Trainee Ch.2

Chapter 2: Initial Evaluation (2)

The dance machine—commonly seen in arcades—is the ultimate nemesis of the socially anxious.

The biggest difference between it and QQ Dance is that in one, you just press keys to make the character dance, while the other requires you to physically get up and dance yourself.

Aside from not being socially anxious, Lai Yudong had zero advantages. First, he’d never heard this song before. Second, he’d never used a dance machine. Trying to cram at the last minute was hopeless—it was basically like having him mimic a lead dancer on the spot. Pulling it off well would be nothing short of a miracle.

The only upside was that it spared him from the awkwardness of freestyling—at least there was a “Xi Shi” for him to clumsily imitate, even if he was just an “ugly Du Shi” version.

As the lead dancer began to move to the music, Lai Yudong had no choice but to go for it. The beginner tutorial was practically useless, but he still tried, stiffly waving his hand in response to a flashing ring prompt.

And then—

A big “Miss” popped up.

Lai Yudong: …

My bad for trying.

Even though things started poorly, reality offered no pause button, and neither did the music.

All he could do was continue awkwardly copying the dance moves—lifting his arms, kicking his legs, jumping, and spinning like he was doing morning exercises. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop his movements from falling completely out of sync with the rhythm. A series of “Miss” and “Bad” judgments left him emotionally numb. As for a clean “Combo”—dream on.

That said, his dancing was… “spectacular” in its own way.

Fortunately, the background music was loud enough to drown things out, or else he would’ve definitely heard the audience below struggling—and failing—to hold back their laughter.

The only thing impossible to ignore was the live comment barrage, flying across the screen like a stampede of wild horses.

[Help, his dancing is killing me—this is hilarious hahahahahahaha!!!]

[Please censor everything below his neck]

[“Miura Yuki and His Newly Installed Limbs”]

[Where’s the cool and confident main dancer we were promised!?]

[Fake alpha energy, real calm-in-crisis survival.]

[You can tell he’s really trying.]

[One watch a day to keep the depression away.]

Thank you, green filter mode. Thank you, dear audience.

This level of mockery was still within Lai Yudong’s tolerance. He simply took it as a noble sacrifice to bring joy to the people.

So… how much longer is this dance?

After what felt like a century crammed into a few minutes, the music finally stopped. Lai Yudong hurriedly froze into the ending pose, and only then did he realize—he was drenched in cold sweat.

At the same time, the beginner tutorial vanished with a flick, like a TV screen abruptly shutting off.

Clap, clap.

A few scattered, polite claps rose from the audience below.

[That felt like a lifetime.]

[I laughed so hard my mom came to knock on the door…]

[Camping here for the fancam. doge]

Lai Yudong stared lifelessly at the stage floor, wishing he could dig a hole and bury himself on the spot.

He swore—this was the most socially devastating moment of his life. Not even the time his parents forced him to recite a dramatic poem in front of relatives during Chinese New Year was this mortifying.

And now came the most terrifying part—

The judges’ evaluations.

Besides the wildly popular show founder Fu Hanyu, three other mentors sat on the panel—each one a top-tier professional whose very presence radiated true boss-level energy.

Take Wu Xihe, for example, the one who encouraged Lai Yudong before the performance. She was currently the most popular original singer, regularly invited to perform her hit songs at major galas, with dozens of viral tracks to her name.

Then there was veteran actor Zhu Xiuming, and up-and-coming rapper Li Ke.

Founder Fu Hanyu picked up the microphone:

“Thank you, Yuki, for your performance.”

His facial control was flawless—his smile remained perfectly intact, completely unaffected by the utterly disastrous dance they had all just witnessed.

Things weren’t quite as grim as Lai Yudong had feared. The mentors were all seasoned veterans who had seen it all; several trainees before him had done just as poorly. They were long past the point of being shocked.

From their perspective, at least Lai Yudong had remembered most of the moves.

With standards this forgiving, it was no wonder people were always predicting the downfall of survival shows.

Li Ke smiled and asked, “How do you think that went?”

Lai Yudong: “I…”

His mouth moved faster than his brain—his overseas trainee persona scrambled to catch up.

He quickly swallowed the rest of his sentence and resorted to vigorously shaking his head in response.

“Yeah, it wasn’t great,” Li Ke said bluntly. “You’ve got the looks, great posture, long arms and legs—but why does it seem like you’ve never met your limbs before when you dance?”

