Royal Ch.28

Chapter 28: 1 Minute and 57 Seconds

During the previous offline promotions for Starlight, every trainee had a short self-introduction, including Yue Zhaolin.

So when that hoarse, sandpaper-like voice—made rough from a cold—came through the speakers, Xu Mingmei was also startled.

But she didn’t expect Peng Tao’s reaction to be even more intense.

— Peng Tao didn’t follow celebrities, but she did check Weibo’s trending topics. Whether it was Chinese stars or foreign ones, she treated them all the same: if a trending topic interested her, she’d read it; if not, she’d ignore it. She didn’t spend money on any celebrity, nor did she chase after anyone. A true casual viewer.

Yet right now, Peng Tao and Xu Mingmei were huddled together in the corner of the sofa, hand in hand, nervously craning their necks to watch the TV.

On screen, Li Ying looked up and asked, “Is this trainee sick with a cold?”

Xu Mingmei: “He finally asked?!”

Just after Li Ying’s question, a flashback montage suddenly cut in—a bird’s-eye view of the ceiling, capturing all the seats during the initial evaluation.

There was a small section still unoccupied—probably during the seat selection process.

The footage turned gray, with only one normally lit circle following a blond trainee as he walked over to Yue Zhaolin.

He crouched down beside Yue Zhaolin, and the subtitles showed his name: “Cen Chi.”

“Zhaolin, are you feeling any better?”

The scene changed again, cutting to a post-interview clip. A staff member asked, “How did you know Yue Zhaolin had a cold at the time?”

Cen Chi sat in front of the Starlight logo: “I had asked him earlier.”

Staff: “Do you two have each other’s contact info?”

Xu Mingmei frowned. She had waited so long for Yue Zhaolin’s segment—why was someone else trying to steal the spotlight?

Especially that person.

Last time, when the re-recording made it to the trending topics, the hashtag trampled on Yue Zhaolin just to promote their own idol—and among those fans hyping it up were Cen Chi’s fans.

Later, when the recording of God Descends Tonight was leaked, Cen Chi’s fans shamelessly started pushing the “ChiYue Eternal” CP.

It could practically be described as “leeching off Yue Zhaolin.” And now, they were trying to steal the spotlight again just when Yue Zhaolin appeared.

Peng Tao was also getting anxious: “Can they stop with these interview clips already? Is the production team trying to stir up CP rumors? I just want to hear Yue Zhaolin speak!”

With old grudges piling on top of new annoyances, Xu Mingmei’s expression looked worse and worse.

The next second, the footage cut back to the initial evaluation, showing a clip commonly used in survival shows:

“Zhaolin, are you feeling any better?”

Yue Zhaolin’s face appeared on screen, and Xu Mingmei and Peng Tao smiled instinctively—their expressions practically blossomed.

Maybe it was the cold, but even with a beauty filter, the redness at the corners of Yue Zhaolin’s eyes and the slight daze in his gaze were still visible.

His eyes seemed to be misted with a feverish flush. He glanced toward the camera and smiled:

“I’m fine, the fever’s going down.”

“Ahhhhhhh—!”

Xu Mingmei let out a shriek, flailing her limbs wildly before trying to curl into herself and bury deep into the sofa cushions.

“Ahhhhhhh—!”

Peng Tao clutched her head, ears and face flushed bright red as a rush of heat surged to her head.

The two of them were in complete chaos. Normally, both were fairly composed people—no one could explain why they became like this when they were together.

With the initial evaluations about to begin, Xu Mingmei forced herself to calm down and, trembling, pulled the blanket from the sofa over them.

Now the two of them hid beneath the blanket, like two shivering quails.

As they held their breath, the song’s intro began to play. It started with a male voice humming a pleasant melody.

As the distinctive beat kicked in, Yue Zhaolin and Fu Xunying lifted their heads.

“I don’t want to be his replacement — and you know it perfectly well.”

“No longer satisfied with a friendship. But you can’t return to his side.”

As soon as Yue Zhaolin’s voice came in, it was accompanied by the sound of barely suppressed breathing.

