Royal Ch.29

Chapter 29: Backlash

He Jie — also known as “Moonrise Stirs the Swans” — stood in the cold wind with a bunch of other fan-site masters, waiting to pick up Yue Zhaolin after work.

Ten minutes ago, they had finally seen Yue Zhaolin’s initial rating clip, and the Super Topic group Tide reacted like parched land receiving long-awaited rain.

“What’s this? A suit? I’m eating it up! What’s this? A raspy voice? I’m devouring it whole!”

It hit all XP perfectly. In a state of extreme excitement, Tide instantly threw aside all anger over “Yue Zhaolin only having eighteen seconds of screen time” and began to savor the initial rating.

The Super Topic, which had been quiet due to the late hour, was suddenly filled with meaningless howls and exclamation marks — a scene of utter fan chaos.

He Jie stared at the lively Super Topic feed but hesitated about whether or not to post a Weibo — one that would pour cold water on the fandom.

In truth, after watching the initial rating, He Jie’s hands were shaking too. Yue Zhaolin’s performance was even more perfect than she had expected.

Yue Zhaolin had delivered a stage, and Tide was reveling in it. The fan community was filled with joy, happiness, and pride.

It was a truly positive, mutual feedback loop between idol and fan.

He Jie even felt grateful that the first person she ever stanned was Yue Zhaolin.

And it was exactly because of this that she keenly sensed something was off. After a moment’s hesitation, He Jie opened her notes app and began drafting a post.

Talent survival shows in China are different from other types of variety programs — basically, the amount of screen time in the first episode determines everything.

Contestants who eventually debut almost always have plenty of screen time in the first episode. Initial rating plus additional evaluation usually adds up to at least five minutes.

And Yue Zhaolin?

He had already gone viral on Douyin, came with his own popularity, and was leagues ahead in the zeroth-round voting — yet the production team didn’t give him more screen time?

Even if he wasn’t meant to be in the final debut lineup, they still wouldn’t deliberately cut his shots. That goes against the usual behavior of capitalists.

Something was off.

Thinking back to the eighteen-second cut from before, and the choppy editing of the initial rating — altogether less than two minutes of screen time.

This wasn’t a “royal treatment” at all — it was… suppression. A deliberate attempt to prevent him from blowing up.

He Jie had previously worked as a paparazzi photographer, so she wasn’t unfamiliar with the entertainment industry. She didn’t believe this was something that could be brushed off.

Starlight had only aired its first episode. If the production team was really trying to suppress Yue Zhaolin, then it needed to be called out early.

He Jie took a deep breath and posted the Weibo she had written.

Headline:

[Ever since before the show aired, the label of “royalty” was slapped onto Yue Zhaolin — but is he really a royal?]

[Was Yue Zhaolin the only trainee who attended the Zhaozhou Music Festival? The only one who trained with senior cha?]

[A banner all to himself on one side? Sure, that looks royal. But in the actual episode, he barely got two minutes — who did the camera go to during his rating performance?]

[Is this how the show treats its so-called favorites?]

[To me, it looks more like the production team is just using Zhaolin to attract traffic. Will they discard him after he’s served his purpose?]

He Jie admitted she used some emotionally charged language, but everything she said was true.

And this wasn’t just a heat-of-the-moment post — He Jie already had a plan for what to do next.

Step One:

Push the hashtag #YueZhaolin1Minute57Seconds to the top of the trending list.

Step Two:

Rally Tide to stop spending money. Winning first place in the first round of voting was precious, yes — but if the show was suppressing him, then it wasn’t worth it. Money, without a doubt, was a capitalist’s lifeline, and the sharpest weapon to force them to bow their heads.

Step Three:

Uninstall Greenfruit TV. Stop giving Starlight any more views.

Step Four:

Launch an offensive against Starlight and Xingqiong’s official accounts. Go after all those CPs and so-called “real royals” who were leeching off Yue Zhaolin’s popularity.

Using Yue Zhaolin to draw attention while secretly promoting the real crown prince — if Xingqiong and the production team were playing that game, they clearly had a death wish.

Sure, audiences might not be able to change the minds of capitalists, but on the flip side, when the audience is unhappy, they can still keep their wallets shut.

So, Tide — the fandom that normally said nothing but words of love in front of Yue Zhaolin — began mass-reposting the official Xingqiong Weibo account hundreds of thousands of times in the middle of the night.

…

The Xingqiong official account: “…”

The moment the account admin opened Weibo, even the company computer froze from the overload.

But it was only fair — after all, past sins eventually have to be repaid.

The crown prince’s companion turning into the true heir and ascending the throne — who could’ve predicted that three months ago?

