Trainee Ch.1

Chapter 1: Initial Evaluation (1)

[Ding! Loading complete!]

A cold, mechanical voice echoed in his mind as Lai Yudong slowly opened his eyes.

The scene before him had changed dramatically.

In front of him was a mirrored wall that reflected the unfamiliar surroundings behind him. In the lower left corner of the mirror was a striking sticker — a combination of text and imagery that clearly formed a carefully designed logo.

This was the backstage lounge of Climbing to Stardom, where the initial evaluations were underway.

Climbing to Stardom was the most anticipated talent competition of the moment, exclusively produced by Sky Video. The show had gathered 101 trainees for four months of closed-off training and evaluations, at the end of which seven would be chosen through nationwide voting to debut in a limited-time idol boy group.

Lai Yudong’s appearance here was entirely due to being “kidnapped” by a shameless system.

He wasn’t a professionally trained trainee, had no dreams of shining on stage, and had absolutely nothing to do with idol boy group competitions.

His real identity was that of a sophomore at a media university, majoring in Broadcasting and Hosting Arts.

To put it plainly — stripping away the fancy title — he was a college student with zero background, utterly useless in both singing and dancing.

And the task assigned to him by the system?

To debut in the final group.

Lai Yudong: …

Are you trying to make things hard for me, Fat Tiger?

Staring lifelessly at his reflection in the mirror, Lai Yudong saw that after being thrown into a parallel world by the system, he had undergone a transformation that could rival a magical girl’s — now dressed in a full idol-worthy outfit. He barely recognized himself.

The boy in the mirror was no longer the familiar black-haired, black-eyed version of himself from the past decade. Instead, he now had styled light-blond hair and a pair of primrose-colored eyes—almost certainly enhanced with colored contacts. His delicate makeup only enhanced his already striking features. To the unknowing eye, he could easily pass for a rising star in the entertainment industry.

In the shock that struck him like a bolt from the blue, the naturally upturned shape of his eyes gave him an oddly aloof and detached aura.

To put it plainly, he looked like his soul had left his body.

The system claimed that once he completed the assigned mission, he would be able to sever their connection. At that point, he’d also receive a mysterious reward—but the exact nature of the reward would depend on his overall performance.

It sounded suspiciously like a shady boss dangling a carrot in front of an overworked employee.

Lai Yudong wasn’t particularly interested in the reward. He only cared about one thing:

[What happens if I fail the mission?]

System: [You’ll proceed to the next mission, and so on until you succeed. No need to worry, Host—sooner or later, there’ll be one that suits you.]

…That only made him more worried.

Despite the grim outlook, Lai Yudong didn’t give up right from the start.

Based on his years of experience devouring webnovels, he knew that systems had become wildly competitive these days—brutal survival games, paranormal escape rooms, puzzle-solving horror quests—one more extreme than the next. Who knew? Maybe debuting through a talent competition was actually the easiest possible option.

So—he’d go as far as he could.

A dream’s still worth chasing, right?

Lai Yudong took a deep breath. Just as his gaze landed on the name tag stuck to his chest, a voice suddenly rang out next to his ear:

“Next up, please welcome trainee Yuki Miura from LYD Entertainment.”

Lai Yudong: “…”

He was screwed.

He didn’t even speak Japanese!

For a moment, he didn’t know whether he should complain about the company name being his own initials, or lie to himself that maybe “Yuki Miura” wasn’t referring to him…

Yeah, no. That was the name on his name tag!

Seriously—was the system really trying to help him debut in a boy group?

Why make a Broadcasting major—one who held a Level 2-A Mandarin certificate and was aiming for Level 1-A—pretend to be a foreign contestant on a talent show?! Just because his Mandarin was above average didn’t mean he had to be robbed of the right to speak fluent, articulate Chinese, right?

Was this not just straight-up sabotage!?

Lai Yudong didn’t even have time to dwell on why the name “Yuki Miura” felt vaguely familiar. As he walked stiffly out of the lounge like a man going to the gallows, he was mentally breaking down, furiously interrogating the system for what kind of twisted nonsense this was.

