Chapter 51: Because he was Yue Zhaolin, after all
“I choose Crane Bell, Group B.”
With Yue Zhaolin’s decision, the second round of song selections officially came to an end.
Yue Zhaolin joined Group B. Meng Yu, who ranked last, couldn’t stay and had no choice but to take the remaining spot in the vocal group, Letting Go, Group A.
A metallic taste spread in Meng Yu’s mouth as he numbly walked into the team. “……”
Out of the corner of his eye, Meng Yu saw Chen Fei and Wei Lai from the rap group White Rose.
Why? He had fought so hard, yet he still couldn’t measure up to those two.
…
The meeting of the two “monarchs”—Chu Li, originally the epitome of a refined ancient-style beauty, now had eyes curved like a fox as he smiled: “Hey, Zhaolin, stand in front of me, will you?”
The money’s coming straight at me. Love that, love that.
Yue Zhaolin: “…Okay?” Why does it feel like Chu Li is being too friendly?
Li Ying: “Before we start practice, there’s one last rule to announce—regarding the bonus vote system for the second public performance.”
“In a head-to-head between the A and B groups performing the same song, the winning group will receive 200,000 bonus votes per person. The trainee with the highest score in that group will have their bonus doubled.”
“The highest overall scorer will get another multiplier on top.”
Two hundred thousand?
The first round only had 100,000.
And…
Trainees, both openly and subtly, turned their gaze to Yue Zhaolin. With all the vote multipliers stacking up, that potential 600,000 was as good as his.
600,000.
Even the trainee ranked 60th didn’t have 600,000 votes.
Unlike the frustration felt by the others, Mao Ding was overjoyed: “I just scored 200,000!”
His teammates included Chu Li, and now heaven had dropped in a Yue Zhaolin too—how stacked was this lineup?
In K-pop terms, a group with multiple super-popular members might be called a topline. But in Starlight, there was only one top—no line.
Mindful of the cameras, Mao Ding didn’t dare smirk, but the corners of his mouth had already curved into the shape of Venom’s grin.
Mao Ding, slightly delirious with excitement, thought his ancestral tomb might really be on fire. It wasn’t very moral, but honestly, he kind of wanted it to keep burning for a bit longer.
That unconventional red hair of his? Turned out to be a lucky dye job—fiery red and blazing hot.
Yue Zhaolin: “Mao Ding?”
Snapping out of it, Mao Ding quickly caught up: “Coming!”
The members of Crane Bell Group B were Shu Yang, Ao Liang’ao, Mao Ding, Chu Li, and Yue Zhaolin. The five of them found a corner and sat down in a circle.
Shu Yang and Mao Ding had interacted with Yue Zhaolin before, so they acted fairly naturally. Ao Liang’ao, on the other hand, was clearly nervous—especially around Yue Zhaolin.
“Hi everyone, I’m Ao Liang’ao. My name’s a bit of a tongue twister, so just call me Orleans—like the Orleans grilled wings.” That was also his Douyin username.
Ao Liang’ao was a Douyin influencer known for his dance covers and good looks, with five million followers.
At first, having an influencer join a talent competition naturally drew a wave of ridicule from netizens.
But he hadn’t crashed and burned. His face was delicate and striking, and he could hold his own in both singing and dancing. That helped him ride a wave of popularity, shooting up to rank 15.
Yue Zhaolin nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
He glanced at Ao Liang’ao again—this contestant’s name sounded delicious. It reminded him of food. He hadn’t eaten fried food in a long time, and just hearing the name made him crave it.
Taking advantage of the fact that no one was paying attention to him, Yue Zhaolin quietly took a sip of water to cover it up.
The staff brought over five tablets, each loaded with the official MV for Crane Bell.
Yue Zhaolin reached out to take one. “Thank you. Um… how about we listen to the music a few more times? If anyone has ideas for the stage performance, we can talk it through together.”
“Sure.”
Yue Zhaolin listened carefully.
The intro featured guzheng and jingling bells, with a simple melodic line that mimicked the flow and lightness of the wind.
Then came the addition of flute, xiao, pipa, and drum beats. The rhythm grew stronger, like a white crane flapping its wings and stirring up a sharp, biting wind.
