Trainee Ch.4

Chapter 4: Initial Evaluation (4)

Nothing is more terrifying than ruining a song and immediately being confronted by the original singer.

The smile on Lai Yudong’s face stiffened slightly. An involuntary sense of awkwardness and guilt crept in, like a plaintiff and defendant bumping into each other outside the courtroom. But what flustered him even more was the constant need to remember that he was supposed to be an overseas contestant.

He wasn’t mentally prepared to communicate like a normal human being yet.

In an instant, his mind was flooded with disjointed phrases from his broken language system — “I am a foreigner,” “Sawadee ka, watashi a foreigner imnida”— zipping past at lightning speed.

Please, not a single one of them was usable!

So why? Why on earth did Xu An come over to talk to him!?

The system immediately became Lai Yudong’s prime suspect.

Lai Yudong: [Did you mess with the settings again and add some random plotline?]

System: [Please don’t question my professional integrity.]

Lai Yudong: [Then what’s going on right now?]

The system said aggrievedly: [I don’t know either, but this identity was copied exactly from your own experience. So, is it possible… that this is your own fault?]

Lai Yudong: […?]

Though Lai Yudong was thrown completely off guard, Xu An looked even more uneasy. He sat down in the empty seat next to him, fingers tightly interlaced, thumbs twisting around each other restlessly, as if they couldn’t find the right position—he was close to tying a Chinese knot with them.

Lai Yudong wanted to break the ice, but his character setting had him by the throat.

All he could do was stare at the black-haired boy whose face had turned red from holding back, and after a long while, he finally squeezed out a tentative:

“Hi.”

That was all he could manage. Anything more was out of the question.

As someone born and raised in China who even passed the CET-4 spoken English exam, Lai Yudong’s pronunciation might not be native-level, but being forced to speak Japanese-accented English was just too much for him.

Xu An: “…Hi.”

The scene was painfully awkward.

“—Next up, please welcome Liu Qichu from Qihuan Music.”

Fu Hanyu’s voice pulled the program back on track. The camera switched back to the stage, and the livestream chat stopped paying attention to the little incident in the F-rank area, shifting focus to the new contestant onstage—an upbeat and sunny-looking younger brother type.

The moment Liu Qichu opened his mouth, he exuded an effortlessly playful charm. His bright grin was like warm sunshine, quickly pulling everyone out of the emotional shock left by the previous performance.

Lai Yudong could clearly feel the black-haired boy beside him starting to relax.

“Um…” Xu An lifted his head. “Thank you for choosing to sing my song. I… I’m really happy.”

Lai Yudong widened his eyes in surprise.

He could understand the feeling of having your original work covered by someone else, but considering the way he’d butchered that song… could Xu An really be happy about that?

Calling it a “cover” was generous—it was more like a full-on reinterpretation.

Xu An gave an embarrassed little smile. “That song barely had any plays. The fact that you chose it on such an important stage—it really encouraged me. I’m not just being polite, I genuinely feel happy. It means someone actually heard my music.”

“I…”

Lai Yudong opened his mouth, but didn’t know how to respond.

The entertainment industry moves fast. If you’re not active, you’re forgotten.

Even someone once hailed as a genius, a champion, a former fan favorite—wasn’t immune. From performing for packed venues to struggling just to be heard… the brutal contrast had chipped away at his confidence.

But when Xu An spoke about his overlooked work in the vast, star-filled world of music, his dark eyes sparkled like starlight in the night—full of longing for recognition and support.

He yearned for listeners.

With Xu An laying his heart bare so sincerely, Lai Yudong couldn’t just laugh it off and blurt out the inappropriate truth:

Haha, actually I never heard it either—the system picked it at random.

That would’ve been humor at the cost of basic human decency.

Although Lai Yudong didn’t know exactly what Xu An had been through, the glimpses from the livestream chat and Xu An’s own reactions gave him some clues—most likely, his company had completely fumbled what should’ve been a winning hand, and left him withdrawn and disillusioned.

A good song going unnoticed was nothing new in an industry obsessed with clout.

However—

Maybe he hadn’t heard it before, but people were definitely going to hear it now.

Lai Yudong knew internet trolls all too well—his tragically off-key version of “Lose Heart” was bound to get clipped and compared side-by-side with the original. If they were feeling extra malicious, they might even do it in split stereo for maximum effect.

Well, there’s your audience.

If this brought more attention to Xu An and gave him a bit more exposure, then maybe Lai Yudong’s guilt over not having listened to the original could be eased by this tiny contribution.

