Royal Ch.27

Chapter 27: Scattered Fragments of Yue Zhaolin

Zou Kang: “…Money grab, money la*ndering, trash films.”

Hollywood still has good works—but that was ten years ago. Herland’s last movie was also from ten years ago.

Nowadays, Hollywood is flooded with political correctness and legal scandals. It’s even worse than domestic entertainment. Compared to it, the domestic scene seems downright pure.

Liu Li: “Of course, Herland’s new movie isn’t necessarily going to be bad.”

But judging from the email, Herland got to know Yue Zhaolin through foreign TikTok. That means he must’ve seen the likes.

Eight million likes—an overwhelming wave of traffic.

Could Herland be reaching out to Yue Zhaolin just to bow to popularity? After all, the current trend is “traffic is king.”

Maybe he just wants a cameo—give Zhaolin less than ten seconds of screen time to bait some traffic. That wouldn’t be a loss either.

Zou Kang frowned and said, “Liu Li, I agree with most of what you said, but… is it possible that Herland just took a liking to Zhaolin’s looks?”

Liu Li raised an eyebrow: “I won’t deny that possibility. But Herland should at least show some sincerity, right?”

Sending just a full-English email, without even showing up in person—no sincerity, just Western arrogance.

“Even putting that aside, it’s not like Herland’s the only one who wants him.” The domestic endorsements offered to Yue Zhaolin could stack as tall as a person. The trend here is also traffic is king.

Liu Li lifted her brow slightly: “So there’s no need to rush. Let Zhaolin make money in domestic entertainment first. We’ll talk about the rest later.”

Besides, this is just the beginning. The well-established national brands haven’t even stepped in yet. Endorsements are something to carefully choose later.

“But if things are as you say—if Herland sees Zhaolin as irreplaceable—then the initiative is in our hands.”

Herland says he’ll wait? Then let him wait.

The domestic entertainment industry already has enough of its own cake to eat. Yue Zhaolin doesn’t need to live by Hollywood’s approval, and the company has no reason to grovel before some foreign director.

It should be a communication between equals.

Zou Kang: “……”

After hearing Liu Li say that, why did he feel a little fired up? It was like the domestic industry had finally stood up for itself—this was the first time it had felt this tough.

Zou Kang suddenly cursed and slapped his thigh hard: “Whoever signed Yue Zhaolin back then—give them ten times the year-end bonus!”

As for Yue Zhaolin, his appearance fee for Starlight had already skyrocketed. It was now in the eight-digit range right from the start.

—That’s the limit set by the Broadcasting Authority, not by Xingqiong.

Yue Zhaolin’s contract had also long since been updated to the highest S-level tier.

Zou Kang paced around the office twice, realizing his hands were trembling a little. He took a big gulp of tea: “The first episode is airing soon, right?”

Let’s talk about something else—otherwise, his blood pressure might spike.

A sample cut of Starlight had already been sent over. Almost the entire leadership team had watched the first episode together in the conference room.

The feedback was good.

Liu Li nodded: “Same as before, we go live at 8 PM. The trending tags are ready.” Public sentiment monitoring is also active at all times.

The show’s editing was one thing, but this was Yue Zhaolin’s first appearance on the program—it had to be grand.

That was Xingqiong’s ambition.

—

As night deepened, the hour hand on the wall clock inched closer to eight.

Peng Tao was slouched on the sofa: “Xu Mingmei, what kind of milk tea do you want? How about trying that… something with bamboo in the name?”

The whole “national-style tea” trend had started last year, with all kinds of poetic names—Mist over Plum Blossoms, Ink-Wash Bamboo, and so on.

Xu Mingmei absentmindedly nodded in agreement while pacing around the living room, circling again and again—nearly making Peng Tao dizzy.

“Xu Mingmei, what are you so nervous about? You weren’t even this tense during the college entrance exams!”

Xu Mingmei fell silent for three seconds, then suddenly let out a shriek, hugged her head, and crouched down: “I don’t know either!!”

She had picked Yue Zhaolin up from work several times and even seen him in person, so logically, there was nothing to be nervous about.

Especially since it was just Yue Zhaolin on a screen—there was a layer of distance.

