Royal Ch.19

Chapter 19: Wake Up Rules Violation

The plum blossom branch, “in full bloom,” was handed over in front of Yue Zhaolin. The trainee responsible for the cheers and screams didn’t expect this move.

Amid Chu Li’s quietly tense anticipation, Yue Zhaolin raised his hand and lightly tapped it.

“Wow—”

“This design is amazing, did you really not practice it in advance?!”

The shouts erupted all at once, clearly the atmosphere was electrified by the effect.

With the response, Chu Li’s smile deepened, his eyes curved like a fox’s, making him look even more cunning.

Chu Li pressed the plum blossom branch down a little, then raised it again.

He continued to dance it — flick, chop, slash, and tease — every movement flowing like clouds and water, graceful and lively.

Until the end, Chu Li’s final pose was to tuck the flower branch behind his arm.

Thunderous applause.

Cen Chi: “So impressive—”

Tan Shen: “Professional.”

Chu Li’s “crown” wasn’t that high-profile, but it wasn’t a secret either. The highlight of the competition should have been his, but he “shared” it with Yue Zhaolin.

Chu Li’s highlight had now become Chu Li and Yue Zhaolin’s.

The camera shots couldn’t cut it out.

“Chu Li is surprisingly generous,” Tan Shen thought.

In the corner of his eye, Tan Shen noticed something and leaned toward Yue Zhaolin’s ear, whispering, “Fu Xunying is glaring at you from behind.”

Yue Zhaolin: “…” He pretended not to hear.

Cen Chi, shaking his golden hair, bumped into Yue Zhaolin and said, “Zhaolin, I want to interact with you too, is that okay?”

As for why not find someone else, “There are so many people in the audience, I’m face-blind and get dizzy just looking around. Besides, you definitely understand me!”

Yue Zhaolin: “?”

Tan Shen was confused: “But you can recognize me too, so why not interact with me then?”

Cen Chi: “No.”

“Why not?”

Cen Chi glanced at Tan Shen and spoke frankly, “Every time I see you, I get this uncanny valley effect.”

Cen Chi could recognize Tan Shen at a glance solely by his figure—Tan Shen was like a tall, thin, and large-framed piece of stiff cardboard.

That body shape, combined with an indistinct face…

Tan Shen: “?”

This explanation hit Yue Zhaolin’s funny bone, and he snickered out loud.

Cen Chi also cracked a smile, laughing for a few seconds before suddenly snapping back to business, “Ah, right, I have to go on stage too.”

He stood up and hurriedly reminded, “Zhaolin, remember what I told you—”

Cen Chi didn’t have a solo stage but was competing on the same stage as someone else, with the same music, choreographing independently to see who did better.

As soon as he stepped on stage, Cen Chi pulled out a baseball cap and put it on.

Yue Zhaolin glanced at it and suddenly felt the cap looked familiar—like the one he had given Cen Chi before.

He wouldn’t be…

The background music started, a type with strong drum beats.

It suited a big framework, strong control, and strong tempo changes. Besides hitting the beat, the choreography focused on logic and style matching.

The Korean idol industry was highly developed; to make a song stand out instantly, they paid great attention to choreography with strong, eye-catching moves.

Cen Chi learned very well.

His moves were filled with strong jolts and great force but extended with steady control—large, expansive, and full of aesthetic beauty.

Dance battles were usually face-to-face the whole time, but to hype the atmosphere, after battling for a while, both started interacting with those beside them.

Cen Chi struck a cool pose, crouching in front of Yue Zhaolin and leaned his head over—

A familiar scene. Yue Zhaolin already knew what kind of interaction Cen Chi was thinking of.

He tapped the brim of the cap—not very hard—but it pressed the shadow under the brim down even more, casting it over Cen Chi’s nose and jawline.

Cen Chi smiled.

After Chu Li and Cen Chi had “set a bad example,” everyone else began interacting too—and every interaction seemed to involve Yue Zhaolin.

In the editing room.

Director: “……”

They thought that since Yue Zhaolin wasn’t competing for the center position, nothing more would happen.

Plus, the production team had already decided Chu Li would be the center—the crown prince—and he had everyone’s support.