The camera didn’t go for a dramatic close-up of Yue Zhaolin. Instead, it took an unconventional route, switching to a left-side angle.

Peng Tao first saw those unmistakable, one-of-a-kind eyes—then the brow bone, and the bridge of his nose.

She didn’t know how to describe it exactly, but somehow, the more distanced point of view… felt even more captivating.

Compared to other English songs, the lyrics of this one were relatively simple and refreshing, but the overall tone was still dreamy and sultry.

Whether it was because the mic was just that good or the TV’s speaker system was too immersive, his voice felt like it was slipping directly into your ears.

Add to that the song title: “Replacement.”

Late at night, slightly tipsy, a hoarse and languid male voice—

And just the right hint of nasal resonance, like someone whispering softly in your ear as he wraps his arms around you from behind.

It gave the illusion of a substitute trying to climb their way into the spotlight—deliberately getting sick, feigning vulnerability, then seducing someone into bringing them home.

Xu Mingmei was stunned—her mind both scrambled and blank at the same time.

His body moved so fluidly, soft yet strong. His movements were seamless. His gaze was magnetic. His legs were long, his waist was slim, his outfit was perfect.

The tilt of his shoulder, the angle of his thighs, the arc of his hair as it whipped through the air—

Everything made it impossible to look away.

Even though the camera kept switching angles, Yue Zhaolin and his performance remained the most captivating presence on screen.

And then the show’s editing had a full-on meltdown: while Yue Zhaolin’s voice played clearly in their ears, the camera jerkily panned over to Fu Xunying.

The two girls instantly exploded.

“Stop switching the damn camera!”

“Are you out of your mind?!”

Could the production team please stop showing off their so-called multi-angle editing? Could they just point the camera straight at Yue Zhaolin? Just once? Please?!

Fortunately, the editing glitch seemed to be temporary—the camera finally returned to Yue Zhaolin.

At this point, both he and Fu Xunying had stopped singing and were just dancing. In performance terms, it was a “dance break.”

Yue Zhaolin raised a hand to shield his eyes—his pale, slender fingers had beautifully shaped knuckles and pink-tinted fingertips.

The background beat pulsed with each move—the side hip thrusts timed to the rhythm, the slow yet deliberate motions—all of it became synonymous with the word sexy.

Vocals, expression control, choreography—everything was flawless.

He was in complete control, and his performance was even more refined than the one at the music festival.

“Gulp.”

Xu Mingmei swallowed. She had just confirmed a scientific fact firsthand: when a person is in extreme shock, they literally lose the ability to speak.

“……”

“……”

The initial evaluation ended. Yue Zhaolin was undeniably rated A—and not just an A, but the first A.

In the living room, the blanket slid off Xu Mingmei and Peng Tao’s heads and flopped to the floor.

The two girls were dead silent, their hair practically standing on end—like two puffed-up quails huddling together for warmth.

“…Watch it again?”

“Yeah.”

“Can we rewind?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“…Why not?”

“They said it’s to prevent the bullet comments from desyncing—the progress bar is locked on the first night.”

“…Why though?”

Peng Tao finally cracked, voice breaking: “I want to know that too! Shouldn’t annual VIPs at least get some perks?!”

Unfortunately, no.

“…Weibo! I’m gonna check Weibo for a clip or cut!” Xu Mingmei had a sudden flash of inspiration.

As soon as she opened Weibo, the splash screen—still an ad for some high-end skincare brand earlier that day—had already changed to Yue Zhaolin.

He was wearing an earpiece mic, a blue-and-white varsity jacket, his gaze bright and radiant—an image of youthful passion and the pursuit of dreams.

It was a photo selected by Xingqiong Entertainment.

—Anyone who opened Weibo would inevitably see that splash screen. They’d see that picture.

At the same time, Yue Zhaolin’s clips began to appear one by one on the massive screens in crowded shopping districts, pedestrian streets, and malls.

LED billboards, 3D displays, giant digital ads—every format imaginable.

And in the coming week, subway stations, bus stops, and other ad spaces would be gradually filled as well. Bilibili, Weibo, Douyin—all platforms had already been arranged.