[So direct, I’m dying ]

[Classic rapper energy.]

[Li Ke, my mouthpiece on the internet.]

“Yuki was probably just too nervous,” Fu Hanyu offered gently. “Let’s check out his supplemental performance.”

There were two reasons Fu Hanyu made this suggestion. First, to stir up buzz—no other trainee before had such a stark contrast between looks and skill, and for the sake of the show’s popularity, it made sense to spotlight the handsome ones. Second, he genuinely believed nerves had hindered Lai Yudong’s performance and wanted to give him another chance to properly showcase himself.

But to Lai Yudong, this was nothing short of a thunderbolt from a clear sky.

A supplementary performance?

He had barely scraped through the first one—and now they were giving him a sequel!?

[Continuing to provide the host with the Newbie Tutorial: Initial Evaluation Edition.]

[Vocal Mode: ON.]

Lai Yudong: …

Looks like there was no way out of this.

This time, the projection that appeared in front of him wasn’t QQ Dance, but the karaoke app National Sing-along. At the top was the song title and artist, the center displayed a pitch guide made up of staggered lines, and at the bottom were the lyrics.

Lai Yudong squinted to read: the song was an English track—“Lose Heart”, performed by Xu An.

The name was familiar.

Xu An was the champion of a once-household-name music show, “Hear My Voice.” He won the title three years ago at just eighteen. The professional judges praised him as a “walking CD”—a true prodigy, blessed by the heavens. Yet somehow, he had vanished from the public eye not long after.

If they had picked one of Xu An’s songs from the show, Lai Yudong could probably hum along to a few lines. But of course, they had to choose “Lose Heart”, a deep cut he hadn’t even heard of.

Granted, it was an English song, so he didn’t need to worry about revealing his level of Chinese—but he couldn’t sing a single line of it!

Lai Yudong: [Can I switch the song?]

System: [The instrumental has already started.]

Lai Yudong: […Just one question: how was this song chosen?]

System: [Random draw.]

Lai Yudong: [Why don’t you just randomly debut me while you’re at it.]

System: [Fair competition. No rigging allowed.]

Lai Yudong honestly wanted to punch the system.

He took a deep breath and raised the microphone with tragic determination, his slightly trembling right hand betraying the storm inside.

Social death—it’s either zero times or infinite times.

Embracing his fate, Lai Yudong tried to follow the pitch guide and sang wildly off-key. His voice, fed back to him through the in-ear monitor, delivered the cringe straight to his soul. Even without checking the score after each line, he knew—he sounded absolutely awful.

The barrage of bullet comments was just as lively as during his dance.

[Is… is this how the original song goes?]

[That was great. Don’t ever do it again.]

[The camera director is truly heartless—he cut to Xu An, LOL!]

[Xu An: I can be the original singer… or the plaintiff.]

[I muted the sound, and wow, Yuki sings really well.]

[He’s singing an English song… without any connected speech??]

[Fu Hanyu: If you ask me, yes—I regret this.]

[Did I just start stanning a beautiful useless disaster?]

One terrifying comment in particular flashed by, but Lai Yudong had no time to process it. His body and soul were now completely dominated by “Lose Heart.”

Forget losing heart—he was this close to losing his life.

Unsurprisingly, after two earth-shattering, ghost-weeping performances, all the mentors unanimously gave him the lowest possible ranking: Class F.

But the rank didn’t matter. What mattered was—he was finally free.

With a huge sense of relief, Lai Yudong exhaled as he stepped off the stage. His steps were so weak he looked like a ghost floating through air, his back drenched in cold sweat, heart still thundering from the adrenaline.

Given how scarring his initial performance was… would he get roasted online?

But looking on the bright side—humiliation is temporary.

It was Miura Yuki of this parallel world who joined a boy group survival show.

What’s it got to do with Lai Yudong?

Lai Yudong was almost convinced by his own masterful logic. Dazed, he let the staff slap an “F” sticker onto his name tag, then wandered over to the Class F section and chose a seat tucked away in a far corner.

Watching the next contestant to learn something? Please. What mattered more was confronting the system and getting some answers—especially about that baffling overseas trainee identity he’d been slapped with out of nowhere.

If a hellish opening could be avoided, it should be.

But just as Lai Yudong was gearing up to interrogate the system, Fu Hanyu’s voice, amplified by the microphone, echoed through the studio:

“Next trainee, from Shangyue Entertainment—Xu An.”

—Xu An?

