Trainee Ch.15

Chapter 15: Theme Song (2)

“Reassign the classes!?”

“Three days!?”

“Even five wouldn’t be enough!”

The room instantly erupted. Even the drowsy trainees were jolted awake, turning to those beside them in disbelief to confirm they hadn’t misheard.

Fu Hanyu added fuel to the fire with a smile: “I learned the theme song in one afternoon. Good luck, everyone.”

[He could dance that well after just one afternoon]

[No wonder he’s a first-generation idol — his skills are top-tier]

[Suddenly doesn’t feel like there’s not enough time]

Even so, not everyone was wailing in despair about being downgraded. Some were determined to use this chance to rise again, while others, like Liu Qichu, stayed optimistic: “It’s fine, I was already in Class F anyway.”

Zeng Kai rolled his eyes. “Thanks, that was so comforting.”

Although Liu Qichu was clearly joking to lighten the mood, there was some truth to his words. If you were already in Class F, how much lower could it get?

At worst, you’d just stay in Class F. It’s not like you’d be eliminated — the most you’d lose is the chance to perform on stage.

However, for Lai Yudong, who bore a greater burden, staying in Class F wasn’t an option. Others might only lose some screen time, reducing their debut chances a little, but for him, it could trigger a whole chain of disastrous consequences — potentially even putting his life at risk.

Stalling for time, dragging it out for a few more rounds — that was his temporary survival strategy.

The theme song training was divided into three sessions.

Session one was a large group class for all four levels combined, starting today at 1 p.m.

Sessions two and three would be split by class and taught by different specialists: one dance class and one vocal class, scheduled for tomorrow morning and afternoon. Each class had a different time slot.

On the third day, there was free practice, and on the fourth day, class assignment assessments took place.

With more than an hour to spare before the large group class at 1 p.m., most people chose to catch up on sleep or grab a bite to eat.

Lai Yudong was one of the few exceptions.

After dismissal, he headed straight to the dormitory. Unlike the other trainees who went back to sleep, he went to pick up some things.

To ensure fairness, the demonstration video could only be shown in classrooms and practice rooms. Electronic devices allowed by the production team for personal use were not permitted to copy the video for clandestine viewing—such as the smart MP3 he found in his suitcase—which, if discovered, would immediately cancel his recording qualification five days later.

If he wanted to take the initiative, he would have to find another way.

He mentally reviewed the assessment rules: in three days, the classes would be re-assigned, and five days later, the live recording and music video shoot would take place. This meant that the first three days were of utmost importance.

He had to approach practice with a mindset that missing even one minute was like losing a year of life, determined to outwork everyone else.

…

Liang Zhisheng trudged along the corridor on the seventh floor, already feeling an urge to quit the competition after just one day of torment.

If it weren’t for that wretched company forcing him to come over to boost their KPIs, under the guise of building his popularity, he would have simply gotten up, headed to the dance studio, and prepared for his upcoming dance practice vlog. Instead, he was now participating in a shoot on an empty stomach, having slept less than five hours, and he still had to dedicate several days to mastering a moderately challenging theme song.

There was no choice—he had signed with the company and was bound by the arrangements, and the program contract left no room for backing out.

Unless he wanted to experience a life burdened with huge breach-of-contract penalties for the rest of his days.

Liang Zhisheng wasn’t an official trainee; his main job was as a full-time video blogger.

Earlier this year, after finishing his graduate studies, Liang Zhisheng felt lost, unsure of what he wanted to do. Just as the self-media boom was taking off, and since he had learned street dance for a few years, he casually filmed a few idol dance covers—unexpectedly, one of them gained some traction.

He figured, since he had nothing better to do, why not see if he could grow the account into something?

So, Liang Zhisheng gradually started uploading new dance cover videos and daily vlogs. In his free time, he streamed live chats and sang songs. In just a few months, he had gained over 100,000 followers.

Though it wasn’t an explosive rise to fame, hitting that level of followers on his own was already quite impressive.

But with it came a new challenge.