The spotlight of the C-position should obviously be on him. Otherwise, why else would the crew randomly place a flower vase at the hallway corner?

“I was too naive,” thought the director, temples graying and an imaginary glow over his head.

The assistant next to him sighed, “Yue Zhaolin just sitting there—it’s like a beauty pageant. If we edit this in, it’ll be another iconic scene…”

The director stared blankly, “Why does it feel more like Malèna from Malèna: The Beauty of Sicily?”

“Forget it. Call Li Ying up. Let the trainees cast their votes and announce the C-position.”

After finishing today’s agenda, the director just wanted to go home and collapse. He was emotionally drained.

He’d been in this industry for so many years and knew well this kind of segment was audience gold—perfect for marketing. But the problem was… can it even be aired?!

If Yue Zhaolin were the real crown prince, the post-production would be easy—tons of explosive content to work with.

But wasn’t it the higher-ups who said no?

Still, can you cover it up once, cover it up forever? Did the higher-ups forget the show also has an offline promotional event this weekend…?

The venue had already been booked.

Back then, the initial ratings weren’t even out. The higher-ups had naively assumed Yue Zhaolin wouldn’t hold an A rank, so the offline event would give a great contrast with his teammates—as a nice sacrifice to the gods.

But now? Ha.

The scriptwriting team was still working overtime.

A group of people, haggard like ghosts, were racking their brains trying to figure out how to “reasonably sacrifice” Yue Zhaolin in the later episodes—without getting reported by viewers.

But… could it even be done reasonably?!

Cancel the offline promotion? It had already been filed for approval, the stage was built, the press releases were ready—if they backed out now, the entire budget would go down the drain.

Stop Yue Zhaolin from attending? Even more impossible—Xingqiong alone would never agree to that.

Every direction was a dead end. The director was ready to tell the higher-ups: Stop struggling and just promote Yue Zhaolin already. It’s better for everyone.

—

The vote count came in quickly. The top three were soon revealed: Chu Li with 23 votes, Cen Chi and Chen Wu tied at 18 votes each.

The first center was confirmed—Chu Li.

Cheers and applause broke out from the crowd.

In the midst of the noise, Yue Zhaolin asked, “Cen Chi, you’ve been wearing that the whole time?”

Cen Chi: “Yeah! That night, my freestyle clip kind of went a bit viral on Douyin. I figured it was your lucky charm.”

“So I felt like… the cap had a luck buff on it.”

Yue Zhaolin: “And now, you’ve proven it’s not lucky after all?”

“It’s not so bad.”

Cen Chi wasn’t too disappointed. If you want something, go for it. Success or failure is just a result. Not trying is what leads to regret.

On stage.

Li Ying announced two pieces of news: rehearsals would begin tomorrow and the day after, and the final performance for the theme song would be filmed the day after that.

That meant the total practice time for the theme song would be five days.

Two more than last season?

Even with the longer time frame, most didn’t find it odd—especially lower-ranked trainees, who were relieved to have more time.

The final stage performance would be uploaded to the platform as individual “direct cams,” so anyone unhappy with their rating planned to train harder.

A better direct cam might just win over more viewers.

Before that, however, there was a reshuffling of dorm assignments due to rank changes—any trainees who were promoted or demoted had to return to the dorms to switch rooms.

Yue Zhaolin’s room stayed the same, but the one next to his changed. Fu Xunying had been promoted from B to A and happened to fill the spot of someone who had dropped in rank.

As he left, Fu Xunying’s back seemed to carry a hint of quiet intensity.

Tan Shen tried to rest his elbow on Yue Zhaolin’s shoulder, but failed. “He shadowed you like a ghost all day—what, now he wants to make up with you?”

Yue Zhaolin: “You’ve really been keeping tabs on him today, huh?” — he’d practically been giving live updates.

Tan Shen chuckled, his mischief obvious. “By the way, Zhaolin, are you heading to the practice room later? I’ll come with you.”

He was still ranked F, so he didn’t need to change dorms.

“I’m coming too.”

Cen Chi raised his hand.

Trainees who got A-rank on the re-evaluation weren’t relaxing. On the contrary, most of them had made plans to go practice together.

Because everyone knew—A wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning.