In any case, the company’s current focus was Yue Zhaolin. As for Fu Xunying, no one had time to worry about him anymore.

The show had its structure and flow anyway. They’d just let Fu Xunying fend for himself for now.

Ever since the first episode aired, Xingqiong’s sole goal had been: make Yue Zhaolin and his initial rating go even more viral.

Even when fans cursed them out, it still generated some level of heat — Xingqiong suffered but took pleasure in it too.

The company’s top priority at the moment was to launch an all-out online and offline promo campaign.

Ad boards were being rolled out along the busiest subway lines — Lines 10 and 7. As soon as you pass through security and walk forward, you’d see a whole row of posters lining the corridor.

What had originally been liquor ads were now all replaced with “Yue Zhaolin.”

Walk a bit further, and the large luxury posters above the down escalators had also been changed — now, any passerby who looked up would see his face.

And the campaign wasn’t just limited to those two subway lines. It also extended to bus routes and the busiest pedestrian streets.

Almost all the giant screens in Haicheng had been taken over by Xingqiong — pedestrian streets, commercial districts, even the LED displays on the Trade Building were now showing clips of Yue Zhaolin.

With such a massive and aggressive publicity campaign, it was hard for passersby not to notice. And with how good the visuals looked, some people even stopped to take pictures.

As for the online promo—

Weibo wasn’t just running a full-screen splash ad. It also pushed hashtags like #YueZhaolin1Minute57Seconds, #YueZhaolinFirstA, and #YueZhaolinInitialRating to the trending list.

On Bilibili, Yue Zhaolin’s rating performance cut was uploaded, and high-traffic reaction creators, music reviewers, and video editors were all reposting and commenting on it.

Douyin trends: recommendation streams for the initial rating, covers, and dance challenges.

On international platforms: Yue Zhaolin’s version of Replacement was uploaded to TikTok and YouTube.

Even though Xingqiong wasn’t planning to make money from the overseas market just yet, uploading a high-quality version didn’t cost them anything.

If the overseas views turned out well, they could use that momentum to stir hype back home. Some domestic viewers loved that kind of “global praise” narrative.

Xingqiong had considered every angle — but such a large-scale campaign couldn’t be fully deployed overnight.

So, for now, the trainees — who could only sneak a peek at their phones at night — had no idea what was going on.

The information they had was still stuck on the trending topics right after the first episode aired.

Yue Zhaolin stepped out of the practice room to get some water, and a few trainees in the hallway glanced his way — but no one came over.

Tan Shen followed behind with his water bottle and shut the door. “Let’s go.”

The two walked side by side. Hearing the whispers behind them, Tan Shen chuckled and said, “Let me interview you — feeling the warmth and coldness of human nature yet?”

Yesterday, when Yue Zhaolin’s banner headlined the show, people were showering him with warmth and small talk. Today, after hearing he barely had screen time, they immediately kept their distance.

In a survival show, no screen time meant a dead end. Those people had flocked to him before for the screen time, and now they were avoiding him for the same reason.

There were no secrets among the trainees—especially when it came to things happening outside—so Tan Shen knew too.

Yue Zhaolin wasn’t interested in those people, nor did he care about their shifting attitudes. Casually, he asked, “Why aren’t you avoiding me too?”

Tan Shen replied, “Avoid you? Are you trying to kill this shallow face-con sl*ve of yours?”

Yue Zhaolin: “…”

Sometimes—well, actually, frequently—he really wanted to rip out Tan Shen’s talking button.

In the empty break room, it was just the two of them. Tan Shen took Yue Zhaolin’s cup and filled it with hot water, the sound splashing loudly.

Tan Shen asked, “Have you finalized your styling?”

Today, all the trainee teams had to submit their concepts for stage design, hair, makeup, and outfits to the production coordinators.

Yue Zhaolin nodded.

On the way back, he explained, “Our team members have pretty different style vibes, so we’re aiming to keep the color palette consistent.”

Wei Lai wore a black fitted sweater—like a warrior’s battle gear;

Chen Fei was the sultry otaku type: black hair, black eyes, dressed in gray-black tones;

Cen Chi had a bondage-style harness with a shirt—white on top, black on bottom;

Mao Ding had a gray-toned suit, black knee-high boots, and fingerless black gloves.

Add in Tan Shen’s trendy black overcoat, and it was safe to say everyone leaned toward a dark palette.

Yue Zhaolin had to choose from black, gray, or white to match. With that goal in mind, picking an outfit was easier.

He pondered aloud: “I’m thinking… a black sleeveless top. Maybe a headband across my forehead, and an armband on one arm.”

Tan Shen let out a dramatic breath. “…Your loyal sl*ve can now die without regrets.”