Peng Tao looked at her flushed face and offered a sharp critique: “You look like you’re about to meet your online boyfriend in real life.”

Xu Mingmei: “……”

Peng Tao widened her eyes: “You’re not even denying it?! You do think that?!”

Xu Mingmei buried her head in her knees: “I know he’s never going to date me. But it’s not illegal to be a fangirl in love with a fantasy.”

“He fits everything I want in a boyfriend—what’s wrong with dreaming a little?!”

She lifted her head defiantly. “And it’s not like I’m dreaming for free. I spend money on him. I’m definitely going all in for the first round of voting!”

“Respect.” Peng Tao gave her a big thumbs up.

Still restless, Xu Mingmei suddenly stood up: “I’m gonna go cut some more fruit—something to snack on while we watch.”

“Hey, don’t. We won’t even finish what we already have.” The coffee table was already covered in snacks.

Peng Tao grabbed Xu Mingmei and pushed her back down onto the sofa, not letting her move, then quickly connected her laptop to the TV screen.

They could watch on the laptop, but the TV had a bigger screen—much better viewing experience.

Xu Mingmei made small talk to distract herself: “Why are you so calm?”

“Me?”

Xu Mingmei: “Yeah. When it comes to Yue Zhaolin, you’re so calm.”

Peng Tao thought for a moment: “Maybe it’s because I’m more into mature guys? Yue Zhaolin is good-looking, but he’s too fresh-faced.”

Yue Zhaolin’s attractiveness was the kind that even blind people would acknowledge.

But preferences are what they are—you can’t change them.

The two of them chatted about this and that as the clock in the upper-right corner of the screen ticked away. Finally, it hit 7:59.

In the final minute, Xu Mingmei clutched Peng Tao’s arm, her heart pounding loudly in her ears, pressing tightly against her.

“It’s starting.”

As soon as Peng Tao refreshed the page, she saw a new banner for the updated version of Starlight on the homepage.

Yue Zhaolin dominated the left side of the banner, while Li Ying and the mentors were on the right. The layout made Yue Zhaolin immediately catch the eye.

Next to her, Xu Mingmei let out a screech that sounded like a monkey’s excited howl.

Peng Tao couldn’t hold it in—she burst out laughing, gave Xu Mingmei a shove, and shouted, “Can you act like a normal human being?!”

After half a minute of fussing, the first episode of Starlight finally began to play.

Because the site had a real-time bullet comment feature installed, the premiere couldn’t be fast-forwarded—to prevent the comments from getting out of sync.

“One hundred and one trainees—one hundred and one young dreamers—have gathered here…”

The narrator’s voice sounded as the screen lit up, showing several trainees in identical baseball jackets. Their faces were blurred and hard to make out.

Narrator: “What does a dream mean to you?”

“To show my charm on stage.”

“To be seen.”

“To stand on stage so my seven years of practice won’t go to waste.”

One by one, the trainees appeared in front of the camera, speaking about their dreams.

It was Xu Mingmei’s first time watching a talent competition show, and she found it pretty novel. But by the end of that segment, Yue Zhaolin still hadn’t appeared.

She tried to calm herself, reminding herself that only two minutes had passed—maybe Yue Zhaolin would appear later on.

Soon, PD Li Ying entered the stage. He began by talking about idols’ hunger for the stage, then led the 101 trainees in a bow toward the camera.

“Who’s in the back?” Xu Mingmei asked, her screen already set to the highest resolution. “Did the production team blur it on purpose? I can’t see clearly.”

Then Li Ying announced that this season would debut a nine-member group and went on to explain the rules for the first round of voting.

“Starting today, dear viewers, please vote for the trainee you support!”

Right after that, the scene shifted. The spacious and glamorous stage for the initial evaluation welcomed the first group of trainees from a company.

Seven minutes had passed, according to the progress bar, and still no sign of Yue Zhaolin.

Xu Mingmei: “?”

She hadn’t even blinked—so how had she not seen even a single strand of Yue Zhaolin’s hair?

Maybe she just didn’t have much experience watching talent shows. Maybe this was normal… Xu Mingmei decided to keep watching.