Lai Yudong froze, and suddenly remembered a few bullet comments that had flashed by earlier. His expression instantly turned… complex.

The live comment feed, as usual, was quick to stir the pot:

[Is the show doing this on purpose? 23333]

[Here comes the drama!]

[Feeling secondhand embarrassment for the last guy…]

[Wait, Xu An actually came?!]

[The show would never do anything shady Just fulfilling the viewers’ chaotic wishes, that’s all.jpg]

[If Xu An sings that same song from the bonus stage, this’ll be legendary.]

[Yuki’s face is priceless, LOL.]

Lai Yudong: …

Showing off in front of the master, but make it the upgraded version—

humiliating yourself right in front of the original singer.

There’s no such thing as peak social death—only new heights to reach.

He gets it now.

Truly. Enlightenment achieved.

Lai Yudong: [Requesting a restart.]

System: [Sorry, that feature is not supported.]

The damned system couldn’t save him in his hour of need, so Lai Yudong had no choice but to face the painful reality with sorrow, turning his gaze toward the figure stepping into the studio.

A boy with shoulder-length black hair stood center stage. He looked around twenty years old—his youthful face untouched by time, yet also lacking the proud confidence often seen in genius prodigies. His awkward smile carried a hint of nervousness. It was hard to believe this was the same vocal powerhouse who had emerged victorious from a show filled with elite contestants three years ago.

Lai Yudong stared for a few seconds to be sure he hadn’t mistaken the person.

No, it really was Xu An.

The “Hear My Voice” Season 1 champion.

What on earth was he doing here on a survival show?

Lai Yudong was completely baffled by this max-level boss suddenly showing up in the novice village to wipe out newbies.

Then again, that wasn’t something someone from Class F like him had the right to worry about.

He was just a pitiful little low-level slime in the novice village.

Lai Yudong: [So? Have you figured out the bug? What’s going on?]

System: [“Miura Yuki” is a username you previously used online.]

Lai Yudong: […]

No wonder the name had felt strangely familiar.

Back in the day, Lai Yudong had been a full-blown otaku deep in his chuunibyou phase. His greatest joys were watching anime, playing mobile gacha games, and collecting merch—and he’d done plenty of cringey things that made him want to leave the planet when he remembered them. Eventually, overwhelmed by schoolwork, he faded out of the fandom world.

He had assumed that after the college entrance exam, he’d return to his hobbies. But ironically, after entering university, he gradually started living like a real normie.

“Miura Yuki” was one of the usernames he had given himself back in those days—a remnant of his dark, unmentionable, middle-school edgelord past.

He just never imagined that this would be the moment it came back to haunt him… like a ghost summoned to dance on his grave.

System: [The internet never forgets.]

Lai Yudong: [Yeah, yeah, I get it. So what’s the situation now?]

System: [There was a technical error during data import. Your old forum ID, “Miura Yuki,” was mistakenly registered as your real name.]

Lai Yudong: […So?]

System: [We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience.]

Lai Yudong: [That’s it???]

Absolutely fuming at the system’s shameless attitude, Lai Yudong felt a deep and bitter solidarity with the countless underpaid workers exploited by heartless corporations.

The only small mercy in all this? His old username wasn’t written in cringe-inducing leetspeak or glittery special characters. Otherwise, he didn’t even dare imagine how horrifying that scene would’ve been.

Just then, it was Xu An’s turn to perform.

The music began—

A soft, melancholic instrumental filled the studio, perfectly capturing Lai Yudong’s current mood. But just as he was about to sink into that shared melancholy, something snapped him violently out of it.

Xu An stood center stage, hunched over like a startled ostrich, his head bowed. His hand gripped the microphone so tightly that the veins bulged, as if only clenching it with all his strength could suppress the trembling.

Whispers rippled through the trainees—

“Wait… did I hear that right?”

“No, I heard it too.”

“No way… That’s Xu An…”

“Maybe he’s just super nervous?”

Then came the flood of real-time bullet comments:

[What happened? He cracked on the very first note??]

[No wonder he’s joining a survival show—his vocal skills must’ve dropped.]

[Is this Xu An’s first public fail caught on camera?]

[That’s it, no way he’s getting into Class A now.]

The “human CD player” had just… glitched.

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**TN

He’s the total opposite of our golden boy Shen Xiu. XD

If you don’t know Shen Xiu, he’s from Treated Like a Big Shot by Everyone in the Boy Group Survival Show