Now the real problem was: how should he respond to Xu An?

Lai Yudong thought of all sorts of lines—like “Your fans have been waiting for your comeback,” “A good song will always be found,” or “I hope you make your debut this time.” But he wasn’t sure if any of them would feel out of character. After turning it over in his mind, he finally settled on one line that was absolutely safe:

“Jiayou.”

Was that… a little too perfunctory?

Just as Lai Yudong was still agonizing over how to phrase his reply, Xu An continued, “But that song’s vocal range doesn’t suit you.”

“……”

The sudden shift caught Lai Yudong completely off guard—he choked on his words.

W-Was that… his way of giving me an out?

He wasn’t sure.

But let’s be honest—it clearly wasn’t just a vocal range issue!

Xu An asked, “Do you usually not sing with instrumentals that don’t have vocal guides?”

Lai Yudong: “Uh, y-yeah…”

Xu An: “That explains it. You missed the entry beat, and the key was a little off too.”

Lai Yudong: “……”

Xu An: “I could tell from the intro what the song was, but when you started singing, I wasn’t sure anymore. I only confirmed it because of the lyrics.”

Lai Yudong: “……”

Xu An: “Thank goodness I didn’t misrecognize it!”

Lai Yudong: “……QAQ”

Even though Xu An was clearly being kind and making excuses for him—not sarcastic or passive-aggressive—his every word still landed like a precision strike straight to the heart.

Lai Yudong wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and bury himself alive.

After that brief and painful exchange, Xu An didn’t linger. He cheerfully offered that if Lai ever had any questions about singing in the future, he was welcome to ask him anytime. Then, with a satisfied smile, he said goodbye to the visibly uncomfortable Lai Yudong and headed off to his rightful place in Class A.

Lai Yudong didn’t even have time to breathe a sigh of relief before a new, greater challenge arrived.

Liu Qichu’s initial stage evaluation had just ended.

Judging by the livestream chat, his personality had left a good impression on viewers. But his biggest weakness was his actual skills, so he was placed in the lowest tier—Class F.

And the seat he chose?

Was right next to Lai Yudong.

“Hi there!”

A bright and cheerful greeting came from beside him. Lai Yudong turned his head and was met with a youthful, adorable face. The boy looked like he wasn’t even of age yet, and his puppy-like eyes were staring at Lai with curious interest.

Drawing from earlier experience, Lai Yudong gave him a polite smile. “Hello.”

“I’m Liu Qichu. Liu—Qi—Chu.”

Mindful of the overseas contestant’s language abilities, Liu Qichu pointed to his nametag and enunciated each syllable clearly and carefully.

He scratched his head a little sheepishly. “I can’t speak Japanese, and my English is… uh, not great either.”

God bless.

Lai Yudong could only hope no one here spoke Japanese.

“That’s okay,” he said, playing the part of the foreigner with quiet guilt, spitting out each word slowly. “My… Chinese is okay. I can understand.”

Chinese is okay, he said.

In reality, he had a Mandarin Level 1-B certificate.

“That’s great!” Liu Qichu beamed with a brilliant smile. “Can I sit here?”

“Of course,” Lai Yudong replied.

Liu Qichu had the kind of personality that instantly treated strangers like friends. The moment he sat down, he dove straight into a topic Lai Yudong least wanted to revisit—his disastrous first performance:

“You were so nervous just now! I could see you shaking even from the audience—like you were stepping on a sewing machine. You know what a sewing machine is, right? That machine for sewing clothes? You step on the pedal and it goes da-da-da-da.”

He even demonstrated the sewing motion with his foot as he explained.

“But it’s no big deal! You’ll get used to it in no time.” Liu Qichu puffed out his chest proudly. “Look at me! Sure, my performance wasn’t great, but I wasn’t nervous at all! Confidence! An idol’s most important trait is confidence!”

Lai Yudong: “Th-thank you for the… lesson…”

In his limited understanding, weren’t an idol’s most important traits supposed to be looks, followed by professional skills?

Oh, and personal charm, too.

Things like confidence, sincerity, optimism, maturity, and kindness—those were bonus points that helped win over fans.

But the kind of confidence Liu Qichu spoke of… if an idol’s skills couldn’t back up that confidence, wouldn’t it just backfire?

System: [Host, don’t you ever check entertainment hot searches?]

Lai Yudong: [What do hot searches have to do with this?]

System: [As long as fans believe in the skills, that’s enough.]

Lai Yudong: [?]

Gaining fans really was a mysterious, metaphysical business.

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