Once an account gains some visibility, trying to make a living in the cutthroat world of self-media—let alone reach the point of reliably earning enough to eat—usually requires meeting a few conditions: frequent updates, doing something flashy or unique, and strong marketing. To that end, it helps to have either a large fanbase or a highly engaged one—ideally both.

The problem was, Liang Zhisheng didn’t have a team. He handled everything himself—topic selection, planning, practice, filming, editing, livestreaming. If he tried to increase his posting frequency, quality would suffer. Dance covers were hard to innovate on, and marketing wasn’t even on the table.

After much consideration, he signed with an MCN agency.

The good news: content production became more efficient, his follower count continued to grow, and things were on a steady upward track.

The bad news: the company, citing his good looks and singing-dancing ability, sent him to participate in a boy group survival show.

—Do your best out there and try to come back with a few hundred thousand more followers.

—It’s okay if you don’t debut; the important thing is to build popularity.

—Don’t waste such a good exposure opportunity.

Those were the company’s exact words.

Liang Zhisheng understood the company’s intentions: throwing someone like him—whose skills were average to slightly above average in all areas—into a sea of dazzling, highly competitive trainees was like tossing a small pebble into the ocean: it would make only the faintest ripple.

Rather than fading into obscurity, it was better to take a bold shot while the crowd still lingered.

But Liang Zhisheng didn’t want to participate in a high-stakes survival show. The endless competition was one thing—what bothered him more was the scheming and manipulation behind the scenes. With 101 trainees, who knew how many were snakes in disguise?

Thinking of that, he couldn’t help but sigh. If it weren’t for the fact that defying the company’s arrangement would cause too much trouble, he would never have signed up.

He wanted to slack off, but feared losing followers or damaging his public image.

He didn’t want to slack off, but felt it was a waste of unnecessary energy.

In the end, he turned in a just-passing performance for his initial stage.

Pulling himself together, Liang Zhisheng pushed open the door to dorm 707—only to see his seemingly introverted roommate crouched beside his suitcase at the edge of his bed, wearing the black class uniform marked with a conspicuous white “F.”

“You’re here, Yuki.”

At the sound of his voice, the light blond-haired boy—Miura Yuki—turned his head. He looked up at Liang Zhisheng, and after a few seconds, responded with a faint smile. His sharp, cold eyes curved slightly with the expression, like glaciers melting in early spring.

Liang Zhisheng kicked off his sneakers and climbed up to the top bunk, gripping the ladder as he went. “Didn’t see you this morning. Were you out grabbing breakfast?”

“Mhm.”

Liang Zhisheng looked down at his own bed, which was practically a pigsty. His blanket, hastily abandoned, was bunched up into a ball, tangled together with his discarded clothes—like a sticky rice roll packed with messy fillings.

From what he remembered when he first entered the room, the lower bunk’s blanket and clothes had been folded neatly and stacked at the head of the bed.

Too disciplined. He felt ashamed in comparison.

His impression of this roommate was pretty good—otherwise, he wouldn’t have fought with Liu Qichu over who got to room with him.

Yuki had been the first to clap after Xu An’s initial stage. For his bonus round, he had chosen one of Xu An’s lesser-known songs. And despite Liu Qichu’s slightly noisy nature, the two of them got along well—Yuki didn’t talk much, but was always willing to help when asked.

All the little details confirmed that he was actually a very kind person—nothing like the cold and aloof image his appearance suggested.

Truth be told, Liang Zhisheng had a personal set of criteria when it came to choosing a roommate: no scheming, no drama, not overly energetic, and ideally, someone easy to get along with.

As a Class C trainee who had been in the third batch to choose dorms, he had gone around checking every available room before finally settling on Room 707, where Xu An and Li Xu were already staying.

Xu An—no need to say much. He was undeniably the best possible roommate.

Li Xu—at first glance, he didn’t seem to fit the criteria, but deep down, he was a blunt and righteous person. Most importantly, he definitely wasn’t the type to play dirty. So he barely made it past the filter.

That left one spot unfilled.