The melody seemed to be building momentum. Then layered in were sound effects that mimicked the clash of weapons, filling the air with murderous intent.
Multiple forces clashing, a battle to the death—reaching a climax, and then… the bells faded out.
Only to return again: “Ling—”
After the main melody erupted, the bell sound slowed down. The entire instrumental track rose and fell with dramatic flair, inevitably evoking the image of a wuxia world.
Chu Li was the first to speak: “If no one minds, how about I do the choreography?”
This song had been prepared by the production team specifically for him. It matched his specialty and played to his strengths, so Chu Li had already come up with a full routine.
It wasn’t strictly traditional dance—he had blended in other dance styles too—so there weren’t any overly difficult moves.
The choreography looked impressive at a glance, and as long as your movements were coordinated, it was trainable. But there was a clever trick hidden in it—
Because the music itself had a section representing a battle, the choreography was designed to include a segment where the group split into two teams in a mock weapon clash.
Once the full cam was out, the comparison posts would be inevitable:
#FightScenesInTalentShowsAreBetterThanCostumeDramas
#ChuLiOwnsAncientStyleStages
#ChuLiWasBornToPlayHistoricalRoles
Shu Yang, Mao Ding, and Orleans all nodded enthusiastically—Chu Li was the pro, so let him handle the choreography.
They were just a bunch of freeloading leg pendants tagging along for food and drinks, waiting to be carried by their teammates. They knew their place—and wouldn’t steal the spotlight.
Yue Zhaolin said, “Since it’s Crane Bell, our costume colors should match a white crane as much as possible. How about white, black, and red?”
Mao Ding nodded. “Makes perfect sense.”
Shu Yang hesitated for a second, then gritted his teeth and spoke up: “Zhaolin, I heard that during the first performance, it was you who gave styling suggestions to Chen Fei and the others?”
Last round, Mao Ding’s red-haired pilot look and Wei Lai’s—well, not busty tight outfit—uh, turtleneck sweater—had become career-defining styles. Oozing charisma.
An idol’s skill was one thing, but styling was another. If you found the right look, you could achieve cyber immortality in the fandom.
Shu Yang was dying of envy.
But he wasn’t just sitting around waiting for handouts—he had come up with a few ideas on his own: “Zhaolin, do you think I’d suit a scholarly look? Or a more martial-arts-inspired one?”
The right styling would help charm fans even more.
And Yue Zhaolin knew that.
Which was why he’d already decided on his own look—long silver hair, a high ponytail, immortal hermit vibes, like some aloof master from beyond the mortal world… okay, it did sound a bit cringy.
Ehem. If he had to dance, would a high ponytail even stay in place?
Yue Zhaolin pulled his thoughts back and tilted his head as he studied Shu Yang, then said after two seconds of thought, “For you… how about the son of the martial arts alliance leader—young, fearless, just left home to wander the jianghu for the first time?”
Shu Yang: “?!”
Chu Li: “?!”
He glanced at Shu Yang—eloquent, cheerful, with a touch of mischief always lingering around his eyes and brows. It fit. It fit perfectly.
Chu Li immediately turned to look at Yue Zhaolin, as if to say—Bro, how do you do it? How can you spot people’s shining traits so effortlessly?
Chu Li turned to look at Orleans again.
Wait—no, Ao Liang’ao… He had a refined, delicate look. What kind of styling would suit that?
Before he could think further, Mao Ding suddenly let out a howl and threw himself in front of Yue Zhaolin with exaggerated flattery: “Godfather! Could you bless me with your guidance once more?!”
“What do you think suits me better—heroic rogue, sect leader, constable, or something else?”
To be honest, none of them.
Yue Zhaolin glanced at his hair. “You could dye your hair black with red highlights, add more ornate, intricate hair accessories, and go for a dark, seductive style? Like a youth from Miaojiang.”
Mao Ding’s lips trembled. “Godfather, today’s kindness is beyond repayment. I am willing to devote the rest of my life to you…”
Shu Yang: “Hold up. Is your ‘rest of your life’ some kind of valuable asset or something?”