Yue Zhaolin going viral was inevitable.

But that didn’t mean Xingqiong could just sit back and slack off.

Their big-budget rollout wasn’t just for Yue Zhaolin—it was also for the sake of the company.

Xingqiong wanted to keep Yue Zhaolin.

They were well aware of how many others were eyeing him.

Yue Zhaolin had a strong sense of self. Capital wouldn’t be able to sway him with emotional manipulation. If they wanted him to stay, they had to show him sincerity.

The increased appearance fee—raised to ten million—was Xingqiong’s first show of loyalty.

And now, this carefully orchestrated, full-spectrum publicity push? That was sincerity, too.

—

Meanwhile, in the Starlight Building—

In a quiet corner, Yue Zhaolin applied his medication, pressed down gauze, and put on an eye patch.

The outermost layer of the eye patch wasn’t just for protection—it also provided a slight pressure, helping reduce blinking and minimizing friction against the cornea.

Chen Fei’s hands were gentle but efficient. In under two minutes, the patch was secured.

Changing the dressing wasn’t some complicated procedure, so Yue Zhaolin had simply called for Chen Fei to do it.

After a moment, Yue Zhaolin finally opened his eyes—only to see Fu Xunying leaning in nearby, neck stretched, watching him. He hadn’t even noticed when he’d gotten there.

Fu Xunying let out a soft “hey”: “Don’t move yet—your hair’s caught.”

The strap of the eye patch wrapped around the back of his head, pinching a few strands of hair underneath. The rest of his hair couldn’t fall properly and looked puffed up.

“Your eye—still holding up okay today?”

“Yeah.”

His eye was already much better. Blinking no longer brought any noticeable discomfort.

Fu Xunying reached over to help free the trapped strands of hair and clicked his tongue. “Had another wave of people checking in on you today. How’s that feel?”

And he wasn’t exaggerating—if anything, he was downplaying it.

With the first episode airing today, a bunch of trainees had come over to show “concern” for Yue Zhaolin. Some trainees had snuck their phones in and seen that Yue Zhaolin had half of the header dedicated to him. Word spread quickly—from one person to ten, then to a hundred.

Suddenly, everyone around Yue Zhaolin turned into a saint. People were even lining up to pour him water.

Wherever he went, it was as if he were the moon surrounded by stars.

The scene was so full of harmony and goodwill that Fu Xunying nearly thought they were filming a government PSA called “Universal Unity and the Beauty of the People.”

Yue Zhaolin said, “They’re trying hard. Next time, they don’t need to.”

Having a bunch of strangers show up and offer baskets of empty words—it wasn’t something he had much patience for.

Then he noticed his shoelaces had come undone. He bent his head to tie them while thinking:

‘Now that the first episode has aired, aside from the initial evaluation, I probably don’t have much screen time. Maybe barely any at all.’

Yue Zhaolin wasn’t surprised. He simply saw this as the show’s final line of defense.

As long as he made it through…

Everything would become clear.

Fu Xunying didn’t know what he was thinking and followed up on their earlier topic:

“There are cameras. Watch yourself.”

Yue Zhaolin looked at him—as if to say, who brought this up first?

“If you’ve got nothing useful to say, go back and practice your song,” Yue Zhaolin said to the slightly flustered Chen Fei beside him. “Let’s go.”

“…Okay!”

At this point, Group Sixteen had stopped rehearsing out in the main square and moved into the practice rooms.

Yue Zhaolin and Cen Chi, along with a few others, were focused on refining the details.

A group of long-limbed trainees dancing together—everything was sharp and synchronized, even the angles of their arm swings were nearly identical.

With the rhythmic pounding of footsteps, sweat gradually soaked Yue Zhaolin’s hair.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. With each repetition, his understanding of the choreography deepened.

Suddenly, Yue Zhaolin understood something his dance instructor had once said:

Choreography also has its own logic.

The coordination between upper and lower body, the transitions between moves, the positioning—all of it carried the choreographer’s thought process.

Once he grasped the logic behind a particular move, Yue Zhaolin felt a sense of satisfaction.