Then came the first group, then the second group…

Half an hour later.

The coffee table was littered with sunflower seed shells, and Xu Mingmei’s lips were sore from snacking. “…?”

Peng Tao turned to her. “I’ve never stanned anyone before, but isn’t someone from the top-tier company supposed to get screen time early?”

Xu Mingmei: “……”

Exactly.

Wait, this can’t be normal, right?!

She swore—she’d been paying attention for the entire first thirty minutes, and there hadn’t been a single frame of Yue Zhaolin.

Just as Xu Mingmei was drowning in confusion, the company logo flashed on screen—it finally switched to the Xingqiong emblem.

“Ahhh, it’s here!”

At the same time, even the trainees onscreen gasped in surprise. Under the spotlight, two people walked in.

The first thing Xu Mingmei saw were black heeled leather shoes—long legs. The camera moved up to reveal a narrow waist, broad shoulders.

Her eyes widened, nostrils flared—she literally forgot to breathe.

She could swear she hallucinated the sound of leather heels striking the floor. So sharp…

The camera cut to a top-down angle. Yue Zhaolin, dressed in a fitted suit and leather shoes, was walking with such grace that Xu Mingmei couldn’t even find the words to describe it.

When Yue Zhaolin came to a stop at the center of the stage and looked toward the seating area, the trainees in the room audibly gasped.

After Yue Zhaolin and Fu Xunying found their seats, the heads of the other trainees turned toward him like sunflowers tracking the sun.

“That’s… dominance-level presence…” Peng Tao murmured.

It wasn’t until the next group of trainees entered that Xu Mingmei finally let out a long breath—then dove headfirst into Peng Tao’s arms.

“Ahhhhhhhh—!”

“He’s too handsome, too handsome! So handsome I feel like running fifty laps downstairs—!”

“Leather shoes… step on me—”

Peng Tao opened her mouth to say something to calm her down, but the words got stuck: “……”

Though the apartment had decent soundproofing, Xu Mingmei had still tried to keep her volume down. But even so, she was shouting with such intensity that it strained her voice.

When the adrenaline wore off, she found herself slightly out of breath, panting for air.

She gulped down more than half a cup of water in one go, let out a long exhale, and looked back at the screen: “I didn’t miss anything important, right?”

“Nope.”

“Good… wait, no—” Xu Mingmei suddenly thought of something. “Wasn’t there supposed to be an interview for Yue Zhaolin?”

Didn’t every trainee who appeared before him get one?

They talked about their experiences, and the show would also include some practice footage. The length varied, but at least something was always shown.

But when it came to Yue Zhaolin—why was there nothing?

Xu Mingmei didn’t usually watch variety shows, but even she could tell something was off. There was this one “hype man” trainee who was getting way too much screen time.

No matter who was performing or being introduced, he always had a reaction shot. Like Liu Xing sharing cake: one piece for everyone else, and a whole one for himself.

It was all him reacting—and seriously, who wants to watch his reactions?

Was the production team not blatantly trying to promote this guy?

Xu Mingmei suddenly realized—something wasn’t right.

Yue Zhaolin, who only appeared thirty minutes after the show started, had no interview, no flashback footage—and yet people were calling him the “center”?

Xu Mingmei frowned, suppressing a growing sense of unease, and kept watching.

The performances from the other trainees were all more or less the same. Xu Mingmei wasn’t interested.

Yue Zhaolin had a huge transparent mask on his face, and the bullet comments were all asking about it, but the show’s editing just… ignored it completely.

And weirdly enough, whenever she got annoyed, a shot of Yue Zhaolin would suddenly appear—very brief, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it.

Feeling concerned, Xu Mingmei decided to check the super topic feed. As soon as she opened it, the trending posts floated to the top:

[Ahhhhh the leather shoes are killing me, I’ve rewatched Yue Zhaolin’s entrance a hundred times (link)]

[Come watch, fast!]

[Is Zhaolin sick?]

[1 hour and 37 minutes into the episode, Yue Zhaolin’s total screen time: 18 seconds. @productionteam, does this seem reasonable to you?]