With Yue Zhaolin’s flawless figure, wearing something sleeveless—the mere sight of his arms, shoulders, and neckline would be enough to knock people flat.

A headband, armband, and sleeveless tank? That was lethal.

Something seemed to flash through Tan Shen’s mind. “…Does that song’s lyrics have a line like ‘See you again at the familiar street corner’?”

“Yue Zhaolin, have you ever seen one of those costumed mascots handing out flyers on the street?” he suddenly asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Yue Zhaolin: “Yeah, I’ve seen them. Why?”

Putting two and two together, Yue Zhaolin turned to look at him. “You want me to dress up as one of those street mascots?”

Tan Shen frowned. “No, that’s too bulky. I had an idea just now, but it flashed by too fast. I think it was related to mascots.”

The two of them fell into a thoughtful silence.

“…”

Yue Zhaolin: “Start by dressing up as a mascot?”

Tan Shen: “Use the mascot headgear for a bit?”

They spoke almost at the same time.

For the song’s intro, the six members would enter one after another, with Yue Zhaolin appearing last.

“You start off in a full-body suit, wearing the headgear, holding some balloons, just standing there — and then you take off the head, boom!” Tan Shen snapped his fingers for emphasis.

As for the black sleeveless top, Yue Zhaolin could wear it underneath the costume. When the time came, he’d just peel off the top half of the suit.

Most full-body outfits like that had built-in suspenders. Once the top half came off, the suspenders would hold up the lower half securely, and the pants wouldn’t slip down easily.

Once Yue Zhaolin pulled off the top, the slim black suspenders would crisscross his shoulders, paired with the sleeveless tank — that would be very suggestive.

Top half: sleeveless black tank.

Bottom half: mascot suit pants.

Cute + cool = double the impact.

Yue Zhaolin: “Tan Shen.”

Tan Shen: “Yeah?”

“What’s your greatest wish?”

The reward came too fast. Tan Shen’s eyes lit up instantly. “Tonight, let me give you a massage, okay? A good chance to feel out your bone struc—”

Before he could finish, Yue Zhaolin turned and walked off.

Tan Shen chased after him from behind.

But halfway down the corridor, Tan Shen was called away by the production coordinator, who said it was a personal matter. If Yue Zhaolin remembered correctly, this wasn’t the first time — Tan Shen had been called away before as well.

Although he had no intention of prying into someone else’s business, Yue Zhaolin couldn’t help being a little curious.

The hallway’s air conditioning was running at full blast today, and with the wind blowing, the sweat on his face felt like it was sticking to his skin.

Yue Zhaolin didn’t like that sticky sensation, so he turned toward the restroom to wash up.

But just as he rounded the corner, he saw a small group of people shoving someone into the restroom, laughing rowdily before slamming the door shut.

The one being pushed was Wei Lai, and Yue Zhaolin frowned.

Wei Lai’s expression clearly showed reluctance.

—

Wei Huahao and his little gang hadn’t noticed someone standing at the corner. All their attention was on Wei Lai.

They forced him to the sink, and Wei Huahao sneered, “So, Wei Lai, how does it feel to have backed the wrong person?”

Previously, when he spread a false rumor about Yue Zhaolin and was caught by Fu Xunying, he ended up looking like a fool — and ever since then, he’d held a grudge against both Fu Xunying and Yue Zhaolin.

But Fu Xunying was the prince of Xingqiong — not someone Wei Huahao could afford to offend. Yue Zhaolin, once thought to be the show’s darling, also seemed untouchable.

Wei Huahao had assumed he’d missed his shot at revenge — until he found out Yue Zhaolin was nothing more than a marketing tool dressed up as a fake “royal.”

The heavens had finally opened their eyes, he thought.

Still, Yue Zhaolin wasn’t someone he could easily bully. So Wei Huahao set his sights on Wei Lai, who came from a small, insignificant company.

This wasn’t the first season of a survival show — Wei Huahao had already learned the game.

Hashtags like #WeiLaiSoRoyal — you could tell just by looking that it was designed to stir drama.

In the first episode of a survival show, stirring up buzz is crucial — and making the audience hate the so-called “royals” is one way to generate heated discussion.

Wei Lai was chosen — the unlucky sacrifice the production team offered up in exchange for hype.

He was the perfect soft target.

Wei Lai didn’t want to waste time with these people; he still had dance practice to get back to. “Move.”

But Wei Huahao blocked his path. “Hey, why don’t you pick someone else to suck up to? Isn’t Fu Xunying in the same practice room as you?”

Wei Lai: “……”

Wei Huahao thought he had the upper hand and smirked smugly. “You—”

“Are you Korean in a past life or something? Does b*llying people give you a rush? Or does it create some kind of spiritual resonance with your inner K-net?”