He understood how to better control his body—and for the first time, truly felt the allure of dance.

After so many rounds of practice, his hair had long since become a messy, sweat-soaked tangle, plastered to his forehead. His pink short-sleeved shirt was drenched, stained in patches from dark to light.

His lips were dry, his cheeks flushed red—he looked completely disheveled.

But he didn’t stop.

He wanted to give his best within the limited time he had.

Because the performance… would not give him a second chance.

Yue Zhaolin’s outfit took a long time to finalize—because he wanted it to be perfect.

He had envisioned many different styles, but in the end, each one was rejected after careful consideration.

That was when he suddenly realized: all the outfits he had imagined were just a collage of visually appealing elements.

They were diverse in style—yes—but each one was just pretty, flawless.

Yet none of them felt like the one, the most meaningful or unique.

And as he stared into the mirror, a thought suddenly came to him:

Why not keep it simple?

Simple didn’t mean plain or crude.

—

In the same practice room, Fu Xunying glanced at Yue Zhaolin, noting how calm and unchanged his expression was—even after the first episode had aired.

Meanwhile, the other group members were already on edge, clearly restless.

But Yue Zhaolin often seemed like this—detached, almost unlike a normal person.

Fu Xunying wasn’t surprised though.

Ever since they’d met, Yue Zhaolin had always been… a bit of a monster.

—

[Goose Gossip Group | Emperor Yue’s Initial Evaluation — Did anyone else not find it that amazing? Why is there barely any reaction in the group? Kind of underwhelming?]

[Original Post]

RT.

I just finished watching and was super hyped, but after checking around the front page, everyone seems oddly calm?

Am I the only one who thought this stage was stunning?

[1F]

……

[2F]

……

[3F]

……

[4F]

OP: Why is no one saying anything?

[5F]

……

[6F] Even geese have pride, okay?

[11F] OP: What’s that supposed to mean?

[9F] Do you really need to ask?

[11F] Everyone in Goose Group always puts on this aloof facade like they’re superior, just impartial passersby. We’re only here to judge celebrities, not scream for them—because screaming would “ruin our image”…

So a bunch of people from this thread? They’re actually not gone.

They just left to scream somewhere else—on Weibo, Bilibili—basically, anywhere but here. Got it?

That’s the real reason.

[19F] Geese always act like they don’t care about Yue Zhaolin, judging his every move, but in truth? They’re all fake haters—still watching his initial evaluation at midnight, curled up under their blankets.

Cold faces, hot hands. Like washing underwear with a poker face. Heh.

[21F] Did you have to spell it out like that?! Can’t you let us geese save a little face?!

[24F] It’s not just Goose Group—even those “Xiufen” on Weibo too. They usually roast the Royal Family like it’s their job, say they definitely won’t watch… and then—bam! Look at that video’s view count. Super high. Who’s watching it?

And those stealth shares… who’s secretly reposting them?

Don’t tell me it’s the so-called casual viewers who “went to bed early” because they don’t care about Yue Zhaolin. 😂

[27F] Geese and Xiufen don’t even have beef, so why expose this little unspoken truth…

Not posting here is just a way to maintain the Goose Group’s “too cool to care” image, right?

[28F] Yue Zhaolin, seriously—both fans and antis revolve around him. Honestly, he’s brought new life into the stale entertainment industry.

He has tons of supporters, and just as many people who “don’t like him but can’t stop watching.”

And he’s not a boring person—anything he does can stir up a storm.

[29F] The initial evaluation has already stirred up a storm—no one expected it, but it’s like the cold actually gave him a buff.

Especially since everyone’s kind of built up resistance to his face by now. If he’d delivered a stage like the one at the music festival, people would’ve just gone, “Oh, that looks nice,” with barely any real reaction.

But now…

[30F] That naturally lazy vibe, the nasal tone, the breathing, the way it all matched the song—it hit a whole new level.

[31F] Otherwise, why do you think the geese and all those Xiufens on Weibo are still awake?

[33F] In quiet corners, Bilibili creators are already hard at work making fan edits.