The system’s reply was as maddening as the customer service from that infamous orange app.

System: [Inquiry in progress. Please wait patiently for results.]

Lai Yudong: [So what now? Is there any option besides charging into certain doom? Can you at least install a language module so I don’t blow my cover?]

System: [You may choose to forfeit this mission.]

Lai Yudong: […Forget it. Thanks, I guess.]

But that wasn’t the end of the bad news.

The sadistic system proudly announced that it was about to activate the real-time comment overlay feature.

Lai Yudong nearly blacked out.

Help. He really didn’t want to know what the viewers were thinking.

Clinging to a faint sliver of hope, he asked with a trembling heart:

[Is this show live or pre-recorded?]

If it was pre-recorded, maybe—just maybe—his segment could be cut or edited, and the ridicule he’d face might be reduced.

Then again… there was always the chance it could be maliciously edited for drama.

Editing, huh… whether he’d get butchered or blessed depended entirely on fate—and whatever “script” the showrunners had in mind for him.

He did know a thing or two about how variety shows worked.

But the system heartlessly crushed Lai Yudong’s final shred of psychological defense.

[Climbing to Stardom is a fully live-streamed talent competition. Not only are the performances broadcast live with open mics and no post-production tuning, but the trainees’ daily lives are also streamed 24/7 from multiple camera angles. However, for viewers who don’t have the time or patience to follow the entire livestream, a weekly edited highlight reel will also be released.]

Wonderful.

So not only would he be publicly executed in front of the entire nation, he could also be repeatedly humiliated in the edited version—maybe even given a cringey, arrogant cannon-fodder role for added entertainment value.

He was tired. Numb. Ready for the world to end.

Might as well start praying that the next mission wouldn’t be ghost hunting.

Fortunately, the system still had some decency left—

System: [Due to a possible bug in your assigned identity, we can offer you a “Green Mode” as compensation. Would you like to activate it?]

Lai Yudong: [What’s that?]

System: [Green Mode filters out malicious content such as personal attacks and spammed hate from bots. However, not all negative comments will be removed.]

Lai Yudong: [YES. ACTIVATE IT. NOW.]

Once Green Mode was turned on, real-time comments floated into view like 3D holograms.

Lai Yudong glanced over them. Most of the comments were discussing the previous contestant, and a few were spamming names of their favorite trainees. There were no overwhelming walls of praise, and more importantly, no brainless hate or toxic aggression.

Now this was Green Mode in action.

He just hoped this peaceful atmosphere would still be intact after his performance.

The walk to the stage wasn’t long, but to Lai Yudong, it felt like an eternity. With every step he took, the lights grew brighter, and his heartbeat quickened.

He wasn’t the type to get stage fright the moment he stepped into the spotlight—his nervousness was situational and elastic.

Cameras, live broadcasts, audiences, production scale—none of those usually fazed him. What really affected his nerves was his own sense of preparation. The more confident he felt, the smoother he performed—just like during his college entrance interview for broadcasting.

But now? Now he was in a situation that had absolutely nothing to do with his area of expertise, and he was so nervous he could practically throw up.

The moment he stepped out of the passageway, he was greeted by dozens of faces—other trainees, mentors—all eyes on him. Some curious, some evaluating, some intrigued. Their collective gaze hit him like a tidal wave, dizzying and overwhelming, dragging him under a rising tide of anxiety.

He walked to the center of the stage. The glaring spotlights beamed down on him, and for a moment, he felt like he was lying beneath the cold surgical lights in an operating room, brain going hypoxic from the pressure.

[Whoa! Cold-faced cool guy alert!]

[Ooooh!! My face-only pick, reporting in!]

[Instant stan.]

[That face is next level, and the vibe? Untouchable. Looks like his profile pics weren’t even edited much.]

[This contestant gives off major alpha energy—he must be insanely skilled!]

[Seems like a total rookie? Never heard of him before.]

[Stage name?]

[Calling it now: main dancer material.]

The live comments only cranked up Lai Yudong’s nerves to their peak.

Please stop spreading misinformation—he was none of those things.