[They were hyping him up as the “center” before the show even aired. I got excited thinking I’d finally get to stan a top-tier. The actual episode feels like a scam—what am I, a fool?]

[@Starlight are you there? Please return my royal-level stan experience. Thank you.]

[Yue Zhaolin had so little screen time, I could’ve gone out to watch a movie and come back and no one would’ve noticed.]

[Three-plus hours of evaluations? No thanks. I’ll wait for Zhaolin’s fan edits.]

Xu Mingmei: “?!”

So it wasn’t just her—other people were clearly noticing something was off too. She thought the screen time was short, but only eighteen seconds?

That “hype man” trainee had said more than eighteen lines.

Xu Mingmei’s mind buzzed with unease, and then she noticed others asking about the mask too, speculating whether Yue Zhaolin had caught a cold.

She had completely lost interest in the show, but Peng Tao was still watching.

After seeing several of the production team’s blink-and-you-miss-it edits, Peng Tao spoke with certainty: “Yue Zhaolin is being used to hook the audience’s attention.”

“What?”

“Every few minutes, the camera cuts to Yue Zhaolin—like the show’s afraid people will click away.”

Peng Tao gestured. “Don’t you see? The production team is using Yue Zhaolin to bait viewers.”

Xu Mingmei was startled—it felt like clouds had suddenly parted in her mind. “Is the production team crazy?”

They want to use Yue Zhaolin, but the way they’re cutting his scenes is like a slideshow—just a flash here and there. What is the show trying to do?

Xu Mingmei was never that interested in survival shows to begin with—she only cared about Yue Zhaolin.

So she had no desire to sit through a bunch of trainees just to spot scattered fragments of Yue Zhaolin. She might as well just go on Weibo and look for fan edits.

She felt like she had swallowed a bitter breath. A subtle, unsettling sense crept in—as if Yue Zhaolin was being deliberately sidelined.

And she was angry.

That earlier post from Starlight’s official account—“re-recording?”—had stirred up so much hate. People had accused Yue Zhaolin of being the show’s golden boy.

He took all that heat, and this is what he got?

If he’s not even getting the royal treatment they accused him of, then what’s the point of all the hate? It’s a total loss!

Fury bubbled up from Xu Mingmei’s chest. She gave up on the show completely and turned to the super topic, posting about her frustration—looking for other fans who felt the same.

While Xu Mingmei was fighting, Peng Tao, after watching for a bit longer, also lost interest and looked down at her phone.

Episode one of Starlight was still airing, but at this point, it was basically background noise. No one was really paying attention.

“Hello everyone, I’m trainee Gu Zhouyuan from Fenghua Entertainment…”

“Hello PD and mentors, I’m Cen Chi from Lingying Entertainment…”

Peng Tao caught a few lines and thought to herself—there are way too many trainees. No wonder each episode runs over three hours.

“……”

“……”

“…Hello, PDs and mentors. I’m Yue Zhaolin, from Xingqiong Entertainment.”

“……”

“……”

Three seconds after the words landed, someone suddenly shot up from the couch—but it wasn’t Xu Mingmei. It was Peng Tao.

“Yue Zhaolin?!”

Hearing her best friend yell, Xu Mingmei snapped her head up. Sure enough, it was Yue Zhaolin on the screen. But suddenly, she felt an intense gaze boring into her.

She turned around—Peng Tao was standing on the couch, eyes burning as she stared at the screen. “That’s what his voice sounds like?!”

Xu Mingmei froze. “You—no, he probably caught a cold…”

“Why didn’t you tell me he sounded like this?! How am I supposed to not spend money on him?!”

“No—wait, wasn’t your type supposed to be mature guys?!”

“This voice is my type! Don’t you think his voice sounds like sparkling wine—slightly tipsy, rich with the scent of blooming roses?!”

“No! Say something that makes sense!”

“I’m in love with him!”

“……”

“……”

In that moment, their eye contact became something deeper—like a soul-level connection. Just like that, they became kindred spirits.

In the middle of the night, the two of them grabbed each other’s shoulders and shook violently.

“AHHHHHHHHH—!!”

“Let’s watch the evaluations together!!” x2

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