Chapter 26: Role Offer
[Goose Gossip Group | Told you not to mess with them…]
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[Main Post]
RT.
This thread will probably disappear in minutes.
[1F] Told y’all not to use derogatory nicknames…
[2F] Didn’t you realize the night Yue Zhaolin disappeared?
Unrestrained Yue fans are like a bunch of rabid dogs off their leashes.
Who dares provoke them?
That washed-up idol who picked a fight in broad daylight wasn’t warning enough?
[4F] And Tide is all about taking action—they said they’d sue, and they did sue.
That guy who shoved someone ended up sobbing and repenting on Douyin, saying he didn’t want a lawsuit and didn’t want it to affect his kid’s chances of getting a civil service job.
I checked his profile—full of clout-chasing content.
He was used to being a repeat offender, but this time, he ran into a brick wall.
[5F] Not to be mean, but can a person like that really expect their kid to pass the civil service exam?
[7F] That Tide sister who sued also has a Douyin account. I took a look—she’s got money, time, and drives a Maserati.
I stalked a few people in her comments section—their profiles were all different. Some young, some old, some in between.
[11F] Yue Zhaolin’s nationwide breakout? Now you understand the weight of it, right?
That “God-tier Three Seconds” of his—had the same effect as a prime-time drama.
Actually no, dramas that don’t break a 10% rating shouldn’t even try to compare with Yue Zhaolin’s “God-tier Three Seconds.”
[13F] Wait, has any drama in the past 20 years actually broken 10% in ratings?
[14F] Nope. But in the past 20 years, there’s only been one Yue Zhaolin.
[15F] The main thing is, he didn’t just blow up in China—he’s gone viral overseas too. Koreans are already claiming Yue Zhaolin has Korean ancestry.
[16F] OMG, here we go! This perfectly fits my stereotype of Koreans—anything good, they just have to claim it as theirs, huh?
[19F] Since we can’t access international TikTok, Yue Zhaolin’s already been assigned multiple nationalities—Korean, Japanese, even Vietnamese and Thai.
Basically, anything but Chinese.
Even when the original viral poster said, “This is a Chinese idol,” people just conveniently ignored it.
Also fits my stereotype of foreigners:
Good things? Must be Korean or Japanese.
Bad things? Must be Chinese.
[22F] In recent years, the most-liked China-related post was about Yue Zhaolin—8 million likes. His looks really are the ultimate productivity.
I’m thinking, if Yue Zhaolin registered on international TikTok and just said, “I’m from China,” wouldn’t that be more effective than any official PR?
[27F] Great idea!
[29F] Any luxury brand deals yet? Any fashion week invites? Send Emperor Yue abroad! I want him to stun everyone and blind those foreigners with his looks!!
[31F] I’m so tired of foreigners always thinking we all have “slitty eyes” or whatever. Please, let Emperor Yue step forth!
[35F] At least wait until the show ends. I think for now, Starlight will probably just arrange some fan meets or something.
[37F] Yeah, same as last season. The trainees didn’t make many public appearances.
[42F] So besides fan meets, we’ll only see him during performances? When’s the first public stage? I want to go check it out!
[45F] The registration channel is open. Only those who voted in the “round zero” can sign up, and then people will be drawn from that pool.
Ticket drawing starts the day after tomorrow, and the weekend six days later will be the performance.
I took a peek at Emperor Yue’s supertopic—check-in posts from people who got drawn… There are already over 170,000 comments…
[48F] 170,000?!
Alright then, Emperor Yue has delivered yet another “small” shock to the entertainment industry.
[57F] Reply to 45th floor: No way. Even 30,000 active fans is enough to dominate C-ent. 170,000? No way, totally fake. Weibo itself is basically on life support.
[61F] Are those fake check-ins?
[82F] Reply to 61st floor: Voting was done through the GreenFruit platform accounts—why would anyone bother faking check-ins on Weibo?
[83F] Maybe just for appearances? It’s not like no one’s ever done it before.
[91F] In the round zero vote, Yue Zhaolin alone took up 40–50% of the vote pool. That’s 2.6 million votes. That breaks down to an average of 250,000 per person.
Matches up with the number of lottery entries.
You upstairs, think before you speak. Don’t just start flinging mud at Yue Zhaolin.
[94F] Wait what—just didn’t check for a day or two, when did it shoot up to over two million?!
[109F] Only 40–50% of the vote pool?
[113F] Only?