Liang Zhisheng was extremely wary of letting one bad apple ruin the bunch. Class F had quite a few questionable characters—for example, that infamous exchange on the bus. He clearly remembered seeing that sarcastic, passive-aggressive trainee wearing an F-class sticker. But it had been too dark to see his face clearly. All he managed to glimpse was that the name had just two characters.

Miura Yuki’s name had four characters, and he had been standing right next to him at the time—making him not only innocent of suspicion, but quite possibly the victim of the other trainee’s snide comments.

And when he compared Yuki against his ideal roommate standards, it was like he’d been made to order:

No scheming or manipulation —

He spoke without filtering, even boldly pointing out the “scripted lines.”

No troublemaking —

When targeted with passive-aggressive jabs, he pretended not to hear.

Not overly energetic —

Quiet and soft-spoken, always keeping his voice low.

The only real downside might be that Miura Yuki’s striking looks would draw excessive attention—but Liang Zhisheng didn’t particularly mind. If anything, it might actually help the rest of the roommates get a bit more screen time.

All things considered, Miura Yuki was easily the most reliable roommate candidate in Class F.

Liang Zhisheng shook out his messy pile of clothes, and out of the corner of his eye, saw his roommate stand up. “You’re not gonna catch up on sleep?”

Miura Yuki lifted his clear, obsidian-like eyes. He seemed to have a strong sense of focus, and when he spoke, he had the habit of calmly looking the other person in the eye—a polite and gentle manner that made one feel fully listened to and respected.

He slowly shook his head. “Not sleepy.”

For a moment, Liang Zhisheng wondered if he was just getting old. He’d slept longer than the other guy, yet could barely keep his eyes open and had come straight back to the dorm without even grabbing brunch.

“How old are you?”

The other boy was visibly caught off guard. “Nine—nineteen?”

“…”

Twenty-five-year-old Liang Zhisheng thought to himself: Yep, must be an age thing.

Or maybe not.

If he’d been nineteen in this same situation, he figured he’d probably be just as exhausted and groggy.

Noticing Miura Yuki leaving with a notebook and pen in hand, Liang Zhisheng asked in surprise, “You’re not seriously heading to the practice room, are you?”

Miura paused at the foot of the bed, turned slightly, and gave a small nod.

Liang Zhisheng stared, dumbfounded. “You’re that intense?”

So Room 707 did have a grind king—it’s just that he wasn’t competing in the styling race.

What Liang Zhisheng didn’t know was whether this roommate genuinely wanted to practice hard, or if he was trying to build a “hard-working underdog” persona for the cameras.

Whichever the reason, going this far was seriously intense.

But then again, Liang Zhisheng thought, not everyone was like him—uninterested in survival shows. If reality were taken out of the equation, and it came down to a simple choice between debuting or not, he believed 99% of the trainees would choose the former.

Especially with a face like Miura Yuki’s—what a shame it would be if he didn’t debut.

“The practice room’s probably empty right now. Most people went to eat or sleep,” Liang Zhisheng said, recalling the disaster of the initial stage and feeling a bit concerned. “You sure you’ll be okay practicing alone?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Make sure you eat lunch,” Liang reminded him. “Even though you just had breakfast, it wasn’t much, right? This afternoon’s dance class is going to drain a lot of energy. Dancing on an empty stomach could lead to low blood sugar or muscle strain. But don’t eat too late either—exercising on a full stomach isn’t great for digestion.”

Miura Yuki couldn’t help but smile at the detailed concern from his roommate. “Thank you.”

That made it the third time Liang Zhisheng had heard him say thank you.

By the second time, he’d already started to notice a pattern. Now, he was almost completely sure—Miura Yuki had a habit of adding a direct object after “thank you,” as if to specifically emphasize that he was grateful to you, not just in a general sense.

A small detail, but it made his gratitude feel all the more sincere.

“Alright, I won’t hold you up. Go on,” Liang waved him off. “You race against time to practice, I race against time to sleep. I’m too old to pull all-nighters anymore.”

The light blond-haired boy smiled with eyes like an unfolding painting: “Sweet dreams.”

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