanted to meet them. Say something. Do something.
But during recording, they weren’t allowed out. No contact with outsiders. At most, they could pass quick messages with mouth movements from behind the fence.
Still… was there something else?
Something else he could do…
That would make them happy?
He wanted to try.
Yue Zhaolin returned to the practice room.
Tan Shen, sitting by the wall, reached out and grabbed his wrist. When Yue Zhaolin looked over, he grinned and said, “Sit with me for a bit?”
Yue Zhaolin asked, “You’re done practicing?”
In just two hours, the mentors would arrive. And Tan Shen’s performance… well, it spoke for itself.
Tan Shen replied, “I’ve pretty much hit my limit. Didn’t you all just have a good laugh?”
About an hour ago, he’d shown everyone his progress.
Some of the images from that moment replayed in Yue Zhaolin’s mind—and sure enough, Cen Chi, sitting nearby, was the first to crack: “Pfft—”
No one could stay cool-faced after witnessing Tan Shen’s “interpretive” dance moves. Not even Yue Zhaolin.
Not far away, Meng Yu and Chu Li were laughing too. It was one of those rare, light-hearted breaks during their intense training.
Tan Shen didn’t mind being the joke. First, because it was kind of true. Second… he’d noticed something off about Yue Zhaolin’s expression.
Time passed quickly.
“Attention all trainees: please return to your designated practice rooms. The PD and mentors will be visiting shortly for guidance.”
Once the staff left, the trainees started filing out one by one.
This segment of filming was meant to showcase the mentors’ professionalism and strictness. It was also a classic narrative move—setting the stage with some pressure before building things up again.
After all, right after this would be the theme song evaluations. They couldn’t let the lead-up be too flat. It needed a hook.
It was cliché. But it worked.
The PD and mentors rotated between rooms, offering guidance. From start to finish, it took two hours.
For those around Yue Zhaolin, the feedback varied:
Cen Chi and Meng Yu got praised, but just lightly—enough to acknowledge them, with some quick pointers.
Tan Shen became the “example case.” Vocals, dance, rap—he got called out for all of them, one by one.
Chu Li got the “soft criticism” treatment—something about his movements still looking like traditional folk dance.
And as for Yue Zhaolin…
He was… toned down.
The show began to minimize Yue Zhaolin’s presence.
The production team was starting to feel a growing sense of unease toward him — like he was something they couldn’t control. Cutting down his screen time was the simplest way to keep that in check.
Yue Zhaolin picked up on it right away. Sharp as ever. And honestly, not that surprised.
After finishing up practice for the day, he walked out of the building and glanced toward a specific direction — where the railing used to be. It had been replaced by a tall partition wall.
He couldn’t see a thing.
Meng Yu followed his gaze. “I heard from one of the managers,” he said, “The railing over there suddenly broke. They’ll open it back up after it’s fixed.”
Just then, Cen Chi came rushing out, wind whipping his blond hair back into a wild, windswept mess. “Come on, let’s go!”
“Wait—where’s Tan Shen?”
“Him? Guess he had something to do. Left early,” Meng Yu answered.
Yue Zhaolin looked away.
—
Dorms.
Among the four of them, Meng Yu was the only one who had seen Yue Zhaolin’s “real face.”
In a way, they had laid their cards on the table — at least somewhat. There were shared interests between them.
Even though they didn’t talk much, Meng Yu had developed a kind of quiet trust toward Yue Zhaolin.
Or maybe it was more like a strange sense of familiar unfamiliarity.
He didn’t treat Yue Zhaolin with Cen Chi’s warm, easygoing enthusiasm, or with Fu Xunying’s effortless intimacy.
Meng Yu was the type to watch from the corners.
But today, he noticed something.
Yue Zhaolin wasn’t in the dorm.
He turned to Cen Chi, who was reviewing a dance move. “Where’s Zhaolin? He went out?”
“Yeah,” Cen Chi said. “Said he needed to borrow something from the dorm manager.”
…
What Yue Zhaolin had asked for was a mirror.
The show wouldn’t give him a private room, so he found a lit-up emergency stairwell instead.
And there…
He practiced smiling.
Yue Zhaolin faced the mirror, tugging at the corners of his mouth in every direction—up, down, left, right—basically stretching his facial muscles. Then he lifted his cheeks and tried to smile.
“….”
Nope.
Didn’t look good.
He tried again, squinting slightly on purpose and pulling his lips upward.
Fake.
He could see it clearly—there was no warmth in his eyes. The smile was wide, but it wasn’t real.
He tried a few more times, tweaking little details. Still nothing he liked. It was starting to get on his nerves. But when he caught a glimpse of himself frowning—
Huh. The annoyed expression actually looked… pretty genuine.
The corners of his mouth, which had been pressed into a line, ticked up just a little.
But not even a second passed before he deliberately wiped the look off his face.
Technically, expression control was supposed to be his strong suit. But try after try, it just didn’t feel… sincere.
What he wanted wasn’t just a smile.
He wanted to express something through it.
Emotion. Meaning. Not just a motion.
Switching tactics, Yue Zhaolin started thinking back to those classic movie scenes he’d seen—the ones where a single smile could steal the whole frame. What were they like?
…He couldn’t remember.
So, he decided to figure it out on his own.
In a stairwell lit by a single bulb, he stood in front of the mirror and practiced, again and again. Dozens of times. Then more.
Eventually, his face began to go stiff.
The longer he practiced, the worse it got. His smile lost all form. His eyes turned dull.
It looked—completely unappealing.
In the silence, Yue Zhaolin suddenly snapped out of it.
He realized—this whole time, he’d been chasing a smile he thought looked good.
And trying desperately to mold himself into that version.
But they…
What kind of smile would they like?
The relationship between an idol and their fans—what was it, really?
Yue Zhaolin had thought he understood it once.
Maybe he still did. Or thought he did.
But now?
He wasn’t so sure.
All he knew was:
He couldn’t stay indifferent to the love they were giving him.
This love—unseen, overwhelming, full of heat and sincerity.
It reached him.
And it made him happy.
Maybe… just like it made them happy, too.