Mao Ding / Orleans / Chu Li: “……”
Yue Zhaolin: “……”
Was Shu Yang turning into a part-time deadpan snarker after hanging around Wei Lai too much?
Orleans hesitated, wondering whether he should ask—but Yue Zhaolin didn’t mind at all. He didn’t find it troublesome—in fact, it gave him a sense of fulfillment.
Making the stage better felt like acing a perfect exam.
Eventually, Orleans’s styling was decided as White Crane in Human Form—his highly refined features made him a perfect match for an elegant, mythical creature.
As for Chu Li, he’d long since made up his mind. His character was modeled after the masked Prince Lanling—a choice made with future historical drama roles in mind.
Yue Zhaolin carefully wrote up detailed character cards and submitted them with the group to the staff.
Not long after, a staff member came over: “Zhaolin, can you come with me for a moment?”
…
Inside a small cubicle.
Yue Zhaolin thought it might be something urgent from the company—but it turned out to be about his hair color.
A voice came through the phone: “Regarding your hair color, the company needs to hold a meeting to decide.”
Yue Zhaolin was stunned: “A meeting?”
“Artists need to maintain a sense of freshness. Frequent hair dyeing and styling can dull the public’s sensitivity to your appearance.”
“So every new look has to be stunning enough to be worth it. For now, try wearing a semi-realistic wig to test the effect.”
The company would assess whether the new hair color would maximize visual impact based on that.
Liu Li added, “Oh, and about the photocards you mentioned earlier—they’ll be sold together with the magazine.”
This issue of R.E would have two versions, A and B, available for pre-order. The covers and photocards would differ between versions, but the magazine content would be the same.
Some of the inner pages featured interviews Yue Zhaolin had done back when Etienne was still around—some about the brand R.D., and some about himself.
The official R.E Weibo would post the announcement: pre-orders open tomorrow at 11:15 a.m., price 50 yuan per copy, shipping not included.
11:15 was Yue Zhaolin’s birthday—a thoughtful little touch from the magazine team.
Yue Zhaolin: “…?”
Fifty? Was it just that his mindset hadn’t shifted yet? It felt kind of expensive. And shipping wasn’t included—just the postage would be at least ten or more, and even higher for remote areas. Altogether it would be around 60 yuan to 80 yuan per copy.
Yue Zhaolin remembered that back when he was in university, most of his classmates had a monthly living budget of around 1,500 yuan—and many struggled to make it last. So for students and fans who’d just entered the workforce, this price would be a burden.
Not to mention, Tide was already spending money on the second round of voting.
Liu Li said, “That’s always been the magazine’s standard pricing.”
Yue Zhaolin pressed his lips together.
Honestly, he really wanted Tide to spend within their means. But logically, he knew they’d go all in—not just on one or two copies.
Because this was, beyond the show’s voting system, the first real “battle” that could directly demonstrate how many active fans he had, and how strong their spending power was.
No one wanted to debut with a small splash.
What Liu Li didn’t say out loud was that fan circles that had previously been linked to Yue Zhaolin and his fandom—idol stans, “uncle fans,” ancient-danmei CP fans—were all silently watching this magazine release. They were waiting to see how it performed before deciding their next move.
In C-ent, first-tier artists typically sold between 200,000 and 300,000 copies.
But if Yue Zhaolin’s magazine couldn’t break 300,000 copies—that is, 15 million yuan in revenue—he would become a target of mockery.
15 million yuan might sound decent in the entertainment world, especially when movie box office numbers easily hit hundreds of millions.
But is it really a small amount?
Not at all. This wasn’t like digital data or play counts that could be inflated—this was a number built with real money.
In the 20XX Chinese entertainment scene, fewer than five artists could push magazine sales to that level. And even among them, several had ridden the wave of a hyped-up CP.
So why would people ridicule Yue Zhaolin?
—Because he was considered the most unstoppable and most high-profile rising star of his generation in C-ent.
In fact, whether it was fans or antis, everyone placed unreasonably high expectations on him.
Because he was Yue Zhaolin, after all.
**TN
Picked up a new Idol project – Pretending to Be an Overseas Trainee in a Boy Group Survival Show