Taking a deep breath, Lai Yudong gave a ninety-degree bow. When he straightened up, his voice came out clear, crisp, and perfectly enunciated:

“Hello, everyone.”

And then… silence.

He went silent.

The room went silent.

Dead. Silent.

[?]

[That’s some seriously textbook Mandarin.]

[Whoa, his voice is amazing—who is this guy??]

[Did the show recruit him straight from a news station or what, LOL]

[I thought my dad was watching the evening news in the living room…]

[Everyone else is an ABCF-level trainee. He’s a Level 1-A.]

Lai Yudong: “…”

Correction: Level 2-A.

That’s not the point!

The point is—he actually slipped into a broadcast accent!

Some people, when under extreme stress, subconsciously default to what they’re best at, presenting the most confident version of themselves as a kind of defense mechanism. Just like how cats puff up and arch their backs when facing danger to appear more intimidating—he was that kind of person.

But he didn’t need to do that! Not now, of all times!

He was supposed to be playing a foreign contestant! Speaking such pitch-perfect Mandarin totally blew his cover!

Over at the judges’ table, Fu Hanyu—the show’s founder and a first-gen all-rounder idol—glanced at his tablet before offering a warm, approachable smile.

“Did you practice that specifically?”

“…”

Lai Yudong didn’t dare answer.

He had practiced, yes. But could he say that out loud?

Then again… maybe he could pivot the character concept a bit—make it a foreign contestant who just happens to speak really good Chinese?

After a moment of hesitation, he gave up on the idea of faking a foreign accent. He lowered his voice, speaking vaguely and quietly:

“Yes.”

[Is he… shaking?]

[He really is! I thought this cool guy type wouldn’t get nervous, lol]

[But the way he’s standing—chest out, head high—he looks totally confident.]

[“Boss-level confidence.jpg”]

Boss? Confidence?

He had neither of those!

Lai Yudong was on the verge of tears as he stared at the barrage of real-time comments, completely powerless to clear up the misunderstanding about his so-called “cool guy” persona.

Sure, with his light blond hair, a loose black suit, and K-pop idol-style makeup, his whole look was crafted to give off a cold, charismatic vibe. Add to that the upright posture drilled into him through years of physical training courses in his broadcasting major, plus the blank expression caused by sheer panic—yeah, at a glance, he did kind of look the part.

But in reality? His personality had absolutely nothing in common with that image!

“Looking forward to an equally impressive performance,” said another mentor, Wu Xihe, offering him an encouraging smile.

They skipped right past the whole Mandarin language issue, and Lai Yudong let out a small sigh of relief. That was a close call—he’d nearly self-destructed before even making it to the starting line.

But the relief was short-lived. The moment those words of expectation landed, it felt like an invisible mountain had been dropped onto his shoulders.

Could someone please tell him what talent he actually had to perform?

Should he bust out the Tai Chi routine he learned in a mandatory freshman P.E. class?

Just as he was internally wrestling with whether he should dig out some long-buried, barely-adequate skill, a cold electronic voice echoed in his mind.

It was the system. And when it appeared, nothing good ever followed.

[Now initiating the beginner tutorial for Initial Evaluation, exclusive to the host.]

Beginner tutorial?

Lai Yudong didn’t even have time to process what new nonsense the system was cooking up before music suddenly blasted into the air.

[Dance mode: ON.]

The next second, a translucent projection appeared in front of Lai Yudong—visible only to him.

A 3D animated figure, styled like a trendy street dancer, stood right ahead of him. The system had thoughtfully enabled a “non-blocking” display mode that wouldn’t obscure his vision, and the real-time comments floated past harmlessly behind the figure.

Lai Yudong stared blankly at the projection, trying to make sense of this so-called beginner tutorial.

Honestly?

His first thought was—Is this… QQ Dancer?

A few seconds into the music, strange arrows and glowing circles began appearing beside the animated dancer.

In a split second, something clicked in his mind.

He immediately looked down—and sure enough, the stage beneath his feet had changed too. Five pressure-sensitive panels for footwork appeared, each corresponding to a different direction, along with four hand gesture zones for motion tracking.

Oh.

So it’s a Dance Dance Revolution setup!

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