Did y’all forget that “Starlight” mandates that you must vote for 9 people in round zero to even submit your vote?
That remaining 40–50%? Probably Yue fans too. Oh wait—Tide’s votes.
[116F] If it weren’t for that rule, can you imagine how ugly the scene would’ve looked?
[121F] It would’ve become a historic moment in idol show history: “The 20XX Starlight Incident.”
……
[201F] Emperor Yue really has that “break-the-internet” aura. That shot of him glancing back while wearing an eye patch has already become the new go-to aesthetic profile pic for guys.
[203F] That one of him covering his eye and crying hits even harder… Messy black hair, damp lashes, tear tracks at the corner of his eye—who wouldn’t be shaken?
[207F] Wait, Tide doesn’t appreciate these pics?
[218F] They do appreciate them—but they feel guilty (since Yue Zhaolin was injured in that photo), so they secretly fangirl in private while feeling bad about it.
—
[311F] I’ve always wondered—no one’s mentioned this? Emperor Yue and Tan Shen from S.K. actually have great chemistry.
Tan Shen was super proactive, asking fans about their condition for him.
Do they have a CP name yet?
[314F] Are you trying to get yourself killed? Saying that here? The moment you post, Tide’s gonna report you! Everyone, quick, bury this thread!
[317F] Wait, we’re not allowed to say that now?
[320F] Did you even read the title? It literally says “don’t mess with Tide while they’re in berserk mode”…
They’re hardcore solo stans—how do you think they feel about CP content that “leeches off” their fave?
[334F] Didn’t Tide go pick up Emperor Yue from work again? Maybe they won’t show up here…
[336F] Not all of them went to pick him up, okay? Watch what you say—I don’t want this thread to get nuked again.
[339F] Just think about that vote pool. The number of active Yue fans is scary. Don’t underestimate it, okay?
If they wanted to, they could report every single post on this page and wipe the whole thing clean.
[341F] Just checked the supertopic—Tide is still out there shouting cute slogans while picking him up from work.
But in my heart, their image is already locked in.
[342F] “Baby, rest well.” That slogan is seriously cursed…
Can Tide please channel the same energy they had when they dominated the plaza yesterday? They’re being too gentle now—it’s creeping me out.
[357F] That elite-level face-switching… Emperor Yue and his fans really are a match made in heaven.
——— This comment contained inappropriate content and has been removed ———
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Starlight Headquarters.
“Baby, rest well!” called a fan.
The nickname successfully made Yue Zhaolin flush red again, but he still earnestly nodded toward the people at the railing.
Then he tilted his head and made an “OK” gesture in front of his eye patch, signaling that he was fine.
“Ahhhhhh!”
“Baby baby!”
“Are you trying to kill me with cuteness?!”
The second he did that, the fans completely lost it.
Hearing their mood lighten, Yue Zhaolin gave a small smile, waved to them, and only then turned and walked into the building.
The early-stage practice for the group battle was held at the plaza where the trainees had previously selected their songs.
They were expected to self-learn the choreography and lyrics on their own.
A week later, two teams with the same song would be moved into private practice rooms to showcase their progress and receive evaluations from the mentors.
Mentors would then give feedback, provide vocal guidance, or reassign the center position, etc.
After making adjustments, the trainees would keep practicing before finally taking the stage.
Group A of “Cold Lover” was practicing in a corner separated by plastic dividers.
The other four members had paired off for one-on-one training: Cen Chi was helping Tan Shen with the choreography, and Mao Ding was working with Wei Lai.
Choreography breakdown goes from rough to detailed—
But when it came to the final refinement step, Tan Shen and Wei Lai, who only had their looks and body to rely on, couldn’t manage it on their own.
This grueling, head-to-toe polishing task?
Yue Zhaolin had handed it off entirely to Cen Chi and Mao Ding.
Following medical advice, Yue Zhaolin had to slightly reduce his training intensity for the next couple of days, so he decided to focus on practicing the lyrics instead.
Cen Chi brought him some water. Yue Zhaolin took a small sip and sat down in the corner.
On the lyric sheet, his parts had already been highlighted with a fluorescent marker.
As the center of the group, he had quite a few lines.
In total, seven lines: the opening to set the tone, the first two lines of the chorus, the last two lines of the second verse, and the outro.
“The title of ‘friends’ between us, fingertips hovering like ambiguous butterflies.
A game neither wants to call out, letting the scent of perfume drift and spread.”
“Raising distant defenses, talking again about imaginary longing.