Wei Lai had had enough — he wasn’t going to hold back anymore. Someone in the dorm had secretly kept their phone, so Wei Lai had seen all the comments under the trending tag #WeiLaiSoRoyal.

He hadn’t slept all night. He was exhausted. And now Wei Huahao insisted on provoking him.

Wei Lai snapped: “Also, can you stop treating Yue Zhaolin like your imaginary rival? Do you even deserve to be compared to him?”

“His looks, his personality — in what way does Yue Zhaolin not crush you? Are you awake yet?”

The barrage left Wei Huahao completely stunned. It took a few seconds before the blood rushed to his head in fury.

He raised his fist and swung it. “You little bastard, how dare you talk to me like that?!”

Bang—

The bathroom door was kicked open.

Startled, Wei Huahao’s punch veered off course, grazing hard against Wei Lai’s chin.

He turned toward the door—and saw Yue Zhaolin standing there, along with two production coordinators.

Yue Zhaolin had already noticed Wei Lai being shoved into the bathroom earlier and had immediately gone to grab the passing staff members for backup.

As soon as they entered, they heard Wei Huahao’s foul-mouthed shouting.

Wei Huahao didn’t dare meet Yue Zhaolin’s eyes. The other party didn’t have much expression on his face, but somehow, his presence alone was suffocating.

He licked his lips and exaggeratedly explained to the production coordinator, “Sister Zhou, I’m not sure if Wei Lai heard something from Yue Zhaolin, but he verbally attacked me… I really just lost control…”

He lied without blinking, certain that the production team wouldn’t make things hard for him.

After all, Yue Zhaolin wasn’t a real royal, and Wei Lai was a disposable nobody — the show had no reason to take their side and go after him.

Yue Zhaolin helped Wei Lai up from the floor and noticed blood in his mouth.

“Withdraw.”

“…What?”

Yue Zhaolin raised his eyes and looked directly at the now-panicked Wei Huahao. “I said: withdraw from the competition.”

Wei Huahao froze, about to scoff at Yue Zhaolin for putting on airs again — but when he turned to check the production coordinator’s expression, a chill ran down his spine.

—

The night before, Starlight had aired its first episode. By today, Weibo was filled with trending topics.

It seemed like the show was blowing up, but in reality… the numbers were abysmal.

Viewership data looked different in public versus behind the scenes. To make things appear better, investors often artificially inflated the public figures.

But the behind-the-scenes data — stripped of all the fluff — was the real deal.

After one night, the official view count for Starlight’s first episode hit 60 million. But over 40 million of that was fabricated.

The real, “dehydrated” number was just over 10 million — honestly, not a bad result.

However, that number only reflected clicks. It didn’t account for the episode’s completion rate yet.

Once they pulled up the viewership data chart, it was immediately obvious: after every two-minute interval following the episode’s premiere, there was a cliff-like drop in viewership.

In less than ten minutes, more than half of the 10 million real viewers had already clicked out.

By the end of the episode, only a few tens of thousands had stayed to watch all the way through.

A textbook example of starting strong and falling flat.

The cold, unforgiving data—ugly, unchangeable—cast a heavy silence over the spacious meeting room.

Cheng Zhou, the poor soul tasked with delivering the report, spoke with the resolve of a man facing the gallows:

“The premiere click-in rate was solid, but… we failed to retain the audience.”

The production team had thought they could control the viewers—

With their flashy, disorienting edits, they were sure they understood what audiences wanted.

They had been confident that viewers intrigued by Yue Zhaolin would stay and eventually be converted into full-blown fans of the show.

But:

“Most viewers have limited patience. A moment of curiosity isn’t enough to keep them watching a three-hour episode.”

They could trend as many hashtags as they wanted—

#WeiLaiSoRoyal,

#HighestQualitySeasonEver—

It all amounted to noise on the surface.

None of it held a candle to the real discussion drivers:

#YueZhaolin1Minute57Seconds,

#YueZhaolinHaichengBigScreens,

#YueZhaolinInitialRating.

In short, they had buzz, but no viewership.

Because what were the viewers actually curious about?

Yue Zhaolin.

And he didn’t appear until 30 minutes into the main episode.

Then, just a few seconds later, he “disappeared” again — which triggered a huge backlash from the audience.

With the first episode’s performance this abysmal and barely any improvement in daytime views, the second episode was projected to do even worse.

Advertisers would want to see the real, stripped-down data.

Once the production team handed it over, even the sponsors they had secured were likely to back out.

The audience’s preferences couldn’t be controlled — they were here only for Yue Zhaolin.

“…”

Someone finally spoke up in the silence: “So what do we do now? Re-edit the episode?”

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