The fastest ones? They’ve already cut a “Yue solo version” of the performance—no Fu in sight.

[36F] …That was fast.

You can really see the love.

[39F] Crown Prince Ying’s voice isn’t bad, to be fair. But Emperor Yue’s raspy voice? Absolutely divine.

Anyone got a link? I want to hear a solo song of just him.

[41F] Crown Prince Ying = Fu Xunying?

[44F] Just checked Weibo—middle of the night and the trending list is packed.

People from every fandom imaginable are on there.

[57F] Late-night netizens have started flooding QQ Music.

Right now, the original version already has over 50k listens, and the top comments? All about the Emperor Yue.

[71F] The song itself is solid, and paired with Yue Zhaolin’s performance?

Pretty sure it’s gonna go viral beyond the fanbase.

[79F] Honestly, probably going viral right alongside the hashtag #YueZhaolin1Minute57Seconds

[83F] Wait—don’t tell me that’s his total screen time?! Less than two minutes??

Because it feels like he had way more footage during the evaluation!

[92F] It feels like more because every second of Emperor Yue’s screen time was impactful.

Even when he was just standing in a corner, your eyes would naturally drift to him.

[95F] His singing was complete, but the camera kept cutting away—to Fu Xunying, to the mentors’ reactions, to the trainees’ reactions.

The cuts were short, just one or two seconds each, but all those seconds added up.

[97F] Crown Prince Ying is honestly just… irrelevant.

The camera focused on him plenty, but still no one cared.

[101F] Emperor Yue felt like he leveled up from Foundation Stage to Core Formation (cultivation metaphor)—he was so powerful, it was like only he existed on stage.

If the camera hadn’t kept flashing back to Crown Prince Ying’s face, I would’ve forgotten Yue Zhaolin even had a teammate in that performance.

[118F] His super topic is already in uproar—people are saying Starlight is trying to suppress his breakout.

[130F] What does that mean?

[132F] It’s a term from K-pop.

When one member of a group is getting too popular—enough to threaten the group’s balance—the company will deliberately reduce their exposure.

It’s called “suppressing a breakout.”

Never thought I’d hear this term coming from Tide, one of the royal’s most hardcore fans… and weirdly, I kind of agree with her?

[142F] The real issue is he only got less than two minutes of screen time. That’s absurd.

Meanwhile, that Wen Lai guy who plays the sidekick? Just nonstop talking the whole time—blah blah blah, start to finish.

Now I frown every time he opens his mouth.

Feels like he’s trying harder to be the “emperor” than Yue Zhaolin is.

[147F] Tide has officially gone feral.

[149F] The first episode of Starlight was basically an entire compilation of “how to make fans suffer.”

Sparse screen time.

Missing pre-show interviews.

Camera-hogging, bloodsucking CP moments.

It was clearly Emperor Yue singing—so why did Crown Prince Ying get the focus during the evaluation?

[158F] And you’re surprised Tide couldn’t hold back?

[164F] By tomorrow morning, this is probably going to blow up even more.

Is Yue Zhaolin really the emperor—or not?

—

On Yue Zhaolin’s Super Topic:

What was supposed to be a celebratory thread after the first episode aired had taken a sharp emotional downturn—now the entire space felt heavy and subdued.

Hot Post:

“Since before the show even started, the title of ‘royalty’ has been pinned on Zhaolin—but is he really being treated like royalty?”

Posted in the middle of the night, the thread quickly exploded with comments and was about to hit trending status.

Many people hadn’t even finished watching the show—they’d already heard the rumor that Yue Zhaolin only got 18 seconds in an hour and a half.

And by the time the episode finished and his evaluation aired, the total screen time still hadn’t even cracked two minutes.

“Less than two minutes of screen time—what kind of ‘royal treatment’ is that?”

“If Zhaolin didn’t have such a strong stage presence, it would’ve been like he never appeared at all.”

“So who’s really the emperor here? Past and present—hasn’t it always been the so-called ‘Crown Prince’ leeching off Zhaolin’s screen time?”

<< _ >>

**TN

Xiufen – hardcore fans of idol survival/talent shows