Blame me for not noticing sooner, your indifference had turned to flame.”
…
Yue Zhaolin had practiced these lines before—his pitch was accurate.
He recorded the segments with a voice recorder, then played them back to review.
The pitch was solid, but after listening a few times, he still wasn’t satisfied.
Yue Zhaolin’s voice wasn’t deep—it leaned toward clear and bright.
But when he deliberately lowered it, a magnetic, metallic texture emerged.
That was his edge—he needed to amplify it.
Yue Zhaolin thought of a common term used in the idol world: “vocal intelligence.”
It basically meant the emotional intelligence of singing—the ability to make a song sound not just technically good, but uniquely you.
But vocal intelligence needed technical support: pronunciation, breath control, rhythm, resonance…
Xingqiong had covered these before, but not in depth.
So Yue Zhaolin got up to find someone. “Chen Fei, do you have time later?”
— Back when they were picking the last member of the group, Wei Lai didn’t know who to choose. Yue Zhaolin had told him to recommend someone good at singing.
Wei Lai understood what the boss meant: good visuals and good vocals.
After searching around, he instantly locked in on Chen Fei.
Chen Fei was stunned at first, but when he heard Yue Zhaolin say he wanted help with singing techniques, he nodded immediately.
Yue Zhaolin’s reason for choosing him suddenly made sense—Chen Fei realized that this was where his value lay.
“Zhaolin, let’s… find a quiet place. I’ll teach you.”
Chen Fei had received systematic training, but he was good at using analogies to make technical concepts simple and easy to understand—perfect for helping Yue Zhaolin absorb them quickly.
Thanks to his explanations, Yue Zhaolin could feel himself improving when he sang again. He didn’t hesitate to praise Chen Fei for being both responsible and attentive.
Chen Fei quickly waved his hands, modestly denying it, though the stiffness in his expression had eased a lot.
After a long hesitation, Chen Fei asked softly, “Zhaolin… could I trouble you to help me figure out what style suits me?”
“I used to model part-time for a Taobao shop, and the only thing that ever sold out was a casual sportswear set.”
That’s why he’d always thought casual was his style.
But honestly, Chen Fei didn’t really know what suited him.
He’d never taken a close look at himself in the mirror—especially not after getting cosmetic surgery.
Yue Zhaolin gave him a thoughtful once-over.
Chen Fei froze under that gaze. He started getting nervous under Yue Zhaolin’s scrutiny. Just making eye contact with him created pressure, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “…?”
Yue Zhaolin spoke: “The lower half of your face is more attractive.”
After the swelling in Chen Fei’s nose had gone down, it no longer looked unnatural. His lip shape was refined, and his lower face stood out more.
Chen Fei blinked. “Huh?”
“Thick black-rimmed glasses. Fluffy hair covering the forehead and eyes. Loose knit sweater.”
That would draw visual attention to the lower half of his face.
‘More or less a shut-in boy aesthetic,’ Yue Zhaolin thought.
Everyone in this group had a distinct style now:
A shut-in, a red-haired pilot, the battle-armored man in tight-fit knitwear, a button-down with bondage straps, and a trendy bad boy.
Only Yue Zhaolin’s style was undecided.
He had previously planned on a silk shirt + ribbon choker combo, but now it felt a bit too tame.
He needed a new concept.
The new look had to highlight all of his strengths in one go.
…
After practicing for a while, a staff member came over to remind Yue Zhaolin that it was time for his eye drops.
In a small treatment room.
Yue Zhaolin tilted his head up to look at the ceiling, letting the doctor remove the gauze from his left eye and administer the drops.
In addition to antibiotics, he was also prescribed eye drops that promoted corneal healing.
Yue Zhaolin personally felt the gauze was unnecessary, but the company disagreed.
— The higher-ups at Xingqiong had rushed to the hospital that very night. After confirming with the doctor that Yue Zhaolin’s eye was not seriously injured, they finally relaxed.
Then they turned around and tore into the senior staff from Starlight, who were drenched in sweat, yelling at them like they were grandsons.
The whole incident had clearly been caused by inadequate security on the show’s part.
Xingqiong was already convinced that Starlight was jinxed—always bringing misfortune to their artists.
But since Starlight couldn’t exactly change its name, all they could do was curse it under their breath.
Knowing they were in the wrong, Starlight had no choice but to bow and scrape, swearing up and down that nothing like this would happen again and that Yue Zhaolin’s safety would be ensured.