—

The next few days passed in a blur of practice, interviews, behind-the-scenes filming, and short rests.

On the way back from work, Yue Zhaolin glanced to the side. The partition wall that had been put up near the railing was still there, untouched.

A wide empty space. He exhaled a breath of cold air and looked away.

Late at night.

All the trainees had gone to bed.

Suddenly, a faint noise came from the door. Meng Yu, who slept on the top bunk closest to it, was a light sleeper and instantly woke up.

“Who’s there?”

He spoke up.

The room was silent, his voice hoarse. Even though he hadn’t spoken loudly, a couple of roommates stirred in their beds, sitting halfway up.

Across from him was Cen Chi, and on the lower diagonal bunk was Chu Li—the few of them made eye contact.

Outside, the sky was still pitch-black. Dawn hadn’t arrived yet. Their eyes were half-closed, but the drowsiness had mostly faded as they looked toward the door.

They waited a little longer, but the sound from outside didn’t return.

Meng Yu instinctively frowned, got out of bed, and threw on a jacket. Just as he was about to say something to Chu Li, he suddenly heard the sound of a key turning.

Quiet, but distinct.

Someone was unlocking the door—with a key.

The person outside was being very cautious. Cen Chi climbed down from the top bunk and yanked the door open.

The person outside visibly jumped, their whole body flinching. “You scared me to death—!”

As their eyes adjusted, they saw that three out of the four people from Dorm 504 were staring at them.

“Uh… hi, everyone?”

Meng Yu recognized the visitor—it was Shu Yang from the dorm next door. He had been promoted from B to A. “Shu Yang, what are you doing out here?”

Behind him stood Fu Xunying, both of them holding cameras.

Shu Yang quickly explained, “Sorry, we didn’t mean to disturb your rest. Xunying and I drew a mission from the show.”

The task was this:

A surprise night visit—wake someone up and ask what they want for breakfast. They had to ask at least three people.

When Shu Yang first heard it, he was speechless. What kind of ridiculous mini-variety segment was this? What was the production team even thinking?

While Shu Yang was still agonizing over who to wake, Fu Xunying had already walked toward the neighboring room.

Shu Yang: “……”

The dorm next door… wasn’t that the one with four potential top-rankers? Could he… maybe ride their coattails a little?

Two minutes later, throwing caution to the wind, Shu Yang took the key the staff had given him and headed to Dorm 504 with Fu Xunying.

What he hadn’t expected was that three of the guys were already awake—except for one: Yue Zhaolin.

Shu Yang swallowed hard. Some strange burst of courage made him straighten his back, determined to score big. “Zha… Zhaolin…”

“Yue Zhaolin.”

Someone beat him to it.

Before Shu Yang could react, Fu Xunying had already crouched in front of Yue Zhaolin’s bed, camera raised, and started calling out to him.

Cen Chi: “Hey, Fu Xunying, you—”

He frowned.

Too close.

That distance clearly violated the “Wake-Up Yue Zhaolin” rules.

Fu Xunying definitely knew. Which meant—he was doing it on purpose.

The blanket on Yue Zhaolin’s bed shifted.

A hand reached out from underneath it—pale and elegant even in the dim lighting.

Yue Zhaolin tugged at the blanket, revealing his face.

Expressionless.

The dorm lights were off, but the camera had its own light, which illuminated Yue Zhaolin’s eyes—dark pupils reflecting a pinprick of glare in the black.

He didn’t say anything.

He just looked at Fu Xunying.

But that look—slowly brimming with a sharp, almost lethal edge—somehow made Fu Xunying feel… oddly at home.

“……”

Fu Xunying: “Yue Zhaolin, what do you want to eat for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Yue Zhaolin, hurry and answer me. Do you just not want to talk to me?”

“Yue Zhaolin…”

He was doing it on purpose.

Yue Zhaolin, visibly annoyed, grabbed a throw pillow from the bed and chucked it at Fu Xunying’s face.

The latter didn’t even flinch—took it straight to the face, like he welcomed it.

“Eat your own damn head.”

Even after getting cussed out, Fu Xunying didn’t get mad.

On the contrary—he started laughing, laughing so hard the camera footage shook.

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