Xingqiong didn’t buy it. They openly expressed their distrust and arranged for a professional doctor to be stationed with the production team, administering Yue Zhaolin’s medication on schedule.
The Starlight executives turned green in the face.
This was clearly a slap to the face.
“Liu Li, aren’t you worried you’re pushing it too far? That Starlight might push back?” Zou Kang voiced his disapproval of the decision.
Ever since Liu Li had made a decisive call—arranging a hot search and trending topics for the incident with the obsessive fan—her capability had become widely recognized.
Just last week, she’d been promoted and now held much more authority.
Liu Li raised an eyebrow: “You think it’s too much?”
Zou Kang nodded. “Starlight isn’t just a variety show—there are people backing it. If we offend them too harshly, it won’t end well.”
In the entertainment industry, the number of real power players was limited. You saw the same faces all the time. Burning bridges could affect Yue Zhaolin’s long-term prospects.
Liu Li said calmly, “Then let me share some good news with you—Herland just sent over an email.”
Zou Kang frowned slightly. A foreign name… It sounded familiar?
Then it suddenly hit him, and he jolted:
“Herland—as in Herland Gale, the Hollywood film director?!”
Herland Gale—an immensely influential figure in Hollywood.
Now nearly seventy, he had directed over a dozen critically and commercially successful VFX-heavy blockbusters.
He had won five Oscars alone.
In recent years, he hadn’t released any new work, but this year he announced a comeback, sending shockwaves through the film industry.
Many international actors openly stated they’d take roles in his film even without pay, just for a chance to appear on screen.
Zou Kang’s eyes widened. “It’s really him?!”
Liu Li clicked her mouse a few times and motioned for him to look at the screen. She smiled.
“Here, this is the email from Herland’s assistant.”
Zou Kang stared unblinkingly at the all-English email, mentally translating it line by line as he read.
After a long moment, he let out a breath.
“Herland saw a video on international TikTok and thinks Zhaolin would be perfect for a role in his film. He wants him to do a cameo.”
Zou Kang was stunned—and then blurted out a dumb question:
“…A director like that watches TikTok?”
Snapping out of his daze, he quickly asked, “What did the higher-ups say? Did they agree?”
Even though Hollywood wasn’t what it used to be, for someone from China to appear in a foreign film—even for a few seconds—was a huge deal.
If one of China’s top stars went to Hollywood and got even a single minute of screen time, it would already be seen as a major achievement.
With such an olive branch offered, Zou Kang’s instinctive reaction was: Say yes.
This was Hollywood. This was Herland.
Liu Li replied, calmly: “I turned it down.”
“…What?!”
Liu Li tapped her fingers lightly on the desk. “Because it’s unnecessary. In recent years, Zhaolin’s goal has been to first establish a solid foundation in domestic entertainment.”
Don’t be fooled by how messy the local industry looks—the cake here is massive.
To make Yue Zhaolin quit the show and give up his place in C-ent for a ten-second cameo in Hollywood?
Not worth it.
Movies by foreign directors, in reality, don’t bring much tangible benefit to Chinese celebrities—aside from being used as bragging rights during fan wars.
Once Yue Zhaolin achieves real results in domestic entertainment, then going to Hollywood would be the cherry on top.
Of course, even now, this email from Herland could still be used as a powerful flex.
A world-renowned director personally naming Yue Zhaolin—Xingqiong would definitely value him even more.
And capital would follow. After all, Yue Zhaolin’s market value had just gone up again.
Zou Kang fell silent for a moment. “…Then, what about Herland?”
“I turned him down,” Liu Li said calmly. “Politely. I sent a reply saying Zhaolin is currently participating in a program and cannot leave.”
Zou Kang looked like he still wanted to protest, but stopped himself. If Liu Li had done this, it meant she had already gotten approval from the top.
He let out a sigh.
“I just think… it’s such a pity…”
Ding!
The sound of a new email notification.
Liu Li told Zou Kang to wait a moment while she checked it. One crisp click of the mouse later, her gaze froze on the screen.
…
Zou Kang noticed her strange expression and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Liu Li looked at him. “Herland’s side said—he’s willing to wait. That role is meant for Zhaolin. No one else will do.”
Zou Kang blurted out in disbelief, “He’s willing to wait?!”
Hearing that a famous foreign director would lower himself and say he’d wait—anyone else would be thrilled.
But Liu Li didn’t react much at all.
She said quietly, “A legendary director, who’s been retired for years, suddenly decides to return and make a movie. What does that make you think of?”
